Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Trace reached over his head and felt the handle of the shovel. With a wide, sharp blade it was perfect for scooping manure or shoveling snow, and tonight, he hoped, as a weapon to kill a murdering psychopath.

“Come on, boy—” The son of a bitch made twisted, little kissing sounds as he moved closer, still invisible in the darkness.

Trace’s fingers coiled over the smooth wooden handle.

BAM!

The door to the stables banged against the wall.

Horses nickered in terror.

Trace jumped as a rush of cold air swept into the room.

“What the hell?” The gunman turned his attention away from the dog.

No! Trace went into full-blown panic. Kacey, no! She was the only one at the house ... or Eli. And the killer knew it!

“Get away!” Trace screamed.

“Sister,” the attacker drawled smoothly, almost gleefully. “About time you showed up!”

CHAPTER 37

Damn it all to hell!

Alvarez listened to her message from Kacey Lambert and mentally kicked herself from here to hell and back. Furious, she punched in the emergency number and talked to dispatch who said there had already been a distress call logged and deputies sent to an address for Trace O’Halleran, that gunshots had been reported. Hanging up, she dialed Kacey’s number but was sent directly to voice mail.

“Too late,” Alvarez said grimly to Pescoli. “Looks like he’s at the O’Halleran place.”

“What? No!” Noreen let out a cry that rose to the coffered ceiling. Alvarez, standing just inside the Johnsons’ front door with Pescoli, threw a look over her shoulder.

“I was afraid of this,” Judd said. “You know he’s never been right, Mother. Even from the start. When he pushed Aggie down the stairs.”

Alvarez held up a hand, stopping her partner from yanking on the door handle.

“It was an accident,” Gerald said, sinking into his chair again as Alvarez stepped back into the den with its cheery fire, fresh-cut flowers, and simmering lies.

“It was,” Judd insisted. “Of course it was an accident. But essentially, that’s what happened.”

“You told me,” Gerald reminded his son, looking up to meet Judd’s narrowed eyes, “that Aggie got tangled in her blanket.”

“I know. That’s right,” Judd said smoothly, almost as if he’d practiced the line. “And then Cam ran by and knocked her down. She got wrapped up in her damned blanket and fell.”

Noreen shuddered.

“To her death.” Gerald glared at his son.

“We’ve got to go,” Pescoli said tersely. Alvarez rejoined her as she opened the door and the breath of winter blew through the room, rattling umbrellas in a nearby stand. To Gerald, his wife, and oldest son, Pescoli added, “You all stay put! Don’t go anywhere.”

“It’s not Cameron,” Noreen wailed, but Judd Johnson’s tense face said it all. His mother, appearing far frailer than she had just half an hour earlier, collapsed in his arms. Tears rolled from her eyes and she sobbed against his expensive coat, her voice muted as her shoulders shook. “It’s . . . it’s not Cameron. It can’t be!”

Pescoli was already out the door.

The last look Alvarez caught of Gerald was of the big man seated in his leather recliner near the fire, holding his head in one hand, reaching for his glass of scotch with the other.

“I’ll drive.” Pescoli was already out the door and Alvarez was only a couple of steps behind. As she climbed into the passenger seat, Pescoli engaged the engine and threw the rig into gear. The Jeep lurched forward. Alvarez pulled the door shut as they reached the end of the circular drive and she’d barely gotten her seat belt connected when they were heading onto the slippery road winding down the hillside.

“What the hell happened?” Pescoli asked.