Brady subscribed to the theory. Big-time. He wondered if Santana guessed, then discarded the question. Didn’t matter. They’d known each other as kids and, both super competitive, had butted heads and clashed fists. There had been a few black eyes and a couple of bloody noses, but Brady had always wondered what made Santana tick. The man never sucked up to him, never gave in; always, it seemed, looking down his crooked nose at Brady. But Santana was a helluva horseman, communicated with animals in a way that Brady found both uncomfortable and fascinating. The upshot was that Santana was working for him, here, in No-FuckingWhere Montana, which was just as it should be. Brady carried his laptop case to his father’s den and dropped the computer on the desk. Then he found the bar located near another massive rock fireplace and poured himself a stiff drink. Three fingers of bourbon. On the rocks, again compliments of Clementine, who had left a filled ice 106
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bucket on the counter. Ice cubes clinked softly as he carried the drink to his desk. Reaching down, he pressed a hidden button and waited as a false wall decorated with the fading coat of a zebra slid to one side and a bank of cabinets was revealed. Flanked by an arsenal of rifles, shotguns, bows, and pistols was a safe where, he hoped, his father’s most recent will would be found.
He could have just asked his father’s attorney, Barton Tinneman, for a copy, he supposed, but truth to tell, he didn’t trust Tinneman any more than he held faith in his father’s friends, most of whom had already died. And that went double for the members of the damned board.
The safe had an old-fashioned combination lock. No electronics or bells and whistles of any sort. Brady had memorized the numbers as a kid of five and never, ever, let on that he knew. Well, his sister, too, had learned the secret sequence, but it wouldn’t do her a whole helluva lot of good where she was, locked away in a sanitarium, barely able to function, now would it? He felt a bit of guilt about her condition, then shrugged it off. Padgett had been unable to care for herself for half her life, nearly fifteen years, and before that time, she’d been a raving bitch, so he rarely spent too much time worrying about how she’d ended up there or what his part in it had been.
It was all water under the bridge.
He heard the soft click of ancient tumblers as he turned the dial.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said aloud with the final flick of his wrist, the dial stopping at just the right spot, the lock giving way. Smiling in satisfaction, Brady set
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down his drink and yanked open the door to the safe.
He was certain the will was inside.
All he had to do, once he retrieved it, was wait a few hours, maybe days, for the old man to die. Chapter Eight
The media had returned.
In full force.
Swooping back to Grizzly Falls with a vengeance, as if the sheriff’s department had intentionally duped them with what everyone hated to admit, but now knew, was a copycat killer.
The real deal was still on the loose, here in Montana. Alvarez pulled into the department parking lot and noticed vans from two TV stations based out of Missoula and another one rolling down the street, with a logo she didn’t recognize. Great, she thought, pulling her keys from the ignition. The media circus is gearing up for another show. She managed to lock her Jeep and make it inside without being approached by any reporters. Counting herself lucky, she peeled off her jacket and threw it over the back of her chair, then continued toward the kitchen where she heated water in the
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microwave and located the only bag of tea: Chamomile Mist. No caffeine. No flavor. No morning jolt. In a word: useless.
“Oh, sorry!” Joelle said, flying into the room with a shopping bag filled with groceries. Dressed in a long red coat, black boots, and a white scarf, she was the female version of Santa Claus as she bustled into the kitchen in a cloud of perfume and propriety. “I thought I’d get in before the morning shift arrived,” she said, boots clicking across the floor.
“But I guess I was wrong.” Skewering Alvarez with a motherly but irritated glance, she hurriedly placed cartons of milk and cream into the refrigerator, forced boxes of coffee filters and sugar substitute packets into a drawer, then finally found a variety pack of tea. “Your cold still bothering you?”
Alvarez shook her head. Refused to give in to the urge to sniff. Didn’t want to get into it. The last thing she needed was Joelle Fisher trying to mother her. “I’m okay.”
The look Joelle sent Alvarez suggested she appeared no better than death warmed over. “Have you been to the doctor?”
Alvarez didn’t respond, just opened the wrapper of the variety pack of tea and plucked out a bag of Earl Grey.
“I didn’t think so . . . oh . . . here . . .” Joelle reached into the bag one last time and brought out a boxed fruitcake that she immediately unwrapped. “I picked this up at the store.” Dried candy and icing glistened under the fluorescent lights as she unboxed the cake and slid it onto a plate decorated with silver bells, obviously something she’d brought from home to help get everyone into the holiday spirit. With a serial killer on the loose.
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And Regan Pescoli missing.
And power outages and icy conditions across most of the state.