Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Halden and I are on our way back to Montana, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up,” the FBI agent said, though the connection was faint, as if she were outside and the wind was blowing. “Hubert Long died this morning.”

“Natural causes?” He guessed as much, but who knew? Maybe someone couldn’t wait and hurried him along. The same person who had killed his only son.

“Yes. He went into a coma early this morning just after midnight and his organs just started shutting down. Nothing suspicious. But we’d already dispatched a field agent in the Seattle office to contact Padgett because of her brother’s homicide.”

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“Alvarez already talked to her doctor about Brady,” Grayson confirmed.

“Well, if Padgett got that information, it’s all she’s going to get from us, because she checked herself out of the care facility and is catching a flight to San Francisco.”

“What?”

“I know. It’s strange. The staff was surprised, too. Our agent’s meeting with the doctor in charge of Padgett’s care. He’ll be there soon.”

“I thought she couldn’t speak, was hardly able to dress herself.”

“I don’t know. We’ll learn more when our agent gets to Mountain View. There’s bound to be a dance around the whole doctor/patient privilege thing, but we’ve got a court order.

“Okay, the plane’s here. I’ll call when we touch down.”

Hanging up, Grayson felt that same sensation he always experienced when things didn’t make sense, when coincidence became the rule. He couldn’t help but wonder about Hubert Long’s death. Had the old man died before Brady, as expected, the younger man would have inherited the lion’s share of the old man’s money. Padgett would be cared for, yes, but Brady would be in charge. But now . . . Padgett was probably the sole heir to the entire estate. A lot of money.

Left to a woman with supposedly diminished capacity. Who checked herself out of the hospital as soon as she learned of her brother’s death.

Grayson considered. Was it possible that Padgett Long, institutionalized for a decade and a half, had 408

Lisa Jackson

somehow masterminded or been involved in the death of her brother?

“Nah!” he said aloud as he made his way down the hallway to the lunchroom, searching for Alvarez. Something was off there, he thought, glancing out the window where the snow flurries were making it hell to get the choppers airborne. One minute the skies started to clear, the next the wind brought new clouds and more damned snow. Padgett couldn’t be involved in Brady’s death. It was impossible. Right? But his thoughts wandered down that darkly cut path and, as he poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up one of Joelle’s remaining sugar cookies, he thought about motive. If anyone had one, it was surely Padgett Long, though she couldn’t have pulled this off alone. He remembered her accident, had recently looked it up in the files. Brady Long had been charged with reckless endangerment, but those charges, possibly because of Hubert’s influence, or because Brady was underage at the time, or because somehow the investigation had been compromised, had been dropped almost immediately.

But the fact remained that Padgett was incapable. But not incapable of checking herself out of the men- tal facility and hopping a plane? He looked down at the half-eaten cookie in his hand, the rear end of a reindeer. He hadn’t even noticed chomping off head, antlers, and forelegs. Finishing off the tasteless treat, he brushed his fingers together as he made his way to Alvarez’s cubicle again.

*

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“Okay, Chilcoate, what have you got?” Santana demanded, stepping into Chilcoate’s isolated cabin. Santana had driven like a maniac up the slippery, snow-laden back roads to the loner’s house. Now, damn it, he wanted answers. For the entire duration of the trip he’d thought of nothing but Pescoli and what she might be going through.

If she’s still alive.

That particular panic had been eating at him for the past two days, and now he needed action! He was through with waiting. If he had to tear these rocky, frozen hills apart piece by piece, he would. He had to do something to find her. The waiting game was over!

“Don’t ask me how I got the information,” Chilcoate warned, closing the door behind Santana, cutting off the cold. He hesitated a moment, clearly warring with himself.

“I don’t give a damn where you got it, just give it to me,” Santana snarled.

“Wait, wait. I shouldn’t do this. Goddamn that MacGregor!”