Afraid to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Pescoli called the abandoned vehicle in, then, to cover their bases, Pescoli secured a search warrant not only for the car but also Brenda Sutherland’s house as well. After waiting for the tow truck and a deputy to stay with the vehicle, Pescoli drove onward, taking a sharp right and following a twisting, snow-covered lane through stands of icy hemlock and pine that opened to a small clearing and the missing woman’s home, a two-bedroom cottage tucked far from the road.

Pescoli parked.

Alvarez yanked her gloves a little higher on her wrists. “No lights except for the Christmas strand.” She nodded toward the house.

“It’s late.”

“Yeah, but ...” She looked at the house.

The front porch seemed to sag a bit, but a string of Christmas lights had been strung over the eaves. Alvarez checked her sidearm as she climbed out of the Jeep. Clicking on her flashlight, she surveyed the area and noted the path to the front door was covered in snow, one set of footprints softened with the falling snow approaching and encircling the house before leaving again.

“Sandi Aldridge said she knocked on the door and poked around the house, trying to see inside to check on Brenda Sutherland,” Pescoli explained as she ran her flashlight’s beam over the tracks.

“The only set.” She made her way up the front steps and shined the beam of her flashlight over the exterior. Though the downspouts showed rust and wear, the little cabin, set between thickets of trees, appeared homey. A bike had been left on the porch near a pair of boots that had been kicked off randomly. Several pots held dying plants and the welcome mat was worn thin.

Aside from a breath of wind, the night was silent. Pescoli knocked on the door and rang the bell. Chimes echoed inside the house, but no footsteps approached.

“Mrs. Sutherland?” Pescoli called through the solid oak panels. “Brenda?”

Nothing. Just the sigh of the wind and creak of frozen branches.

“She could have taken advantage of the no-kid thing and taken off,” Pescoli thought aloud. “But it doesn’t seem likely. One of the boys, his name is Dave or Darren or Don or ... no, it’s Drew, that’s right. He’s in Bianca’s class, or she has some classes with him; I’ve heard the name before and I think the mom was pretty devoted. Besides, as a single mom, she probably wouldn’t have ditched the job.”

“Or the car.”

“Good point.”

They walked around the house, investigated the empty garage where clutter abounded and a dark stain on the cement floor suggested that Brenda Sutherland’s car might be leaking some kind of fluid.

The yard was empty, thick with snow, and they climbed the back steps to another wide porch, this one complete with retractable clothesline and empty hornets’ nests tucked in the roof.

Pescoli pounded on the back door until it rattled, then checked. Unlocked.

“Got lucky,” she said and pushed it open.

No snarling guard dog bolted from the interior, so they stepped cautiously inside, walking quickly through a small kitchen, where the faucet dripped over a sink of dirty dishes and the smell of tomato sauce hung heavy in the air.

Moving quickly through a small dining cove with a red laminated table circa 1960 where two milk glasses and cereal bowls had been left, they entered the living area, which was much tidier, the worn furniture with straightened pillows and a rag rug coiled over scratched hardwood floors. A woodstove stood on one wall, cold to the touch, ashes piled within. The two bedrooms were empty, one with a set of bunk beds and clothes scattered everywhere, the other with a neat double bed, Bible on the nightstand, flannel nightgown and matching robe hung on a hook on the back side of the door. Her closet had a meager, if functional, set of clothes and the bathroom was small, cluttered and well used.

No upstairs.

No basement.

No Brenda Sutherland.

“Definitely missing,” Pescoli said, stating the obvious to the empty rooms. “Guess we’d better have a chat with the ex.”

“I can’t help thinking this is a lot like Lissa Parsons.”

“Don’t even go there,” Pescoli warned, but Alvarez could tell from her tone of voice and the worry in the lines of her forehead that she’d already come to the same conclusion that the two missing women were somehow linked.

The next day, things definitely started out on the wrong foot. For some reason Alvarez’s alarm didn’t go off, probably because she’d slapped the clock silly the day before, and she realized, belatedly, after letting Roscoe out the door, that she’d missed her session with her martial arts instructor. He hadn’t called but left a text and she responded, apologizing and feeling out of sorts.

What was wrong with her?

She never was late. Never missed an appointment. Never bought anyone else’s excuses about being flaky. Sure she’d had a bad night’s sleep with Jane Doe up half the night and thoughts of the missing women running in circles through her brain, but still, she shouldn’t be so off-kilter. “Pull it together,” she told herself, feeling a headache coming on as she stepped into the shower. Cold needles of water pounded her bare skin for just an instant before she jumped out of the tiled enclosure. Wrapping a towel quickly around her shivering body with one hand, she checked the temperature of the shower spray with the other, wiggled the handle and discovered not a drop of hot water anywhere.

“Great,” she muttered, wondering what else could go wrong. The answer, of course, was plenty. And it did. She threw on her clothes and realized the puppy wasn’t tagging after her. Nor did she hear him. With the dread that comes only with the experience of being a mother or pet owner, she hurried downstairs and found Roscoe, pillow in his mouth, stuffing flying through the air like snow in a snow globe. “Stop! Drop it!” she ordered and he, thinking it was a game, ran around the coffee table and bounded through the kitchen. “I don’t have time for this,” she warned, nearly catching him only to have him streak by, tail between his legs, ears flopping. “You are in so much trouble!”