“Is it true that Selena Alvarez is the birth mother of the boy brought into custody yesterday, the one wanted in the shooting at Judge Victor Ramsey’s home in Helena?” he asked, trudging through the snow, his recorder in his gloved hand, a red light glowing, indicating that he was taping their conversation.
How did he get his information so fast? “I said, ‘No comment.’ ”
“Is the ice-mummy case somehow related to the break-in at Judge Ramsey’s home?”
Calm down. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just trying to get you to say something, anything he can report.
“Look, Manny, I don’t have anything to say. You’ll have to ask your questions at the next press conference.”
“But Alvarez is your partner. Is that kid hers? The kid involved in the shooting at the judge’s house in Helena?”
She didn’t answer. Just strode through the back door and thankfully heard the locks click behind her. The coffee had been brewed, but only a few drops were left in the pot, as the undersheriff had just poured himself a cup and was adding a packet or two of artificial sweetener to his “I Heart Jesus” mug.
“You making a new pot?” she asked, and he looked up, spilling a bit of white powder onto the counter.
“What? Nah.” With a smile as saccharine as his artificial sweetener, he added, “I’ve mine.” To prove his point he lifted his cup and took a swallow.
The sentiment on his cup reminded her that he was an elder in the Presbyterian church where Calvin Mullins was the preacher.
“Didn’t see you here yesterday,” she observed.
“I was here. In the afternoon.” He scowled. “Why?”
“Just wondering how things are going at the church, after the body was discovered in the crèche.”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s not good. Got a lot of questions yesterday, especially from the preacher. He, of course, wants us to find the killer and asked the congregation to pray that he’s brought to justice, which I went along with, though he did ask for God to forgive him.” Brewster snorted into his cup. “I’m having a little trouble with that.”
“Me, too.” Grudgingly, she found a packet of coffee and placed it in the coffeemaker’s basket, then filled the reservoir with water and hit the start button.
Almost immediately the machine started to gurgle, and within less than a minute, a stream of hot java began to fill the glass pot. Brewster left the room. She didn’t like the man much, and they’d had their problems in the past, largely because of the attraction between their children, but at least they were speaking, keeping things professional, which, Pescoli thought, was about as good as it was going to get.
Like the sound of rapid-fire gunshots, the click of Joelle’s high heels announced her arrival. Per the season, she was carrying two of those environmental reusable grocery bags, a red purse to match her shoes and balancing a white box. Before she toppled over, she set the box onto a counter and opened the top.
“Voila!” she said proudly as she displayed the contents: carefully stacked cupcakes. Some were decorated with Santa faces, while others were poinsettias or Christmas trees.
“More?” Pescoli asked. Then, “You did this?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Joelle actually giggled, obviously pleased that anyone thought her capable of such artwork. Apparently she’d forgiven Pescoli for her rant against the decorations in the hallway of the week before. “I have a friend who’s a baker down at Cedar’s Market. We play Bunco every month, you know, a girls’-night-out kind of thing. She did them
for me.” Sliding a sly look at Pescoli, she added, “At cost.” Beginning to set the small cakes onto a platter she’d hauled from one of the cupboards, Joelle added, “I just couldn’t resist!”
“Who could?”
“Oh, dear.” Joelle’s perfectly made-up face crumpled a little as she noticed one of the frosting petals on one of the cupcakes had been squished.
“I’ll take that one,” Pescoli offered and grabbed the less-than-perfect treat before pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee and heading to her desk. Once seated, she called First Union bank. It was early, long before the bank’s doors would open, but the employees should have arrived.
She was connected with a receptionist and was told, when asked, that Johnna Phillips “wasn’t in yet.” Declining the offer of having Ms. Phillips return the call, Pescoli hung up and dialed Missing Persons, confirming that, yes, a report had been filed on the woman and deputies were checking at her home and workplace.
“Let me know,” she told Tawilda Conrad, who worked with Taj Nayak in Missing Persons.
“Will do.” She ate the cupcake, finished her coffee, then made her way the short distance to Alvarez’s office.
Her partner was already at her desk, her computer monitor showing her e-mail account. She was on the phone and, glancing up at Pescoli, held up a finger. “... Okay, then I can pick it up between four and five at the garage?” she said into her cell and waited. “Yeah, that’ll work. Thanks, Andy.” She clicked off. “Good news, I get my car back.”
“You should sue Junior Green for the damage.”
“I’ll let my insurance agent know.” She glanced down at her desk, where a stack of mail had been left. A red, squatty envelope, the size that held a greeting card, was on the top of the stack. “What’s up?” she asked, finding her letter opener and slitting the packet open.