Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Right. And his prison cell mate said he hated Grayson.” She scowled as the wipers slapped snow off the windshield. “He’s gotta be our guy.”

“I think we need to keep our minds open.”

“Always,” Pescoli agreed, but Alvarez knew her partner and when she got an idea in her head, especially about a killer, it took heaven, earth, and maybe a signed confession from another suspect for her to change her mind.

He hung up his clothes with the precision of military training. The cabin was cold enough to elicit gooseflesh on his skin, yet he didn’t approach the banked fire until he was completely naked.

Only then did he drop and, starting with push-ups, go through his routine of exercises, stretching, and testing each muscle, feeling the strain, watching sweat drip from the tip of his nose to the cold stone floor.

He was tired. Exhausted. And yet he forced himself to go through his routine, to push himself. Soon, he would be tested and he had to prevail. Already there had been one mistake, and it ticked him off to think that Dan Grayson wouldn’t just give up the ghost. Surely he was mortally wounded. Had it not been for that damned Pescoli and the quick response of the EMTs and the skill of the surgeons—

“Stop!” he ordered, breaking the silence within this tiny cabin. He couldn’t afford negative thoughts, had to persevere. He was on a path that had only one end.

Once the exercises were complete, he walked outside and through a snowbank to the woodpile. Icy crystals caressed his bare skin and stung the bottoms of his feet. A gust of wind rattled the naked branches of a sapling and cooled the beads of sweat upon his skin.

Calming himself, he drew in a long breath and reminded himself that sending the picture of the judge had been a success.

Renewed, he split the kindling, remembering Grayson with his own armload of firewood, how he’d aimed at him and missed. He closed his mind to that particular mistake. It could, and would, be rectified.

Back inside, he stoked the fire, coaxing flames to crackle and leap; then he warmed his backside as heat emanated from the hearth. Allowing himself one drink, he donned gloves and walked to the desk, his father’s old workbench.

Lovingly, he ran a finger along the old wood. Arranging the four pictures on his desk, he tried to calm down, to think clearly, to think of the days ahead. His timing had to be precise. Impeccable. If any mistakes were made . . .

No. Don’t let it happen. Take a deep breath. Count to ten. When doubts entered his mind, he pushed them steadfastly aside.

&nbsp

; The first bitch is dead, isn’t she?

Soon, the second will go, and you know what will happen with the others . . . it is only a matter of time.

Chapter 26

The killer had to be Verdago, Pescoli reasoned as she pulled into her garage. The threats, his violent nature, the perfect timing of his disappearance—all stacked up to one conclusion: guilty as sin. It boiled her blood to think that sicko had killed the judge and put Grayson in the hospital.

Cutting the engine, she grabbed her computer and purse, and once out of the Jeep, shut the garage door. She couldn’t wait to find the sorry bastard and haul his ass back to jail.

Wild scratching on the other side of the door indicated the dogs had heard her arrival. They were waiting as she opened the door, and immediately vied for her attention as she dropped her computer case and purse onto a chair at the table.

“Okay, okay,” she said, bending down as Sturgis’s tail worked double-time while Cisco spun in happy little circles and stood on his back legs. Yep, she thought, unzipping her jacket as the warmth of the house hit her full force. The dogs, of course, were ecstatic to see her. Her kids? Not so much.

Jeremy was lying on the couch, video controllers in his hands. He barely looked her way as she walked into the living room. Gone was the enthusiastic, clean, Johnny-on-the-Spot volunteer from the station and in his place (and body) was her disinterested-in-life-around-him son.

“Hey,” she said, noticing that his rifle was propped next to the couch. His cell phone buzzed. From where she stood, she saw that it was a text from Heidi.

“Hey,” he mumbled back at Pescoli, then, not responding to the text, swore under his breath as some opponent annihilated him and the entire television screen turned a bloody crimson.

“Good day at work?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about coffee duty.”

He shrugged as if he didn’t care.

“Do you ever think that Brewster is picking on you or making an example of you?”

“Of course. He’s a prick. Likes to rub it in that he’s bossing me. I think it’s his way of getting back at me for dating Heidi. At the office, I can’t disagree with him, have to do his bidding.”