Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Only that the company that makes them color codes them by size. This particular glove, dark purple, is a large, so probably a male. A big male.”

“Which just confirms what we already know.” They’d already determined it would take a person of some strength to strangle the girl.

“I’m still looking for inconsistencies in the statements of all the kids at the party and Destiny Rose’s circle of family and friends. Double-checking her phone and social media information, her email and texts. So far, nothing.”

“All right. See if you can find anything linking her to Lindsay Cronin. We know they were in the same class and hung out together peripherally, but I wonder if there’s another connection, one that’s not so obvious.”

“I’ll see if I can come up with anything.”

“Good. Me, too.” Alvarez clicked off, feeling more frustrated than ever. Lindsay Cronin and Destiny Rose Montclaire, what was the connection?

There had to be a way to crack the case, she told herself as she closed the sun roof and managed to pull her hair back and bind it again. She just had to figure out how.

CHAPTER 22

Pescoli shifted from one foot to the other. From a small knoll near the parking lot, she observed the crowd that had gathered at the First Methodist Church.

With a steeply pitched roof, tall steeple, and tracery windows, the church was straight out of America, circa 1850. Tonight, the grounds around it were filled with townspeople who had come for the candlelight vigil for Destiny Rose Montclaire. Somewhere in this throng, Pescoli suspected, was the killer. And perhaps Donny Justison, Lindsay Cronin, and Kywin Bell knew who.

They weren’t hedging their bets though; several policemen were in the crowd, some with their families, others with small cameras or their phones, taking pictures and videos of the crowd.

Destiny’s parents were near the steps, Helene softly crying, dabbing at her eyes with a wadded tissue, Glenn’s arm around her as he stood, dry-eyed, almost defiant. A couple of other adults, close friends or family members, Pescoli guessed, huddled around them.

The Cronins stood off to one side, both dry-eyed, both white-faced, most likely worrying that they would be attending another vigil soon, one for their own daughter. A man in his twenties stood next to them. Short and stocky, buzz-cut blond hair, and grim expression, he looked enough like Roy for Pescoli to assume he was the older boy, Lindsay’s brother, Malcolm.

But there was a little ray of hope since Lindsay’s phone was still working and, at least temporarily, it had turned on and someone had sent a message that might be able to be tracked, though she wasn’t betting that the caller was Lindsay. Zoller and the techies at the station were working with the cell phone company and trying to track down where that latest signal had come from. The trouble was, even if it pinged on a tower, the range here was huge, the exact location impossible to pinpoint unless the phone was on, the GPS working. Lindsay’s cell phone records were on the way, so they would soon discover who the last person she’d contacted before she’d disappeared was.

As she scanned the crowd that had gathered to honor Destiny Rose Montclaire, Pescoli wondered how Destiny’s murder and Lindsay’s disappearance were linked. It seemed moronic to her to think they were totally separate events.

Most of the kids who’d been caught at Reservoir Point nearly a week earlier were in attendance. They appeared appropriately somber, probably because not only were they standing near each other, but their parents were there, too. They all filled the lawn that stretched from the church to the parsonage. Donny Justison stood next to the O’Hara brothers, Alex and TJ, and Rod Devlin and Austin Reece rounded out the crew. Maddie Averill, along with Lara Haas, Selena Martinez, and Simone Delaney, was nearby, and even Bianca had elected to hang out with the group, all of whom were dressed in dark colors, grays and navy blue, black and brown. Not one of them smiled. No one played with their cell phones except to use the small lighted screens as candles.

The only friend missing was Lindsay Cronin.

As Pescoli watched, Maddie inched closer to TJ and Lara, seeming to be looking for someone in the crowd. Maddie whispered something to Bianca, but their conversation was hushed and brief.

Pescoli recognized Maddie Averill’s parents, and Mary-Beth Delaney. The Tufts stood nearby: Richtor was positioned behind his wife, Marjory, his hands on her shoulders, his silver goatee a telltale sign of the disparity in their ages, as she was at least twenty years younger than he, maybe more, as Jeremy had known her in school. Richtor was also a good six inches taller than his wife. Marjory was petite with a curvy figure. She could easily have been mistaken for one of Richtor’s children. His two sons, Emmett and Preston, were nearby, a few feet from their father and Marjory, while their mother, Terri, stood at a distance from them, on the far side of the church, unable to ignore her ex and his new wife. Her eyes darted in Marjory’s direction even when she was whispering to Billie O’Hara, Alex and TJ’s mother. Like her former husband, Terri was trim, even muscular, judging by the width of her shoulders. She was also tall, pushing six feet, though she was wearing flats. Her features were sharp and tight, large eyes and a pointed nose that she’d passed on to both of her sons. Her lips were compressed tightly, and if ever there was hatred in them, it was now directed at her ex-husband’s young wife, quickly disguised as she looked away. Clearly she hadn’t gotten over the fact that she’d been thrown over for another woman who had been little more than a girl at the time. Her frown became an icy smile of satisfaction as her gaze focused on Marjory, as if she knew something no one else did.

Huh. Pescoli regarded her thoughtfully, then turned her attention to Billie O’Hara. Alex and TJ’s mother was dressed in black running gear with a gray tunic thrown over her yoga pants. She was the shorter of the two women, an athlete, compact and probably still competing in triathlons. Her hair was so black it shone whenever light hit it and was now scraped tightly away from her face to a small knot twisted atop her head. Oversized gold hoops swung from her earlobes, and they danced as she whispered to Terri and chuckled, as if the two were sharing a private joke. She and Terri both sent sideways looks toward Richtor and his current wife—something going on there that Pescoli wondered about.

But they were only part of the mourners. It seemed that half the town was here, paying their respects.

Pescoli shifted a little for a better view of the Bell brothers, who were front and center, hard to miss. Kip was taller than most in the crowd and separated from his brother, Kywin, by his mother, Wilda Wyze, who seemed to have come to the service with her sons. They didn’t exactly tower over her as Wilda was an Amazon of a woman, one who, in her youth, had won a couple of local body-building competitions. Neither the boys’ father, Franklin Bell, nor Greg Wyze, Wilda’s second husband, was with the family tonight. Greg, nearing fifty, was the manager of an independent grocery store. His hours varied so he could be working tonight. He could also have stayed home to care for the younger children, two girls ten years or so younger than Wilda’s older boys. It was also likely he didn’t know his stepsons’ circle of friends well enough to feel he should attend the vigil.

In Franklin’s case, he was probably sitting at the end stool at the Elbow Room, a hole-in-the-wall bar that was situated in the older section of town near the ri

ver and rumored to be his favorite watering hole.

Kywin shot a glance Pescoli’s way, his face a mask of distrust. When she met his eyes, he looked quickly away, taking a step behind his older brother, as if using Kip as a shield. All the while, Wilda glowered, a sense of unease emanating off her, and she spoke to no one that Pescoli could see, just kept an eagle eye on her grown sons, both of whom, in Pescoli’s opinion, were thugs. They knew more than they were saying about Destiny’s death and Lindsay Cronin’s disappearance; Pescoli was sure of it. She just couldn’t prove that they were involved, or knew who was.

As she studied the families and friends and acquaintances of Destiny Rose Montclaire, Pescoli couldn’t help but wonder about the relationship dynamics of teenagers on the verge of adulthood, most of whom had known each other since preschool, and now, if not involved, were at least touched by the murder of one of their own and the disappearance of another.

A soft breeze blew across the churchyard, rustling the branches of the pine and aspen. Candles flickered, a cause for concern with the dry conditions. Though the grass surrounding the church was thick and recently watered, the areas abutting it were dusty and tinder dry.

She spied Santana standing with Jeremy, not too far from Bianca. Santana caught her eye, gave a quick little nod, then let her be. They’d had the discussion: he’d be with the kids tonight, she’d be on the job.

Reverend Tophman led the service. Dressed in black aside from a white clerical collar, the minister stood on the porch leading to the vestibule of the church. He was an unassuming-looking man, starting to bald, his gray hair military cut, his physique thin from years of running, an open Bible in one hand. With his other hand, he made gestures as he spoke. His wife, Janie, stood off to one side, two steps below him and next to their son Bryant, whom Pescoli had met a time or two and interviewed recently. Bryant hadn’t been outwardly rude, like the Bell brothers, but he’d been reticent and glum, avoided eye contact by staring at the floor of the interview room, while Pescoli had tried to pry information out of him. The reverend and his wife had attended the interview, allowing their son to talk, encouraging him to speak the truth, but, in Pescoli’s opinion, they represented a visible physical barrier that hadn’t allowed Bryant the chance to open up.

Rounder than her husband, with a cap of graying curls, apple cheeks and a perpetual smile, wearing a simple print dress, Janie watched her husband preach in obvious adoration, as if she were a wallflower of a school girl and the most popular boy in school—maybe the quarterback of the football team—had just asked her to dance. Janie Tophman still appeared lost in puppy love with her husband of thirty-odd years.