Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Who the hell does something like this? And on Christmas?” His deep voice was angry, his lips hard against his teeth, one fist balled.

She was shaking her head, feeling as if the whole situation were surreal. “Whoever the bastard is, I’ll find him.”

“We,” he said, his words clipped. “We’ll find him.”

“That’s right. We will.” Heart filled with dread, she started up the lane, avoiding the area roped off by the crime scene team who had managed to arrive before she had. Through the falling snow, she followed the lane that cut into the woods and followed the winding path of a stream that was nearly frozen over. Only a trickle of water

was visible beneath a thin layer of ice and she noticed a snowshoe hare hiding in the brush. Any other day the area would have appeared tranquil. Serene. But not this morning.

As she trudged around a final bend, the trees opened into a clearing where Grayson’s cabin, rustic and picturesque with its snow-covered steep roof and icicles dangling from the gutters, had changed into another roped-off area where officers were working and a wide stain of red had spread over the ground and seeped into the snow. Her throat tightened when she realized that the shape was irregular, showing where a human head, neck, and torso had been buried and the blood had stopped, freezing near the body. There was disturbance in the stain as well, footsteps and mashed snow. In her mind’s eye, Alvarez saw Pescoli coming across the victim, kneeling at Grayson’s side, trying to save him.

Her insides curdled at the image.

She spied Pescoli standing away from the scene. She was pale, her teeth chattering, leaning for support against the fender of her dirty Jeep.

Again the mind-numbing phone conversation they’d had earlier sliced through Alvarez’s brain in short, painful bursts, sound bites that would be indelibly etched in her memory.

“Who the fuck would do this?” Pescoli had nearly screamed. “Who!”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, hell, what a stupid question! He has so many enemies,” she answered for herself. “So damned many enemies, so many sons of bitches who deserved to be sent to prison or worse!” She was railing now, talking fast, out of control. “How many hundreds of cons has he arrested or testified against, and then there are the families and loved ones of those jerks, or maybe a victim who didn’t think justice was served or . . . who the hell knows?”

As Selena approached, Deputy Lazlo was saying to Pescoli, “We’ll find out.”

“You got that right!”

“Regan, I think you should go to the hospital. You’ve suffered a shock and you’ve been out in the elements for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to have a doctor look you over.”

“I’m fine,” Pescoli snarled, pushing away from her Jeep, standing eyeball-to-eyeball with the shorter deputy. “How many damn times do I have to tell you?”

Lazlo held up his arms as if in surrender. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I’ve answered your questions, so if you’ve got all the information you need from me, I’d like to get on with the investigation and find the sheriff’s damned assailant!”

Lazlo glanced at Alvarez.

“I’ll take it from here,” she said to the deputy, then to Pescoli, “I know you’ve been over this, but humor me. Fill me in. What the hell happened, and why were you up here?”

Pescoli shot the shorter officer one last scathing look, as if she were funneling all of her hate and blame on Lazlo for just doing his job.

“I was up here to talk to Grayson,” she said through her teeth, walking with Alvarez to a spot where they were out of earshot of the rest of the officers and emergency crew. “He knew I was coming over. I asked to see him.”

“Why?”

“I was thinking about handing him my resignation,” she admitted, then said, “Oh, great, look who just showed up. The undersheriff. Of course. Brewster.”

“You want to quit?” Alvarez demanded, throwing a glance at Cort Brewster. That was crazy. Pescoli lived for her job. “What are you talking about?”

“Santana asked me to marry him.”

“What?” Alvarez asked.

“Who did this?” Pescoli asked, swallowing hard.

Before Alvarez could respond, the undersheriff bellowed, “Whoever this bastard is, I want him!” Brewster’s face was flushed from the cold and it was obvious he was dressed for church. Beneath a scarf tucked around his neck was a stiff white shirt, a necktie, and suit. His Christmas, churchgoing Sunday best.

“Stand in line.” Pescoli couldn’t wait to find the killer and run him in. Or kill him. It didn’t much matter which.