Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Good.” An audible sigh. “I’m so glad.”

Translation: I’m glad you’re going to cease and desist.

Maribelle, who didn’t seem to really believe her daughter but wasn’t going to call her on the lie, added, “Well, it was wonderful seeing you last night. I’m off to dinner soon. The Commander and I have a date. Can you believe that? At my age?”

“I think it’s great, Mom.”

“Really?”

“Really.” That much was true. If Maribelle could find a man to make her happy, all the better.

“Me, too. So I’d better run and put on my feminine armor.”

Translation: Makeup and slimming, smoothing undergarments. “You do that, Mom.”

“I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye.” Kacey hung up and stared out the window, feeling empty inside. Why, she wondered, when there were so many women who had close, loving relationships with their mothers, had she ended up at the very most coldly affectionate with hers? They were just such strangers, and it seemed wrong. Not that there weren’t much worse, antagonistic, even violent relationships, but that knowledge didn’t dull the ache that still lingered from her childhood. No siblings. A distant mother. A father who cared but was too busy. If it hadn’t been for her grandparents . . .

Disgusted at the turn of her thoughts, she looked to the positive. Maybe being somewhat distant from her mother wasn’t so bad. She could do all the investigating in her family’s past that she wanted. She didn’t have all those hang-ups about family name and honor, nor did she worry about tarnishing her mother’s or father’s reputation. “It is what it is,” she said aloud and wondered about how easily she had lied to her mother. The truth was, she’d already started the ball rolling. Before the first case had walked through the door this morning, she’d e-mailed the appropriate state offices and hospitals. She intended to see how many of the women—so far, just women—born within three years of her birth date in Helena had come to unfortunate, possibly suspicious, ends. She glanced at the newer celebrity magazine she’d picked up in the grocery store, another one with Shelly Bonaventure on the cover. In the article, she’d found the name of the lead detective on the Bonaventure case, a man by the name of Jonas Hayes of the LAPD. Once she began connecting the dots, if there were indeed dots to be connected, she’d contact him. Even if Shelly Bonaventure’s death had been ruled a suicide.

There was a big chance she was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Shelly Bonaventure did decide to end her life, and maybe Jocelyn Wallis did just take a misstep that sent her reeling over the cliff face.

So far, no one had e-mailed her back with any information, and they probably wouldn’t until after the holiday weekend, if then.

Drumming her fingers on her desktop, Kacey frowned. She wasn’t about to let her nerves get the better of her, nor did she intend on suffering through another night like the one before. She needed a sense of security so that she could relax and sleep. She glanced at the wall clock. Five seventeen. The local animal shelter closed at six. She’d already checked. And she’d glanced quickly at a few of the dogs up for adoption while eating some string cheese and crackers during her fifteen-minute lunch. She had come 180 degrees in her way of thinking and had now decided she needed a dog, and out there somewhere was a dog who desperately needed her. She’d work out the details of her job versus time spent at home, but she needed the company and the security of an animal who would alert her if anyone did try to break into her home.

You’re being paranoid, she silently accused, then nearly jumped out of her chair when she heard the clinic’s back door slam. Her heart went into overdrive. For nothing.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, her stomach still queasy. Through the window, she spied Randy Yates sliding behind the wheel of his ten-year-old Chevy Tahoe, his dented SUV, which was perpetually outfitted with an empty ski rack. A few minutes later Heather yelled, “See ya next week,” and again the door slammed.

So she was alone.

“Get used to it,” she told herself. Then, after popping a couple of antacid tablets, she grabbed her coat, set the alarm, and snapped out the lights.

Next up: the local animal shelter. Despite all the reasons against it, she was going to get a dog.

Outside it was already dark, streetlamps glowing softly and creating a loose chain of illumination against the falling snow. In the storefronts of the surrounding businesses colored lights winked brightly, reflecting against the frosted panes.

Hurrying to her car, Kacey barely noticed. The chill of winter knifed through her coat, and by the time she was behind the steering wheel, she was shivering. Before backing out of a parking space, she cranked the heater to its highest setting and hit the button for her favorite radio station. “Silver Bells,” sung by a country music duo she didn’t recognize, wafted through the speakers while her teeth chattered. Even through her gloves, the steering wheel felt like ice, and the Christmas spirit eluded her.

Despite the sluggish traffic she reached the animal shelter in about fifteen minutes, just about the time the interior of the car had heated to someplace north of frigid.

The door was locked, so she rounded the corner to the attached veterinary clinic. A chorus of yips and barks greeted her as she walked inside the barnlike building, where the smell of urine wasn’t quite masked by the scent of pine cleaner, and a bell mounted over the door tinkled. The canine cacophony came through an open doorway behind the reception area.

A girl, barely out of her teens, stood behind a long counter, where she was tallying the receipts for the day. “Can I help you?” she asked. With kinky brown hair and braces, she put her paperwork aside and her impish face pulled into an expression of confusion. “Are . . . are you here to pick up your pet?”

“No, no. I was hoping to see the dogs that are up for adoption.”

“Oh, uh, sure.” The girl glanced at the round clock mounted over the back doorway, a gesture intended to remind Kacey of the late hour. “Sure, uh, all the dogs are in the back. You’ll need to fill out these forms.” She found a packet of papers titled ADOPTION APPLICATION and slid the stapled pages and a pen across the counter, then continued with her work.

As Kacey was filling out the paperwork, a slim woman appeared in the open archway behind the reception area. Her long black hair was clipped at her nape, and her tawny skin and bladed cheekbones hinted at her Native American heritage. Kacey recognized her as the local vet, Jordan Eagle.

“Amber,” she said, bustling into the reception area in her lab coat, “I just got a call from Trace O’Halleran. He’s bringing in his dog, an emergency of some kind, and he should be here within ten minutes.”

O’Halleran was coming here? Ridiculously, Kacey’s heart skipped a stupid beat as Amber, shoulders slumped, sighed and slid another look at the clock. She frowned. “But I have—”

“Please just stay until he gets here. Then I’ll lock up.” The vet was stern, and Amber gave an agonized, acquiescing shrug.