Deserves to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Diamond studs.”

“Well . . . cubic zirconia. She bought ’em herself. They’re not valuable—” He cut himself off and held up both hands. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t give a damn about her jewelry. I need to see her. I have to.” He stood then as if it were decided.

Alvarez got to her feet and glanced to the mirror, a signal to Pescoli as she ushered Pollard out the door.

Chapter 12

Pollard stared through the window separating him from the viewing room where the draped body had been wheeled. An attendant pulled the sheet from the victim’s face and he got a clear view. His knees buckled and he leaned against the glass as Pescoli grabbed him by the arm. “It’s her,” he choked out in a bewildered voice.

With Alvarez’s help, Pescoli guided him to one of the two chairs placed against one wall. He nearly fell onto the worn seat and dropped his face into his hands. “No no no,” he said, then looked up. “Who would do this? Why, oh, God, why?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Alvarez had found a box of tissues and handed it to him.

He fumbled for a tissue—the last one—and started wiping frantically at his eyes as his head wagged back and forth. “But she was the sweetest, the most loving, the perfect girl.” His voice cracked and he buried his face in his open hands again. “Why would anyone hurt her?”

“We’re going to need your help to find out,” Alvarez told him.

“Mr. Pollard, do you have anyone to stay with you?” Pescoli asked. “A relative? Close friend.”

“No. Sheree, she . . . she’s . . . she was . . . my . . .” His voice drifted away, and he seemed lost in thought for a few seconds. When he finally blinked and

returned to the moment, he said, “I just can’t believe this.”

Alvarez glanced at the window where the attendant was waiting near the body. With a quick nod she indicated that they were done viewing and the attendant covered the dead woman’s face again and rolled the gurney through wide double doors that opened automatically upon her approach. “We’ll head back to the station now.”

Pollard struggled to his feet and without another glance at the window and the empty room beyond, shuffled behind them, walking as if he were closer to a hundred years old than thirty.

The drive back was almost silent as Pollard, in the rear seat, was alone with his thoughts. Neither Alvarez nor Pescoli wanted to interrupt his newfound struggle with loss and grief.

“Her parents,” he said, once they were back at the sheriff’s office and he was following Alvarez inside. “I’ll have to call them. And her sisters . . . she’s got five, you know . . . no brothers.” Shuddering against the cold or his own despair, he walked to the office where both detectives showed him back into the interrogation room. Seated in the chair he’d occupied earlier, he was less reticent to talk and he readily wrote down the names of her relatives and friends as well as the cities where they lived. He was fixated on the task, in fact.

Pescoli had seen it before, a way to stave off the terrible truth that a loved one was dead.

“I just don’t know all the addresses, but I have their phone numbers.” Pollard added those from his contact list and said, “She didn’t make a lot of friends here, y’know. Just people from work. Her boss, Alan Gilbert. He’s a dick. Had the hots for her. And then Marianne Spelling, no Sprattler. Oh, I don’t know her last name, something that starts with an S, I think. She and Vickie and Sheree, they all worked in the same room, but different cubicles, you know. They’d all go out for a drink or girl talk or whatever, every now and again. It wasn’t really all that often, maybe four times since we moved here, usually like during Monday Night Football. Sheree doesn’t drink that much.” Pollard wrote down a couple other names of people they knew, from the church they attended sporadically, and the wife of a guy he worked with. “We went out a couple times, to dinner, but Sheree didn’t like Angie much. Thought she was stuck on herself or something, but Bob, he’s a good guy.”

He drew a breath and shuddered.

“Tell me about the engagement ring,” Alvarez urged as he finished with the list of people Sheree had known.

“I told you it’s a diamond. My grandmother’s.”

“I thought you said you were paying on it.”

“I took out a loan to buy it from my mother. She inherited it and decided that she’d probably sell it before she died and split the money between me and my brother and sisters. I told her I wanted it. I’m the youngest and my sisters already had their own rings. My brother really didn’t want it. So Mom had it appraised and it came to about twenty grand. I had some money, but I had to take out a loan on my car for the rest. It was worth it, though,” he added. “I surprised Sheree with it last February. Put it in a box of chocolates. She almost bit into it,” he admitted, smiling before the tiny grin wobbled and he had to clear his throat.

“Do you have a picture of the ring?”

“Oh, yeah. I insured it. It’s valuable.” He scrabbled in his pocket for his phone, brought up the picture gallery and spying a photo of himself with Sheree, quickly found another shot of a left hand with the engagement ring visible. “Two karats,” he said proudly. “And those, the smaller stones flanking the diamond? Rubies. It’s an antique, you know. Sheree, she loves . . . loved it.” Before he could dissolve into tears again, he asked, “You think someone killed her to rob her?”

“We don’t know,” Alvarez answered truthfully.

“Why wouldn’t she just give it to him?” he asked. “I mean, if it was her life . . .”

“We don’t know what happened,” Pescoli said. “We’re trying to figure that out, so any help you can give us will help.”

“But I can’t. Everybody loved Sheree.”

“No one was unhappy that you were engaged?” Alvarez asked.