He arched an imperious eyebrow. “I’ve called my dad. He’s on his way.”
Perfect. Not that the kids didn’t need their parents. Hell, hadn’t Bianca? But this one? Not so much. Reece’s imperious attitude rankled. Big time. Pescoli was hot, tired, and not interested in playing nice. What she’d like was a cool bath, a cigarette, and a Coors Light, not necessarily in that order, but she’d given up nicotine—well, kinda—years before, drinking anything alcoholic was out while she was pregnant, and a cool bath, well, that would have to wait.
“My father’s with Reece, Connors and Galbraith,” Austin reminded her. “Actually, he’s the ‘Reece,’ in the firm’s name. You know, as in senior partner.”
Pescoli regarded him with a cool eye. He really had a bad case of the I’m-better-than-you flu. A lot of it going around these days. “I know who your daddy is. And I don’t care. But when he gets here, I’ve got a few more questions for you.”
She was rewarded with a bored “oh-sure” expression that was mostly a smirk, but she held on to her fast-escaping cool for all she was worth.
Now was not the time to get in a wrangle with a teen.
CHAPTER 5
At her desk, Alvarez glanced at her watch. Barely 6 AM. And she’d been up all night. From the crime scene, she’d driven to the morgue, then here, to the office. Her muscles ached, and a slow, steady headache was building at the base of her skull as her stomach rumbled to remind her that her last meal had been half a cheese sandwich she’d grabbed the previous afternoon. She’d been up for over twenty-four hours, and it would be a few more before she could go home and tumble into bed. A nap, that’s what she needed, then a hot shower, a cup of tea, and a bowl of fruit, yogurt, and granola. Better yet, a long yoga session to stretch her tense muscles. As it was, she’d have to settle for the tea.
Maybe.
Stretching her arms over her head and twisting her neck, she eyed her computer monitor, where pictures of the crime scene were displayed, the screen cut into four images with different angles of the victim visible.
The girl in the photos was definitely Destiny Rose Montclaire. Not only had she been reported missing, but distinguishing marks had helped the department ID her. The victim’s stature, her coloring, her tattoos, and a scar, which was still visible on her ankle from a surgery she’d endured as a four-year-old, had matched those described on the missing persons report.
Two deputies had been dispatched to her home in the wee hours.
At 4 AM, her ashen-faced parents had walked into the viewing room of the morgue, where, in abject horror and denial, they had identified the unknown girl’s remains and promptly broken down.
It was the worst part of her job, Alvarez thought now as she reflected on the scene. She’d been little comfort to the father, whose lip had trembled as he’d held his wife as she collapsed against him. Alvarez had warned them about the condition of the body, but, of course, both had insisted on viewing their daughter despite her disturbing and grotesque appearance. Helene Montclaire, a heavyset woman with filmy blond hair and drizzling blue eyes, had keened and crumpled in that tiled room, her knees giving way and buckling as she took a long look at the corpse that had once been her child.
“No, no, no!” she’d cried, needing to deny what her eyes had confirmed as she’d clung, fingernails twisting in his T-shirt, to her white-faced husband. He’d appeared haunted, his eyes shining with unshed tears, his hands shaking despite his efforts to stay strong.
“You’ll get whoever did this,” Glenn Montclaire had stated through lips that had barely moved. It wasn’t a question.
“If it does prove that Destiny was the victim of homicide—”
“What else could it be?” he’d cut in, pained dark eyes cutting into her. “What? An accident?”
“We’ll know more after the autopsy,” she’d replied, not wanting to go into the possibility of suicide. “We will do our best. I’ll see to it personally.”
“Make sure your best is good enough.” He had held her gaze as a tear slid from the corner of his eye and his wife, Helene, buried her face in his shirt. Her shoulders had been shaking, her muffled sobs echoing against the tile walls and floor of the sterile room.
“And once you confirm that . . . that this wasn’t an accident, check out Donald Justison,” he’d added as his wife’s sobs increased, her shoulders shaking in the cold room with its tile walls.
“Justison?” Alvarez had repeated, making a mental note.
“Yeah. Don Junior, the mayor’s son.”
The mayor being Carolina Justison.
“Donny’s her ex-boyfriend. A pissant loser if there ever was one. And a stalker! He couldn’t leave her alone after she broke up with him.”
“Is that right?”
“You bet it’s right. He’s been calling her. Harassing her!” His once-ashen face showed color again.
“Do you know if they’d been together recently?”
“Probably.”
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”