He’d slid three pictures across his desk, one of each of the victims. Including the most recent of Brenda Sutherland, the picture that had been sent to her from the killer. “These women are wearing pieces of your jewelry. Taken from your place. Isn’t that what you said?” His jaw, beneath a day’s worth of whiskers, had been set in stone.
“Yes.”
“Thought so. And the boy, Gabriel Reeve, he’s most likely your son, isn’t that so?”
She nodded.
“Reeve showed up at your place at the same time as the killer.”
“It seems so,” she’d admitted.
“Quite a coincidence.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“I don’t.” When Grayson had looked at her again, Alvarez had thought she’d glimpsed more than just the concern of a man who happened to be her boss; she’d seen a flicker of some deeper emotion that he’d quickly masked. He’d cleared his throat, then said, “Change your locks. Immediately. And don’t argue with me about the surveillance of your place. This is your safety we’re talking about. And take Sturgis with you. He’ll raise a ruckus if anyone tries to break in.”
She’d looked over at the sleeping lab. His tail thumped at the sound of his name, but Sturgis hadn’t so much as lifted his head.
“Thanks, but I want my dog back.”
“It’s just until you get your dog.”
“No ... really ... But I appreciate the offer.” Alvarez knew how much the lab meant to Grayson, and she wasn’t going to borrow the dog, not even for a night. Despite the freak who had the nerve to break into her house and steal her things. Who was the guy? How did he know her? And more importantly, how the hell was she going to run him in?
There had to be some way.
Grayson had scratched at his beard. “If you change your mind ...”
“I’ll let you know.” She’d left his office feeling stripped bare for the world to see, that all of her carefully kept secrets were suddenly thrown open for public viewing, and public discussion. It made her more than uncomfortable. It made her mad. Worse than that, it frightened her, caused her nerves to tighten, made her jump at shadows. Damn it all to hell, it freaked her out. She knew the son of a bitch had wanted to scare the liver out of her, and he’d just about done it.
Just about.
Now, driving to pick up her Subaru, her partner was once again asking her about her connection to the killer.
“It’s got to be someone from your past,” Pescoli said as she drove along the road winding down Boxer Bluff to the lower part of the city.
“I don’t know who. We’ve been through this over and over again.”
“Someone who knew Lara Sue Gilfry, Lissa Parsons and Brenda Sutherland.” Since Alvarez had received the horrifying Christmas card this morning and turned it in, everyone associated with the ice-mummy case knew that Brenda Sutherland was, indeed, in the clutches of one of the sickest serial killers in the history of the state. The speculation of her being a runaway mother or anything else had been positively sque
lched. “I gave Chandler and Halden a list of everyone I’ve ever helped incarcerate, all my known enemies, everyone I’ve ever dated, anyone who might have a problem with me and anyone else I could think of, but no one whom I think would actually do this.”
Pescoli braked at the base of the hill at the train tracks where the barriers had descended to block the road, lights flashing a warning. A freight train barreled past, clacking loudly on the tracks, and oddly, Alvarez remembered a time, long ago, when, growing up, she and her siblings, all piled in the old station wagon would, at railroad crossings, count the cars as they raced past. Alvarez had always wondered what was hidden in the boxcars and had guessed where the train was headed. It has always been to some exotic destination, the big cities of Los Angeles or San Francisco or Denver or Seattle, anywhere far from the little town of Woodburn.
“He’s targeting you.” Pescoli was reaching into the console, her fingers scrabbling inside until she came up with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Empty. Damn. Check the glove box, would you?”
Alvarez opened the compartment but found only tissues, eyeglass cases and a raft of papers. “Nuh-uh.”
“Crap!”
“You’ll live,” Alvarez predicted, though she knew her partner, in times of great stress, would sneak a smoke or two, never really taking up the habit again but never completely and cold-turkey quitting. “Probably lots longer.”
“Easy for you to say.”
The train sped past, the last car flying past and the barriers, lights still flashing, slowly lifting.
Pescoli tossed the empty pack on the floor. “Did you hear me? I said the son of a bitch is targeting you.”