Afraid to Die

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Carl. Anderson. I worked with your husband when I drove a truck.”

  “I got that and he’s my ex-husband.”

  “Oh, yeah. He said that.”

  Amen for small blessings.

  “Your girlfriend’s name is Johnna Phillips?”

  “Yeah, but, oh, technically, she’s kinda my ex, too.”

  “How kinda?”

  “We broke up the night before last.”

  That explained a lot. “And now she won’t take your calls?” This was beginning to sound like a wild goose chase. She caught the neckline of her jacket with the edge of her boot, kicked it upward and caught it in her free hand.

  “It’s not like that. And I went to the house and she hasn’t been back since last night when she went to that bank party. She works for First Union. In the loan department. And her car isn’t at the apartment and she hasn’t been back. I still have a key and I went in, you know, to try and work things out, and she wasn’t there.”

  “Maybe she went home with ... a friend?” Pescoli suggested, thinking the guy on the other end of the connection was dumb as a stone. The girlfriend had probably just moved on, hopefully to someone with a higher IQ and a better set of acquaintances than a group that included Lucky Pescoli.

  You married him. You chose him to be the father of your daughter. People in glass houses ...

  “I don’t think so. She hadn’t been feeling all that sharp and she was just going to the party because it was kind of, you know, expected. What did she call it? A royal something or other?”

  “Command performance?”

  “Yeah, that was it!” he said, amazed.

  “Have you called all her friends?”

  “Oh, yeah. And her sister and ... and that Stephanie chick from the bank. No one’s seen her and Stephanie said they had plans to meet up today and walk in the park. Johnna didn’t show; but she thought maybe she just slept in. But she didn’t.”

  “At least not at home.”

  “No. She ... no.”

  Uh-oh. Now the ex was catching on.

  Pescoli dropped the jacket over the back of her desk chair. “What’s her address?”

  “Number two-one-five at the Park West Apartments.” He gave her the address and she wrote it down. “Like I said, I probably wouldn’t have called, but there’s all this crazy shit goin’ down and I’m worried. I’ve texted her and called and she’s not picking up or returning my calls. I checked online at Facebook and, like ... nothing for over twenty-four hours. And she’s on there all the time. I even sent IMs to her friends and no one’s sayin’ they, like, heard from her. It’s weird, man, I’m tellin’ ya. Somethin’s not right.”

  “Why don’t you come in and file a report?” Pescoli suggested. Unconvinced that the ex-girlfriend wasn’t just not responding to him, Pescoli was hesitant to follow up. However, he seemed so convinced that Johnna Phillips was really missing and had actually called searching for her, which gave Pescoli pause. She didn’t want to take any chances, not with a lunatic terrorizing the area. “Check with Missing Persons. That’s the department where you need to file the report.”

  “Cool!”

  Not really, but she wasn’t going to tell him.

  Driving home in a department-issued vehicle, Alvarez decided she probably should have told Pescoli her theory about the earring but hadn’t wanted to go off half-cocked. Just because she was missing an earring didn’t mean the one found in Lara Sue Gilfry’s tongue belonged to her. She wouldn’t even have thought of it, as the silver stud wasn’t all that unique, except for the hoop earring found pierced through Lissa Parsons’s nipple.

  That one was definitely hers.

  So, she wondered, was it that much of a leap to think that the killer would use another one ... no, make that the stud, the first piece of jewelry, if he’d killed the women in the order in which they’d been discovered? Because their bodies had been frozen, determining time or day of death was tricky, if not impossible.

  She flipped on the Jeep’s wipers, as snow was falling again, dusk slipping away, the police band crackling as she nosed down Boxer Bluff. This year, colored spotlights had been trained on the falls, and the river, not yet frozen, tumbled wildly, a rushing froth in green and red as it flowed past the courthouse and shops lining the street that flanked its deep banks.

  She wasn’t the only one who’d seen the new display. Sunday evening traffic was worse than usual as drivers slowed to take in the sight.

  By the time she turned down her street, she was nervous and a little agitated. If the silver stud did prove to be hers, her life was going to be a lot more complicated. The FBI would be all over her and some connection made between the killer and her.

  What the hell is that all about? Why has he targeted you? This is NOT random, Selena, you know that!

  Troubled, she pulled into her drive and reached for the nonexistent garage-door opener. Of course, it was still in her Subaru.

  “Lovely,” she said, ramming the gearshift into park. As soon as she made the determination that her stud earring was really and truly missing and that the remaining one was the twin of the bit of metal yanked out of Lissa Parsons’s mouth, she’d call Pescoli as well as O’Keefe, whom she left at the station without so much as a good-bye.

  Dylan O’Keefe was another issue, one she’d prefer to keep private. That being the case, she didn’t want anyone from the department searching her place for her earring or evidence from a week-old break-in and coming up with any personal item from O’Keefe. She just wasn’t ready to start answering questions about their relationship or lack of relationship; it was all too complicated and would certainly bring up the mess in San Bernardino and Alberto De Maestro again.

  That, she would definitely like to avoid.

  Grabbing her things, she stepped into the cold of winter again and walked swiftly through a fresh dusting of snow to her front door. On the porch, she inserted her key into the lock, and as she did, the door swung open, as if it hadn’t been locked or latched.

  Again?

  Someone had broken in?

  Her heart kicked into overtime as she tried to remember leaving early this morning, but she was certain the door had been shut and locked . . or had it?

  From habit she reached for her gun and pushed the door open farther.

  No sound.

  But there was a flickering light emanating from within ... the gas fire? She knew she hadn’t left it burning.

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  Someone was in the house.

  Heart hammering, every nerve stretched tight, her fingers wrapped tightly over the butt of her pistol, she stepped quietly inside.

  Still no noise, no shuffling of frantic feet, but if she listened hard, she could hear the hiss of the fire as it burned.

  This is nuts! Go outside. Call for backup!

  Her heart thundered in her ears.

  Holding her breath, she took one more step.

  “Don’t shoot!” a voice yelled frantically as she reached the living room. “Please, don’t shoot!”

  She froze.

  The lights snapped on.

  Looking haggard and scared out of his mind was a teenaged boy with shaggy black hair, a coppery complexion and fear in his dark, suspicious eyes. He was huddled in the corner of the couch, closest to the fire; a blanket was tucked around him and Jane Doe had curled herself into his lap.

  “Please,” he said, his hands raising to the side of his head, the cat, startled, leaping off the blanket to dive under a nearby table. “You’re Selena Alvarez, right?” Before she could answer, he said, “Please, you have to help me!” His voice cracked with desperation and she felt something inside of her break as well. Still, she trained the muzzle of her gun straight into the face of Gabriel Reeve, the son she’d given up half a lifetime before.

  Chapter 24

  “You’re Selena Alvarez,” the kid said. His hands shook a little as he held
them over his head. “My mother, right?”

  Oh, God. She was thrown back in time to the austere hospital and the feeling of sheer terror that held her, the pain of the birth, the bright lights, the doctor’s voice and the fear of the unknown of what would happen to her as she delivered the perfect little baby. She remembered his red face, the shock of black hair and his first squall, a sound that nearly broke her heart. Tears had flowed from her eyes and she had gasped for breath, torn between wanting to hold him and not wanting to see him at all.

  What she caught was just a glimpse of a tiny face that seemed to stare straight into her soul before he was whisked away forever.

  Now she stood, frozen, the weapon still pointed at him. “I don’t know,” she admitted, lowering her pistol, then putting it into its holster again and all the while feeling as if she’d been kicked in the gut, as if this surreal situation couldn’t possibly be happening. Not to her. “I think ... yes, maybe.” Oh, Lord, was she beginning to cry? Were hot tears filling her eyes? That would never do! She sniffed them back. “Gabriel Reeve, right?” But she knew it was he, had from the second her gaze found him; she was reminded of her cousin at that age, handsome in that gawky way of a boy becoming a man. Yes, this teenager more than resembled her cousin; Gabriel Reeve was the spitting image of the prick who had spawned him.

  Before she knew what to say to him, he shot to his feet. “You have to help me,” he said again. “I’m in really big trouble.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m innocent!” He seemed suddenly frantic. “That gun, the one my dad found, it was planted in my backpack. I swear.”

  If he didn’t believe what he was saying, he was a damned good liar. She’d seen more than her share.

  “I didn’t know how to get rid of it, or even what to do with it. So I didn’t do anything ... and then ... then I ...”

  “Ran,” she supplied.

  “Yeah. No one was gonna believe me. They never do.”

  “So you came here because you thought I could help you?”

  “Yeah. I came once before, but some guy was following me so I left.”

  “Where have you been ever since?”

  “By the falls. There’s some shacks down there. Empty. Cold. And the restaurant. Wild Bill’s.”

  “Will’s.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. There’s always scraps.”

  She told herself not to be taken in by him; he could well be a con man or even a hardened criminal.

  Or he could be telling the truth and is a boy on the run, falsely accused, having nowhere to turn ...

  “Where’s my dog?”

  “What?”

  “Roscoe.” She pointed to the empty crate. “He was gone.”

  “There was no dog.”

  “Of course there was.”

  Shaking his head violently, Gabe insisted, “There was no dog here, I swear. I saw the cat, yeah, but no dog.”

  “Maybe you let him out by mistake—”

  “I’m telling you! I did not see any damned dog. Okay? I know what a dog looks like! That pen thing,” he said, hitching his chin at the crate, “that was open, I think, but I didn’t take time to look around. The guy was chasing me. He’s ... he’s my mom’s cousin, I think. I met him a couple of times, but now he’s like ... like a Dog the Bounty Hunter–type of guy on TV!”

  “Not quite,” she said, and despite the raw emotion pulsing through the house, she almost laughed aloud to think of O’Keefe compared to Duane “Dog” Chapman, the TV bounty hunter.

  “Anyway, I finally lost him so I came back. Here. For you to help me.”

  “And you thought I would do that, why?”

  “Because you’re my mom. You owe me.”

  “Whoa ... I don’t think ... I mean I’m not sure either of us owes anyone anything,” she said, trying to get a grip while her own emotions were stretched thin. She wanted to reach out to him but didn’t dare and then kicked herself for being afraid. Of what? Losing him again. “And the jewelry, you took that?”

  “You think I stole your jewelry? Why would I do that?”

  “To pawn.”

  “No, I just wanted out.”

  “There was some money.”

  “Twenty bucks! That’s all!”

  “And you took it.”

  He hesitated.

  “With the jewelry.”

  “No! Damn it! I did not take any of your fuc—your jewelry. But, yeah—” His jaw set, again reminding her of Emilio, and he said, almost inaudibly, “I might have picked up the money.”

  There was no “might have” about it. “I don’t care about it.”

  “You don’t?” His eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t believe a word that she said.

  “Well, yes, of course, but, no. Not right now.” She was sounding as confused as he looked. Holding up a hand, as if she expected him to interrupt, she said, “Okay! Don’t worry about the money. At least for now. Why don’t you go into the bathroom and clean up and I’ll get you something to eat? You must be starved. I’ve got some leftover pizza in the refrigerator.”

  “I ate it. The good kind. Not that kind with the squash on it!”

  “The zucchini?”

  “Whatever! It was nasty.” He shuddered for effect as she walked into the kitchen and saw the evidence, the empty pizza boxes, a few wrinkled vegetables scraped onto the oil-soaked ridges of the cardboard that lined the boxes. He said from the other room, “I’m ... I’m okay. Don’t need a shower or nothing. Look, you just gotta help me.”

  “I’m a cop.”

  “I know that. That’s one of the reasons I came here!” He was getting agitated, a little frantic. “Look, I’ve got nowhere else to go and ... and I figure you might want to help me.”

  “What?” she asked. “How do you figure that?”

  “You gave me away!”

  That much was true, and she wanted to help him, but not more than she did any other teenager in trouble.

  Are you kidding? Trying to balm your own sense of guilt? He’s right. You have a responsibility to him, one that goes beyond just being a cop trying to help a troubled kid and bring him to justice. He could be your son, damn it, Selena!

  “So ... what exactly do you expect me to do?” she asked, trying to stay calm when she felt as if her entire world was turned inside out.

  “Find out who planted the gun on me.”

  “One of your friends?”

  “No!” he said quickly. Too quickly. His gaze skittered away and around the room, as if he were searching for the right answer. Or a place to hide. “Not my friend. No way. But, maybe one of his friends ... those guys ... I, uh, don’t know ... We were hanging with some people Joey knew that night.”

  “Joey?”

  “Lizard.”

  “That’s his nickname?”

  “No!” She saw it, he nearly rolled his eyes but held back, probably was too scared. Or too smart. Was he playing her? How would she know? Gabe cleared things up a little, at least in his mind, by adding, “Joey’s last name is Lizard. But, yeah, sometimes we, like, call him Lizard.”

  She knew that fact, of course; was just checking, trying to figure out how much of the truth she was getting and how much of what he said was just plain BS. Gabe had come to her, so she expected he wouldn’t lie, at least not too much. If he had any brains at all, which he obviously did, then he’d know she’d already have some of the information on him. He just didn’t know how much.

  Joseph Peter Lizard’s name had been all over the information O’Keefe had accumulated as well as on the original police report, which, of course, Alvarez had read. Lizard’s “friends,” Donovan Vale and Lincoln “Line” Holmes, had been listed along with Joseph Lizard and Gabriel Reeve, who were both underage and whose names had not been given to the press.

  Not that they weren’t guilty. Just young.

  She said, “Tell me about Lizard’s friends.”

  “Like, they’re older.”

  “How much?”

&nb
sp; “I dunno, around twenty or so, I think.” He appeared to be thinking, hard, trying to come up with the right answer, or maybe just a plausible one.

  So far, though, so good.

  “What was the plan?”

  “There wasn’t really a plan. They just wanted to break into the judge’s house and mess it up, I guess.”

  “Vandalize it?”

  He shrugged, then stopped, as if sensing he might be digging himself in too deep.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why mess it up?”

  Another lift of the shoulders, but he did say, “I think, like, cuz the judge, he sent one of them’s girlfriend to jail or something.”

  “Ramsey, he was the sentencing judge for the girlfriend? Is that what you’re saying? Judge Victor Ramsey.”

  “Yeah, he was the guy.” Worrying his lip, he added, “I guess.”

  “Not ‘the guy.’ Judge Ramsey, in this case, was the victim,” she repeated, to clarify. “And his daughter, she’s in your class at St. Francis’s Academy in Helena?”

  “You know this already, don’t you?” he charged. “Crap! Then why are you asking me?”

  Because that’s what I do. This is my job. And you might be my son as well as a suspect. Oh, God, she wasn’t handling this right. She wasn’t arresting him, wasn’t reading him his rights, wasn’t even treating him as she would another juvenile offender, but she couldn’t stop. “Clara, right? Clara Ramsey goes to your school?”

  “Yeah ...” He was wary, still edging toward the door that she’d left ajar. Any second he could bolt! She had to keep him here. Had to work this out. To connect with him.

  And arrest him.

  “I dunno. Yeah. I guess. I just didn’t know that they were gonna rob the guy, and we, Joey and me, we were supposed to be the lookouts. But I didn’t even know there was a gun until I heard the shots and then ... we ran ... and then it ends up in my backpack.” He shook his head and glanced at the ceiling as if he couldn’t believe his bad luck.

  “With your fingerprints on it?”

  “I picked it up when I found it in the pocket of the backpack! Wouldn’t you? I mean, I didn’t know how it got there. But I never shot it. I swear! You have to believe me!”