Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Balancing Tucker on one hip, she poured herself a cup and joined her sister at the table. Sarina was already showered and dressed, her hair dry, fresh lipstick and mascara vis

ible.

Pescoli stifled a yawn as Sarina, frowning, chewed on the end of a pencil as she sat at the glass-topped table. A newspaper was spread in front of her, the Sudoku puzzle barely started.

“I can’t concentrate,” she said, tossing the pencil down. “With Brindel gone and Ivy missing and Denny . . . probably screwing his brains out somewhere.” Her lips twisted down at the corners. “But then the Saturday puzzle is always rough.” She looked up and zeroed in on Tucker. “Here, let me take him,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the baby as she made “goo-goo” noises that delighted him. He kicked his little pajama-encased feet as Pescoli passed him off and Sarina touched the tip of his nose with her finger. “Oh, I miss these days.” Her gaze moved to her sister’s. “You’re lucky.”

Pescoli didn’t look at life in terms of bad luck or good; more in mistakes made or opportunities taken.

Sarina nuzzled Tucker’s cheek and he giggled in delight. “You go on upstairs and get ready and I’ll take care of this little man.”

“You don’t think I’ll wake the boys?”

“This time of day? Morning? Or anytime before two in the afternoon? It’s like trying to wake the dead. Case in point.” She hitched her chin toward the family room couch where Bianca was curled up, the blanket over her head, oblivious to the world.

“Okay, I’ll take you up on that.” Pescoli dragged herself and the cup of coffee upstairs. The caffeine flooded her bloodstream about the time the needle-sharp shower spray hit her skin. By the time she’d changed and returned to the living area, she felt like a new woman.

And Sarina seemed a little more relaxed. As if holding the baby had given her a new lease on life. “So what’s on the docket?” she asked.

“Bianca and I are heading home.”

“What? No.” She’d been washing the baby’s face and hands despite his protests. “We had a little burp accident,” she admitted. “Some of his bottle came back up.” She tossed the disposable wipe into a nearby trash can. “What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“Just that. I’ve done what I can. The SFPD will handle it from here.”

“You’re kidding!”

“There’s not a lot I can do. Paterno promised to keep me in the loop, and I’ve got a life back in Montana.” She’d almost said “husband” but had changed her mind at the last minute, didn’t want to set Sarina off about Denny again. “I have a family and a job waiting.” That last part was a bit of a lie, but it worked.

“I thought you would stay until they found out what happened to Brindel and what happened to Ivy—where she is—and . . . oh.” It must’ve hit Sarina for the first time that the investigation could take weeks, or months or longer. “Oh . . . dear.” Her eyes grew sad and she flipped the newspaper over to page one where the headlines blared:

NO CLEAR SUSPECT IN LATHAM DOUBLE-HOMICIDE.

“I hate this,” Sarina said as she skimmed the article.

“I think you’ll have to get used to it.”

“Don’t I know it. I’ve had reporters calling at all hours, and this morning at eight a reporter for one of the local TV stations was already knocking at the door. I got rid of her right away, told her I had ‘no comment’ other than she might wake a sleeping baby.”

“Did she leave?”

“Yeah, about an hour later.”

“Let the homicide department handle them. Or the public information officer. Refer anyone who calls to the police department. It’s all part of the job.”

She worried her lip. “I’d talk to them, you know. The reporters? If I thought it would help to find out who did it, bring them to justice and get Ivy home . . . or at least here.”

Pescoli said carefully, “Macon seemed to think Ivy might have had a hand in it.”

“Of murdering her parents? Of course not. He’s just . . . upset.” She saw the next question in Pescoli’s eyes. “Yes, Ivy was in a hospital for a while . . . up in Portland.”

“Why there?”

“I don’t know, really. Brindel said Paul wanted it all kept quiet, that his stepdaughter was you know, ‘troubled. ’ That’s what he called it. If you ask me, Paul just didn’t want anyone to find out that his family wasn’t what it seemed on the outside. He was very concerned with appearance. Very. All the while having affairs on the side.” She sighed and pursed her lips, no doubt her thoughts wandering to her own straying husband. “Anyway, it’s no wonder Brindel wanted a divorce. She was going to file, you know. And Paul had no idea. I’m sure it never occurred to him that a woman might want to leave him, might need some independence, that all the money in the world wasn’t worth it if you were kept on a twenty-four-carat leash. He’s . . . he was a piece of work.”

“It was that bad?” Pescoli asked, and felt a jab of guilt that she’d known so little about her sister.

She shrugged, gently bouncing the baby on her knee and cradling his little head. “Now, it looks like we’ll never know.”