Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Pescoli agreed, “But Montana’s a big state with too many damned hidey-holes.” Leaning back in her chair, she added, “Verdago could have it stashed in an old barn or shed, or just at the end of an old mining road that’s closed for the winter. Camp out.”

“They’d still need supplies.”

“Not too many so far,” she said, and that was the truth. Though it seemed like forever since she’d witnessed Grayson being shot, actually only a few days had passed. Less than a week. She knew that fact very well, as the minutes were ticking down on her ultimatum with Santana. New Year’s was approaching fast. “We have a BOLO alert out on the van?”

“Yes, ma’am, the Be On the Look Out for is in place. No hits so far. And we’re also checking on stolen vehicles in the area.”

“All this is assuming Carnie is actually with Verdago,” Pescoli said on a sigh.

“Since she’s missing about the same time, a distinct possibility, I’d say.” Alvarez uncapped her water bottle and took a swallow, then twisted the cap back on again before setting the bottle back onto its coaster.

Of the five recently released prisoners who might have had it out for Grayson, four had been sentenced by Judge Samuels-Piquard: Maurice Verdago, who had tried to kill his profit-skimming brother-in-law, joined Floyd Cranston, would-be ax murderer, and Gerald Resler, who’d attempted to cut his girlfriend with a can opener way back when but had been Pescoli’s collar. Edie Gardener might have won over the jury, which found her guilty of a lesser crime, but when it came to sentencing, Judge Samuels-Piquard had meted out as harsh a penalty as the law would allow.

“What about the others?” Pescoli asked.

“Mendoza never actually faced Judge Samuels-Piquard, and he’s in a Mexican jail, Juarez, fighting extradition. He was definitely out of the country at the time of the attack on Grayson, so I’m scratching him for now. As for your good buddy Gerald Resler, he was at a church retreat, working on his marriage.”

Pescoli had trouble believing that the acne-faced kid with the violent temper and a Texas-sized chip on his shoulder had changed. “The can-opener king found God?” She snorted. “Prison must’ve turned him around.”

“That or having a kid. Several people at the retreat vouched for him, so, unless he’s taken up with a sect of Methodist liars or he hired someone to do his dirty work, he’s clean.”

“Narrows the field, I guess,” Pescoli said as over a soft thrum of conversation, someone’s cell phone chirped from a nearby office. The department was still out of sync, it seemed, without Dan Grayson at its helm. The connecting hallways and offices, bustling with activity as usual, the sounds and smells the same, but the feeling was off, devoid of that quiet calmness Grayson emanated. Pescoli glanced down the corridor to his darkened office where once Sturgis would have curled lazily on his dog bed tucked into one corner, or Grayson’s Stetson would sit atop his desk where he’d so often left it.

She missed him, from his bushy, graying mustache to the glint of humor in his intelligent eyes. With Grayson in the department, it had seemed balanced somehow.

Now, she felt the change. Now there was a void, an emptiness that reminded Pescoli that Dan Grayson might never return, that someday his office could be occupied by someone else. The thought soured her stomach.

It seemed light-years since she’d driven to his home intent on handing in her resignation, a lifetime since she’d planned to let him know that her living arrangements were changing, that she was looking forward to a life with Santana, eons since she’d watched his body, almost in slow motion, jerk with the bullets’ impact, the kindling in his arms flying in all directions.

No wonder she was tired and cranky, the world seeming off-kilter.

“What about Edie Gardener?” Pescoli asked. “I don’t suppose she’s surfaced.”

“She’s definitely in avoidance mode and we haven’t zeroed in on her yet, but according to her sister-in-law, she’s talked to Edie, who, it seems, has been hiding out at her new husband’s home.”

“We know where that is?”

“Twenty miles toward the Idaho border,” Alvarez said, “I just got the address out of Edie’s sister-in-law. She was pretty reticent about giving out information; I think worried that the family will see her as a rat, but she felt compelled to come clean, I guess. And, even more interesting, I think, is that the sister said Edie’s newfound love is an ex-con who’s a major hunter. Has bragged about taking down a bull elk with a clean shot to the head from a quarter of a mile or so.?

??

“Could be just talk.”

“Maybe, but worth checking out.” She was already reaching for her jacket and sidearm. “Let’s see what Edie and her new hubby have to say for themselves.”

“I’ll meet you at my Jeep,” Pescoli said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing her keys. “One quick stop to make first.” She tossed the keys to Alvarez and made a detour to the ladies’ room where she downed two ibuprofen to help fend off that lingering headache and used the toilet.

Ever since lunch she’d felt a little queasy and at first had blamed her upset stomach on the corned beef and sauerkraut that she’d wolfed down, but now, she wondered if she was coming down with the flu that Bianca had suffered from just last week.

“Great,” she whispered, washing her hands and heading out to meet up with Alvarez. With everything else on her plate, the last thing she needed right now, the very last thing, was to get sick.

She walked out of the restroom and nearly plowed into her son. Carrying a teetering stack of boxes, Jeremy muttered a quick, “Excuse me,” before realizing who she was. “Oh. Mom.”

“Got a sec?”

“I’ve really got to get these boxes down to—”

“This’ll only take a minute,” she said, “Alvarez is waiting for me. But I wanted to say . . . I was wrong.” The words nearly stuck in her throat, but as she stared at her son, standing straight, hair combed, clean-shaven, wearing a pressed T-shirt with the department’s logo embroidered into it, she felt pride swell her chest.