Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Alvarez wasn’t surprised. Last night she’d spent hours double-checking dates, places, and the suspect’s whereabouts before finally going to bed. Nothing had matched up. The woman in custody couldn’t have committed the murders of Theresa Charleton, Nina Salvadore, Wendy Ito, Rona Anders, and Hannah Estes. On top of all that, Alvarez was certain they should be looking for a guy. A big guy, one strong enough to carry women out of snow-covered canyons, one smart enough to hide them away without detection, a sharpshooter with incredible accuracy: under sixty, probably, big, athletic. And then there was the fact of her missing partner. She shivered as Grayson said, “It sure would have been nice to get the mutt behind bars.”

“We will.”

“Any word from Pescoli? Brewster said they found her car.”

“Nothing.”

“Shit.”

Alvarez’s sentiments precisely.

“Find her.”

“We will.”

“Jesus, what a mess.”

“We’ll get this guy and we’ll get Pescoli back alive,” she said, hearing the ring of conviction in her tone, wondering if she were lying.

“God, I hope so.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m on my way back. Chandler and Halden are staying on a little longer, wrapping things up with the 94

Lisa Jackson

Spokane Police, trying to find a link as to how the suspect knew so much about the other murders. I’ll see you at the office and we’ll have a meeting of the task force. I want anything the crime scene has got on Pescoli’s vehicle and her place. Get a search warrant and talk to her kids and . . . Oh, hell, you know what we need to do.”

“Already on it.”

“Good. Later.”

She hung up, finished drinking her cooling tea, then stepped outside where the s

un was rising over the eastern hills and traffic was starting to move through this part of the town.

Pescoli had been missing two nights now. Chapter Seven

That bitch needs to be taught a lesson! I rake my fingers through my hair and try to calm down, but my hands are shaking, my muscles tight as bowstrings as I pace before the fire. All because of her.

Don’t let her get to you. You’re in control here, re- member? You’re the one who’s calling the shots. She’s wounded. Handcuffed. Under lock and key. You’re in charge. You. Not that miserable joke of a cop who doesn’t know her place. Do not lose it now, not when you’ve come so far, not when you’re so close. Not when you have so much to do. Not just here, with these women, with him. He’ll be here soon. You must calm down. You have to be ready. Your aim can’t be off even in the slightest. The shot has to be spot on.

I close my eyes. Count to ten. Then twenty. I feel the stiffness in my shoulders relax a bit and I listen for the sound of the storm, the shriek of the wind, 96

Lisa Jackson

the pounding of sleet, but there is nothing. Only silence over the crackle of the fire. Peace.

And yet, despite my pep talk and the quietude of the winter day, it’s all I can do to hang on to my temper, to focus on the bigger picture, the greater good. My work is too important to allow myself the luxury of becoming overwhelmed. I must be rock steady. And yet I’m rattled. Deep down. The bitch got to me and I have trouble repressing my anger. Me.

Who is usually so calm.

It’s that bitch of a woman.

Detective.

Regan Pescoli is rattling me and I can’t let that happen. Not now. Not until it’s over.

To find some relief I pick up her pistol, feel the smooth steel in my palm. There’s just something about a weapon that brings a feeling of calm. I run the barrel over my cheek and down my neck, closing my eyes and reveling in the feel of it. I can’t let a pain in the ass like Pescoli unnerve or derail me; not now when I need all my concentration. Slowly I breathe more easily and I walk to my bar and pour a cool glass of vodka. It steadies my nerves, takes the edge off. I have to forget about Pescoli for a while.

It seems I have bigger fish to fry.