Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Where the hell am I? she thought now, looking around. Had he, or someone before him, built an

CHOSEN TO DIE

183

underground lair? In a cave? Or an old basement? Was there a house above?

Her eyes focused on the ceiling. Never had she heard anyone walk on it, but the window was aboveground, right? She looked at the window with its blurry glass, then across the ceiling to the top of the pipe that led from the wood stove near the door. Beside it was a stack of firewood and a poker—oh, God, what she wouldn’t do to get her hands on that!—and there was an old bellows and some leather gloves as well, and even a barbecue lighter, probably complete with fingerprints.

She studied the stove. Even in the darkness she could see it was an antique, the kind her greatgrandmother had cooked on around the turn of the last century. Its pipe didn’t vent upward through the ceiling, but turned at a ninety-degree angle to disappear into the wall where the door to the next room, his room, opened.

Her eyes focused on the door. It was thick, but cut a little short, so that a slice of light would slip beneath it when he was there, when his own fire was glowing, when whatever he used for illumination was lit. She’d watched his shadow, seen when he’d come near to listen and maybe look through what she thought was a peephole in the heavy panels. Pervert.

She let out her breath in disgust. She couldn’t just lie here and wait, for God’s sake. He could return at any moment. Her skin crawled at the thought. She closed her eyes for a second, tried to find her strength, and thought about Santana. His fit form. His quirking lips. He had a way of making her laugh no matter how dire the situation, and on the rare occasions when he couldn’t, all he had to do was 184

Lisa Jackson

touch the back of her neck with his fingers, or kiss her shoulder . . .

The back of her throat caught.

Oh, for the love of God, stop this! You’re being a sniveling fool! The kind of woman you abhor! Come on, Detective, you’ve got to get up! Keep working on the weld!

Gritting her teeth, she started to roll off the cot when she heard it.

/> An unfamiliar sound.

Soft and broken.

Pescoli froze and strained to listen.

Was she imagining things?

Then she heard it again. A moan. No, more than that, a woman’s mewling, pitiful sobs.

And she wasn’t making them.

Chapter Fourteen

In life, Brady Long had been big news.

In death, he might just be bigger, Alvarez thought, as she drove past the open gates to his estate and saw a news van from station KBTR already parked at the side of the road near the fence. A cameraman, dressed in a down jacket and insulated pants, was setting up, while the reporter waited nearby, stomping her feet. Another van was just arriving, flinging snow as it approached.

“How do they get the word before we do?” Grayson said as Deputy Connors, standing guard and blocking the drive from anyone but police, waved them through.

“Sixth sense,” Alvarez said. Wipers losing ground against the ever-falling snow, she passed by thickets of pine, hemlock, and aspen, the vehicle lurching in the deep ruts from previous vehicles. Red and blue lights flashed through the trees, reflecting in 186

Lisa Jackson

the snow and the huge windows of the Long mansion. An ambulance was idling in the snow on the parking area near the garage where a fire truck, two vehicles from the sheriff’s department, and a beatup truck with a dog inside were parked.

“Bad news travels fast,” Grayson observed. Especially if you’re as prominent as Brady Long. Alvarez cut the engine, pushed open the door, and stepped into over a foot of snow. She trudged behind Grayson toward an open door that was sheltered by the carport, signed into the scene, and walked inside where techs were already taking pictures and measurements. Ivor Hicks was seated at the kitchen table. He looked up at Grayson and seemed relieved. “Sheriff! Thank God you’re here.”

“Ivor thinks he saw a Yeti,” Deputy Watershed informed them.

“Like a Sasquatch?” Grayson responded distractedly.

“Not unless the son of a bitch is a friggin’ albino. Everyone knows a Sasquatch is black or brown or gray. I saw a Yeti. Abominable snowman, you know,”