Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

She couldn’t help but be drawn into the case. At that moment she realized that she could never give up being a cop. She loved it too much.

So what about Tucker? Will you be able to stand being away from him as much as you will have to be?

Who knew? She’d worked when both of her other kids were young and they’d survived, though there had been some very hard years. She wasn’t out of the woods yet as far as Jeremy and Bianca were concerned, but there was definitely light at the end of the tunnel. Also, Tucker had some advantages her older kids hadn’t. First of all, his siblings were old enough to tend to him and yet be delighted by him, and his father was very hands on and in the picture, much more so than the other kids’ biological fathers.

He’d survive.

Because he was so loved.

And wasn’t that what mattered most? At least according to every greeting card she’d ever picked up.

Or was she kidding herself? Rationalizing because selfishly she wanted to go back to work?

“Damn it, Pescoli,” she chided, “when did you get to be such a pansy?” Is that what came with age? Being on the damned fence all the time? Not just following your gut? If so, she didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

She took a sip of the tepid coffee, climbed to her feet, and stretched. From his bed near the fire, Cisco lifted his head, then, spying her, stood and shook himself so that his collar jangled when he did his own stretching. He trotted over to her and she petted his graying head. “So is this going to be it? Me a working mom again?”

The dog barked and at that moment the baby let out a cry from his bed in the nursery. Her heart did a quick little jump. “The prince is awake,” she told the dog, and hastily tucked all the papers into her computer case. It was time to make a change, and if Santana didn’t like the fact that she was returning to the force, he was just going to have to get over it.

* * *

“I tell ya, I haven’t heard from her,” Victor Wilde insisted as he stood in the doorway of his Modesto town house Sunday afternoon. A compact man in his early forties, he was prematurely gray, his hair rec

eding, his eyes sharp and suspicious. A mechanical engineer, his résumé claimed, he wore slacks and a golf shirt, was going a little soft around the middle, and was very wary of the two detectives standing under the overhang of his porch.

“Mind if we come in and ask a few questions?” Tanaka asked.

He hesitated, but only briefly. “Sure, sure,” he said, eyeing first Tanaka and then Paterno, whom she’d dragged away from his oversized flat screen against his better wishes.

“This way we catch him at home,” Tanaka had explained when she’d called to convince Paterno to ride with her. “Wilde’s a workaholic, always at the job, probably to avoid the three kids he fathered since he and Brindel split.”

Paterno had reluctantly agreed, deciding he could record the 49ers game and try to avoid the news so he could watch the football play action later without having the ending spoiled. He’d been propelled by a bit of a lead. The phone records for Ivy Wilde’s cell had finally arrived and it looked like she, or at least her phone, had traveled to New Mexico.

They’d driven an hour and half east into the Central Valley and as they passed under the iconic Modesto arch, the fog had thickened. Paterno had read the words of the motto aloud as Tanaka cruised beneath the arch.

“‘Water, Wealth, Contentment, Health,’” he said, then added, “Everything you could ask for. Maybe I’ll give up the Mexico dream and retire in the valley.”

“Lots of wine here.”

“I know. Sounds good.” He’d been smiling, looking more rumpled than usual. Usually clean shaven, he’d forgone the razor for the weekend.

“But, what about that boat?”

“Ah, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He’d glanced out the passenger window to a strip mall and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I bet there’s a lake or two around here, somewhere.”

They’d found Victor Wilde’s town house in an area of Modesto that appeared to have been developed sometime in the eighties, the connected homes mostly ivory stucco and trimmed in a darker tan color.

And now, he’d invited them inside where music, something from the nineties, she thought, was blasting through the house. Wilde said, “Alexa, turn off the music,” and the rooms quieted.

Tanaka saw that the place was beginning to age. Between the living area and kitchen nook, the old paneling had been ripped down, new wall board evident around the eating area where a round table was covered with tools and wall spackling, two cans of paint and several brushes. The carpet had been pulled from the wall near the stairs where baskets of toys overflowed onto the exposed subfloor.

He waved them onto a worn blue sofa with lumpy cushions. “Excuse the mess. We’re planning on selling this spring and according to our real estate agent we need to ‘update’ the place for top dollar. I thought we could sell ‘as is,’ but Elana, my wife, she disagrees, so . . .”

“Is your wife here?” Paterno asked.

“No, no. She took the kids to an indoor park for the day and I’m supposed to finish a project or two.”

His way of saying: “I’m busy. Keep this brief.”