Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

But not today.

Not when she recognized Lucky’s yellow Corvette squatted in the space usually reserved for Jeremy’s battered old pickup. The low-slung sports car was parked as if it had every right to take up space at her house and probably anywhere else on the entire planet for that matter.

“Awesome,” she said, and hit the remote clipped onto her visor. The perfect ending for a perfectly miserable day. The last person she wanted to deal with today was her ex. She was tired, starting to get hungry again, and worried about her daughter. So, no, she really didn’t need to see Luke Pescoli.

But it looked like she’d have to.

The garage door rolled open and she drove into the yawning interior. The area reserved for Santana’s pickup, an older Dodge Ram, was empty. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or bad. Probably bad. Though there was no love lost between the two men, she always felt a little stronger with Santana by her side, though, of course, she was loath to admit it, prided herself for being a strong, independent, free-thinking woman, and she was.

But dealing with Luke was always a challenge, and though Santana never got into their heated discussions, his presence seemed to keep Luke a little more in line.

Cutting the engine, she checked her rearview and spied the nose of Alvarez’s Subaru, headlights burning though it was still daylight, making the final turn through the trees.

She walked outside and waited for Alvarez to pull into a vacant spot near Lucky’s dream car.

“Luke?” Alvarez slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head.

“Yeah,” she said with a scowl. “Just what we need.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“And maybe I’m not pregnant. Let’s go. Get this over with.”

They headed inside through the garage.

Stepping into the mudroom, Pescoli was assaulted by three dogs. Cisco spun in tight little circles, all the while yipping frantically. Sturgis wagged his tail back and forth in an arc that could have swept a coffee table clean, and Nikita, Santana’s large husky, nuzzled at Pescoli’s thigh and whined a little. “Hi, hi, hi,” she said, bending over as best she could, scratching each pup behind his ears, then reaching for a box of dog biscuits she kept in a cupboard. Still barking, Cisco went out of his little mind, toenails clicking madly on the hardwood as Pescoli dug out three various-sized treats. Biscuit clamped between his teeth, Cisco took off to hide under the kitchen table, the lab swallowed his cookie whole, and Nikita carried his to a dog bed positioned near the fireplace in the family room.

At Alvarez’s amused expression, Pescoli straightened with difficulty and explained, “Priorities.”

“I get it.”

They stepped into the kitchen.

As expected, Pescoli found Lucky and Bianca seated on the sectional in the adjacent family room. Her ex leaned back with his legs stretched onto the ottoman, a beer can resting on the side table next to him. She was curled up in an opposite corner of the couch, her booted ankle elevated on a fat throw pillow.

Bianca was pale and tired-looking while Lucky appeared right at home, his eyes straying to the muted television, where some baseball game was playing out. His left hand found the can of Coors, no doubt one he’d scrounged for and found in her refrigerator, his favorite MO. With a glance at her, he took a long swallow.

The only good news was that Michelle didn’t appear to have come with him. Pescoli didn’t think she could handle bubbly, all-smiles wifey right now. Sometimes the woman’s bright smile, dancing eyes, and ever-present effervescence were damned irritating. Well, most of the time. No, make that all of the time. Michelle bugged the crap out of Regan, and she didn’t hide the fact well.

But Luke’s current wife wasn’t in evidence, so Pescoli pushed the woman out of her mind and concentrated on her daughter.

“How’re ya doing?” Pescoli asked, rounding the extension of the couch where Bianca’s foot was elevated.

“She’s doing okay,” Lucky answered for Bianca. “She’s a trooper. A real Pescoli.”

Regan had to bite her tongue as he took a long pull from his beer can and lounged with that easygoing Lucky manner, his near-blond hair a little too long, the tiniest of crow’s feet cut into the skin at the corners of his hazel eyes. “Bedroom eyes,” she’d once heard a friend comment, only to learn later that the friend who’d made the remark had been sleeping with him during his marriage to Regan.

Lucky hadn’t thought his affair was that big of a deal, certainly not grounds for divorce, but then, she’d learned later, he, a long-haul truck driver, had kept girlfriends tucked away in various towns and cities along his route for years.

Yeah, she thought now, he was a real charmer.

Pescoli raised an eyebrow at her daughter.

“I’m fine. Bored mainly.” To prove her point, Bianca let out a long-suffering sigh, and Pescoli was struck, not for the first time, by how much Bianca took after her father, at least in the looks department

. Her hair was curlier and tinged with red, like her mother’s, but otherwise, Bianca was a petite, feminine Lucky with smooth skin and a smile that wouldn’t quit. That was, when she deigned to offer it up, which wasn’t often. All in all, Bianca looking like her father wasn’t so bad, really. Luke Pescoli was certainly handsome enough, but that narcissistic attitude . . .

“Detective Alvarez is here,” Pescoli said as Alvarez came in behind her. “She’s going to ask you some questions about last night.”