Born To Die

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“So you don’t know where your wife is?” the taller detective asked Trace, her eyes never leaving his face. An imposing woman with reddish hair clipped away from her face, she sat on the opposite side of the small, battered table in the small interrogation room at the sheriff’s department. Her expression gave nothing away, but her gaze kept traveling to her watch.

“Ex-wife, and no,” Trace said emphatically. “I’ve lost touch with Leanna.”

Trace had driven to the offices at the top of Boxer Bluff to “answer a few questions” after Pescoli’s partner, Alvarez, the shorter Latino woman with the intense dark eyes, had left him a message on his cell phone, asking him to come in.

He’d gotten that message and one from Kacey in short succession. Kacey’s had been welcome; she’d told him the antibiotics had taken hold and Eli was on the mend, something he’d seen for himself when he’d dropped by the hospital after he’d fed and watered the stock and taken Sarge for a walk outside in the falling snow.

He’d spent some time with his boy, who did seem much more animated, before speaking with the doctor, who had informed him that Eli would be released in the afternoon, as soon as all the paperwork was finished. It just relieved him to no end, and so he’d made his next stop the police station.

Upon his arrival, Detective Alvarez had escorted him to this windowless room with its concrete walls, small table, and three molded plastic chairs. After telling him she was recording the session, she’d left, saying she as going to bring them all a cup of coffee, which he assumed was intended to make this seem more like an informal “chat” than a serious interrogation. Fine. He wanted all his cards on the table. And the police to get to the truth. Kacey’s theory that the victims were genetically linked, possibly to her, scared him. It scared him to death.

Still, he was anxious to get this interview over. He didn’t want Eli staying alone in the hospital any longer than absolutely necessary. He already had some abandonment issues because of Leanna; Trace wasn’t about to compound them by not showing up when he’d promised.

Alvarez returned with half-filled paper cups and set them on the table. As she sat down, she pulled a slim manila file from a briefcase positioned near her chair and slid it onto the beat-up table. Trace ignored the steaming coffee but was grateful that its aroma blocked out the stench of sweat and cleaning solvent, as if this room had been scrubbed recently, but it couldn’t quite mask the scent of fear, desperation, and guilt.

With no holds barred, he told them the story of his brief marriage, losing touch with Leanna, and raising Eli alone. “The marriage was over before it began,” he admitted. “I’m still not even sure she was pregnant. I never saw the test kit results or went to the one appointment with the doctor she’d sworn she’d visited. No bill for the exam ever came through, so maybe I was played.”

“Why?” Alvarez asked.

“I suspect she was tired of the responsibility of a kid.” Trace’s insides curdled with the admission, but it was his version of the truth. “Leanna wasn’t the kind of woman cut out to be a mother.”

“What kind was she?” the taller detective, Pescoli, asked.

“Beautiful and self-centered. Friendly smile. Cold, though.”

“Huh,” Pescoli observed before picking up a paper cup and taking a long swallow of the coffee. “You’re her ex.”

“You asked,” he reminded the detective. “I’m just saying what I think.”

Alvarez asked, “So about Eli. He’s not your biological son, but she just left him with you? What about the real father?”

Feeling warm in his coat, Trace unbuttoned it. “It’s my understanding that he was never in the picture. He might not even know about Eli. But the adoption’s legal. He’s my son.”

Pescoli asked, “What about your ex-wife’s family?”

“I didn’t meet any of them. We were together less than six months. So, why all the questions about Leanna?”

But he knew. And it came as no surprise when Pescoli opened the file on the small desk and showed him pictures of Jocelyn Wallis and one of Leanna O’Halleran, the picture she’d had taken for her Montana driver’s license.

“Since you were the last person Jocelyn Wallis was involved with, and she with you,” Pescoli said, “we just would like to know more about her, as well as your missing wife.”

He didn’t bother correcting her this time, understood that she was baiting him a bit, trying to get a rise. If she kept wanting to call Leanna his wife, fine. “Fire away,” he told them, and as both detectives tossed questions at him, he answered clearly and concisely. When they got to a question about Elle Alexander, he said truthfully, “I’ve never met her. Look, can I sign a statement or something? I’ve been here over an hour. I’ve got things to do, and I’m picking my son up from the hospital.” There was a hesitation, and a look passed between them. “Are you charging me with something? Do I need a lawyer? I’ve told you everything I know.”

Pescoli looked at her watch again, and Alvarez regarded him soberly, as if she were trying to see into his soul.

Even though it wasn’t really his call, Trace added, “Actually, there’s something more you need to know. I’ve been… seeing Acacia Lambert, the doctor who works at the clinic downtown. You met her at the hospital. She said she called you and told you about the hidden microphones.”

Alvarez reacted, and Pescoli’s interest sharpened as well. “That’s correct,” Alvarez said.

“You might notice that she looks like these women.” He pointed at the small table, where the pictures of Leanna and Jocelyn were still lying faceup. “And also, Shelly Bonaventure, that actress who died recently, as well as Elle Alexander. Kacey had noticed it, and so had I. When I was over at her place last night, we discovered the bugs. There was a little microphone hidden in her den, in her bathroom, and in her bedroom. I didn’t see any in the kitchen and living room, but I could have missed them, I suppose. She was shocked. Someone is listening in on her. She thinks it has to do with this investigation.” He swept a hand over the photos.

Alvarez and Pescoli shared a look; then Pescoli said, “She said she would call us later, after she’d thought it through.”

No wonder they’d called, Trace realized. “The place needs to be swept of those microphones. Either you or me. But as soon as we do that, somebody’s going to know it.”

“You brought up Shelly Bonaventure,” Pescoli said. “She was in L.A.”

“But she’s from around here. Born in Helena. Kacey has a theory that there might be more victims and they all could be related.”

“Related,” Alvarez repeated.

Trace found himself growing impatient. Kicking back his chair, he stood. “I really do have to go. Let Kacey tell you more herself when she calls back.”

“You think she’s off on some wild tangent?” Pescoli asked, and Alvarez’s lips tightened.

“I don’t know about that,” he said truthfully. “But something’s really wrong here, and I’m worried about Kacey.”

“And what about your ex-wife? Are you worried about her?” Alvarez asked.

He made a sound of disgust. “Hell, no. One thing I know about Leanna — she can take care of herself.”

CHAPTER 27

“ O’Halleran’s not our guy,” Pescoli said as she shrugged into her coat and met her partner in the hallway.

“I know.” Alvarez nodded. “It couldn’t be that easy.”

“Never is.”

Together they stepped around a shackled man being shepherded by Trilby Van Droz, one of the road deputies.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say!” the man with stringy hair and half a week’s growth of beard insisted. “I didn’t