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Zed Grayson had been certain he’d spied Anne-Marie Calderone in her job as a waitress at the diner, though the one time Cade had seen her had been at his home when she had come to visit him, desperate, it appeared. He’d suggested she turn herself in and tell her story to the police. So far, she hadn’t taken his advice. Pescoli only hoped that Anne-Marie hadn’t run again. That woman had about half a million questions to answer, though Pescoli still wasn’t convinced she was a killer, fingerprint or no.
During the interview, Alvarez had pulled up the most recent photos of Troy Ryder and Bruce Calderone, sent to her by Montoya in New Orleans. She showed Zed and Cade several shots of the men in question. Besides his Texas driver’s license photo, there was another picture of Troy Ryder from his rodeo days. As for Calderone, his driver’s license photo issued by the state of Louisiana was tucked between two posed shots, one in a business suit, the other of the man in a lab coat, a stethoscope visible in his pocket. Both men were good-looking and about the same height and weight if the information on their licenses was to be believed. Troy Ryder was a little more rough and tumble looking, an outdoorsy type with tanned skin, light brown h
air, and a cocksure grin. Dr. Bruce Calderone, dark hair combed neatly, chin lifted in authority, smile forced, did appear more polished and sophisticated, at least according to the shots, but that was how the photographer had staged the pictures, how the man wanted to be portrayed.
The Grayson brothers hadn’t recognized either of the two men who had said “I do” to Anne-Marie.
“Let’s go.” Alvarez was sliding her iPad into its case. “Maybe one of Anne-Marie’s coworkers has gotten close to her and knows where we can find her.”
Keys in hand, Pescoli said, “Don’t count on it.” She was already at the door to the hallway when the other door of the conference room, the one leading directly to the sheriff’s office, opened.
Blackwater took one step into the conference room. “Detectives,” he said, motioning them into his office. “We need to talk. I want you to bring me up to speed, but before you brief me on what you’ve learned, I think you should know that Anne-Marie Calderone is in Grizzly Falls.”
Alvarez gave a swift nod. “We just heard.”
“From Cade Grayson?” Blackwater’s eyes narrowed.
“Zed thinks he saw her at the Midway Diner, and she showed up at the ranch to visit Cade,” Pescoli said. “Neither of them has any idea where she lives, but Zed said she’s driving an older model Chevy Tahoe. Silver or gray or light blue, he thought. Colorado plates. Neither brother got the number.”
“They still involved? She and Cade?” Blackwater asked. “Or . . . Zed?”
“They both say not.” Pescoli shook her head.
“Come into the office and brief me. I know about the Midway Diner. Already talked to the owner.” He stepped out of the doorway and they filed in.
Waving them into chairs, he said, “She’s e-mailing me information about Jessica Williams—the alias Anne-Marie Calderone is using—her employment application, tax info, and cell number. I asked Zoller to get in touch with the cell phone company who issued the phone, but of course, it’s one of those pre-paid things that requires little or no info.” His dark eyes sparked and Pescoli recognized the look—a cop hot on the trail of a suspect. “Still, we don’t have a physical address for her. Yet. She did pick up mail at a local postal annex, you know, where the box is the ‘suite’ number?” He made air quotes and added, “I’ve already sent deputies over there checking her application.”
“You’re taking over the case now?” Pescoli asked, trying and failing to mask her irritation. He was the boss, yeah, but this was their case and she was a little bristly about it . . . well, about most things these days.
“No. No way.” He held up a hand, fingers splayed. “It’s all yours. All yours.” He glanced from one detective to the other. “But we’re a team here, all work together, and so I want you to report to me. I wanted to get some answers pronto and I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting with the Graysons. Time is crucial on this one; I thought it best if we get moving. Anne-Marie Calderone has a history of slipping away.”
Bugged, Pescoli, for once, didn’t argue. “Okay. Anything else? How did you find her?”
“Computer enhancement of her driver’s license photo.” He actually smiled a bit. “I had Zoller tweak it because I was certain I recognized her. It’s amazing what Photoshop can do.”
So he thought he’d broken the case wide open on his own. Pescoli got it. No doubt that bit of information would be leaked to the press.
“Okay, so now,” he encouraged, “tell me what you learned from the brothers Grayson.”
Pescoli took a back seat while Alvarez summarized their morning. “We think Troy Ryder is a party of interest in this case, as well, though we don’t know how he’s currently involved with Calderone or the homicides.” With that as a lead-in, she launched into what they’d discovered about Ryder, the unknown person of interest in room twenty-five of the River View, and Cade Grayson’s admission of actually talking to Anne-Marie Calderone, including her fear of her husband.
Blackwater listened thoughtfully.
Beneath some of his bravado, his eagerness to have things his way, Pescoli saw a glimmer of the lawman who had worked his way through the ranks, a good cop who had inherited Grayson’s position through ambition and hard work.
She still didn’t like him; didn’t care for his style, but she grudgingly accepted that he might not be as bad as he initially seemed. He preened too much to the cameras for her taste, and she wasn’t completely convinced his motives were what they should be, but maybe she could work with him.
At least for a while.
Possibly even the length of her pregnancy.
Alvarez was talking about the possibility of Bruce Calderone having landed in Grizzly Falls.
Blackwater was listening, just not convinced. He picked up a pencil from the holder on his too tidy desk. “But he’s not with his wife.”
“Not according to Grayson. He thinks she’s running scared.”
Blackwater asked the same damn question that had been plaguing Pescoli, “So where is he?”
