On the main level, she tapped on Bianca's door and pushed it open. Her daughter was seated at her makeup table, applying another layer of mascara while simultaneously texting God only knew how many friends. Her hair was braided, the red highlights visible in her thick strands. She'd dyed her hair every color under the sun, but now, gratefully, it was back to what was near her natural color.
In the reflection, Bianca's gaze found her mother's. “Yeah?”
“I've got to go out for a while.”
Bianca rolled her eyes, concentrated on making her lashes longer and stronger and all gunked up. “What else is new?”
“We'll have family dinner tomorrow. I promise.”
Bianca lifted a shoulder. “Whatever.”
“Look, Alvarez was nearly shot tonight. Attacked in her garage.”
Bianca's mascara wand stopped in midair. She didn't so much as look at her phone for the next text. “Is she okay?”
“I think so. But I'm going to make sure.”
“Oh, God, Mom.” Bianca blinked, then spun on her tufted stool to look directly at Pescoli. “This is awful.”
“I know, but she'll be fine.”
“You should give up being a cop!” Her perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together over her large eyes. “It's too dangerous. Dad and Michelle, they think so, too!”
“All part of the job.”
“But you could retire and ... and work in a bookstore ... Or if you don't like that ... somewhere else.”
“I'm a little young to be retiring. It's okay, Bianca.” She walked into the pink room, where Christmas lights were wound year-round on the posts that supported the canopy of her bed. “But I think I'd better make sure she's okay.”
Bianca nodded, and just like she had with her son, Pescoli caught a hint of the woman this girl would become and it wasn't all braids and pink ribbons and boys and nail polish. “Dinner's on the stove,” she said, giving her the same rundown as she'd said to Jeremy five minutes earlier. “I should be back in a couple of hours.” And again, as she had with her son, Pescoli heard that Bianca had plans to be out with her friends at a movie and that Candi's mom was driving them, as none of them yet had their licenses. “Just be back before midnight,” Pescoli had instructed as Bianca had swiveled back to the mirror and picked up her cell phone, her fingers dancing over the keys.
Spoiled,
Pescoli thought.
You've spoiled them.
“But they'll be all right.” She said it under her breath as much to convince herself as anything.
Â
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“I'm fine. Seriously.” Alvarez glanced from her partner to Grayson and back again. “Other than tired and hungry, that is.” They were standing in Grayson's office with O'Keefe, his face discolored from his emerging bruises, scrapes visible on his cheeks and nose. His lip was split, and soon, he'd have a shiner, as the area around his left eye was darkening. Still, he'd refused to go to the hospital or receive any serious medical attention. “I've filled out a report,” Alvarez insisted. “Green is in custody, and there's nothing more to do once the crime guys are done with my garage and car.”
“Shouldn't take long. We'll process everything and get your wagon to a shop at the beginning of the week,” Grayson said, though the sheriff was clearly troubled. He looked tired, the result no doubt of the emergence of yet another serial murderer in Grizzly Falls. “I just don't like how this all went down.”
“Neither do I.” O'Keefe folded his arms over his chest. “How the hell did that son of a bitch find you?”
“Matter of public record,” Alvarez said. The problem was that records were so much more accessible now with computers, smartphones and all the data on the Internet. “It's not rocket science.”
“That's the problem,” Grayson said, shaking his head. He'd allowed O'Keefe to be a part of this conversation at Alvarez's insistence, but it was obvious he wasn't comfortable with the fourth person in the room. O'Keefe wasn't a working cop and he'd made no bones about the fact that he'd been spending time with Alvarez. Though, Alvarez thought, O'Keefe had insisted that his relationship with her was strictly professional, everyone in the room knew that wasn't quite true. Grayson hadn't become sheriff because he looked the part of a roguish cowboy-type lawman. He had the degrees and work experience to back him up and a natural cunning that saw through BS when he encountered it. That quality, along with his easygoing cowboy allure, had all but captured Alvarez's heart. He looked at her now. “I don't like you going home alone.”
“I'll be fine.” She was serious. “Green's behind bars.”
Unconvinced of her mental state, Grayson stroked his moustache. “There's always the next nutcase.”
“Part of the job.” Alvarez voiced the obvious, but everyone in the room knew the risks, had lived them by being members of a law enforcement agency. “Green's the one who was the most vocal about getting to me.”
“There are others. Silent ones,” Grayson said. “They could be the most deadly.” His eyes darkened, his crow's-feet seeming more prominent. “Your home was already broken into, some of your things stolen. Less than a week ago. I don't think that was Green.”
“It wasn't,” Alvarez said.
“And an earring that was taken from your place ended up at a major crime scene,” he prompted. His hips were balanced against the edge of his desk, hands holding him in place, dog at his feet.
“That's right.” Alvarez realized she had to come clean. “The kid that broke into my place, that O'Keefe followed to Grizzly Falls, there's a chance ... make that a very good chance ... that Gabriel Reeve is my son.”
Chapter 20
B
y the time O'Keefe pulled into Alvarez's driveway, it was after ten. Enough snow had fallen to cover up a lot of the tracks that had been made by the police vehicles and tow truck, but Alvarez couldn't shake the image of Junior Green and his gun pointed straight at her as the garage door had slowly closed behind him. If O'Keefe hadn't shown up when he had, the outcome of the standoff could have been much different. If Junior Green had been successful in his mission, she would undoubtedly be dead.
Once she'd admitted her possible connection to Gabriel Reeve and the ice-mummy case, both she and O'Keefe had been questioned by the FBI agents. Stephanie Chandler, a model-beautiful blonde whose personality was often described as “icy,” had been all business, as usual. Her partner, Craig Halden, a self-proclaimed “cracker” originally from Georgia, too, had been intense, his good-old-boy smile sadly missing in the two hours they'd sat in one of the interview rooms, going over the case. Like Alvarez, Halden thought Junior Green's assault had nothing to do with the latest serial-killer case.
Chandler hadn't been so sure.
As snow piled on the windshield of O'Keefe's Explorer, Alvarez wondered why her world had turned upside down now. Ever since leaving San Bernardino, she'd attempted to keep her life in a neat, if sterile, order. That had begun to change when she'd adopted her cat, or, more precisely, Jane had adopted her. Since that time, Alvarez had softened a little and now ... now disaster had struck. All of her neatly constructed walls had cracked and tumbled down around her.
“Come on, let's get you inside,” O'Keefe said as if he could read her thoughts. He cut the engine and grabbed the sack of food they'd ordered from Wild Will's and picked up on their way home.
Alvarez had called the restaurant from the station, and Sandi, the owner of the restaurant where Brenda Sutherland had worked, had answered. “Oh, tell me you have news about Brenda,” she'd demanded, the minute Alvarez had identified herself.
“I don't.” Alvarez had almost felt the woman's despair through the phone lines. “I wish I did, and the minute we locate her, I'm sure she'll want you to know.”
“You've checked into that louse of an ex-husband of hers, though, right? I saw him on the television making a plea for her to be returned safely to him and the boys. Oh, yeah, right, like he gives a flying you know what. He knocked her around, I'm telling you, has a temper that's hotter'n hell. He's behind this.” She drew a breath, then let it out slowly. “I know you know all this.”
“I was just going to order dinner to go,” Alvarez had said.
“Oh. Sorry. I'm just worried, that's all, and I hate seeing that loser go around as if he cares. Really chafes my hide, y'know what I mean? Okay, okay, I've said my piece. So ... what can I get you? Oh, let's see, just checked with the kitchen and we're out of clam chowder and the bison chili. Got some of the special, trout almondine, left though ...”
They'd ended up ordering sandwiches that they would eat in her kitchen, and O'Keefe had also stopped at a minimart for a six-pack and a bottle of halfway decent wine. “It is Saturday night,” he'd said in explanation.
“Good to have for a nondate,” she'd said.
“Exactly.”
Now, Alvarez walked past the garage and onto the front porch, where she unlocked the door and, once again, let Dylan O'Keefe into her house.
It was beginning to become a habit, she decided, and found the thought surprisingly comforting. Which it shouldn't be. She found plates and flatware while O'Keefe turned on the fireplace and the gas logs began to hiss softly. Jane threaded her way between Alvarez's legs. “Yeah, I know. I love you, too,” she said, taking the time to pick up the cat and stroke her before Jane hopped from her hands and went into the living room by the fire.
O'Keefe cracked open a beer, held a second up for her but she shook her head. “Maybe a glass of wine.” Why not? He was right. It was Saturday night and it had been one helluva day ... make that one helluva week. She needed to relax and kick back.
“You got it.”
After parceling out the sandwiches and small side salads, he retrieved a plastic container from the sack. “Looks like we got a bonus.” She couldn't help but smile at the slice of chocolate mousse pie, a specialty of Sandi's.
As they dove into their meal, O'Keefe said, “I talked to Aggie again today. She's been in contact with the lawyer who set up Gabe's adoption.”
Alvarez's stomach tightened. “And?”
“He's going before a judge, or something. The bottom line is he's going through the motions of opening up the adoption.”
“That could take months.”
“The Helena PD is adding pressure.”
“Does it matter?” she finally asked. “I mean, of course it matters to
me
and maybe to your cousin and her husband as well as Gabe. But for his alleged crime, it's pretty irrelevant.”
“Just another lead. And I think it's more than alleged.”
“We haven't heard his side of the story yet,” she pointed out and he looked up at her sharply, not saying what they were both thinking, that she was defensive, acting like a mother.
She glanced out the sliding door, where the snow was piling against the glass, and wondered about the boy out in the elements. Was he shivering in the freezing cold? Had he found a place to hide? He could be long gone by now. It had been days since there had been any sign of him.
Except for the earring.
She picked at her sandwich and sipped the chardonnay, didn't argue when O'Keefe refilled it. Earlier, she'd been ravenous, but now, she wasn't hungry and the melted cheese on whole wheat had lost its appeal.
Not so for O'Keefe, he'd polished off his ham on rye and was eyeing her leftovers. “Be my guest,” she offered, shoving her plate across the glass top of the table.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Just leave room for the pie, it's really to die for.” As he bit into her sandwich, she said, “So have you talked to the Helena PD?”
Nodding, he said, “Of course, they've got their own people trying to track Gabe down.” She nodded; she'd heard as much from Trey Williams. “But, unless they're lying, they don't have any more than I do; his trail's gone cold.”
She knew this as well and suspected the reason that the cops in Helena and the state had worked with O'Keefe at all was because he was dogged, determined and savvy from his own years on the force. Besides, their departments, like the Pinewood Sheriff's Department, were stretched thin, more crime than cops.
“I was hoping he might show up here again,” he said, then washed his last bite down by almost finishing his beer.
“So that's why you've been hanging out.”
“One reason.” His gaze found hers and she saw something in his eyes she'd rather ignore, something that reminded her of a time when the sun shined and she had hope of love.
How stupid she'd been then. Still a little idealistic and naive. Ever hopeful. Even after what she'd endured. She cleared her throat, pushed aside the memories of palm trees, and warm winds and O'Keefe's touch. She noticed his split lip and that one of the deeper scratches beneath his eye had decided to bleed again, tiny drops of blood forming along the line of his cheekbone. “You know ... you might need stitches.”
“That bad?”
“You've looked better,” she said, and felt one of her eyebrows arch, as if she were baiting him, or worse yet, flirting.
“Thanks.” Despite his scrapes and bruising, she thought him too good-looking for his own good. Or maybe hers. He grinned, that crooked, irreverent slash of white she'd found so beguiling years before. “What do they say, âit's not the years, but the miles'?”
“Is that what âthey' say?”
“Something like that.” He laughed, then winced a little before draining his beer.
“Well,
I'm
saying you should have had a doctor look at your injuries.”
“Now you're the expert.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He grinned again, testing her, then shrugged.
“Oh, for the love of God, I'd forgotten just how mule-headed you could be. Look, I've got some antiseptic cream and a butterfly Band-Aid ... upstairs.” Before he could protest, she kicked back her chair and headed upstairs to the bathroom off her bedroom where she kept all of her first-aid supplies. In the drawer, she located a box of Band-Aids that she'd had for years and a small tube of Neosporin. She grabbed them, shut the drawer, then looked in the mirror, where she saw her reflection, her eyes shining a little, her cheeks pinker than usual. From the wine? Or some emotional reaction she just couldn't control?
That's ridiculous. You're in charge of yourself. You know that. You've proved it time and time again ... Uh-oh.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs seconds before he appeared behind her, his image filling the mirror.
“Oh, good,” she said, nervous as a schoolgirl and trying to control her suddenly wildly beating heart. “Take a seat”âshe pointed to the toiletâ“and Nurse Alvarez will fix you right up.”
Hesitating a second, catching her gaze in the reflection, he grinned. “So are we going to play doctor and nurse?”
Swallowing back a smile, she said, “How about ER? Just be thankful you don't have serious head trauma, because I don't think the staff could take care of it. Okay?”
He'd settled onto the commode and looked up at her expectantly.
“Let's see ...” She scrounged in the drawer again and came up with a package of antiseptic wipes, then washed his face with warm water and a soft cloth. “Close your eyes,” she ordered, not because it was necessary for her ministrations, but so that she could look directly at him without him staring at her as she gently cleaned his face. She noticed the way a few wrinkles fanned from his eyes and the bits of gray showing in the hair at his temples. He smelled all male, but she disguised that all too enticing odor with the smell of the antiseptic as she gently cleaned his wounds, running the cloth over his skin, then allowing it to dry and finally applying a touch of Neosporin to the area.
Working this closely to him, leaning down to tend to him, was a little unsettling, but she ignored the fact that he was so damned near. “This shouldn't hurt,” she said. “The cream claims it's got a pain reliever in it.”
“And here I was believing the âno pain, no gain' theory.” His eyes opened and she found herself nose-to-nose with him, her hand on his cheek, her body leaning forward so that, should he look down, he could see the tops of her breasts and bra past the neckline of her sweater. “God, you're beautiful,” he whispered and the phrase was like a caress, warm and welcome.
“Well, you're ... you're not,” she forced out. “Ugly bruises and cuts andâ”
“And sexy as hell.”
“I was going to say âeasily distracted.' ”
His grin turned devilish as his eyes strayed to her neckline. “You know what, Selena, you've got that right.”
Before she could respond, he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her so close she almost fell over and kissed her, hard, on the lips. She nearly fell directly on him, but somehow he stood, pulling her up against him, his mouth warm and encouraging, the hands upon her back making warm impressions through her sweater.
Don't do this,
her mind warned and she, involuntarily, molded her lips against his and opened her mouth when his tongue pressed against her teeth.
Desire, pulled from the deepest part of her, curled through her veins, heating her blood, causing her pulse to pound. She didn't protest when he walked her backward, through the doorway, along a short hall to her bedroom, where the room was dark, the smell of her own perfume lingering. She felt his hardness, the thickening against the fly of his jeans, pressed deep into her abdomen as her own body responded, warmth invading the deepest part of her.
Selena, what are you thinking?
One of her grandmother's favorite phrases sang through her mind:
Astrasado mental!
Yes, she was being a moron, but she couldn't help herself. It seemed so right to be in his arms again, to fall onto the bed and sink into the mattress with him, to know that as the snow fell outside, here, with O'Keefe, she would be warm, would be safe.
Closing her mind to all the insecurities, to all of the pain, to all of her doubts, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drank in the sweet, male scent of him.
His hands moved to the hem of her sweater and she didn't resist, didn't stop him, just let the feel of his fingers climb up her skin.
Her breasts filled, her blood pounded in her veins, her lungs had trouble drawing a breath as he kissed her and moved over her.