Now he was lying. She saw it in the shift of his gaze, the way he was trying so hard to agree with himself.
“Your sons were okay with your divorce and remarriage?” she asked, just making certain.
“In time, yeah. The next hiccup was her pregnancy. Of course, that took them by surprise.”
“So they still haven’t accepted it.”
“They’re coming around and . . . oh, hell . . . now they don’t have to.” The idea seemed to hit him anew.
“Did she know Kywin Bell?”
“He’s . . . a friend of Emmett’s. Why?”
“So they hung out?”
“I don’t know, but I suppose. They all ran around in the same circle.”
“Did you ever see her with him?”
He frowned. “I think . . . yes, of course. He’d visit Emmett, come over to the house. I saw him there a couple of times.”
“How well did your wife know him?”
“What does the Bell kid have to do with anything?”
“Just checking.”
“I said they were friends.” And then he caught her meaning and his jaw tightened. “What’re you suggesting, Detective? That Madge and he, that they were intimate?”
“Just asking how close they were.”
“Well, you’re way off base. Way off. She knew him, but that was it. Okay? There was nothing . . . you know, nothing going on between them or anyone else for that matter. She . . . she was an angel.” He closed his eyes, dropped his face into his hands, and tried to gather himself. It took a few minutes, but he was done, couldn’t give her the names of any other ex-lovers or anyone who would want to harm his sweet, precious Marjory.
But, as he left, Alvarez thought he’d offered up three potential suspects. His whole family, his ex-wife and their sons, were definitely persons of interest in this case and potential suspects. Plus, she hadn’t written off Richtor himself. After all, through his own admission, they’d had a fight before she’d taken off. How bad had it been? How far had it escalated? She wondered about his temper, if he could actually kill his wife and unborn child. Or had Marjory and Destiny Rose Montclaire been killed by the same person with the same brute force?
Then there were Bianca Pescoli and Lara Haas, both of whom believed they had been attacked by a huge hairy creature, an apparently homicidal Sasquatch. She didn’t believe for a second that a Big Foot had chased them, but why would a killer go to all the trouble of dressing up like the mythical beast?
And what about Lindsay Cronin? How did her accident figure in? Or was that just a coincidence?
“No way.”
None of it made any sense.
She had to start somewhere, so she decided to begin with locating anyone Marjory Tufts had seen or contacted on the day of the fight with her husband. Alvarez had already called for phone records, and a crime scene team had combed the forest where the body had been found. Her car was missing, but it shouldn’t be hard to find: a 1957 T-Bird, pink—or more precisely, “Dusky Rose”—that had once graced the showroom floor of Richtor’s Ford dealership. He’d admitted to giving the car to Marjory on their wedding day. “Yeah, we actually drove it into Vegas for our honeymoon,” he’d said with a sigh. “God, it looked fabulous on the strip.” Then: “You have to locate it. That T-bird’s in mint condition, worth a small fortune.” Alvarez had thought the statement odd, considering that he’d just found out his wife was dead and most likely the victim of homicide. There was just something about the man she didn’t trust.
For God’s sake, she was starting to think like Pescoli, going on hunches and feelings rather than cold hard facts. Mentally berating herself, she found Blackwater’s office door ajar and, with a rap on the panels, walked inside.
It still felt strange to find him sitting in Dan Grayson’s chair, his elbows on Grayson’s desk, his head cocked to the side as he talked into his cell phone.
“. . . yeah, I just heard about it,” he was saying. “We’re already interviewing the husband.... I know. I know.... Absolutely.” He glanced up at Alvarez and waved her into one of the side chairs. Feeling as if she was wasting time, she dropped into the chair next to the window and tried not to remember how many times she’d sat in this very spot waiting for Grayson to end a conversation. His lab, Sturgis, would be curled on a bed near the desk, his Stetson hung on a peg by the door, which now held a baseball cap. Her heart twisted a little, but the feeling was more nostalgia than grief, and she thought that she might finally be letting him go.
“We’re on it,” Blackwater said, hanging up. He swung his gaze to Alvarez. “That was the mayor. She wants the Montclaire investigation wrapped up, a killer brought to justice.”
“Even if it’s her kid?”
“She says her son is innocent.” At her expression, he leaned back in his chair to the point that it squeaked in protest. Then he tented his hands and stared at her. Hard. “You obviously disagree.”
“He’s lying about something, and he’s still the last one we know to have seen her alive.”
“Hmmm. And now another dead woman. Pregnant. Apparently strangled. Who knew the first victim.”
“And there’s a third victim, if Lindsay Cronin met with foul play.”
“You think that’s the case?”
“My badge and a year’s salary.”
One of his eyebrows cocked. “Tell me you can prove it.”
“Not yet. But soon. Here’s what we’ve got.” She brought him up to speed on the investigations, then said, “So what I need from you is clout and manpower. I want to talk to the Tufts brothers, the Bell brothers, bring ’em all in. Interview them until someone cracks.”
“If they will.”
“Someone will. Especially if they think someone else is ratting them out.”
“Maybe.”
“And I want a rush on Marjory Tufts’s autopsy, identify the cause of death, compare her bruising to Destiny Montclaire’s. And I want DNA on the fetus. I’d like it yesterday.”
One side of his mouth twitched upward. “Let me wave my magic wand.”
“Please do. I’ll take any help I can get on this.”
“Where’s Pescoli?”
“Under the radar. I’m waiting for a call back. She is pregnant, you know, and has a family. I’ll catch up with her.”
“Okay, I’ll do what I can. Put pressure on the lab and ME. I bet we can find all the people you want to talk to up at the reservoir at the reality show location. They’re shooting again tonight, as I understand it. Most of the kids you want to talk to are part of the crowd scene up there, right? I saw them during the last shoot.” His smile was cold as ice. “I’ll have a couple of deputies head up there.”
“Good. Let’s round them up.”
She figured she had a long night ahead of her and headed into the lunchroom to find some coffee or tea or cocoa, anything with a jolt of caffeine. Well-read newspapers were scattered on a couple of tables and lined on the shelf were six new Big Foot Daze cups that would send Pescoli through the roof when she saw them.
Pescoli.
Where the hell was she?
It was odd that she hadn’t returned Alvarez’s calls. As she was about to hit speed dial one more time, her cell vibrated in her hand and she saw her partner’s name appear on the screen.
She clicked on to answer, and as she lifted the phone to her ear, she heard Pescoli say, a little breathlessly, “It happened. A little early. The baby came and I’m at Northern General with my new son and he’s perfect.”
Unexpectedly, Alvarez felt tears sprout in her eyes. She wasn’t one to cry, nor ever get very emotional, but this new baby, coming late in life to a woman who’d finally found the right partner, was the first good news she’d heard in a long, long while.
And for that, she could take a break, if only for an hour or so. Leaving instructions for the lab and Zoller, who was working late as well, to call her with any information, she left the station.
* * *
Riding shot
gun in Jeremy’s truck, Bianca looked in the mirror on the passenger side and saw that her own face was healing, even if her mother’s still bore the scars of her recent catfight with Kywin’s mother. Jeremy was behind the wheel and, despite her mother’s protest, was taking her back to Reservoir Point to continue filming the first episode of “that damned reality show,” as her mother called it.
She was running late, the arrival of her new little brother having caused a major time shift in her schedule. But, already, Bianca knew he was worth it. She’d stared at the baby in wonder within an hour of his birth, had been allowed to hold him, which felt a little awkward. He was sooo tiny. Impossibly so, even though the nurses had said a nearly eight-pound baby was a “good size.”
As she’d cradled him, afraid he might slip from her arms, she’d looked into his dark eyes, marveled at his thick black hair and long, grabby fingers that were forever trying to work their way out of the swaddling blanket. Given the choice, if she had to have a new half-sibling, she would have preferred a sister, but the little guy—Tucker—was kind of cool. Even Jeremy was excited about the baby, and Mom and Santana were absolutely gaga. She’d never seen her mother so serene, so all about this one little baby and seemingly not worried about the world, or her job, or her older kids, or whatever. The things that always kept her a little crazy.
“It’s the drugs,” Jeremy had advised Bianca when she’d brought it up. “I think they pumped her full of morphine or something.”
“They can’t,” she’d argued. “She’s going to be nursing, and they don’t want a doped-up baby.” God, sometimes he was such an idiot.
The truth of the matter was that Bianca was tired and cranky and worried about getting to the shoot late, not that her part was that important. Her big scenes had been shot during the last filming, but there were some others where she was part of the crowd and, according to a text from Mel, they were going to reshoot a couple of the campfire scenes to focus more on Lara, who, despite her trauma of the night before, was already preparing for her expanded role.
Which bugged the hell out of Bianca. Even though Mom didn’t understand how important this was to her, at least Dad got it. She was still bothered by her parents’ fight in the kitchen earlier. After they’d split up, Mom, with her hothead temper, had tried to keep their arguments behind closed doors, but she just couldn’t. When she got mad—boom!—she exploded and Dad knew just how to push her buttons.
Bianca hated their fights and never wanted to pick sides. She knew where her mother was coming from on the issue of Big Foot Territory: Montana! and Barclay Sphinx and Hollywood. Bianca understood. She’d already witnessed herself some of the backstabbing and game-playing and, well, out-and-out lying that went on. And yeah, Barclay and his team did seem to pander to the Big Foot Believers and Mayor Justison, and everyone associated with Grizzly Falls, but that was what hype was all about, right? Creating a buzz, getting people interested?
“You’re sure you still want to be a part of this?” Jeremy asked as he drove out of the town and into the surrounding hills.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. You seem kind of bummed.”
“I’m fine,” she said as he turned into the entrance to the park and pulled up behind a long row of parked cars, trucks, and SUVs. Ahead, behind the temporary fence, lights were glowing, equipment in place, people moving around the set. “I just hope I’m not fired.” She opened the door of his truck.
“You need a ride home? Text me.”
“I’ll get one. I think Michelle’s here, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”
“I know, but . . . people are going missing and being found dead.” From behind the steering wheel, he looked at her.
“You’re as bad as Mom.” She slammed the door and started toward the camp. Her ankle still hurt, but she kept up a brave face as she reached the gate. She saw Michelle talking to Barclay Sphinx. Upon spying Bianca, Michelle drew away from the producer as if she’d been burned and hurried toward the gate. “Oh, honey,” she said with a big frown, “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Bianca lied. She didn’t want anyone making a big deal about it. “Dad says that might change.”
“Really?” She frowned, pink lips pouting. “Well . . . maybe.” Then she found her smile again. “We’ll get through this tonight and see.”
“I’m hoping you can give me a ride home. Mom’s kind of tied up.”
“Right. The baby. Congratulations.” Michelle beamed. “How exciting for you. A new little brother, right? Luke called and said it’s a boy.”
“Tucker Grayson.”
“Like that ranching family that lives around here . . . oh, right, because of the sheriff, I get it.” She paused and sighed, glanced back at the set, where Barclay was talking to Mel and Lara. “But about that ride,” she said, her gaze sliding back to Bianca’s. “I’m afraid I can’t do it tonight, but don’t worry. One of your friends will take you home.”
“But I thought—?”
“Is it a problem?” Michelle asked, and the edges of her beatific smile faltered just a bit. For the first time ever, Bianca saw an edge of steel in her usually effervescent stepmother’s expression.
Bianca wanted to argue, to point out that Michelle had promised, but she saw Barclay looking at them and didn’t want to make a scene. Besides, she’d rather be with her friends if this was the way Michelle was going to act, and she spied Simone, Maddie, and Teej in the enclosure. “No,” she said. “No problem. Jeremy can pick me up if no one can take me home.”
“Great!” Back to bubbly Michelle. “Perfect.” And then she was off, eager to learn her lines that had been changed and get direction from the great Barclay Sphinx, whom Bianca was starting to think was, as her father had said, “a lying scumbag.”
Bianca followed after Michelle and then stopped to look over her shoulder. Out here, beyond the lights, she was alone, everyone else on the other side of the temporary fence.
It almost felt like she was being watched. That beyond the edge of light cast by the lights of the set, there was someone or something eyeing her every move.
She thought of the night she’d been chased by the monster, about how Destiny Rose Montclaire had been strangled, and she shuddered a little inside. There was nothing out here. Nothing malevolent. Her fear was unfounded.
The rustle she heard was just the flutter of bat wings, or the sigh of the wind rushing through summer-dry branches. The smell that came to her in the dry air was of smoke and musk and sweat, riding on the breeze and coming off of the set.
Yet the hairs on her nape lifted and her throat turned dry as desert sand.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered, hobbling to the gate.
Whoever or whatever she thought was observing her from the creeping shadows was just in her overactive mind.
CHAPTER 31
Alvarez stared at the sleeping baby and her heart melted. He was, as Pescoli had said, perfect. Lying on his mother’s chest, his tiny lips moving slightly as he breathed, Tucker Grayson appeared at peace with the world. She felt a bit of an intruder in the hospital room with Santana and Regan, but she ignored it and gave in to her fascination with the dozing infant.
“You named him after Dan,” she said, and Pescoli nodded.
“We had names picked out for a boy and a girl. Tucker Grayson for this little guy here,” she said, stroking the baby’s fine hair with a finger, “and Sophia Danielle if he’d been a girl.” She glanced at her husband. Santana was sitting in the recliner positioned not far from the hospital bed, in a spot where he could watch and study his newborn son. “I suggested the idea, Santana came up with the names.” Regan smiled, looked exhausted but, in Alvarez’s opinion, never better. Strange as it sounded, there was a glow to her, despite the circles under her eyes and the scratches visible on her cheek. She’d explained about them, about the attack by Wilda Wyze at Wild Wills hours earlier, about Terri Tufts’s remark about her pregnancy, that it was a good t
hing Pescoli’s husband wasn’t “shooting blanks.” Probably, they thought, in reference to Terri’s own ex. Pescoli had heard about the discovery of Marjory’s body from Santana, who had seen it online less than an hour earlier, and she had agreed getting DNA on Marjory’s fetus was essential.
Though Pescoli had shown some interest in the ongoing cases, it was only peripheral. For now, she was far more wrapped up in this new baby than anything. Alvarez understood, would feel the same if the situations were reversed, but wondered if she’d just lost her partner to this little black-haired human.
“You have to get these guys,” Pescoli had said, and Alvarez had agreed. Now, she smiled at the small family but felt a pang on her heartstrings. She’d had a child in her youth, but instead of holding him close and planning a future with him, had given him up for adoption as the circumstances of his conception had been violent. There was no comparison to the making of this little bundle. Though Alvarez had reconnected with her biological son through Dylan, she’d never had this experience, this anticipation and complete and utter joy at the birth. For that, she felt sad, cheated, and yes, even a little guilty. Her son had deserved better and though he was with loving adoptive parents, in some small ways, she’d always felt she’d let him down—or herself down.
Her cell phone indicated a text had come in. From Zoller. Two of the people she wanted to interview had been brought to the station. Good. “Gotta run,” she said. “Looks like Kip Bell and Preston Tufts are waiting to answer a few questions.”
“Right.” Pescoli snorted a disbelieving laugh. “Keep me posted.”
“I will. Tomorrow.” Alvarez slid a final look at the baby, then said, “Get some rest. My guess is that this guy”—she pointed to the infant—“isn’t going to stay this way for long. You’ll be busy.”