Born To Die

steal no goddamned truck, and that was my shotgun. I don’t know how that pipe got into the backseat, but it wasn’t mine! I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to pull here!”

“Keep movin’ it,” Trilby said, her voice world-weary.

“Give me a fuckin’ break, will ya?” the guy wheedled. “It’s the holidays.”

“In here!” She opened a door to one of the interrogation rooms. “Merry Christmas!”

Pescoli smothered a smile, which faded as they passed the reception area, where winking lights were strewn around Joelle’s desk and a fir tree, complete with tinsel, lights, and presents tucked beneath its fragrant boughs, actually spun slowly in one corner. “There’s fruitcake in the lunchroom,” Joelle called as they reached the front door. Today an elf was tucked slyly into the platinum strands of her hair. “My great-great- great-grandmother’s recipe!” She offered them a bright smile just as two teenagers swept inside, a gust of arctic wind swirling behind them, along with a wet smack of snow.

“A maniac tried to run me down!” The girl, in braids and huge glasses, was obviously shaken. “Near the Safeway store. He had to be drunk! He just sprayed snow everywhere!”

“He was drivin’ a green Honda. Sweet lowrider, and he came around the corner too fast and slid all over the place,” her companion, a boy in a frayed stocking cap, said. “Everyone saw it.”

“I was in the damned crosswalk! He just took off!”

“Fishtailing,” the boy said, moving his hand from side to side.

“If Lanny hadn’t pulled me out of the way, I’d be dead now!” the girl cried. She was about to hyperventilate, and Pescoli would have stepped in to help, but Joelle was already pushing a tissue box in the girl’s direction and picking up the phone. She made little scooting motions with her fingers, indicating Pescoli and Alvarez could move along.

“Calm down, honey,” Joelle said with a motherly smile as the girl dissolved into tears. “It’ll be okay. Let me get someone to help you.”

Since the situation was under control, Pescoli pushed the door open, felt the sting of the cold air against her face, and walked outside. Alvarez zipped her jacket a little higher and bent her head against the wind and snow as she took a call on her cell.

“Alvarez,” she said, keeping up with Pescoli’s longer strides and blinking away snowflakes.

Pescoli slid on her gloves, then jabbed her hands deep into the pockets of her coat as they walked the three blocks to a small deli to grab sandwiches.

Only a few pedestrians had braved the weather, and traffic was moving slowly along, the chink, chink, chink of chains a different kind of holiday music.

“Okay. Yeah. E-mail would be fine. Thanks!” Alvarez hung up and slid Pescoli a glance. “Shelly Bonaventure’s DNA report. Hayes managed to pull some strings and get it rushed. He’s sending it over.”

“If it means anything.”

“We’ll find out.”

They needed a break, Pescoli thought as they crossed the parking lot of the strip mall where the deli was located. None of the evidence in this case was hanging together. “You think that there’s anything to the talk of Acacia Lambert’s place being bugged?” Pescoli asked.

“Must be something,” Alvarez said.

“I don’t get it. I’m going to have to grab this and go check on the kids.”

“I’m going to work on finding the ex — Mrs. O’Halleran. See what she has to say.”

“Okay. It’ll be interesting to hear why she dumped her kid with O’Halleran and took off, if she really did. So far all we’ve got for it is his word.” She shouldered open the door of the small deli. Warm air and the smells of spices and roasted meat hit Pescoli full force. Her stomach growled as she and Alvarez took their place in line to order their takeout.

It took a while as the older couple ahead of them were in no hurry. The man had trouble hearing; the woman was very concerned about her allergies as they finally settled on a tuna melt and ham on rye. But that wasn’t the end of it. To complicate matters, they had their grandson, a kid of about fourteen who wasn’t in school but was definitely plugged into his music, as he either texted or played a game on his cell phone. For him to grudgingly order a turkey sandwich—“ no tomatoes, no lettuce, no onions, but an extra bag of chips”—and convey that message to his grandmother as he fiddled with his phone and listened to music was excruciating.

Eventually, as customers stacked up behind Alvarez, the patient woman behind the counter got the older couple and their grandson what they wanted, then rang them up. Finally, Pescoli was able to place her order. A chickenspinach salad for Alvarez and some kind of healthy bottled tea, while Pescoli had a Reuben with extra sauerkraut and a diet cola. They carried lunch back to the station, where they parted ways, Pescoli heading out, while Alvarez ate at her desk, checking her e-mail. The DNA report from Jonas Hayes popped up, so she sent it on to the lab.

An hour later Pescoli returned, and she signaled Alvarez to join her in the lunchroom, where, true to her word, Joelle’s fruitcake stood proudly on a cake stand. About half of it was missing, a few slices had already been cut, and the rest, complete with candied pineapple rings and bright red cherries, was ready to be hacked to pieces and devoured. Crumbs littered the table, where napkins decorated with smiling Santas had been placed.

“So, how was it?” Alvarez asked as Pescoli unwrapped half her sandwich.

“Bianca was sleeping. No Chris Schultz so far, thank God for small favors. Jeremy was playing video games and wanted half of my sandwich.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“Not on your life. I ate half there, brought this back. I made a grilled cheese for Bianca and showed him how he could make one for himself. He’ll probably eat hers, but at least she’ll tell me. I gotta do something about that kid.”

Pescoli bit into the Reuben and ignored not only great-great- great-grannie’s cake but also the Christmas decorations and the big sign that Joelle had pinned on the bulletin board. The sign was Joelle’s way of reminding everyone of their Secret Santas and the party she had planned for the week before Christmas. Plenty of time to figure out what special little gift to buy the undersheriff.

Thank God the limit was ten bucks.

Still too much in Pescoli’s opinion.

“DNA report come in?” she asked.

“It’s at the lab. So, we’ll see. Compare it to Jocelyn Wallis’s. I’ve already told them to put a rush on it.”

“And did they tell you to shove it?” Pescoli asked. “They’re pretty busy.”

“They’ll do what they can.”

“You think the doctor’s a potential target?” Pescoli had trouble wrapping her mind around that. “Just because she looks like the others and claims to have been bugged doesn’t connect her.”

“Except for O’Halleran.”

“Back to him.” Pescoli chewed thoughtfully. Some serial killers were known to go after a type. Time and time again, that had proven true. Ted Bundy was a classic case in point. But it was a big leap to think that a killer was after a victim with a certain DNA profile. It was one thing for a wack job to be attracted to long hair or blue eyes or whatever, quite another for him to be looking for women with DNA patterns or common ancestors.

How would a person even go about that? Geez, it was hard enough for the department, with access to a crime lab, to get a DNA profile.

If the DNA was important, then it only made sense that the common ancestry was the key.

“Whether the victims are linked through DNA or an ancestor or whatever, I wonder if we should talk to Grayson about going public.”

Alvarez tried to show no emotion at the mention of their boss. How could she? Like it or not, they worked for the guy, but something wasn’t right there. “I think we should,” she said now. “Talk to Grayson.”

“But it’s iffy,” Pescoli said. So far all they really knew was that someone had been trying to poison Jocelyn Wallis. The other potential victims were an actress in Southern California and a woman whose minivan had slid off the road with a little help, probably by a hit-and-run driver. Nothing concrete to tie the crimes to one killer. Maybe they were getting ahead of themselves. They couldn’t even prove that they had a serial killer in their midst, hadn’t alerted the FBI.

Alvarez eyed the cake and, as if she’d read Pescoli’s mind, said, “I’m checking with other departments, not