Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Fine!” She handed Tucker to her daughter and had a second’s out of body experience, looking down from above and observing herself handing down her infant son to her teenaged daughter, almost as a right, a passing down of generations. This was what she got for her unorthodox family planning or lack of it. She thought about getting older, even dying, a point Brindel’s murder only reinforced. Whereas when she’d had the other two children, she’d been in her twenties, her entire adult life in front of her, an intrepid warrior ready to take on the world, now . . . well, by the time Tucker was out of college she’d be just shy of registering for Social Security.

Lots of people do it.

“Look, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said, pushing aside her grim thoughts and planting kisses on her children’s cheeks before walking out of the apartment and punching up the app for Uber again. Outside, the darkness was put at bay by streetlamps and vehicles passing, headlights and taillights glowing. She spied the Uber car as it rounded the corner only to stop in front of the building.

“Regan Pescoli?” the driver asked as she slid into the back seat of the white Toyota Camry.

“Yes.” She gave the driver the address for the police station, and waited as he cut through the steep streets of the city with ease. Crowded together, illuminated skyscrapers spired upward into the night sky. Alone for the first time since hearing the news of Brindel’s death, the gravity of it all, the horror, sank in, delved deep. Pescoli felt it in her soul. Who had killed her sister? And why? Robbery gone bad? Someone with a serious grudge? Something else? She stared out the back window where the rain that had begun had collected on the glass, and she caught the image of her own face, faint and ghostly. Sarina was right. She had to figure out who had done this to Brindel, who would kill her sister in what appeared to be no accident.

No, someone—someone evil—had murdered Brindel and her husband.

“Here we are,” the driver announced as he pulled up to an austere gray block building that looked to have been built in the middle of the last century. It occupied nearly, if not all, of a city block or two.

After finishing her transaction with the driver via an app on her smartphone, she climbed out of the car and, ducking against the rain, hurried inside. She stated her business, dealt with security, and was escorted to the Major Crime Unit of the Investigations Division of the SFPD where the Homicide Detail was housed. The place was quiet, the officers of the day shift having long departed, a few others scattered in the adjoining rooms.

Detective Anthony Paterno was waiting for her in an office straight out of the 1960s and showing its age. A stain on several ceiling tiles in the corner hinted at an old water leak, and all of the woodwork was faded and scratched. A bookcase covered one wall, the other displayed plaques, certificates, and awards. A file cabinet had been pushed into one corner. On its top was a picture of a much younger Paterno, fishing rod in one hand, baseball cap shading his eyes as he looked over his shoulder to the camera.

Now, he stood when Pescoli strode into the room. He sported a full head of graying hair, a jawline that was just beginning to sag, and sharp eyes that held little warmth but seemed quick. Intelligent. She’d put him somewhere around sixty, give a year or two. In a sport jacket, open-collared shirt, and slacks, he’d been seated behind a mound of paperwork, a computer monitor glowing on his desk.

“Detective Paterno?” Extending her hand, she introduced herself. “Regan Pescoli. I’m with the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department and I’m Brindel Latham’s sister.”

She’d already Googled him

and, added to what she’d learned from her husband, had put together her own mental file on him. The inspector had been with the San Francisco Police Department for years, had moved inland for a while, and in that time had met Santana. After a few years, Paterno returned to the city by the bay where he’d been quickly rehired.

“I was told you were coming by your sisters. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Thanks.”

The woman officer who had led her to the department left, closing the door behind her.

“Sarina called and I came as fast as I could. I thought they’d be here,” Pescoli said as he sat behind the desk again and she dropped into one of the two visitors chairs crammed into the tight quarters.

“They’re waiting in the conference room. I thought we’d go through some preliminaries before we all got together.”

Meaning: I want to hear what you know before you compare stories any further with the members of the family. She didn’t blame him. First impressions and gut reactions were important; she relied on both when she was working a case.

“Fair enough.”

“How about a cup of coffee? Or a soda? Water?”

She declined and he asked her about Brindel.

“She was a few years older, born between Collette and Sarina. I came along later and the truth is that she and I weren’t all that close.”

Paterno sipped what she assumed was coffee from a chipped San Francisco Giants mug.

“What happened?”

“Why we weren’t tight? Nothing. It was just the way we were, not close even when we were growing up. We were just so different. Like night and day. She was into being popular and girlie things, had a whole closet of dress-up clothes and Barbie dolls. I was a jock. Grew up playing sports and outdoor stuff. The truth is I hadn’t seen her in years.”

He must’ve heard all this before from her sisters as he didn’t press the issue. “When was the last time?”

“I don’t know. Probably at a wedding or funeral. My—our—folks. They’re both gone.” She thought a minute. “Actually, it was at my mother’s funeral. Brindel had remarried. Had been for a while. So that was about six years ago.” She felt a little bad about that now, about the fact that she never really knew Brindel and now never would. “We didn’t even exchange Christmas presents and I’m not big on cards.” That was an understatement; Pescoli just didn’t have time or the interest in once-a-year Hallmark greetings with some plumped-up, photocopied “Dear Friends” Christmas letter. She hadn’t even sent out birth announcements for Tucker, at least not yet, and probably wouldn’t. “I went to both of Brindel’s weddings, but that’s about it. And all I know about her husband is that Paul was married before and had a couple of boys who, I think, are in college? Maybe. But don’t quote me. I’m not even really sure about that. They could be out by now. Graduated or dropped out. I don’t know. As for Brindel’s kid? Ivy is about my own daughter’s age and so that would make her about eighteen.” When asked if she knew where Ivy or her stepbrothers Macon and Seth were, Pescoli was at a loss.

“Ivy have a boyfriend?” Paterno asked.

Pescoli shook her head. “I’m not the one to ask.”