Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

In the break room, which smelled faintly of coffee and some pine-scented cleaner, she glanced through dust-streaked windows mounted high overhead. The sun was rising, thin shafts of light oozing through the dirty panes as the sky started to lighten, dusty lavender turning to a hazy blue. She eyed the half-empty pot that had been warming for hours over a hot plate, but decided today was not the time to start a coffee habit. Instead, she heated water in the microwave while scrounging through the basket of tea bags and settling on the last packet of chai green.

Dunking the bag in her cup, she returned to her office. At her desk, she rotated her neck, stretched her arms over her head, and tried to release some of the tension from her muscles. Then she sipped from the hot brew and once again looked over the information that had been gathered from the crime scene, the pictures and video now on her computer. She’d already read all of the statements from the kids they’d found at the reservoir. She skimmed them again, hoping she’d missed something important the first time through, but they didn’t hold much information. Everyone interviewed said he or she had come to the area to “hang out” or “party” or “play a game.” Each had been reluctant to name their peers and had denied any use of alcohol or drugs. Most importantly, they’d sworn they didn’t know about the victim, who, it seemed, had been in the creek for over a week. Unless the body had been moved, but so far there was no indication that it had been.

Alvarez frowned. She hated that the kids were holding back, but she had to agree that the victim had been dead long before the party with its bizarre game of hide-and-seek had begun. That, of course, didn’t mean any of the kids didn’t know more about the girl or who might have been with her at Reservoir Point.

The teenagers and their code of silence irked her, but she understood it. While in high school, she’d kept secrets that should have seen the light of day, secrets that could have changed her life and the lives of her own set of friends, her own family.

Her lips flattened as she considered that old black cloud of her own past, then steadfastly pushed it aside. For now, she had to concentrate on the job at hand. She thought of the kids gathered up at the Point last night, Bianca Pescoli included.

“Teenagers,” she muttered.

Boot heels rang down the hallway, and from the sound of the purposeful stride, she guessed the acting sheriff had arrived.

Though she missed Dan Grayson’s easy manner and quick smile, she didn’t really mind Cooper Blackwater as a boss. If she took her feelings for Grayson out of the equation, she knew that Cooper Blackwater was a good cop, thorough and determined. His attitude meshed well with hers: all business. He was very “gung-ho,” as Pescoli said, and his style was crisp, almost military, but it worked for him. Though he was more inclined to use the media to his advantage, get his face on camera while the department was working a case, he didn’t seem overly conceited or self-aggrandizing, not to Alvarez anyway. His cocky attitude was different from his self-deprecating predecessor, but still effective. Detractors had faulted Grayson for being “too laid-back” or “not hands-on enough” or “too folksy, everyone’s best friend.” For Blackwater it was just the opposite, “too cold” or “too ready for a photo op” or “more interested in power and climbing his way to the top than in helping the people of Pinewood County.”

It seemed here, in Grizzly Falls, you were definitely damned if you did and damned if you didn’t.

“How’s it going?” Blackwater asked as he paused in the open doorway to her office. His black hair was military-clipped, his jaw freshly shaven, his dark eyes interested and piercing. His coloring and bladed features probably harked back to a Native American ancestor, presumably the same one who had handed down his surname. “I saw our victim is definitely the Montclaire girl,” he said, his eyes showing a little bit of empathy. “Anything new on what happened? Don’t suppose the autopsy’s been done yet? Probably not started.”

“I put a rush on it.”

As if her request weren’t good enough, he said, “I’ll make a call.”

“Good.” She wouldn’t let herself be irritated that he pulled rank, using his influence as sheriff. Whatever worked. “’Til we get the results, we’re not sure what we’re dealing with.”

“Which is?”

She gave him a quick, brief update on what they’d discovered, most of which he probably already knew. She finished with, “I’ve got a list of family, friends, and acquaintances that I’ve added to current and ex-boyfriends. We’re checking phone records and trying to confirm who was the last person to see her and when that was, double-checking it with the missing persons report and cross-referencing any names to those kids who were up there last night, but that, so far, seems to be just a coincidence.”

“No such thing.”

“Maybe.”

“What’s with Pescoli’s kid being up there?”

“Part of the group. All friends, or at least they all knew each other, ran with the same crowd.”

“And the Montclaire girl?”

“No. At least she wasn’t tight with any of them. Most of the kids said they knew her or had seen her in school, but no one admitted to being her friend.”

He leaned against the doorframe and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I hear Pescoli’s kid thought she saw a monster or Big Foot or something.” Dark eyes pierced hers. Questioning.

“She doesn’t know what she saw. But something was chasing her.” Alvarez felt her muscles tense a bit. She was ready to defend Bianca, if necessary.

But Blackwater’s attention had turned to her computer monitor, where the picture of Destiny Rose Montclaire’s body was visible. “You think she was murdered?” he asked, nodding to the screen’s disturbing image.

“It’s definitely a possibility. Trying to figure it out.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m betting homicide, but don’t quote me on that.” He flashed a rare smile. “I’m not a betting man.” With a couple of slaps to her doorframe, he said, “Keep me in the loop,” then charged down the hallway toward his office.

“Will do,” she said, though it was to herself. And she wasn’t going to take his bet. She, too, believed that someone had killed Destiny Rose Montclaire. She didn’t have the proof yet, but she’d lay odds that when she received the autopsy report, she’d find that the victim had been murdered.

She turned her attention back to the names of friends, neighbors, family, and anyone considered an enemy or adversary. The ex-boyfriend whom Glenn Montclaire had mentioned, Donald Justison Junior, was at the top of her list. She’d done a preliminary check on him and found out that Justison, barely nineteen, had already had a couple of run-ins with the law, little brushes that hadn’t come to much, but she wondered if Mommy Mayor had stepped in for him, cleaned things up.

Now you’re starting to think lik

e Pescoli.