Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Don’t, Mom. Okay?” he said, turning fast and glaring down at her. Then in a lower voice, he whispered, “Not here.”

When the hell had he gotten so tall? In those seconds, when anger flashed in his eyes and determination set his jaw, he looked so much like Joe she was flung back in time to one of the many arguments in their marriage. Again. This déjà vu thing was beginning to become a habit. And not a good one.

His face had flushed and belatedly she realized she was embarrassing him. Oh, for the love of God, as if anyone cared. But Jeremy slid his eyes to one side where a grouping of tables was strewn with empty cups and pages of the newspaper. A few other cops were taking a break, though none was showing the least amount of interest in their discussion.

Brett Gage, glasses set on the end of his nose, was working a Sudoku in the newspaper while eating what looked like a tuna sandwich, and two road deputies were just pushing back their chairs, their break over. Rhonda Cafferty was finishing a Diet Coke, draining the can, while Shanna from Dispatch carried the remains of her lunch, a Lean Cuisine lasagne, and tossed the scraps and box into the trash.

“Come on, Mom,” Jeremy said softly. “Give me a break, would ya?” He looked over her shoulder as the sharp staccato sound of high heels clipped against the old tile floor. It didn’t take all of her detection skills to realize that Joelle had arrived.

“Oh, let me do that!” the receptionist insisted, and before Jeremy could refill the coffeepot with fresh water, she’d nudged him with her hips away from the sink. Her pre-Christmas holiday colors had been replaced with a blue suit and snowflake earrings. The glitter in her hair was missing and some of the sparkle had left her eyes, but she managed a small smile for Jeremy. “Look at you,” she said, sizing him up and down as he stood, still holding the coffeepot. “All grown up!” With a glance in Pescoli’s direction, she said, “Aren’t you proud?”

Jeremy arched a dark brow, silently urging her to argue.

“Always,” Pescoli lied . . . it was really just a half-truth. Of course she was proud of her children, yes, but frustrated as hell with each of them at times. The pride thing . . . it wavered with the situation. She thought about last night, how relieved she’d been that he’d checked on her, how disappointed she’d been to know that he’d been out doing God knows what with Heidi Brewster.

“You should be!” Joelle was taking control of the kitchen area. Locating a premeasured package of coffee in the drawer, she eyed it and discarded it. “Decaf? I don’t think so. Not today with all that’s going on. Everyone needs to be on their toes!” Slapping a caffeinated packet into the basket of another pot she found in the cupboard, she sent a sharp look at Pescoli’s son. “And you. Why don’t you help me out front with the phones? The undersheriff is going to hold a press conference, and no doubt Vera and I will get swamped. Also, you can take over Vera’s job of pointing people in the right direction. If anyone walks into the department, you’ll be who they talk to, and don’t worry, we have maps up front at the desk.” She motioned toward the glass pot still in his hand. “Put that carafe away and come along, I’ll show you where we keep the maps and give you a crash course on reception.”

“Sure . . . fine,” he agreed.

“Just give me a sec.” Filling the new pot with water, she added, “And we’ll make it official. Find you a shirt and hat from the department. Trust me, you’ll be all set!” Joelle pushed the appropriate button on one of the coffeemakers, then swiped the counter with a towel. “There we go!” Smiling in satisfaction, she snapped the towel, then hung it on a rack near the sink. “All done.” Kitchen to her standards again, the coffeepot already gurgling, hissing, and dripping, she headed toward the hall.

“Don’t you, like, have some work to do or something?” Jeremy whispered to Pescoli as Joelle in the archway wiggled her manicured fingers in a “come along” gesture, then clicked her way out of sight.

“More than ‘or something.’ And lots of it.”

“Then shouldn’t you be doing it?”

She almost told him to shove his attitude but decided to back off. For now. “Okay, but this isn’t over,” she warned. “We’ll talk about it tonight,” she said.

“Whatever.” Gone was his earnest expression, replaced by sullen rebellion as he slammed the coffeepot back into the brewer hard enough that she was certain the glass would shatter. Gratefully, it didn’t.

“Jeremy, c’mon. This is my workplace.”

“Mine, too, Mom.” Turning away from her, he followed after Joelle and Pescoli sent up a rare, silent prayer, just as she thought she heard a barely audible, “I just don’t know what the fuck you expect from me.”

Realizing that her fists had clenched and that Brett Gage had looked up from his puzzle, Pescoli tried to think of something to say—and failed.

“Teenagers,” he said into the silence, his smile knowing. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em.”

“But you can ground them, if they still live with you,” she said, and silently added, Even when they’re in their twenties.

“Yeah, well, the carrot or the stick, that’s the age-old question.” He picked up his newspaper and snapped it before turning the page. “Personally, the stick, it never helped me when I was growing up. Just made me want to beat the crap out of my old man.” Looking over the top of the sports page, he smiled, his lips twisting wryly. “I was smart enough to never try as he was an all-state fullback and would

have whipped my ass.”

“Is that advice? Because you don’t have any children that I know of.”

“Just sayin’.” He snapped his paper loudly.

“I’m handling this.”

“Didn’t seem that way much to me. But, hey, he’s your kid. I was just trying to give you the teen-male perspective.”

“Which is?”

“If it moves, screw it.”

“That’s not what was happening here, and this has nothing to do with a girl or—”