Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“You talked about becoming a PI,” he reminded. “With O’Keefe.”

She walked to the counter, found a loaf of bread, and popped two slices of whole grain into the toaster. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

“But it would be safer.”

She threw him a glance. “Would it?” But she couldn’t argue the point. At one time or another everyone in her family ha

d been in jeopardy, largely in part because of her job with the sheriff’s department. And hadn’t she crossed a line or two while on duty?

She hated to admit it but she missed working with uptight Alvarez, of being a part of the department, of the adrenaline rush of chasing down a killer, of being part of a team even if the new sheriff had no chance of ever filling Dan Grayson’s size-thirteen boots. There were a few irritants in the department—Pete Watershed came quickly to mind—but still . . . The toast popped, she pulled out the hot slices gingerly, tossing them onto a plate just as she heard the distinct wail coming from the floor above. “Uh-oh. Sounds like the prince is awake.”

“Come on,” Santana protested. “Don’t call him that. ‘Sport’ or ‘cowboy’ or ‘buddy,’ that’s okay, but just not ‘prince,’ okay?”

She picked up her tepid coffee, took a big gulp from her cup, then tossed the remains into the sink where she left her cup. “Okay—maybe he’ll be ‘honey-bunny’ or ‘snookums’ then.”

“Right.”

Hurrying up the steps, she heard Santana laugh.

In the nursery she found her son lying on his back in his crib, his dark eyes open wide. At the sight of her his little arms flailed wildly and he grinned.

That baby smile melted her heart. “You are a prince, aren’t you?” she whispered, picking him up and smelling the clean baby scent of him. For the first time since the phone had woken her up, she grinned. “Huh, Tucker-Boy? Need a new dipe-dipe?” He cooed at her and she smiled back, then thought of what her colleagues at the department might say if they heard her making baby talk with her newborn. “Screw ’em, right?” she said before changing his diaper and onesie, then settling into the rocker to nurse. He latched on, suckled for a few minutes, then screwed up his face. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I guess it’s not in the cards for you and me anymore. Come on, let’s go see Daddy.”

Deftly she stood and, barefoot, carried Tucker down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“You’re up, Dad,” she said, finding Santana at the counter separating the cooking area from the family room. Tucker brightened at the sight of his father. She handed the baby into her husband’s waiting hands. “I’ll heat the bottle, you can feed him.”

“Hey, buddy,” Santana said, grinning at his son and letting the baby muss his hair. Tucker giggled, finding his father hysterical, his little legs moving jerkily in excitement. A fire was burning in the grate, blankets lopping over the edge of the couch, the dogs settled in their beds. Cozy. Warm. Home. Yeah, she loved it here, she thought as she finished making the bottle and handing it to her husband.

Her phone buzzed again.

“What is it this morning?” She read the screen but the number was unfamiliar. Punching the button to answer, she said brusquely, “Pescoli.”

“Regan!” a female voice cried. “Oh, God, I’m so glad this number still works.” Anxiety swept through the caller’s voice. “You have to come to San Francisco. Now.”

“Who is—?” she started to ask when she recognized her sister Sarina’s shrill voice. A sinking sensation settled over her. None of her sisters ever called unless something was wrong—seriously wrong.

“Oh, God. It’s awful,” Sarina cried. It sounded as if she was sobbing. “Just so awful.”

“What is?”

“Brindel! She’s dead.”

“What?” Pescoli’s heart nearly stopped. “Dead?” Brindel, second-born of the four Connors siblings, was tall and blond with a snarky sense of humor and a willingness to do whatever it took to get ahead.

“Yes! Dead! Murdered! Can you believe it? In her bed. I mean who would—?”

“Wait. Slow down.” Regan leaned against the counter for support and noticed that Santana, who was holding the baby, was at attention, his gaze drilling into hers. Sarina was still crying. “Okay, okay, get ahold of yourself,” she said to her sister. “Start over. At the beginning.” Shaken, Regan was still trying to get her head around the news. But it was impossible. Maybe Sarina was mistaken—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

“Not just Brindel, but Paul, too.”

Paul was Brindel’s husband. A doctor. Some kind of specialist. Heart, maybe. And a supercilious jerk, at least in Regan’s estimation, but dead? She couldn’t wrap her brain around it.

“It’s just horrible. Horrible.” Sarina was out-and-out bawling now, her words nearly indistinguishable. “You—you—oh, God, you have to do something!”

“Me?”

“You’re a cop, aren’t you? A detective?”