Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson
routine and down the hallway to my captive’s door. She’s quieter now, as if trying to disguise the fact that she’s been crying. As if she’s trying to pull herself together.
Which she never will.
I tap lightly on the panels and open the old door slowly, a crack of light cutting into the dark interior.
She’s lying on the bed. Frightened. Her eyes wide. Tears visibly tracking down her cheeks.
Am I a sinner or saint?
Her knight in shining armor?
A good Samaritan?
Or the embodiment of evil?
Soon, she’ll know.
Luke Pescoli answered the door himself.
All six feet of him, squarely blocking the entrance to his single-level home. In a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, his blond hair mussed, he looked as if he’d been logging in serious hours in front of the television that was flickering in the background. The local news was on, the top story being the arrest of a woman thought to be a serial killer, and Regan’s feisty little terrier was tearing through the house, growling and barking as he raced, paws clicking madly on hardwood, to the door.
“Cisco, hush!” Pescoli ordered, blocking the doorway as the scrappy little terrier tried to scramble outside.
She’d already determined she would conduct this interview in her most professional manner. She and Lucky had met before, but only in passing. “Hello, Mr. Pescoli. I’m Detective Selena Alvarez from the—”
“Yeah, yeah. Old news,” he interrupted. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to control the jumping dog.
“I’m looking for Regan.”
“Regan?”
Behind him she caught a glimpse of a flocked Christmas tree, pink and gooey-looking, standing guard over the flat screen as the warm smell of cinnamon curled from the interior. “Your ex-wife.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s with all the protocol? Regan’s not here. No way she would be.”
“She’s missing and she left me a message that said she had business with you and—”
“Missing?” he interrupted harshly. Wariness darkened his hazel eyes. “What do you mean, missing?”
“She didn’t show up for work today and she’s not at the house.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” he demanded, disbelieving.
“Lucky!” a female voice shrilled behind him. Michelle, his wife, a compact, curvy woman, was barreling through the living room toward the front door.
“Watch your language! Bianca’s here.”
“Oh, save me,” a girl said as Regan’s daughter pushed her way past her father and stared at Alvarez suspiciously. “What are you talking about? Mom can’t be missing. What’s that supposed to mean?” She looked up at her father. “This is a joke, right?” But she was concerned. Her eyes, so much like her father’s, reflected his worry.
He waved off the question. To Alvarez he said, “Start at the beginning.”
“That’s what I was going to suggest you do.”
“Well, for God’s sake, come on in,” Michelle said, glaring at her husband and giving him a little-girl pout. “It’s freezing out there and our gas bill is already too high.”
Reluctantly, Lucky stepped away from the door and Alvarez stomped snow off her boots before crossing the threshold and walking into a room filled with Christmas decor. Along with the pink flocked tree, there were lights strung over the mantel and candles taking precedence over the hunting and sports magazines strewn over the tables. Ceramic elves with big eyes, drooping hats, and, in Alvarez’s opinion, wicked, leering smiles were tucked between table legs and on windowsills.
“So you haven’t seen Regan since…?”
“Last week sometime when we picked up the kids,” Lucky said.
“Friday,” Michelle chimed in as she waved Selena toward the cluster of chairs near an unlit fireplace where inside the firebox, dangling dangerously over the charred logs, a plastic Santa’s boot was visible, as if Old St. Nick were actually climbing down the chimney. “In the afternoon.”
“But you talked with her since.” She caught a glimpse of the local news on the television where there was running footage of a woman being forced into a squad car. Breaking news from Spokane, Washington, the running caption read. Suspect arrested in the Star-Crossed Serial Killer homicide investigation.
She perched on the edge of a blue side chair while her partner’s ex-husband took up what appeared to be his usual spot on the couch. Cisco, traitor that he was, hopped up beside Lucky and turned his beady eyes on Alvarez.
“Yeah. Yesterday. When she found out the kids were with me.” His gaze wandered to the television. “Looks like you caught the guy, huh?”
“Remains to be seen.”
“Maybe Regan took off for Spokane to be part of the bust.”
“Then the sheriff’s office would know where she was,” Bianca sneered, though she chewed nervously on her lower lip.
“What did she say?” Alvarez asked, bringing Lucky back to the conversation.
“On the phone?”
Selena nodded.
He shrugged. “That she was on her way. I’d told her I…well, that Michelle and I wanted full custody of Jeremy and Bianca, and Regan went ballistic. Told me she was coming over, and to get the kids and the dog ready.”
“Did she show up?”
“No.” He looked away from Alvarez’s steady gaze. “I figured she’d cooled off. Changed her mind.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. She does that, y’know.” He was irritated now, paying a little more attention. “It’s not like she hasn’t said one thing and done another before. It’s kind of her M.O.”
“Yeah,” Michelle agreed.
“You’re her partner. You must know what a hot-head she can be,” Lucky said.
“Seems to me she’s been pretty rock-steady where the kids are concerned.” For the first time Selena noticed that Pescoli’s son hadn’t joined the party. “Is Jeremy here?”
“Nah, he went into town.”
“In this?” she asked, hitching her chin toward the window and the storm raging outside.
“He’s nearly eighteen, been driving in snow ever since he got his license. It’s nothing. I loaned him my truck ’cuz we left his at her house.” As if a sudden thought occurred to him, he said, “You said you checked there at her place?”
“She’s not there and her Jeep is missing.”
“And she’s not answering her phone?” Leaning across the couch for the handheld, he dialed a number, as if he could reach his ex-wife when the entire sheriff’s department couldn’t. When that didn’t work, he pounded out a new set of numbers, then as he listened, said, “You probably tried her cell?”
“Yes,” Selena answered carefully.
Frowning, he waited, then, obviously hearing Pescoli’s voicemail recording, hung up and stared at the phone.
“Dad?” Bianca asked, her voice quavering slightly. “Where’s Mom?”
“Oh, probably with some loser guy she picked up—”
“Lucky, don’t—” Michelle warned, her perfect, pink lips puckering into a knot of disapproval.