Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“I think she might not be telling the truth,” he admitted. Pescoli lifted her brows. This was a surprise. “It’s no secret I don’t like your son seeing my daughter. He’s a dog in heat, and if I could, I’d bust his ass.”

“You tried that once before,” Pescoli reminded.

“I don’t need an unemployed loser hanging around, and neither does Heidi. He’s a bad influence on her. You and I don’t always see eye to eye, but we have to work together. I’m doing my best to keep things professional. I expect the same from you.” He paused, and when Pescoli didn’t respond, he added, “That’s all.”

She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, annoyed, frustrated, and a little overwhelmed. Not that she’d let Cort Brewster see that. Bastard.

She suddenly ached for Joe. Man, it would be good if he were around. Theirs hadn’t been a perfect marriage; she could admit it had already been fraying when he was killed in the line of duty. But, oh, she could use his level head now in dealing with their son.

And then she thought about Santana. The man she loved. Maybe she should move in with him. What was she waiting for? Her kids to accept him? Ha. That’d be a cold day in hell.

Shaking off her confrontation with Brewster, Pescoli returned to Alvarez’s desk. “Should I call Jocelyn Wallis’s parents and ask them if Dad was a sperm donor?”

“I already left a message,” Alvarez admitted. “Told them to call. But I think it’s time we take this to Grayson.”

Pescoli heard something in Alvarez’s tone that she probably wouldn’t have wanted to be heard. “What’s with you and the sheriff?”

“Not a damn thing,” she responded with uncharacteristic punch.

Grayson was just leaving his office, but upon seeing Alvarez and Pescoli heading straight his way, he stepped back inside and asked, “What?”

“We think the deaths of Elle Alexander and Jocelyn Wallis are connected,” Alvarez said. “And there may be a number of others.”

“Should I sit down?”

“I would advise yes,” Pescoli said dryly.

Twenty minutes later Alvarez had recapped where they were so far, finishing with, “We have a lot of questions, and we’re following up with the relatives of the victims. One thing. Those victims are all women. Brenda Morris, Elle Alexander’s mother, said both of her children were from Donor Seven-twenty-seven. Her son, Bruce, is in Florida and presumably alive and well. Is he on the list? Or is it only women?”

“The list . . . ,” Grayson said wearily. “That implies there’s more.”

“Maybe a lot more,” Alvarez admitted.

“Every damned Christmas,” Pescoli said. “The season for homicidal nut jobs.”

Grayson’s gaze met Alvarez’s, and Pescoli looked from one to the other. Sturgis, Grayson’s dog, crawled from beneath the sheriff’s desk and stretched and yawned.

“Damn it all,” Grayson said. “Get me some more information. If we’ve got another serial killer on the loose, I’m going to have to call the FBI.”

“We’re meeting one of the look-alikes later today.” Alvarez looked out the window.

“You think she’s on ‘the list’?” Grayson asked.

Alvarez looked at Pescoli, and Pescoli looked back at her.

“Yeah,” Alvarez said. “I do.”

CHAPTER 30

The boardroom was decorated no differently than the rest of the building. A sea of the same industrial-grade carpet was crowned by a long glass-topped table that was surrounded by ten black leather chairs. On one wall was a slim, low cabinet, above which a bronze sculpture of flying geese had been hung. Two other interior walls were of glass, with shades, pulled down, while the only exterior wall was all windows with another commanding view of the surrounding mountains. This part of the building projected over the sloping earth, so that those inside the boardroom had the feeling that they were on the second level, as the ground below fell away dramatically and leveled off at another pond, where snow was gathering on the frozen surface.

If the muted colors and dramatic view were offered to inspire calm or peace, that aura was shattered as Gerald Johnson’s offspring entered and joined Kacey, Clarissa, and their father around the table. A few glances were cast in Kacey’s direction, and though some were curious, none seemed surprised.

No doubt Clarissa had warned them all. She sat in a chair directly to her father’s right, like the apostle John in da Vinci’s The Last Supper. She opened her computer case and pulled out her laptop, just as if this were a regular business meeting and she were about to take notes or share information she’d gathered.

She glanced at Kacey, seated across the table from her, and there was more than a glint of displeasure in her gaze. Well, yeah. She was the epitome of the bitchy, take-charge firstborn, and a few moments with Kacey earlier weren’t going to change any of that. Clarissa’s short hair wasn’t just near black; it was streaked with an underlying tone somewhere between bloodred and purple, a little more hip than her choice of black suit and knee-length skirt.

Before a word was exchanged, two men stepped into the room, one before the other: the twins, who’d been out of the office, had arrived. They were dressed in slacks, dress shirts, and sports coats. The first, hair unkempt and sporting a five o’clock shadow across his boxy jaw, came up and offered Kacey a warm smile. His nose wasn’t quite straight, as if it had been broken at least once, possibly twice. “Colt Johnson,” he said, as if he were getting ready to go into a sales pitch. “I hear you’re our long-lost sister.”