Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson
that she’d actually challenged him in a bar one night, first to pool, then to arm wrestling, and then to shots of whiskey, he might not have noticed the smell of her, the fire in her eyes that matched the flame in her hair, or the fact that she seemed slightly amused by him. Being attracted to her, playing her game, had been his first mistake.
Ending up in bed had been his second.
And now, his third: actually giving a damn about her. Caring about her. Missing her.
“Damn it all to hell.”
He drank two cups of black coffee, thought about carving himself a second piece of bread but decided he couldn’t force down another bite. Watching the weather report, only half paying attention to “more of the same,” he finally surfaced to learn another storm was on the horizon.
Great.
Time was inching by. He glanced at the clock mounted over the sink and scowled. Still an hour until daylight. “Oh, hell,” he said under his breath. He couldn’t stand not doing anything. He whistled to his dog and walked to the door where he began putting on the layers he’d so recently peeled off. “Come on, Nakita,” he said, as the dog yawned and stretched. “Let’s go into town.”
It was well past time to track Pescoli down.
After a miserable night, Alvarez rolled out of bed, stumbled through the shower, and dispensing with makeup, dried her thick hair, snapped a rubber band around a high ponytail, and wound the whole mess into a tight knot on her crown. She checked her image in the mirror, saw her eyes were watery from the damned cold, her skin lacking luster, her nose red.
“No beauty pageant for you today,” she told her image before she brushed her teeth and swilled some sharp-tasting antibacterial mouthwash inside her mouth.
She couldn’t afford to be sick.
Not now.
After pulling on silky long johns, she dressed in a sweater and department-issued slacks. Soberly, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and wondered what had happened to her. As a teenager, she’d been proud of her good looks, flaunted her slim figure, applied more makeup than she needed to her large eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips.
But that was a lifetime ago.
When life had been filled with laughter and promise.
Frowning, dispelling the image, she found her shoulder holster and snapped it on.
She was no longer all those things that had been important to her in her youth. “Hot.” Or “cool.” Whichever was in vogue. Even “tight” or “sexy” or “naughty” didn’t appeal to her. Probably would never again.
Which was fine.
Except that she was alone.
No husband or lover or boyfriend on the horizon.
“No big deal,” she said to herself while warming water for tea in the microwave. After all, she’d been thinking about getting a pet. Why not? Something living to come home to.
A bird would be good…maybe a parakeet or macaw or…who was she kidding? A bird? In a cage? Spreading seeds and crapping on newspapers lining the cage floor? Or perching on the curtain rod with its wings clipped?
Fine for someone else.
Just not Selena’s style.
She was fine. Alone. Matter of fact, that’s just how she liked things.
She glanced at her desk where more images and notes about the series of murders were strewn over the desk in the tiny apartment where she lived alone. No man had ever slept in her bed. She’d been in Grizzly Falls for over three years, ever since leaving San Bernadino. “A loner,” she’d been called, or an “ice princess.” She’d even heard Pete Watershed, a coworker, suggest to a group of officers that she “probably swings the other way.” Even now, feeling rotten, she smiled at that one.
If they only knew.
Not that she gave a damn.
Besides, Watershed was a dolt.
Alvarez figured that the less her coworkers and acquaintances knew about her, the better she could do her job. And she was all about her job.
The microwave dinged and she pulled out the cup of near-boiling water, then dunked a bag of tea into it. Her grandmother had insisted that honey and lemon be added to the tea in order for the concoction to “shake the cold loose,” but Alvarez had neither item in the small kitchen of her studio.
Orange pekoe would have to do.
“Citrus is citrus,” she told herself, blowing over her cup and gingerly tasting the hot tea. It nearly burned her tongue, but did soothe her throat.
Her cell rang and it sounded dull, as her ears were still plugged. She scrounged it out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Alvarez.”
“She’s not our killer.” Sheriff Grayson sounded disgusted. “Nothing adds up. A copycat, it looks like, though how she knew enough about the crimes to try and kill Jillian Rivers in the same manner, we haven’t figured out yet.” He let out a long, angry breath. “I was really hoping she would be the doer and we could close the case, but that’s not gonna happen.”
Alvarez wasn’t surprised. Last night she’d spent hours double-checking dates, places, and the suspect’s whereabouts before finally going to bed. Nothing had matched up. The woman in custody couldn’t have committed the murders of Theresa Charleton, Nina Salvadore, Wendy Ito, Rona Anders, and Hannah Estes.
On top of all that, Alvarez was certain they should be looking for a guy. A big guy, one strong enough to carry women out of snow-covered canyons, one smart enough to hide them away without detection, a sharpshooter with incredible accuracy: under sixty, probably, big, athletic.
And then there was the fact of her missing partner.
She shivered as Grayson said, “It sure would have been nice to get the mutt behind bars.”
“We will.”
“Any word from Pescoli? Brewster said they found her car.”
“Nothing.”
“Shit.”
Alvarez’s sentiments precisely.
“Find her.”
“We will.”
“Jesus, what a mess.”
“We’ll get this guy and we’ll get Pescoli back alive,” she said, hearing the ring of conviction in her tone, wondering if she were lying.
“God, I hope so.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m on my way back. Chandler and Halden are staying on a little longer, wrapping things up with the Spokane Police, trying to find a link as to how the suspect knew so much about the other murders. I’ll see you at the office and we’ll have a meeting of the task force. I want anything the crime scene has got on Pescoli’s vehicle and her place. Get a search warrant and talk to her kids and…Oh, hell, you know what we need to do.”
“Already on it.”
“Good. Later.”
She hung up, finished drinking her cooling tea, then stepped outside where the sun was rising over the eastern hills and traffic was starting to move through this part of the town.
Pescoli had been missing two nights now.
Chapter Seven
That bitch needs to be taught a lesson!
I rake my fingers through my hair and try to calm down, but my hands are shaking, my muscles tight as bowstrings as I pace before the fire.
All because of her.
Don’t let her get to you. You’re in control here, remember? You’re the one who’s calling the shots. She’s