“Is she dead? In the hospital? What?” His gaze moved to the two deputies. “Why the hell is half the police force here?”
Alvarez said, “She wasn’t in the vehicle. It was smashed all to hell, but she wasn’t inside. We think it was forced off the road.”
“What’re you telling me?” he demanded, dread worming through his soul. “Horsebrier Ridge, so she was on her way to her ex’s? Is that where her kids are?”
“How did you get in here? You have a key?”
“I knew where she hid one.”
“That could be construed as breaking and entering.”
“I just need to find her.”
She appeared as if she wanted to believe him but
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her common sense wouldn’t let her. “Let’s go down to the sheriff’s office and you can make an official statement there. You can handle this?” she asked one of the deputies.
“No problem.” A woman deputy was stringing out crime scene tape, carefully walking around the yard.
But she was wrong. The way Santana saw it, they all had a problem. A big one.
“It’s your turn to feed him,” Bianca complained as she worked and worked to get her hair into a French braid, just like the one she’d seen in one of Michelle’s glossy magazines. Sure it was retro, but Miley Cyrus had pulled it off on a recent red carpet and Bianca knew it would be perfect, P-E-R-F-E-C-T, for her date with Chris, if they could ever get together! Cisco was dancing at her feet, yipping and demanding food all the while giving Bianca fits and breaking her concentration. Her braid was a disaster!
“Jeremy!” she yelled, walking down the short hallway to the guest room/office where her brother was camping out. “Hey! Feed Cisco!”
Jeremy was flopped across the day bed that was way too short for him. Briefly he turned his attention away from the television where some army video game flickered—guys in camouflage with big rifles running around some burned-out Armageddon.
“Shit!” Jeremy yanked off his headset as the guy on the screen turned red with his own blood. “Look what you did. I just died! My whole company’s under siege!”
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“It’s a game,” she said in a withering tone. She was still working with her hair, her fingers winding strands together.
“So what’s so damned important?”
“Feed the dog.”
He pulled a face. “Oh, sure.”
Cisco ran into the room and jumped on the bed.
“See, he wants some attention from you,” Bianca declared.
“From anybody,” Jeremy groused, but petted Cisco’s little head anyway.
“Have you heard from Mom?” Bianca asked, trying not to worry.
“Nah, but she’s pissed at me.”
“That doesn’t stop her from calling.”
“Or bossing me around.”
“Exactly.” Bianca looked over her shoulder, then quickly shut the door. “Do you think Dad and Michelle know something and aren’t telling us?”
“Like what?”
“Like, I don’t know, she’s hurt, got shot on the job, or had a wreck or . . . something really bad?”
“They’d have to tell us,” he said, frowning. Bianca gave up on her hair for the moment, let the unruly curls fall to her shoulders. “They’re always trying to ‘protect’ us.” She made air quotes to emphasize her point. “Mom’s detective partner wouldn’t have come out here unless it was really serious.”
“I guess.”
Jeremy scowled just as Bianca’s phone dinged, indicating she’d received a text message. She clicked a button and found a picture of Chris on the screen. Chris and two of his friends, all wearing Santa hats and making goofy faces. She grinned
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and for a second, she wasn’t worried about her mother. “Just take care of the dog,” she ordered, hurrying from the room.
Jeremy, his video game ruined, watched her go. She didn’t bother shutting the door, which really bugged him. But then everything and everyone was bugging him. Even Heidi Brewster, who kept texting him and trying to get together. He wanted to. Man, he wanted to. Heidi was hotter than hot and her mouth . . . holy crap, what she could do with that. He got hard just thinking about it. But she was trouble, and right now he didn’t need any more of that. So he didn’t respond to her texts and was probably really ticking her off.
Too bad.
Ever since he’d gotten busted for Minor in Possession of Alcohol with Heidi, he’d been in a bad mood. Mom had grounded him, Heidi’s jerk of a father had warned Jeremy to never see his daughter again, and now they were stuck here with Michelle and Dad, which wasn’t all that great.
In fact, he was getting sick of them. Lucky was either trying to buddy up to him or tell him what to do. Like he was his real dad or something. It was just stupid. Then there was Michelle. Jesus, she was hot, too. Always running around in high heels and tight jeans and tops that showed off her boobs. He’d even caught a glimpse of her coming out of the shower, her hair wet, no makeup, big breasts with tiny pink nipples standing at attention from the cold. He’d noticed, though, that she wasn’t a natural blonde. The worst part was, he was pretty sure she’d seen him. Their eyes had met through the steam of the bathroom where the door was opened far enough to give him an eyeful. Since then he’d pretty 118
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much holed up in his room, and he was certain that when Michelle talked to him, she was thinking the same thing he was. There was something in her eyes, and the way her tongue was visible against her shiny lips, that told him she knew he’d seen her naked. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d set him up, if maybe, she wanted him to make a pass at her. She’s your freakin’ stepmom, butthead. Don’t think like that!
Rolling off the bed, he grabbed his boots. It was time to go and get his car, call a friend, and find out what the hell had happened to his mother. He didn’t want to tell Bianca that he was worried, too, but in this case, she was right. Something was wrong. Mom would never have just let Lucky tell her he wanted custody. No way would she have rolled over on that. She would have fought him tooth and nail. Jeremy had figured it was a good deal. He’d decided that Mom would have been so petrified of losing Bianca and him that she would have done anything to keep them happy and this whole stupid grounding thing would disappear. Afraid of losing custody altogether, she would have let Jeremy do whatever he wanted. Oh, come on, who are you kidding? Mom would never allow that. She’ll ride your ass until the day she dies.
“Crap,” he said under his breath, then texted his friend to come and get him. He needed to go home and look for himself, try to figure out where she was, then grab his truck so he had wheels, a way to get out of this overdecorated house with its gooeylooking pink Christmas tree and his stepfather’s hottie wife.
Throwing on his oversized camo jacket, Jeremy jammed a stocking cap onto his head before walk-
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ing into the kitchen. He found a bag of kiblets for Cisco, who had tagged after him and was so excited he was barking and making tight little circles near his dish.
“About time you woke up,” Michelle drawled. Dressed in jeans, high-heeled boots, and a tight turtleneck sweater, she strolled into the kitchen. Today, her makeup was in place, her platinum hair framing her face.
Cisco wolfed down his food as Michelle snapped on the radio. Some Christmas carol started playing through the suddenly too-small kitchen. “Want some breakfast?” Was her voice breathy? Oh, God. She gave him that look again, the one that said I-know-what-you-saw, as she snagged an apron from a hook on the pantry and slid it over her head. It was a Mrs. Santa apron. Short, red, trimmed in fake white fur. She tied it around her slim waist and he couldn’t help but imagine what she would look like without the jeans and sweater, just the apron and tall black boots.
“No breakfast,” he managed as the dog finished. He
automatically let Cisco outside, a breath of cold air racing into the stifling kitchen.
“You sure? I could make pancakes.” She turned and faced him, one hand holding a spatula up, and for a second he caught an image of her spanking him with it. Or him spanking her. Lying across his lap, her rounded butt red as she squealed in pleasure/pain. Oh, shit.
“No,” Jeremy croaked out. “Tyler’s on his way over to pick me up.”
“You’re leaving?” Now she was pouting.
“Uh-huh.” He had to get out of here and fast. Cisco returned, bounding into the room, snow 120
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covering his whiskers. Jeremy slid the slider door closed as the phone rang so loudly he nearly jumped.
Michelle pounced on it like a cougar onto an unsuspecting antelope. “Hello?” she said into the handheld receiver. “Yes, this is Mrs. Pescoli . . . Uhhuh. Wait a sec, I’ll get him.” Her smile had fallen from her face and her gaze when she looked at Jeremy again had lost all of its teasing glint. She headed toward the archway leading from the kitchen and with her hand over the receiver yelled,
“Luke?” No response. “Luke! Telephone! It’s the police!”
Jeremy’s heart dropped like a stone. “The police?” he repeated as Bianca, cell phone in hand, appeared.
Her eyes were round. “Is it Mom? Is she on the phone?”
Of course not, you nitwit. Michelle would have said,
“It’s your ex-wife” or “Regan’s calling again” or “The bitch is on the line,” not “The police.” He was about to say what he was thinking until he noticed the fear in Bianca’s eyes. She knew. As well as he.
“What d’ya mean, it’s the police?’” Lucky demanded, zipping up his fly and buckling his belt.
“The sheriff’s department.” Michelle was as serious as Jeremy had ever seen her as Lucky grabbed the receiver.
“Hello .
.
.
yeah, this is Luke Pescoli .
.
.” He
glanced at his kids in one quick sweep. “They’re here. With me. What’s going on?”
And then he listened. While Bianca bit her lip, her fingers curled over her cell in a death grip, Michelle standing like a statue in her stupid apron
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and holding the pancake flipper, even Cisco, for once, standing stock still, Jeremy held his breath.
“Yeah . . . I see . . . But she wasn’t inside . . . ?”
Jeremy couldn’t stop himself. “Who? Who wasn’t inside? Mom?”
“Shut up!” Bianca hissed, but she was white as a sheet.
As if from a distance he heard a horn beep.
“Yeah, well, I’ll keep them here with me until we know more,” Luke said quietly. Sober as a judge, he hung up. The car’s horn honked impatiently.
“What?” Bianca asked, tears welling.
Jeremy’s ears started a dull ringing.
“They found your mom’s Jeep,” he said. “Down in the gully, off Horsebrier Ridge.”
Bianca let out a little squeak.
“That’s no ‘gully.’ It’s a damned abyss,” Michelle whispered.
“Is she okay?” Tears trickled down Bianca’s cheeks.
Luke sighed. “I don’t know.”
Jeremy’s heart was beating like a drum and a ringing filled his ears. “So where is she? In a hospital?”
“No,” Luke said as Bianca flung herself at her father and he held her tight. “She wasn’t in the Jeep. It was wrecked. Bad. But she wasn’t inside.”
“Oh, God,” Michelle said and while Luke was shaking his head, trying to stop her, she blurted out, “He’s got her! The damned Star-Crossed. He did this! Oh, for the love of God . . .”
Bianca let out a howl.
“Shut up, Michelle, we don’t know that. We don’t know anything!” Luke bit out.
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The honking continued.
“Who the hell is that?” Luke demanded.
Jeremy snapped out of it. “My ride.”
“Mommy!” Bianca sobbed brokenly.
“Shh, baby, it’s gonna be all right,” Luke said without enthusiasm. Without belief.
Jeremy knew better. Nothing was going to be right. Not if everyone stood around here doing nothing. No way was he going to stick around. Without a word, he ran out of the room while patting his pockets to make sure his keys and wallet were with him. His father finally woke up and started yelling his name, but Jeremy took off through the front door, across the path he’d shoveled yesterday and toward the driveway where Tyler McAllister’s Chevy Blazer waited.
Chapter Nine
So maybe Santana wasn’t as bad as she’d originally thought, Selena considered. At least he did seem to care for Pescoli. He sat at her desk, answered questions, glared at her, his square jaw tight, his razor-thin lips compressed to an unyielding line. He hadn’t been able to offer her any further clues to Regan’s accident or abduction, but he seemed genuinely worried.
“That all?” he asked as a phone rang down the hall.
“For now.”
“You’ll keep me in the loop.”
She didn’t bother to answer or even to smile.
“Then I’ll check in.”
“Do that,” she said, her headache returning. Santana wasn’t next of kin, he wasn’t even related to Pescoli. And he wasn’t a cop. “Remember that this is a police matter. The sheriff’s department and the FBI.”
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“Meaning?”
“That sometimes when a person is involved with a victim, even a potential victim, they try to help and end up getting in the way.”
“Are you warning me off?”
“If you’re thinking of doing some investigating on your own? Yeah. Leave it to the professionals.”
“I work with horses.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not always.” She noticed that he didn’t so much as flinch. “I checked. You were with the military. Army Ranger. Right?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And Army Intelligence?”
Not a flicker.
“I’m serious, Santana. Stay out of this. Impeding an investigation, getting into trouble with the law, it’s not worth it.”
His gaze narrowed just a bit. “But she is,” he said tersely as he climbed to his feet. He didn’t so much as smile, just added, “Let’s go, Nakita.” With a whistle to his dog, a husky that had settled in under the chair he’d taken, he strode away. Alvarez watched him go. He was sexy all right and had that I-don’tgive-a-damn attitude some women found fascinating down pat. But he did give a damn.
About Regan.
“Pescoli’s main squeeze?”
She turned and found Sage Zoller, an elfin-looking junior detective who was just a few years younger than Alvarez, standing at the opening of her cubicle. Tiny but tough, Zoller ran marathons and mentored at-risk teens.
“Main Squeeze?” Alvarez repeated.
“I know. Archaic, huh? It’s what my parents call
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each other.” She was watching Santana as he strode around the corner. “Jesus, there’s something about a rugged, good-looking guy with a big dog.”
“Oh, give it up.” Alvarez was not in the mood.
“Yeah . . . good idea. Besides, we’ve got other fish to fry. Another car’s been spotted.”
“Another car, other than Pescoli’s Jeep?” Suddenly Zoller had all of Alvarez’s attention.
“Just this morning. Van Droz caught the call. It’s nose-down in Boxer Creek not far from Keegan’s Corner . . .”
Which was also known by the locals as Dead Man’s Curve.
“A red Saturn. Montana plates. Visible enough to determine that the car is registered to Elyssa O’Leary.”
Alvarez’s stomach nosedived. The name rang a bell. “She’s one of the women who’s been reported missing.” She returned to her cubic
le and sat at her desk. With a few quick keystrokes, she pulled up the file, including a driver’s license and pictures of Elyssa Katherine O’Leary. Brown hair, brown eyes. Freckles. Twenty-six. Nursing student. Only child of Marlene and Brian O’Leary. Alvarez swallowed, thinking that the girl, even now, could be lashed to a tree somewhere in the rugged Montana wilderness, dragging cold air into her already-freezing lungs. “We have to find her.”
“And Pescoli.”
“Christ, yes!” she snapped. “Have you pinpointed this? Put it on the map?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s go.” With Alvarez leading the way, they cut through several banks of cubicles to the task force room where pictures of the crime scenes and vic-126 Lisa Jackson
tims were posted on one wall. Nearby an enlarged map of the area had been hung and pushpins indicated the crime scenes, not only where the mangled cars had been located, but also the position of the areas where the victims had been found.
“Do you have the exact location of O’Leary’s vehicle?” Alvarez asked, stepping around a large table in the center of the room where the task force met. The chairs now were empty, pushed tight against the table by the cleaning crew. Nearby, a phone with a desk was stationed in one corner, an officer doing paperwork manning it. He looked up as they walked in, then turned back to his reports. All of the calls that came in with tips for the task force were routed here where Zoller, or whoever else was assigned the duty, answered the phones and coordinated the messages with the detectives and FBI agents. So far, in the past few months, ever since the first victim, Theresa Charleton, had been found lashed to a hemlock tree in the wilderness, the department had logged over a thousand calls.
None of the tips had panned out.
“The Saturn was discovered”—Zoller looked at the note in her hand for confirmation—“uh, exactly 4.6 miles from the corner of Henrici and Durango.”
Alvarez located the position, right at the sharp corner, and pushed another pin in place. “If the killer’s M.O. remains the same, we should find her in a two-mile radius from the car . . .” She ran a finger around the area of rugged canyons and hills, forests, and stone outcroppings. “Let’s get the choppers to take a look-see, get some pictures. I think they’re already in the air for Pescoli, right?”