“Not much to go on.”
“Did you get a chance to find out what the two ice sculptors with rap sheets were doing?”
“Both sleeping cozily in their beds with their wives.”
“You believe the wives?”
Pescoli, irritated, lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know what to believe.” The case was going sideways and fast.
“What about the video taken of the crowd that collected at the Enstads’ place this morning?”
“Nothing to write home about. Sage is looking it over, then enlarging pictures of the people who came gawking.” Sage Zoller was a junior deputy and smart as a whip. But she had her work cut out for her. Pescoli had already viewed the tapes and, on first glance, was unable to find anyone suspicious who was at both scenes.
It had still been dark, but they’d taken pictures from hidden cameras of anyone who had slowed or stopped to rubberneck at the crime scene. Now Sage was comparing the people caught by the camera to the group of people who had shown up when Lara Sue Gilfry’s body had been discovered, see if there were any duplicates. They could get lucky.
“Preliminary autopsy report’s in on Gilfry,” Alvarez said, and printed out another document. As Pescoli plucked the warm papers from the printer, Alvarez added, “There’s no tox screen yet, of course, but it looks like she died of hypothermia.”
“That bastard froze her to death?”
“Appears so.”
“Son of a bitch! Maybe he took some lessons from our other friend,” Pescoli said with more than a touch of rancor. That “friend” was another homicidal maniac who had terrorized Grizzly Falls two years earlier. He’d nearly taken Pescoli’s life as well, and she couldn’t think of the psycho without a frigid blackness clawing at her soul. She skimmed the report. “No tox screen, but I guess it’s our girl, tattooed ankle, pierced tongue and all.” She glanced up. “Anything else?”
“I talked to Slatkin earlier,” Alvarez said, mentioning one of the forensic scientists on the crime scene team. “They took impressions of the sculpture before it melted, so there are saw, chisel, pick, tong and brush and sanding marks that they’re analyzing, trying to find out where the products might have come from. We’re checking local hardware stores, art supply stores, anywhere they could have bought the items.”
“Could be online. Or maybe he’s had them for a long time; maybe they were great-granddaddy’s.”
“Even so ...”
“I know. Long shot. I’m still hoping someone will get back to me from the hotels, catering companies, local artists, whoever, about anyone locally with a talent for shaving ice into something creative.”
“What about Gordon Dobbs?” Pescoli asked. “He’s always carving something and selling it off of his front porch.”
“He works with wood.”
“But a crack shot,” Pescoli pointed out, knowing she was grasping at straws.
“No one’s been shot yet. Well, besides Len Bradshaw, and he doesn’t count on this one.”
“Guess you’re right. But I wouldn’t tell his family that.” She finished her cup and crushed it in her fingers. “They’ll go bananas.”
Alvarez sighed. “Well, then they can join the club.”
“Around here that’s not a big deal,” Pescoli said. “The club’s not all that damned exclusive!”
Chapter 18
So cold ... so very, very cold.
Brenda couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as shiver as the water froze around her and she tried desperately to think of her children, her two boys who needed her. She couldn’t give up and let go and yet the seduction of death was oh so real in this dark, hopeless cave where the monster had stripped her naked, then subdued her with a drug he’d slipped into her vein.
She’d called for help, she’d prayed, she’d endured the maniac’s weird ministrations, even, God help her, begging him to let her go, promising to not tell a soul, to do anything he wanted. Now as she thought of her desperation, her humiliation, she wondered if it would be best if God would take her home. The boys, they would be all right. Ray would take care of them, wouldn’t he? Maybe he’d get married again and they could have a stepmother ...
Her mind went blank for a while as she dozed, the blackness a void for which she was grateful. Now, in that twilight between wakefulness and slumber, she didn’t understand what was happening and knew in her heart she would never. He’d not hurt her, not made a mark upon her body aside for the tiny prick of his needle.
He’d washed her, over and over again, sluicing her with warm water that turned colder by the minute, until she’d been shivering wildly, her teeth chattering out of control, and then the beauty of nothingness when she’d lost consciousness. Oh, the serenity of blackness. As she roused, feeling the bitter cold deep in the marrow of her bones, she hoped she didn’t have to look up into his cruel eyes, didn’t want to watch him as he worked over her, didn’t want to feel his lips upon her. Nor did she have the least desire to see the various drills and picks and saws hanging on the walls of this vast cavern that was complete with a workbench, running water and electricity. The tools terrorized her, and deep in her heart, she suspected that he would use them upon her.
Why, she didn’t understand.