Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Now we’re talking doctor/patient privilege.”

“Finding this boy would be a big help. Hubert Long would be eternally grateful. To you. To Mountain View. If you could talk to Padgett for him . . . ?”

“I think you need to take this matter up with”—

she glanced at her notes—“someone at Cahill House. They have the records.”

“I already tried that,” he said swiftly. “They won’t

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release any information about the case to anyone but Padgett.”

So the oily lawyer was trying to come in through the back door.

“Doctor Ramsby—”

“I can’t discuss this any further. If you, or anyone else, wants to come and visit Padgett, talk with her yourself, then you’re welcome to do so. But I can’t help you in that matter. Thank you for informing me of my patient’s brother’s death. I’ll make certain she knows.” Dr. Ramsby hung up, shaking her head. Families. Always a trial. And Tinneman . . . the lawyer knew better than to try to wrangle information from her, information she couldn’t give him. Jalicia had never met Tinneman, but she didn’t like him and decided he was a true snake in the grass.

And what did all this mean for Padgett Long? Chapter Twenty

He was back.

The son of a bitch was in the next room, humming to himself, stoking the fire or cooking or doing . . . whatever the hell it was he did on the other side of the door. Regan watched his shadow move around the adjoining area that she’d only caught glimpses of when he opened the door and came into “her” quarters to leave her food, or water, or take the damned bucket he’d given her to relieve herself in, or to stoke the fire.

In those glimpses of his living area, she’d seen parts of a long table, and a heavy armoire and bookcases on the one wall that was in her line of vision. She wondered what kind of job, if any, he held and, of course, as she lay fighting the cold and the darkness, she always wondered who he was. Why did she feel she knew him?

Holding the scratchy blanket tight to her chin as the fire burned ever lower, the scent of wood smoke

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strong, Pescoli had thought about all the criminals she’d busted over the years and she hadn’t been able to come up with a name or face that she could place on this maniac.

None of them fit.

She’d arrested a number of thugs who’d threatened her or those she loved, but their taunts had proven idle, a spitting out of rage and trampled pride as the lowlifes had been hauled away to jail to contemplate their misdeeds and fester their hate of cops, the system, and her. But once they were released, to a one, they avoided her like the plague. This mutt was different.

His rage was darker.

And leveled not only at her, but at other women as well, and authority. She’d felt his hostility like an entity in the room with them, sensed that he was sneering at her despite his sometimes smooth and cajoling tone. As if he cared about her. She didn’t believe the son of a bitch for a second. And now that he was back and she couldn’t keep at her futile attempts at escape, she had to unmask him. More importantly, she had to stop him. Before he killed her.

A tall order.

One she couldn’t fill handcuffed.

She saw shadows moving under the door and realized he’d walked toward her room only to stop on the other side of the threshold.

No doubt the depraved prick was even now peeking inside. What a perv! She forced her body to quit quivering, set her jaw, and glared up at the small peephole in the door, silently and defiantly daring him to come inside.

If she could talk to him some more, she might 272

Lisa Jackson

learn who he was, where this damned lair was located, and what his plans were. If she didn’t lose her temper and just kept him going on.