Bridge. “Tom Alexander thinks his wife was run off the road intentionally. Claims he was on the phone with her when her van was hit.”
“Seriously?” Pescoli pulled her favorite cracked cup from the shelf. “So he’s, what? Claiming that he heard her die?”
“Something like that.”
“Dear God. Can you imagine?”
“No.” Alvarez scowled. “So it’s our case. Homicide.”
“
Before they could discuss the case any further, the sound of footsteps reached their ears, and Joelle, dressed head to foot in Christmas red, appeared. “Happy Holidays!” she greeted them, her blond hair decorated with matching poinsettias tucked over her ears. She carried three pink boxes into the lunchroom and plunked them down.
Pescoli noticed that the same red flowers displayed in Joelle’s blond locks were also pinned to the tops of her scarlet four-inch heels.
“I hope you all aren’t sick of sweets!” Joelle chirped with a toothy smile.
“Never,” Pescoli assured her.
Joelle picked up a little fake tree that, when she pressed a button, started to rotate, its lights glowing almost eerily, then set it back onto the table. She said, “My cousin Beth’s kids came down with that nasty flu, so they weren’t able to come to Thanksgiving dinner, and Uncle Bud and his wife, they’re in their eighties, you know, and were snowed in, so they didn’t show, either. Jennifer, my sister, she’s on one of her wacko diets again, only eats fruit and honey, I think, so the upshot is, I had waaay too much food.” Folding open each box, she exposed what appeared to be a pumpkin pie, some kind of berry torte, and a plastic container of sugar cookies cut into the shape of cornucopias, turkeys, and Pilgrim hats. Pescoli wasn’t sure, but it looked like there was at least one Easter Bunny, which must’ve taken a wrong turn from the freezer six months earlier.
As Joelle leaned forward, Pescoli caught a glimpse of her gold hoop earrings. Dear God, a minuscule elf sat in each eighteen-karat loop.
Joelle quickly spread the cookies on a plate, then, hearing the phones start to jangle, froze for a second, her lips pursing. “Duty calls,” she said with a shrug, then clicked quickly out of the lunchroom as a couple of road deputies walked in.
“She’s something else,” Pescoli muttered, but Alvarez wasn’t listening, so she opted for a black hat cookie and bit off the crown, down to the gold-colored buckle.
Alvarez, deep in thought, ignored all the goodies and said, as Pescoli poured herself a cup of the strong- looking coffee, “The Alexanders’ van is in the department’s garage. I thought I’d swing by and take a look.”
“I’m with you.” Pescoli wondered about the single-car accident. Maybe the husband was frantic, grief- stricken, trying to blame anyone for his wife’s single-car accident on an icy road. Or maybe it was to defer blame; maybe he knew something more than he was saying; maybe he expected the road crew to find evidence that the wife was run off the road.
She finished her cookie and said, “Before we head out, though, I’d like to hear the nine-one-one tape. Then we’ll check the cell phone records, see where the pings come from.” She took a sip from her cup and sucked in her breath through her teeth. “That’s strong.”
“Brewster made it earlier. He doesn’t like, and I quote, ‘namby-pamby weak-assed shit,’ ” Alvarez said.
“Strong words from a God-fearing man.”
Alvarez shrugged. “Still a cop.”
“And a deacon in the church.”
“Your boss,” Alvarez reminded.
“And a pain in the ass.” She wanted to say more, but for once, Pescoli bit her tongue and wondered what kind of Secret Santa gift she’d get for the undersheriff. Rat poison or a one-way ticket to Mozambique or the South Pole came swiftly to mind, though she really didn’t hate the guy. He was a decent enough cop, just overly protective when it came to his daughters, especially Heidi, who, in Pescoli’s opinion, was two-faced and manipulative, and boy, did Heidi have Jeremy wrapped around her perfectly manicured fingers. God, Pescoli wished Jeremy would wise up and find someone else. Brewster probably wouldn’t appreciate a box of condoms under the department Christmas tree, especially if they were earmarked for his precious little girl.
Alvarez started walking out of the lunchroom just as the back door opened and the sheriff, along with his ever-faithful dog, walked inside.
“Mornin’,” he drawled with a smile that lifted the corners of his mustache.
“Morning,” Pescoli said, and Alvarez smiled, though it seemed a bit stiff.
“I hear we’ve got a possible homicide.” He pointed to his office, and Sturgis, tail wagging, hurried toward the sheriff’s office.
“Looks that way,” Alvarez said.
“Maybe.” Pescoli wasn’t convinced.
Alvarez added, “We’re checking on it now.”
“Good.” The sheriff nodded. “Oh, and thanks for stopping by the other night. I hope my extended family didn’t overwhelm you. The twins, even at seven they can be a handful. Imagine what they’ll be at fifteen.”
Pescoli didn’t want to go there. She knew about fifteen. . and sixteen and seventeen. . twins to boot?
“No, they were adorable,” Alvarez assured him, and Pescoli shot her a look. What the hell was this all about? Adorable? Alvarez thought some kids related to Grayson were
“Keep me posted about what happened out near the North Fork,” Grayson said.
“Will do,” Alvarez said as Grayson walked into his office and she and Pescoli headed down the hall.
Pescoli opened her mouth to speak, but Alvarez held up a hand and said, “I know.” She cast a look down the hallway toward Grayson’s office, and her face reflected no emotion. “I’ll tell you more about it later. Okay? Right now I’ve got an investigation to work on, and I’m way ahead of you about Elle and Tom Alexander’s cell phones. I’ve already made the request for the records for both of their numbers for the past two months. Just in case he called an insurance company or girlfriend.”
“Or she called a boyfriend.”
“Exactly. I should get the info today.”
“Good girl,” Pescoli said.
“Always.”
CHAPTER 21
In the eighty-year-old sheep shed the next morning, he checked his truck. Parked near the old John Deere tractor that still dripped oil, the pickup was hidden away in this drafty, graying outbuilding that was nearly a hundred yards down the hill from the main house. As far as he could tell, there was no damage that looked new or out of place. Was there any transfer of paint that might link his vehicle to that stupid bitch’s minivan? He didn’t think so.
Quickly, he unscrewed the solid steel specialty bumper from the dark truck. He’d welded the bumper together himself, built it like a cattle guard, and made sure that when it was bolted to the Chevy, it partially hid the Idaho plates he’d stolen years before. He’d picked a truck with Idaho plates because those plates were common in this area. And he prided himself on finding a pickup that was the same make and model as the one from which he’d lifted the plates.
God, it was cold.
Inside this insulation-free shed, his breath fogged and his fingers felt a little numb. He worked quickly. As he had so often in the past, he replaced those old stolen license plates with the current Montana plates. He also
