Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Your husband, and more importantly, Tucker’s father.

“Well, screw that,” she’d said aloud as she’d put the car into drive and torn down the lane. The baby had given out a soft little coo, and she’d said, “That’s right. You and me, buddy. Let’s go get your sister and find out what happened to Aunt Brindel.”

Her thoughts had darkened when she’d thought about growing up with her siblings and a single mother, their dad having left when she, the youngest, was eleven. There hadn’t been another woman; the only reason for him leaving the declaration that he “couldn’t live in a house full of females” a second longer. Later their mother had explained that he’d always wanted a boy and ended up with four daughters. Regan hadn’t seen much of him after that, though he’d faithfully paid child support, but her parents had eventually divorced, he’d remarried, and lo and behold, fathered the son he’d always wanted.

“Bully for him,” their mother had said through tight lips when she’d learned the news, and Regan had pushed any remaining feelings she’d had for her father down a deep, dark well, thoughts of him rarely bubbling to the surface. Until some family crisis occurred. Like this one. But she didn’t have time to think about him now and pushed all thoughts of her parents out of her mind. Even her grief for Brindel was tucked away. There would be time enough for dealing with her emotions later. Right now she had to make the flight.

The only good news had been that she was able to pull Bianca out of school. Baby Tucker would have care when Pescoli had to deal with her sisters or the police alone.

The flight had been uneventful once they’d made their connection in Seattle, and they were finally approaching the San Francisco Airport, located on the bay to the south of the city. Unlike Pescoli, her daughter was psyched for the quick trip, and with earbuds visible in her ears, Bianca pressed her nose against the window of the airplane and whispered “Awesome!” when she viewed the Golden Gate Bridge, the dark waters of the bay and the twinkling lights of the city visible as dusk settled over the peninsula.

They landed, grabbed their luggage, called for an Uber car that would take a baby carrier, and once the car arrived, were driven to the studio apartment she had reserved through Airbnb. Located in the daylight basement of a three-storied home in the Mount Sutro area of the city, the apartment was old, in the bottom level of a large manor that included a walk-out garden. The furniture was a blend of antiques, used junk, and modern pieces, kind of a cobbled-together “shabby-chic” style according to Bianca, who was thrilled at being in the city. It was nearly eight when they settled in, Regan and the baby claiming the double bed, Bianca relegated to a futon. Pescoli dropped her bags onto the foot of the bed. After a quick perusal of the apartment, Bianca said, “I’m taking a shower,” before disappearing into the tiny bathroom.

Holding her son, Pescoli heard the ancient pipes groan and the hiss of spraying water as she scanned the display on her phone. Four messages from Sarina.

And one from a Detective Anthony Paterno with the San Francisco Police Department.

None from Santana.

Before calling anyone back, she climbed onto the bed, propped herself with pillows, and attempted to nurse Tucker again. No go. The baby fussed, and though she tried to relax, it just wasn’t happening. After nearly ten minutes, she gave up. “I need a beer,” she confided to the baby, then joked, “Maybe you do, too. You could help out with this, y’know.”

“I heard that.” Bianca, a towel wrapped over her wet curls, another draped around her body, stepped into the living area and started digging through her suitcase until she found a robe. “Why don’t you just give up? The nursing, I mean. Obviously it’s not working.”

Cradling a crying Tucker, Pescoli migrated to the kitchen area that was little more than an undercounter ancient sink, small counter, and two-burner stove. She retrieved the can of formula. “Because it’s best for the baby, for the mother, for the whole stinking planet and universe to breast-feed.”

“Lots of people don’t.”

“I’m not lots of people.”

“So you think it’s better to be uptight and Tuck to be hungry and upset rather than just give him formula? Isn’t this like approved by the FDA or whatever?” Bianca held up the can of powder, then studied the label.

“It’s not human milk.”

“Neither is coffee or Diet Coke.” Two of Pescoli’s weaknesses.

“I’m not an infant.”

“I’m just sayin’ it might be easier.”

“Easier isn’t the issue,” Pescoli argued as her phone chimed. Balancing the baby, bottle, and cell, she returned to the bed.

“It never is with you, Mom. You should learn how to chill.”

“Not going to happen.” She saw that Sarina was calling again. “Hello?” she said as she clicked on the cell.

“Where are you?”

“Finally at our Airbnb. Just feeding Tucker. Then I’ll Uber to the station.”

“Well, hurry. For some reason Detective Paterno won’t let us look at the body until you’re here.”

“You want to?”

“God, yes!” Sarina started to cry again.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she promised, and hung up.

Bianca, wiggling the bottle, said, “I can feed him, Mom. With formula.”