“No one has to cut off a finger to get a ring to pawn.”
“Yeah, well, we’re dealing with a sick bastard.”
“Amen,” Alvarez said. “I’ll fill Blackwater in.”
“Good.” The less Pescoli had to deal with the new sheriff, the better. She started for her office. Halfway down the hallway, she heard the distinctive clip of mincing footsteps and a few seconds later, Joelle called out, “Detective.” Pescoli glanced over her shoulder and caught the receptionist waving frantically to flag her down.
With an inward sigh, Pescoli waited in the hallway while Joelle, black leather heels tapping, ebony earrings swinging in rhythm, approached. “There’s going to be a memo later, of course, but I thought you, being as you were so close, should know the memorial service for the sheriff will be a week from Saturday. I know it’s a long time away, but because of all the officers from other jurisdictions who might want to attend, the family thought it would be best to wait. That way all the final tests will be performed on the body and”—she took in a deep breath, collected herself—“the service will be held at the Pinewood Center. As I said, there’ll be more information on the interoffice memo via e-mail.”
“The family?”
Joelle flicked a hand. “Cade and Zedediah, but of course Hattie had a hand in the decisions, too.” She looked about to launch into the gossip about Hattie being married to Bart Grayson while supposedly involved with either Cade or Dan, depending on the year, but seemed to think better of it. Her polished lips, in a shade of pale pink, were pursed in disapproval as she clicked back down the hallway in her black heels. With Joelle, there really wasn’t any need for e-mail or interoffice memos or even telephones. She spread the word more effectively than any technology. “Sergeant,” she was calling as she tip-tapped along the hallway, her sweater billowing like a black cape behind her.
Pescoli stepped into her office, slung her jacket and holster over the hall tree, kicked out her chair, and nearly devoured the scone, which had, she guessed from its dry consistency, been sitting in the case at least one day, maybe two.
She was opening her e-mail, looking over the reports, hoping for a full autopsy on Sheree Cantnor, when she heard footsteps and a familiar voice outside the door to her office.
“You requested this?”
She looked up to find Jeremy standing in the doorway. He was carrying a worn cardboard box with a case file sticker attached that read GRAYSON, BARTHOLOMEW, a case number and dates of the investigation.
“Hi,” she said, always a little surprised to see her son, whose hours at the department were few and far between. It hadn’t been that many years ago that she’d been afraid he would make a wrong turn and end up working on the other side of the law. “Sure. Just set it there in the corner.” She pointed to a space between the filing cabinet and her desk. Then, as he turned to go, added, “Hey, Jer, got a sec?”
He looked pained. “I guess.”
“Close the door, would you?” she asked, waggling her finger at the door to the hallway.
Pushing the door shut, he leaned against it. “What?”
“I, uh, I wanted to apologize for last night.”
“For what?”
Seriously? Is he that clueless? Maybe. “For what I said about you and Heidi. You’ve grown up in the past six months or so, seem to know what you want. If you’re seeing Heidi, I’m not going to fight it. Your decision.”
“It’s not a big thing, Mom. I like her, yeah, and you know, we plan to go out when she comes back here or if I go visit her, but that’s about it.” His face was serious. “She’s been through a lot, too. Her folks are splitting up and her sisters are all in college. It’s just her and her mom. In a new town.”
“I know,” Pescoli said. “She’s probably grown up a lot, t
oo.”
“Yeah, I guess. She’s talking about moving out and getting married and—”
Pescoli felt the blood drain from her face just about the same time her stomach did a slow, nauseous flip.
“Oh, not to me, Mom. I mean, I don’t think so. But someday she wants to—hey!”
She retched. Unable to stop herself, she grabbed the garbage pail beneath her desk, bent over, and upchucked all over the wrappers and trash already in there.
“Gross.” Jeremy gazed at his mother in horror.
“Sorry,” she said after spitting a couple times. She grabbed a cold cup of coffee and washed the bile out of her mouth, drinking the foul-tasting concoction down.
“What’s wrong with you? I didn’t say I was getting married.”
“No, no, that’s not it,” she assured him and almost laughed aloud. “I haven’t felt well all morning.”
“Have you got the flu?”