Chosen to Die (27 page)

As the windshield slaps at the snow I find myself humming to the catchy little melody.

It’s a damned curse.

“All I know is that Mr. Long called and told me that he would be visiting the ranch,” Clementine said.

“You mean Brady Long,” Alvarez clarified. An easy assumption; according to all reports, Hubert was on his deathbed.

“Yes.” Clementine’s lower lip quivered and she wrung her hands nervously. Her son, Ross, a tall, sullen kid, looked like he would rather be anyplace else on earth than standing in the vestibule of the home of a dead man and talking to an officer of the law. His head was shaved, a straggly goatee decorated his chin, and a tattoo peeked out from the neck of his ski jacket. Snow had melted on the jacket’s shoulders and Ross’s jeans were wet at the top of his boots, as if he’d been walking through deep snowdrifts. His face was a little red. The cold? Exertion? He nearly sneered at Alvarez and carried the air about him that suggested he would have liked the words
Bad Ass
inked across his forehead.

“You didn’t talk to Mr. Long?” she asked Ross.

He shook his head vigorously, losing a bit of the disinterested, cool-appearing demeanor he was trying so hard to convey.

“You’ve been outside this morning?”

“Yeah…I went…I was in town.”

All the evidence from the crime had been collected, but the sheriff’s department had roped off the den with crime scene tape, and the hallways and dining area were a mess—fingerprint powder blackening the walls and furniture, footprints tracked throughout the house.

“What can you tell me about that conversation?” she asked Clementine.

“As I told the other officers, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Every so often, Mr. Brady, he would call and tell me to stock the kitchen and bar because he was going to come back and spend a few days here to unwind. That’s how he usually put it, ‘unwind’ or ‘relax’ or ‘get away from the grind.’”

“Do you know what he was ‘getting away’ from?”

“He never confided in me.”

Alvarez wasn’t certain that was the truth. “You work for him, too?” she asked Ross.

“When I’m not in school. I help out Santana.”

“He’s like the foreman,” Clementine ventured. “Ross is his helper.”

“Along with some others?”

Clementine was nodding.

“You’ve worked for the Longs for quite a while.”

“Over twenty years.”

“And Ross’s father?” Alvarez looked at the boy, who shifted from one foot to the other.

“He left us. Before Ross was born. I wasn’t married and he…he didn’t want a baby.” She licked her lips and looked at the floor.

“His name is Alvin Schwartz and he’s a real asshole. He’s a cop, too,” Ross added.

“Enough!” Clementine said, shushing her son.

“Al? Who works at the jail?” Alvarez pictured the jailor, a part-timer who was in his early forties. A big guy, ex-football-player type, who wore his hair clipped so short as to be nearly bald. Other than the hairstyle, there was little resemblance between father and son.

“Ross takes after my side of the family,” Clementine commented, as if reading Alvarez’s mind.

Ross snorted, “He’s not in the family.”

They talked for a little while about the Long family and Alvarez learned little more than she already knew. Then Clementine said, “Mr. Hubert, he’s near death, I heard.” She sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest. “And now, Mr. Brady is gone. I’m wondering if I even have a job left. Who will own this place?” She lifted her hands in a sweeping gesture to take in all of the house and surrounding acres.

“I don’t know, but I imagine someone will call and let you know.” Alvarez turned her attention to Ross. “You go to community college, right? And work around here. Can you tell me what you were doing yesterday morning?”

He stared at her. “You think I popped Brady?”

“Ross!” Clementine hissed and looked like she might faint.

“That’s what she’s getting at.” His eyes glittered, as if he had figured out Alvarez’s game. “Isn’t it?”

“Just keeping track of everyone he knew,” Selena said.

“I was at school. You can check with Jamie.”

“Who’s she?”

“
He’s
my friend. I pick him up.”

She took down Jamie’s number, made a note to give him a jingle.

“Either one of you know Regan Pescoli?”

“Another cop,” Ross said derisively.

“My partner.”

“She’s missing, isn’t she?” Clementine asked and shook her head. “I saw it on the news.”

Ross lifted a shoulder. “I met her a couple of times. I know her kid. He’s cool.”

“Is he?” She asked a few more questions, but it seemed the connection between Ross DeGrazio and Jeremy Strand was a thin one at best. Acquaintances. Not friends. There were a couple of years between them.

“I heard she was doin’ Santana.”

“Oh, stop it!” Clementine looked about to die. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized.

Alvarez leveled her gaze at the kid. “Seems as if Ross here has a problem with authority.”

“I just don’t like cops.”

“Because of your old man?”

“Because I don’t like ’em.”

Alvarez asked a few more questions, didn’t get any more information, and decided she’d learned all she could. Whether he knew it or not, Ross DeGrazio was still, in her mind, on the suspect list, along with Cort Brewster.

But the kid seemed too green to pull off something so intricate. It just didn’t quite fit. Just like Brewster; as much as she disliked the man, and as much as some pieces of the Star-Crossed puzzle fit his profile, she couldn’t quite see him as a cold-blooded killer who had spent years planning this series of brutal slayings. She supposed smart-ass Ross could be stupid enough to get caught in some kind of gang killing, but even then she didn’t see him as the trigger man. He had a problem with authority, yeah, but Alvarez would bet that Ross DeGrazio would rather run from the police than provoke, taunt, or toy with them. He just didn’t have the balls. As for Brewster, he might kill in the line of duty or as an act of passion, as was proven by his attack on Jeremy Strand.

But Alvarez couldn’t believe either of them had the time, effort, or dedication to have plotted and carried out these killings. As much as she’d worried about Brewster earlier, it just didn’t fit.

Besides, she couldn’t prove that either man had means, motive, and opportunity.

And though she was relieved to knock Brewster off the suspect list, it only meant that Star-Crossed was someone else.

Someone who would love to see her chasing her tail or arresting the wrong suspect, someone who thought he was so much smarter than the police.

We’ll see about that, bastard. Don’t count me out yet.

Santana shut the stable door and eyed the sky warily. Another blizzard was bearing down on the Bitterroots. Another night had passed with no news of Pescoli.

And he still hadn’t heard one damned word from Chilcoate. Not one.

The guy wasn’t returning his calls, nor had he bothered to phone and give Santana an update.

It hasn’t even been twelve hours and here you are jumping out of your skin. Give the guy some time,
he told himself.

But that was the problem.

He felt like he had no time left, not a minute.

And he had to do something.

Couldn’t just sit around and wait, for God’s sake!

Turning his collar to the wind, with Nakita leaping and bounding in the fresh snow, he glanced down the lane to the main house where lights were glowing, lights that had been on ever since he’d discovered Brady Long’s body.

Was it just yesterday?

Jesus H. Christ, it seemed like a lifetime had passed.

He noticed a car in the drive…no, a Jeep, and for a split second hope jumped in his heart. Until he saw Selena Alvarez leaving through the front door and striding swiftly to the Jeep, a government-issue vehicle that was almost identical to Pescoli’s, the one that had been totaled in its horrific spiral from Horsebrier Ridge.

He started jogging toward the main house and Nakita, loving the acceleration, yipped excitedly, then ran in circles around Santana as he yelled, “Hey!” before Alvarez could slide behind the wheel.

She paused and he waved while slogging through the snow that was beginning to pile up along the lane that he’d plowed late last night. He was breathing hard by the time he reached her rig.

“Something up?” she asked, the door to her Jeep open.

“I just wanted to know if you’ve heard anything.” He didn’t bother trying to mask his emotions. “About Regan.”

“No. Don’t make me remind you that you’re not part of the investigation.”

He ignored her. “What about Ivor Hicks?”

“What about him?”

“Did anyone find out what he was doing here…I mean, besides that cock-and-bull story about being forced here by aliens and seeing a Yeti.”

“Ivor was drunk. At ten in the morning. That was pretty obvious to both of us, I believe.”

“Didn’t he find another one of the victims?”

Alvarez nodded slowly, her lips tight, snow catching on the brim of her hat.

“Was he drunk then, too?”

She didn’t respond and he looked away, to the house, where in the reflection of the windows, on the upper story he saw Ross, standing in the shadows, as if he were trying to hide, but observing the scene below.

Her cell phone rang and she said, “Excuse me.”

But he wasn’t done. Even though he hadn’t expected to learn anything, he felt a needle of disappointment prick his heart. “She’s important to me,” he said flatly, looking away toward the stable and barns, his jaw tight. The law, it seemed, was always an obstacle. “I’d just like to know if you hear something.”

“I have to take this call.”

He nodded, then took off, heading back to his little house. Nakita, now that some of his energy had been burned, was staying close to Santana’s heels.

He knew Alvarez wouldn’t call him. She’d barely give him the time of day. Even if she wanted to, which she didn’t, her hands were bound.

So, as an outsider, he would have to do things his own way.

First up, he thought, buy Ivor Hicks a Bloody Mary.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Dr. Ramsby said with a soft smile as she gazed across her desk to the wan-looking woman seated in front of her.

Padgett Long was staring at her intently, her face devoid of expression, her wide blue eyes never leaving the psychologist’s as rain drizzled down the window of Ramsby’s office. She wore no makeup but she was still a striking woman with a smooth complexion, her curly dark hair and intense blue eyes rimmed by sweeping black eyelashes. But she didn’t respond. Long ago, Jalicia had learned that it was the quiet ones who were the most frightening. One was always wary of the psychotics prone to outbursts, but the silent ones, the ones who lived in their own private hellish worlds—they were the ones to watch closely, the ones who could lull a person into a false and deadly sense of security.

“This unfortunate news is actually twofold.”

Still not so much as a glimmer of understanding.

“First, your father is in failing health. I know we’ve told you that before. He’s been in a nursing facility and steadily declining.”

Padgett waited. Patiently. As if in another world.

“I spoke with Mr. Tinneman, your father’s attorney, and he told me it was your father’s dying wish to see his grandson, your child. I initially declined to talk to you about it. I wanted a member of the family to ask for your help, if they wanted it.”

Was there just the flicker of understanding, an involuntary narrowing of the corner of her eyes?

“But I decided you have every right to know what your family is intending. Your father wants to find your son. It’s my understanding that you may have given him up for adoption through the Cahill House in San Francisco?”

Still nothing.

Dr. Ramsby waited, feeling the gray of the Seattle weather seep through her window. The morning had dawned rain-washed, the sky muddled with low-hanging clouds. Though this office was decorated with soft, ambient light, a cozy love seat and matching chair, and, to accompany her desk, several side chairs, the drab of the day permeated all of the decorator’s best interests.

She held a pen over Padgett’s file, intending to take notes, but she decided it might be an exercise in futility, so she folded the thick file and tucked it into a drawer.

“The other news is about your brother.”

The blue eyes didn’t waver.

“I’m afraid he was killed yesterday. At your family estate in Montana.” Padgett’s gaze was transfixed upon the doctor, as if she were listening intently. “The authorities believe it was homicide. After speaking with Mr. Tinneman, I called the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department this morning and spoke to a Detective Alvarez. The police don’t know yet who shot your brother.”

Padgett shifted slightly in her chair. Refolded her hands.

“I assume there will be a funeral. You will probably want to attend?” She asked it as a question and there was a hint of interest, a blink.

“Padgett? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Perfectly,” the woman said without a second’s hesitation. “My brother is dead, so I can leave now.”

Jalicia’s jaw literally dropped. “What?” Padgett was already starting to get to her feet, as if the discussion were over after fifteen years of being mute. “Wait a minute. You haven’t said a word since you entered this facility and now…you’re…able to speak…and you want to leave?”

“I’ve always been able to talk.”

“But you haven’t.”

“Not to you or any of those other ridiculous doctors my father hired. Ask Rosie or Toby or…or Scott.”

“Who are they?”

“Other inmates.”

“You mean patients…there is no Rosie or…”

“Rose Anne Weeks, Tobias Settlemeier, and Scott Dowd. They were all before your time. Inmates.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re dead, Dr. Ramsby. Someone pulled me down here to this very room to tell me that they’d died. Rosie committed suicide—hanged herself at the next facility to which she was committed by her parents. Toby’s in prison. No one told me that. They wouldn’t. But I overheard Nurse Martha telling one of the aides all about it.” She offered up a saccharine smile. “She gossips, you know, and eats the desserts of the ones who don’t really know what she’s up to. She’s really into apple crisp and ice cream.”

She turned toward the door.

“We’re not finished here,” Dr. Ramsby said.

“Sure we are. I know that I came here voluntarily and that no one ever bothered to set up a guardianship. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure that I would have been before a judge to determine my ability, or inability, to take care of myself. Since that didn’t happen, I suspect my father thought that my brother would always see to my care.” Her eyes darkened with a deep, simmering hatred. “As if he would.” She reached for the door handle. “Now that he’s dead, it’s safe for me again, so I know you have the authority and some money set aside for me. Again, Nurse Martha, maybe she talks a little more freely than she should. What I need from you is a car to pick me up and take me to the airport. SeaTac isn’t far from here. I see and hear the jets, so then I’ll want to be on the next flight to San Francisco.”

“You mean Denver, right?” Dr. Ramsby clarified. She was beginning to believe that the slim woman before her knew exactly what she wanted and that she had for a long, long time.

“San Francisco. As you said, that’s where my son is, but I won’t be taking him to see dear old Dad. The old man didn’t want him fifteen years ago, he’s not going to get to see him now, even if I can find him, which is going to be difficult.” Her lips thinned. “Let’s get the ball rolling, shall we?”

“Just like that? You want to leave just like that?”

“I’ve wanted to leave for a long time, Dr. Ramsby. But it just wasn’t safe.”

“And now it is?”

“If my brother is really dead? Yes.”

“Don’t you want to call someone?”

“Who? My brother’s dead, and if he’s currently married, I’ve never met my sister-in-law.”

“He wasn’t.”

“My mother’s dead, too, and my father, as you said, is about to die. So who would that leave?”

“I don’t know. Maybe…Let’s see.” She picked up the file and flipped to the reports listing visitors. “How about Liam Kress?”

Something twitched in Padgett’s face. “I haven’t heard from Liam in a long while.”

“Maybe he’d like to know you were able to speak and intent on leaving.”

Padgett shook her head. “No, I’m sure not. Now, let’s get on with it.” She made a looping motion. “Just do whatever paperwork you have to and I’ll sign myself out of here. ASAP. I don’t see why we can’t get all of it done within the hour and you can see that I’ll have that car waiting for me at the front gates, just as I’ve seen other cars come and go over the years. It’s the McMurray Service, I believe.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Yes. I’ll need access to funds. I’m sure I have a bank account somewhere.”

“I don’t know. I’ll give you Mr. Tinneman’s phone number.”

“I’ll need more than that. I assume that there’s an account for me, here, at Mountain View. I’ll need a check for the balance.”

“That might take some time.”

Padgett smiled. “It’s my money, doctor.”

“Along with the paperwork, you’ll need to pack your things—”

“Oh. That’s right. You’re relatively new here,” she said and folded her slim arms across her chest. “You probably didn’t get the memo. I’m already packed. Everything I need is in my bag.”

“Already?”

“Yes.”

Ramsby was puzzled. Felt she was being played. “How did you know you’d be leaving today, that your brother had died?”

Padgett tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Because I pack up every week, and on Sunday, Farrell, the aide, unpacks my bag and washes the perfectly clean clothes. So, you see, Dr. Ramsby, I’ve been packed for fifteen years. My clothes are probably hideously out of style and faded, but they’ll get me out of here and once I’m free I’ll take care of buying a few things.”

She walked to the door, intent on leaving. “The way I figure it,” Padgett said over her shoulder as she tugged the door open and stepped to the hallway, the psychologist right behind her, “I’ll be able to afford some new things.” With an enigmatic smile and a wave, she headed toward the elevator, the very area where Ramsby had thought she’d fled not that long ago.

Jalicia stared after her, thinking hard.

Padgett Long had anticipated that she would be leaving, as if she’d known her brother had been murdered before she’d crossed the carpeted threshold to Ramsby’s office.

How the hell had she known?

The last person Dan Grayson wanted to see was Manny Douglas, but the weasel of a writer was on his way to the department.

Considering how things were going with the press in general, and the
Mountain Reporter
specifically, Grayson wanted to throttle the journalist, or at the very least tell Douglas to take a flying leap, but Manny had been insistent.

“I’ve got something you need to see,” he’d said on the phone fifteen minutes earlier. “If it were up to me, I’d say ‘screw you’ and just do my thing, expose the damned serial killer and be a hero, but my editor has some twisted ethics.”

“You can expose Star-Crossed?” Grayson asked, but inwardly thought,
What a crock.

“I’ve got some evidence.”

Grayson had doubted it. “What evidence?”

“It’s something you need to see.”