Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

That was Louie’s train of thought? Fines and fees? “Good idea, Louie.” Not the brightest lightbulb on the county payroll.

“But you’ll have to sign for him. Be responsible.”

“Not a problem.” She hung up as Pescoli finished her quick U-ey and melded her Jeep into the slow-moving traffic, wending through the campuses of the county offices. Though the courthouse was located in the old part of town, on the banks of the river, the business offices, jail, juvenile complex, and sheriff’s department were newer buildings, constructed higher at the top of Boxer Bluff, which overlooked the older part of town far below. “The dog catcher nabbed Sturgis out by the Cougar Creek bridge.”

Pescoli said firmly, “Let’s go get him.”

Dan Grayson’s first ex-wife, now Mrs. Nolan Banks, wasn’t happy to see two detectives on her broad front porch when they arrived nearly half an hour later than planned. They’d called, explained why they’d been held up: taking time to pick up the sheriff’s dog before dropping him off at the local vet to make certain he was as fit as he appeared.

The Bankses’ house was massive, three stories of cedar and stone perched on the side of a cliff and overlooking a creek sliding through the canyon far below. She held open one of the oversized double doors, each of which was festooned with an oversized wreath of silvery twigs, clear glass balls, and big silver bows. “I don’t know how I can help you,” she insisted, holding on to the door as if she intended to slam it shut at any second. She was a petite woman in a slim gray dress and a pink, tightly knit sweater. A cap of short curls lay close to her head, and her large eyes were dark with suspicion.

“We just need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if we come in?” Alvarez asked.

Her lips pursed; then she opened the door wider. “Sure. Why not? I’m so, so sorry about Dan, but”—she bit her lip and lifted her shoulders—“I don’t think this is any news flash. Dan and I rarely speak. We’ve been divorced a long time.”

She stepped aside as they entered a three-storied foyer where a staircase wound upward around a twenty-foot Christmas tree decorated in lights, ribbons, and all manner of sparkling ornaments. Large rooms fanned from the main hallway, each with at least a peekaboo view of the tree. “This way.” Leading them toward the back of the house, she walked stiffly ahead, ballet slippers padding noiselessly, then motioned to a group of chairs situated near a fireplace that rose to a soaring ceiling where the paddles of a huge fan turned slowly.

“What can I tell you? I already explained that Nolan and I and the kids were here on Christmas morning.” When Pescoli pulled out her pocket recorder, she said reproachfully, “Really? You need to record our conversation?” Letting out a long breath, she added, “Okay. Fine. Who cares?” Taking a seat on a modern couch set near a wide bank of windows, she folded her arms over her chest and said, “What is it you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the finances.” Pescoli was never one to beat around the bush. “Do you know you’re the primary beneficiary of your ex-husband’s estate?”

She blinked. “But he was married to Akina!” Her hand flattened over her chest and she seemed sincerely surprised. “No, um, I knew at one time, of course. He told me. But that was long before we were divorced. I was pretty sure he changed that a few years back. He wasn’t happy with the divorce settlement . . . but . . . Geez. Wow.” She sat back against the cushions and Pescoli wondered if she was mentally calculating the value of her ex’s fortune. “You’re sure about this?”

“Looks like,” Pescoli said. “Of course, the sheriff is still alive.”

“Of course and . . . and thank God,” she added quickly, but her cheeks had taken on a rosy glow and obviously the news that she would inherit from her ex someday was good. Never mind that he was still alive or that he would have to predecease her.

Alvarez said, “So how do you feel about your ex-husband? Have you and he ever reconciled?”

“Of course not. I’m married to Nolan. Have been for years.”

“Then maybe you just flirted with him?” Alvarez said, and Pescoli saw Cara’s cheeks flush brighter.

“What are you insinuating?”

“You know how it is,” Alvarez said. “Some sparks never completely die, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes first love is the best love.”

“Really? That’s the way you’re going?” Cara asked, then turned her gaze on Pescoli. “What about you, Detective? You’ve been married a couple of times, right? You think ‘first love is the best love’?”

Pescoli was saved from answering by the rumble of a garage door winding upward. Oh, good. Company.

Alvarez said, “We just heard that you and Dan Grayson always had a thing for each other, even after the divorce.”

“Who told you that? Dan?” Outraged, she shot to her feet just as the rumbling stopped with a hard clunk. Cara’s head snapped around, as if she’d just realized that someone was home. “I think we’re done here.” She sent a hard glance toward the recorder. “And you can turn that thing off.”

Alvarez said, “We just have a few more questions.”

“I’ve told you everything I know. I was married to Dan for about three years, dated him for eighteen months before that. End of story. I had no idea I was an heir in his estate, and that’s probably a mistake anyway, so please, it’s time for you to go.” Cara didn’t wait for a response, just walked quickly toward the front hallway.

“What about your sister?” Alvarez pursued.

“Hattie? We barely speak.” She was standing by the enormous Christmas tree, dwarfed by its height.

“She seems to have had an interest in the sheriff.”

“Of course she did, his last name is Grayson, isn’t it?”

A back door creaked open.