Despite the horrors and demands of her job.
“That’s a good point,” Alvarez said to Gabe, “but we’re going to do it my family’s way, okay? A prayer to Our Lady of Guadalupe. It’s kind of a tradition.” She glanced at O’Keefe, caught his eye, and for the first time in a long while, she bowed her head.
Chapter 20
“So what the hell’s wrong with you?” Alvarez asked Pescoli the next day as they slid into one of the well-worn booths in Shorty’s Diner, a twenty-four-hour restaurant and bar that was located close enough to the department offices for convenience, far enough away that they weren’t tripping over other officers come lunchtime.
A long red counter, circa 1958, ran the length of one end of the building. Padded stools, raised up a step, lined the customer side of the counter with a few of the seats currently occupied. Conversation hummed and a deep fryer sizzled somewhere on the other side of a large window cut into the wall separating the counter area from the kitchen.
It had been two full days since Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s body had been found. Other than establishing that the bullet removed from her brain during the autopsy when compared to the bullet retrieved at Grayson’s cabin was a match, they weren’t much closer to finding the culprit.
At least, though, they knew they were looking for one weapon and, most likely, one assassin, unless, of course, he was working with a partner, which was a consideration, if not likely.
With the ticking of the clock, Pescoli was getting more and more agitated. She knew it, but couldn’t control the feeling that she was missing something and that time was slipping by, the case was getting colder.
“Wrong with me?” Pescoli repeated, stalling as she reached for a plastic-coated menu held next to the napkin holder near the wall. She sent Alvarez a did-you-really-just-ask-me-that-moronic-question look. “You mean other than this case? Or the fact that my kids are giving me fits? And that my love life . . . oh, I don’t want to talk about it.” She snapped open the menu. There was something else nagging at her as well, the same black fear that caused the demons of the night to rob her of sleep.
“Something’s going to break on the case,” Alvarez said as she eyed the menu. “I can feel it.”
“Right now, all I can feel is hunger. I swear I could eat a horse. Make that two.”
A bubbly waitress appeared at the table. Her smile was wide, her black skirt tight, her hair pulled away from her face to bob in shiny corkscrews around a thick pink headband. Her name tag read Terri and as she placed two water glasses on the table, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”
Automatically, Alvarez said, “Iced tea.”
Pescoli skewered her with a look. “It’s freezing outside,” then said to the waitress, “I’ll have a Shorty’s Famous.”
Terri didn’t bother writing the order down, just said, “That’ll be a few minutes and I’ll come back for your order.” Then, bouncing away, she disappeared through a swinging door with a porthole cut into it.
“You gave me trouble for ordering an iced tea because it’s ‘freezing outside,’ then you order a milkshake?”
“Not just any milkshake.” The Famous was a black-and-white milkshake made with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, chocolate syrup, and crushed Oreo cookies.
“You’re right,” Alvarez responded sarcastically. “It’s more like a surefire diabetic seizure in the making. What happened to your usual Diet Coke?”
“Don’t know,” she admitted, and that was the truth. “I just feel like a milkshake. No reason to make a federal case of it.”
“Maybe not. It’s just not your usual thing. I’ve worked with you a lot of years and you’ve never once ordered a milkshake. It just adds to my theory that something’s up with you.” She folded her arms over the table and stared at her partner. “So, what is it?”
Pescoli’s short fuse ignited. “Well, I guess you’re right. Everything isn’t just hunky-dory in my life right now. First off, I’ve got this case I can’t solve and, oh, someone killed a person I work with and tried to murder my boss. Then one of my kids decides he wants to be a cop and is invading my workspace. The other one is trying to mold herself into a real-life Barbie, I think, by starving herself and, yeah, I’m afraid she might have a serious eating disorder, but so far I’ve tiptoed around that issue,” she said, gaining steam as all of the problems that had been eating at her came rushing out. Having no intention of unloading, she suddenly couldn’t stop herself. “Then there’s the trip to Arizona both of my kids are taking with Lucky and Michelle, all part of the super-duper bonanza of a Christmas present that includes firearms and possible body waxing, I’m not really sure. The upshot is that Bianca thinks she’s way too fat to wear the bikini her stepmother bought her, so she’s basically starving herself. And Jeremy is all about the rifle his father bought him. He takes it with him in his truck. God help me, I only hope it’s not loaded. But who knows, I don’t even know my own son anymore. Well, that goes double for Bianca. What the hell was Lucky thinking?”
“You’re serious about this?”
“Damned straight, I am. Then there’s Santana. Did I mention that he’s thrown down the gauntlet and given me the door-die option after asking me to marry him?” Before Alvarez could say a word, the waitress suddenly appeared with the drinks. Pescoli eyed the tall, old-fashioned glass holding the very milkshake in question. Though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, she did wonder why she’d felt compelled to order a drink that could possibly top her usual daily calorie allowance.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Or two. Or three.
Alvarez ordered some kind of bisque and salad, and Pescoli decided on a Reuben sandwich with a side of potato salad.
“Got it,” Terri said, her smile flashing as she turned on her heel to head back to the kitchen.
While Alvarez fiddled with squeezing lemon into her tea, Pescoli grabbed her milkshake, swirled the concoction with her plastic straw, then took a long drink. It was everything it was advertised to be and more.
“You could have told me,” Alvarez said.
“I just did.” Another long swallow. Heaven! “Look, we haven’t had a lot of time to sit around and chat. Time when we weren’t actually working.”
“So how’re things with you?” she asked, trying, and failing, to hide her sarcasm.