Afraid to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

But he knew how to deal with that.

He would have to be careful.

At the precise time, he walked into the kitchen, where the aroma of maple syrup mingled with the coffee and wood smoke.

And his pancakes, waiting on a warmed platter, were perfect and golden. Three. Just three. No more. No less. The syrup was warming, too.

Yes, his wife had done well this morning.

He would have to reward her.

Everything was as it should be ... then he heard the music; the radio turned to a station other than that which played Christmas tunes twenty-four-seven, and he felt his old rage resurface.

She knew that during this time, only Christmas music was allowed; it was all part of the season. Anger flooded through his veins to pulse in his ears, thundering in his brain at her defiance.

He walked, stocking-footed, to the living room, where the Christmas tree sparkled, adorned to his precise specifications, and the mantel was graced with the same spun glass as it had been for nearly a century, the tiny cardboard town with its perfect little lights stretched out over the old oak plank his great-grandfather had hand-planed.

As if she’d heard him back in the room, the radio music changed and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” halfway through the first chorus, again played through the hidden speakers.

He was furious but calmed himself by running his fingers over the smooth wood of the mantel, though he was careful not to disturb the “snow.”

She wasn’t perfect.

Of course.

But he expected her to obey him.

He’d been very specific about that from the get-go and they’d even had the old vows inserted in their private marriage ceremony.

He’d remind her.

Tonight.

“You don’t think we have another one, do you?” Alvarez asked once she and Pescoli had driven their separate vehicles to the office and had met in the lunchroom, where, already, Joelle’s booty of the day had been picked over.

“Another one?” Pescoli asked.

“Psycho homicidal maniac.”

“Oh, I’d bet on it.”

It was now after ten, the ice-entombed body had finally been removed, taken to a giant freezer in the crime lab, and neighbors who lived close to the church had been or were being questioned. So far, no one had heard or seen anything, which was frustrating as hell. One of the closest neighbors, Jordan Eagle, a local vet, had been up with an emergency. She’d driven to her veterinary office just after midnight, and home again around three, but she hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

“Then, I was really tired,” she’d admitted. “Just concentrating on getting home as the snow was really coming down and, to tell you the truth, I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unless it was right in the middle of the road.”

So they were back to square one. As soon as the ice surrounding the body had melted and any trace evidence collected, they would positively ID the body, but Alvarez agreed with Pescoli: The victim was likely Lara Sue Gilfry. Even through the distortion of the ice, she was recognizable, and the scar on her leg and tattoo over her ankle sealed the deal. Staring into the dead woman’s eyes through a thick, obviously sculpted sheet of ice had been a shock. A lot of killers hid their victims, though there were always those who put their handiwork on display. Never, to her knowledge, in a crèche at a church.

“You think we have a serial?”

“Make that a bizarre serial killer and, yeah.” Pescoli was nodding, eyeing the leftover cookies on a silver snowflake platter. “I think we might.” Frowning, she selected a reindeer-face cupcake with only one pretzel antler still attached. “So what’s with this place? Why is Grizzly Falls suddenly the meeting ground for all the homicidal nutcases in the area?”

“You tell me. You’ve been here longer than I have.”

“That’s right.” She found a cup and poured herself some coffee from a glass carafe warming on the coffeemaker’s hotplate. “You came here from San Bernardino, right?” The coffee poured in a thin, dark stream and Alvarez mentally kicked herself for letting the conversation wander even the slightest bit toward her past.

“Yeah. Has anyone contacted the person who made the missing persons report on Lara Sue Gilfry?” Alvarez was already heading down the hallway toward her office.

“It’s being handled and don’t duck the issue: you and O’Keefe. Want to fill me in?”