“You and O’Keefe?” Pescoli asked hours later at the office as they walked out of the task force room. O’Keefe was being questioned by the FBI agents again, as Chandler and Halden were trying to determine if Gabriel Reeve’s disappearance was connected to the recent murders, the link, of course, being the damned ear/nipple ring. They’d already spoken with Alvarez and now wanted to find out what, if anything, O’Keefe knew.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Alvarez. You show up with him before dawn. I don’t think you called him to pick you up. He stayed over.”
They had made their way to Alvarez’s work area. “And this is your business ... how?”
“Oooh. Touchy.”
She wanted to say that she hadn’t had much sleep, but that, of course, would only fuel the fires of Pescoli’s curiosity, so she didn’t reply. “How’re your kids?”
“Ghosts.” Pescoli rubbed the knots from the back of her neck. “But then, I am, too.” Closing one eye, she twisted her neck. “It’s not a great situation, but there it is; nothing more to do.”
“Until we nail this guy.”
“Right.”
But they were getting nowhere, spinning their wheels, finding little evidence to trace back to him. There was hope, though, the tiniest drop of blood in the ice of the first victim was being analyzed, and in the vacuuming of Brenda Sutherland’s car, a hair had been found, one that was being compared to strands from her brush as well as samples from her kids and ex-husband, which he’d grudgingly given, after a considerable amount of grumbling about harassment. The hair hadn’t been a match to anyone in the family.
“I have the feeling we’re going to get another call, another body found somewhere,” Pescoli said.
“Brenda Sutherland.”
“She’s on deck in the ice-queen batting order,” Pescoli said, then said, “Sorry. That didn’t come out right. I just wish we’d find her before Jack Frost does his thing with her.”
“Probably too late.” Her cell phone rang and Alvarez, seeing it was someone calling from the department’s garage, answered. She’d called in all her markers, reminding Andy, the manager, of all the favors she’d done for him over the years
, and asked that the techs go over her vehicle quickly, so that she could have it back. She figured they didn’t need to do much. Junior Green was behind bars, the evidence pretty clear, pictures taken, slugs removed, the case, in her mind, a slam dunk. The bottom line was: She wanted her wheels back.
However Andy, on the other end of the line, reminded her that it was Sunday, and though he was working “round the clock these days, even God took a day of rest, you know.” The upshot was that the earliest she would be able to pick up her Subaru was the next day, around five.
“Thanks.” She hung up and said, “Great.” She had access to the department’s vehicles, of course, and like it or not, she’d have to drive one of the county’s Jeeps until Andy and “the crew” were finished with her car. She reminded herself it was for a good cause, a very good cause, if that creep Green could be put away forever.
“Let me guess, your car’s not ready.” Pescoli said, as she’d eavesdropped Alvarez’s side of the conversation and pieced together the rest.
“Your powers of detection are astounding.”
“Pissed, are we?”
“Don’t know about you, but I am.”
“I’m pissed all the time, isn’t that what you said? So when can you get it?”
“Tomorrow. At the earliest. ‘Five-ish.’ ” Frowning, Alvarez shook her head.
“Any news on your dog?”
She made a face, having checked her cell, knowing that anyone who found Roscoe would have called the number on his collar, or if he were brought into a shelter and his tag was missing, someone would check the missing-dog notices. And then there was his ID microchip she’d had inserted with his first shots. If someone found him as a stray, a vet could ID him. “Nothing yet.”
“Hang in. He’ll show up.” But there wasn’t a lot of conviction in Pescoli’s voice and all Alvarez had to do was look out the window and let the weather depress her. If Roscoe hadn’t been taken in, if he hadn’t found shelter ... “Maybe you should contact Grace Perchant. She knew your son was in danger; maybe she can tell you where the dog is.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke? Because if it is, it’s not funny.”
“Yeah, I know.” Pescoli sighed. “You never told me what the deal is with you and O’Keefe. He’s kind of a hunk.”
“There’s no deal.” She glanced up at her partner. “Sorry to disappoint. Don’t you have something better to do?”
Pescoli’s grin grew from one side of her face to the other. “Yeah, unfortunately, I do. Always.” As if to prove the point, one of the road deputies who was hauling a scruffy, cuffed man passed Alvarez’s open door.