Afraid to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Ramming the car into drive on the street, she added, “Car’s definitely registered to Lara Gilfry and she’s not around. Trilby popped the trunk, thinking she might find a dead body, but nothing back there but the spare, some tools and a case of old CDs.”

“What about her purse? Cell phone?”

“Nothing personal found in the car.”

“Not good,” Alvarez said.

“You got that right. Hey, you find your dog?”

“Not yet.”

Pescoli frowned into the night, squinting against a few headlights shining their way. “So what’s with you and O’Keefe? You two have a thing when you were with San Bernardino?”

“What?” Alvarez said, then realized she reacted too quickly. “Just the opposite. We didn’t get along.”

“He’s hot as hell.”

“If you like that whole rugged-around-the-edges thing.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Me.”

“I think he’s interested in you.”

“Shows you what kind of detective you are,” Alvarez said, glancing out the window as they passed a convenience store, windows painted with holiday reindeer while signs for cigarettes and beer glowed on the same panes. A couple of teenagers were outside, sipping from big drinks, smoking cigarettes and clutching skateboards that couldn’t possibly work with all the snow and ice, at least not in Alvarez’s estimation.

“I’m tellin’ ya, the man likes you.”

“So what’re you now? An authority on romance?”

“Me?” She snorted. “Not hardly. But I recognize the signs when a man is into you.”

“Oh, save me.”

“Seriously.”

Alvarez didn’t respond.

“Now who’s the liar?” Pescoli threw back at her as Alvarez glared out the window.

“Just drive.”

The town, with its neon lights reflecting on the snow, disappeared behind them as Pescoli drove through the outskirts, the beams of her headlights cutting through the night as the houses thinned. No longer was snow falling, but darkness seemed held at bay, with the blanket of white that covered the surrounding fields and drifted against fence posts. Traffic was light, only a few cars meeting them as they turned onto the county road that wound into the foothills.

“Just tell me Ivor Hicks didn’t find the car.”

“Not this time.” Chuckling, Pescoli eased the Jeep through an open gate and onto a private road owned by the Long Logging Company. The road had been plowed here, a hedge of scraped snow lining the edges of the road, a fresh, thinner layer of snow covering the gravel. “And, thankfully, Grace Perchant isn’t wandering through the woods with her damned wolf-dogs tonight. Or at least I didn’t hear about either of them.”

“Good.” Alvarez didn’t want to think about Grace and her uncanny prediction. In a way, she was relieved to have her attention turned to this case and away from Dylan O’Keefe and Gabriel Reeve. For one of the few times in her adult life, Alvarez was at a loss. She’d always known that, once her son reached the age of eighteen or older, she might get a knock on the door, a phone call or even an e-mail or text from a stranger introducing himself as her long-lost son. She was even prepared for a PI coming to her door, but she never expected her house to be ravaged, her dog to be stolen, her life thrown out of kilter before the boy had reached his eighteenth birthday.

She’d been a fool.

And now her son was in trouble. Serious trouble.

Hold on there, okay? You’re not even sure this boy is yours.

Alvarez wasn’t a betting woman, didn’t play the odds, but even she could see that Gabriel Reeve breaking into her house wasn’t pure coincidence.