“They’re real, Regan.”
“Says who?” She caught herself being sucked into an argument. Again. “Never mind. Look, I’m working. I’ll check on Bianca. Alvarez needs to talk to her.”
“You mean like, interview her?”
“Yes.” Was he being even more dense than ever?
“Because of the dead girl.”
Two for two.
“Shouldn’t I be there? She’s underage. Needs a parent.”
“I’m her parent,” she reminded shortly.
“You’re a cop.”
She let that settle in for a few beats. Didn’t immediately rise to the bait.
“I’m on my way,” Lucky told her.
“Not necessary. Really.” The last thing she needed was Lucky all of a sudden playing daddy.
“She needs an advocate. A real parent.”
“One who believes in Big Foot?”
“Face it, Regan, you’re a cop first and a parent second,” he said tightly.
“What?” she nearly shouted. She thought of all the years that she’d raised the kids alone while holding down a full-time, more-than-demanding job as a homicide detective. The carpools, the shuttling kids, the school meetings, the sports or dance performances, the tears and laughter. How she’d dealt with Jeremy and his girlfriend and his once-upon-a-time affiliation with alcohol and marijuana. How she’d worried over Bianca’s self-esteem and the boys who were forever sniffing around her.
And where had Lucky been?
Living his life. Free and easy. Married to a woman barely older than his stepson, a life-sized Barbie doll who spent hours getting “mani-pedis” and facials and spent her days tanning or reading online celebrity blogs.
“I am Bianca’s advocate,” she asserted, stressing every word. Out of the corner of her eye, Alvarez slid her a questioning look. “I’ll handle this, Lucky.” She didn’t bother saying good-bye, just hung up. “All of a sudden, that deadbeat’s worried about Bianca.”
“She is hurt.”
“I know, but she’s been hurt before and he’s always thought a quick phone call and an even quicker ‘Love ya, princess’ were the extent of his fatherly duties. And he acts like this Big Foot thing is real.”
Pescoli shook her head in frustration. Damn Lucky. He always knew how to complicate everything. And if he played into Bianca’s fears with this Sasquatch stuff .. . it would make her want to rip her hair out.
But Bianca saw something . . . something large and frightening....
Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t good.
CHAPTER 9
The Montclaires were devastated and numb at the murder of their child. They wanted their daughter’s remains released so that they could plan a service, but could barely talk about Destiny without breaking down. Helene had a washed-out look. In jeans and a blouse, she hadn’t bothered with makeup, her thinning blond hair lank, her eyes red-rimmed. Glenn was a big man with the beginnings of a belly hanging over his belt, his hair thin though he appeared to be in his early forties.
He talked to Alvarez and Pescoli while his wife worked hard to stem the tears. Twisting a nearly shredded Kleenex, she remained on a worn leather couch as Glenn led the detectives down a short hallway to Destiny’s room.
Pescoli’s heart was heavy as she eyed the room, neat and tidy, probably straightened up, with a twin bed with a thick black and white striped quilt and tall posts that had once, it seemed, held a canopy. A dresser and night table were the only other furniture atop a vinyl floor softened by a white shag rug that was starting to gray. A poster from Frozen seemed at odds with the head shots of teen heartthrobs that decorated the walls. A corkboard held ticket stubs and photos, a report card and a wrist corsage that had long wilted and dried—memories of a life cut short. But not one picture of Donald Justison. There were a few shots of friends tacked to the corkboard. Donny wasn’t in them.
Odd, Pescoli thought as she searched a pillowcase and the pillow inside.
Glenn Montclaire stared into the room where his daughter had grown up and Pescoli guessed he was seeing his child in his mind. “Have at it,” he said, as if suddenly snapping to. “Just please respect our daughter, okay? Her mother . . . Helene would be very upset if things were disturbed too much.”