Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“What’s eating you?”

“My kids. What else?” She would have liked to blame her pent-up anger on the case, and that was part of it, of course, but with Jeremy, who seemed hell-bent on being a big, fat zero, and Bianca, whose grades were slipping and was turning increasingly boy crazy, was the real source of her angst. And it didn’t help that she was getting pressure from Santana.

“Turn here,” Alvarez ordered.

Pescoli cranked on the wheel, slid just slightly, then her tires caught and the Jeep whined up a final bend where the road emptied into a circular drive belonging to Gerald Johnson.

“Showtime,” Pescoli said as she parked in front of a garage large enough to house a fleet of vehicles. Gaslights flickered near each of the carriage-style doors mounted on the stone facade. Snow blanketed the walkways, but Pescoli followed Alvarez to the front door. As Alvarez poked a gloved finger at the bell, the door suddenly opened and Gerald Johnson, appearing more forceful and athletic than he had in any of the pictures Pescoli had seen, greeted them.

“Officers,” he said, “Floyd at the gatehouse called and said you were on your way.” He stepped back from the door. “Come in. Ever since Acacia left my office this afternoon, I’ve been expecting you.”

Pescoli and Alvarez were allowed into the Johnson home, and just as they were asking Johnson about the clinic where he’d been a sperm donor, Gerald’s wife appeared on the upper landing and then quickly descended the wide staircase.

“Don’t, Gerald! I don’t know what these people want, but don’t tell them anything!”

“We’re here because of several recent homicides of women,” Alvarez said. “Their deaths, which we originally thought were accidents, have been on the news.” She pulled a plastic envelope with the pictures from her pocket. “Elle Alexander whose van was forced off the road, Jocelyn Wallis who, we believe, was pushed over the side of Boxer Bluff, possibly Shelly Bonaventure—”

“The actress in that god-awful vampire series?” Noreen Johnson asked, disbelieving.

Pescoli nodded. “And now, most recently, a local woman named Karalee Rierson.”

“Karalee,” Noreen squeaked, a hand flying to her lips.

“You know her?” Alvarez asked.

“I know of her.”

Alvarez handed Noreen the pictures and she took one look at the photo of Karalee Rierson and almost retched. “Oh, God. She was the nurse at a clinic where Gerald . . .” She turned to him, examining his grim expression.

“We believe they’re homicides made to look like accidents,” Alvarez said.

“Homicides?” she repeated. “Murder? But what do we have to do with any of this? I . . . I don’t know the others. Just Karalee.”

Pescoli said, “We have reason to believe they may have all been fathered by Mr. Johnson.”

“What? Fathered them?” Noreen flapped a hand at them. “That’s insane! Gerald, do not talk to these people!”

Alvarez watched the woman’s features, where a gauntlet of emotions, everything from despair, to denial, to rage, played across her face. Dressed in designer jeans and a silvery knit sweater that covered her hips, she was rail thin, nearly bony, the expensive diamonds at her throat, wrist, and fingers accentuating the bones and sinews that were visible beneath her tanned skin. Her near-white hair was cut boyishly, the skin of her face stretched taut as a drum, her makeup excessive.

“We don’t know these women! Barely even spoke to that Kara girl. Gerald, seriously!” She shook her head vehemently and said to the detectives, “We’re not talking to you without an attorney present. I know my rights.” She slid a slim phone from the pocket of her jeans and punched a single number. “I’m calling Judd.” To Gerald she lifted a pointer finger and admonished, “Not another word.”

He spread his hands. “They’re not accusing me of a crime.”

“I don’t care. They’re tricky. I’ve seen Law and Order!” She had the phone to her ear. “Oh, damn.” Meeting her husband’s gaze she said, “Judd’s not picking up!” Then, looking at the ceiling, she left a message: “Judd? It’s Mother. Call me ASAP. It’s an emergency!”

“For the love of Saint Peter, Noreen, he’ll think I’m in the hospital,” Gerald protested.

“Fine!” She hit another speed-dial number, waited, then rolled her eyes in frustration. “I can’t get Clarissa, either! Where the hell is she?”

“Noreen, you need to calm down,” Gerald said.

“And you need to not tell me what to do!”

Gerald suggested to Alvarez and Pescoli, “Let’s go into the den.” He motioned them toward double doors to the right of the staircase where a gas fire hissed, flames reflecting on the windows and the black sheen of a baby grand piano. A huge framed flat screen over the mantel was tuned to a sports network, a half-drunk glass of scotch on a table near a leather recliner. Cut flowers on a coffee table were starting to die, their blooms fading slightly, their scents nearly gone.

“It’s Mother. Call me! Emergency!” Noreen yelled into the phone again, as if by raising her voice, whomever she had phoned would pick up. The high heels of her boots clicked angrily as she marched stiffly into the den. “I can’t rouse anyone! Where the hell are they?”

“Honey, it would be best if you just chill out a little,” he husband suggested. He waved the detectives into side chairs as he settled into the recliner and clicked off the television. The latest sports scores disappeared and the screen briefly went black to be replaced, automatically, by a family portrait.