Deserves to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Alvarez looked up sharply. “How do you know? Everyone keeps saying that, but really, it’s just words.” Her mouth was pinched, her eyes flashing.

“I . . . well, you’re right. I don’t really know, but that’s a good sign, isn’t it? That he’s being transferred out of intensive care. Come on, Alvarez, have a little faith.”

“You, the self-professed agnostic? You’re telling me to have faith?”

“I’m just saying that if anyone can pull through, it’s Dan Grayson. He’s a big, strapping man and . . .” Pescoli let her voice trail off. “One of the good guys.”

“Yeah—”

“Detectives?” Hooper Blackwater’s voice preceded him as he took the time to stick his head into Pescoli’s office.

Pescoli looked up at him.

“Reports?” His eyebrows raised, a nonverbal reminder that there was work to be done that bugged the hell out of her. “The Haskins suicide? Amstead domestic dispute?”

“Both done,” Alvarez said.

“Good. E-mail them to me.” With a quick, sharp nod, he was off, boots ringing as he strode down the hall, probably searching for his next Red Bull or a spot where he could drop and do twenty quick push-ups. Just because he could.

“I can’t stand that guy,” Pescoli said under her breath.

“I know,” Alvarez said. “And he knows. For that matter, we all know.” Her dark eyes were without reproach, though, as if she silently agreed. “Maybe you shouldn’t make it so obvious.”

Pescoli didn’t respond. She knew she was being bitchy, but she didn’t really care.

“Try it,” Alvarez suggested, her professional mask slipping back into place. “I’ll catch you later.” She was out of Pescoli’s office quickly.

Once more, Pescoli rolled her desk chair to the door and pushed it firmly shut, a practice that was new to her. Since Blackwater had grabbed the reins of the department, she felt she needed privacy, at least for now and the foreseeable future.

She wasn’t kidding herself. Grayson, if he ever returned, was a long way off from regaining his rightful place as sheriff. She and the whole damn office were stuck with Blackwater, the go-getter who let everyone know it.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Grayson, forever with his black lab Sturgis at his heels, his Stetson squarely on his head, was soft-spoken and thoughtful, yet quietly firm. A tall, rangy man who looked more cowboy than lawman, a sheriff elected by the people of Pinewood County, his quiet command was effective. He had strong opinions and all hell could break out when he was angry, but for the most part, he was in control and steady, a rock-solid force Pescoli could depend upon.

Blackwater was all action—fast-paced and guns blazing as if he had to prove himself. He made sure that everyone who worked for him knew he was an ex-Marine who had served two tours in Afghanistan. Pescoli had heard that he ran every morning, three miles minimum in all kinds of weather, and three days a week he spent hours in the gym, boxing and lifting weights to reduce his stress and stay in Marine-proud shape. At work, he downed Red Bull, Rock Star, or Monster energy drinks the way an alcoholic tossed back martinis. Part Native American, he appeared perpetually tanned, his eyes an intense brown bordering on black, his nearly six-foot physique all compact muscle.

Pescoli admitted to herself that he was handsome enough, if that mattered, with a slightly Roman nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once, bladed cheekbones, and black hair without a trace of gray, cut short, again, a reminder of his military background. Blackwater was smart, too, Pescoli allowed, and had the law degree to prove it. He attacked each problem head-on with the ferocity of a wounded bear, no excuses, and had already made it clear that he expected every member of his staff to do the same.

It wasn’t his work ethic that got under her skin. It was his style that rankled. All his terse sentences, orders, and damn meetings indicated that he’d come to not only play but to stay.

Pescoli had been toying with the idea of quitting, or at the very least, cutting back her hours to part-time, and her pregnancy had only reinforced her plans. However, there was that little matter of making sure Grayson’s would-be assassin spent the rest of his life behind bars. She wasn’t going to do anything until she was certain that son of a bitch never walked free again.

She’d have to suck it up for a while. Yes, the entire atmosphere in the department had changed and it bothered her, but so what? A lot bothered her these days.

Deal with it, she told herself as she clicked on her mouse and focused her attention on her e-mails. She sure as hell didn’t want to be late with any damn reports.

Her life had become a pathetic good news–bad news joke, Jessica thought as she drove past the snow-crusted fields of a farm on the outskirts of Grizzly Falls.

The good news? She’d landed the job at the Midway Diner.

The bad news? Dan Grayson, the man she had thought just might be her savior, was in the hospital fighting for his life, so her plans to enlist his help would have to be put on hold. Indefinitely. Her spirits were low; she’d counted on the even-tempered sheriff’s help. Her plans would have to change.

Taking a corner a little too fast, she felt her wheels slip on the icy road and eased off the gas. The tires gripped the road anew and her SUV straightened. The radio was blasting over the rumble of the engine and the clock on her dash indicated it was a few minutes after midnight.

Fiddling with the Chevy’s finicky heater, she considered her options. With the temperature having dropped below freezing, the heater was blowing lukewarm air, its rattle nearly drowning out a country song about the pain of love lost that filled the interior. Snapping off the radio, she noticed the defroster was fighting a losing battle with the condensation that was crawling inward over her viewing angle. She gave the glass a swipe with an extra sweatshirt that was lying on the passenger seat, and squinted, trying to find the turnoff to the long lane that wound to her cabin. “Home,” she reminded herself.

Snowflakes danced, swirling as they were caught in the headlights’ glare, piling along the fencerows and frosting the branches of the evergreens that rose in the foothills.