“Oh, no.” She thought about her partner for the hundredth time this morning and couldn’t shake the sense of doom that had seeped through her insides.
“It gets better. Keep reading.” Grayson’s jaw was rock hard.
The next line, in smaller type, declared: Copycat Killer Arrested.
She read the remainder of the article by Manny Douglas, who reported that the “Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department and the FBI had been fooled
CHOSEN TO DIE
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into believing they had captured the Star-Crossed Killer with the arrest in Spokane.” With more innuendo than actual fact, Manny suggested the entire investigation was botched and that the local authorities were “lost” and “baffled.”
“He may as well have asked for my damned resignation,” Grayson said. He looked tired, the grooves in his cheeks more pronounced, dark circles beneath his eyes. “Journalism at its finest,” he said, then raked stiff fingers through his hair. “For what it’s worth, I lodged a complaint with his editor.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t resign.” Alvarez tossed the paper into his trash can. “
Don’t you know you’re not supposed to believe your press, good or bad?”
“Not much good these days.”
She couldn’t argue the point.
He held up his cup. “Thanks for bringing me the coffee.”
She nodded. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t get used to it. I only pull out my gofer skills on the holidays.”
His lips almost smiled. “So, anything new?”
She couldn’t mention Brewster, not until she had something concrete, some evidence that linked the undersheriff to the crime, and the truth was, she wasn’t sure he was their guy. “I’m going out to talk to Clementine and Ross DeGrazio again. Clementine’s one of the few people who knew that Brady Long was going to show up at the Lazy L.”
“What about his fiancée? People he worked with?”
“Zoller’s working on them and Halden told me that he’s talking to the FBI’s field agents in Denver. I haven’t heard back yet.”
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Lisa Jackson
“And your visit with Grace Perchant?” he asked, his eyes crinkling a bit. “You never said how that went.”
“It was interesting.”
“Uh-huh. She talk to any ghosts?”
“Many, I think. Wendy Ito warned her about Pescoli.”
“Of course she did.” He gave her a look. Alvarez didn’t feel like arguing with him and really couldn’t back up her arguments with fact anyway. Alvarez was about to leave when Joelle Fisher, dressed in a festive holiday cape and laden with Tupperware filled with what looked like sweets, poked her head into the office.
“Any word on Detective Pescoli?” she asked hopefully. There was a tiny pipe-cleaner angel tucked into her blond hair.
If possible, Grayson’s expression turned grimmer.
“Oh, I see . . . Well, I brought some . . . things . . . More cookies and julekake, that’s a traditional Scandinavian bread, my husband’s mother’s from Norway, you know . . .” she said, then her voice trailed off.