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It was all Pescoli could do to hold her tongue.
“I’m not going to tell her anything about the case,” Blackwater assured the detectives as he pushed his chair back and stood. “I just want to assure her that we’re not holding anything back and, as I said, see if the press can help us.” With one eye on the mirror, he reached for his jacket. “Keep me up to the minute, Detectives,” he ordered and waited as they walked out of his office.
Pescoli seethed.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Alvarez whispered. “Don’t. It won’t end well.”
“No?” Pescoli threw back. “You know me. Here I was believing in happy endings.”
Something was wrong.
Ryder sensed it the minute he stepped inside the cabin again. It was too quiet. Too damn quiet. “Hey!” he called, crossing the living room. “It’s been five minutes.”
Still nothing. “Anne-Marie?”
No response, just the soft thunk of one of the blackened logs in the fireplace splitting, causing a few sparks to rise and the reddish embers to glow bright. He told himself to relax, that he was starting to jump at shadows. Hadn’t he conjured up someone lurking through the veil of snow around the cabin a few minutes ago? Being cooped up, listening to her lies . . . hell, believing them . . . was making him edgy. “Anne?” he yelled again. “Let’s go!”
Nothing.
Not one damn sound.
In a heartbeat, he knew what had happened. “Shit!”
Somehow, though he’d watched the interior during his phone call, even checked the grounds near the little cottage, she’d managed to escape, either by lucking out and running to the back door while he was surveying the snowy landscape near the side of the house, or somehow she’d crawled through that tiny window in the bathroom and dropped outside, hiding her tracks.
He flashed on the shadow he’d witnessed.
Crap! It had been her. Of course!
Damn it all to hell, I’ve been an idiot, he thought, crossing the small space.
He’d been careless, believing the stupid window was too damn small. But without all the extra padding, Anne-Marie was a slim, athletic woman. And she had a purpose. Hadn’t she told him over and over that she wouldn’t go back, that she’d rather die than . . .
Jaw clenched, he flung the cracked door open wide. “Anne—Oh, God!”
His voice died in his throat as he looked into the small interior. There, crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath her on the dirty old linoleum, she lay.
A pair of long-bladed shears, the kind used by hairdressers, were still clutched in her right hand. Despite her wrists being handcuffed, she’d been able to open the blades and slash at her wrists. Jagged red scratches, blood still oozing, ran lengthwise down the inside of her forearms.
Her eyes were closed.
And she seemed peaceful.
As if she’d accepted death all too willingly.
Pescoli and Alvarez stared at the images Zoller brought up on the computer screen. She had copies of the security tapes from the motel. They’d been on their way to the diner when the junior detective had asked them to step into her cubicle.
“I thought you’d want to see this,” Zoller said. “I had the lab send me a digital copy.”
“They’ve already done that?” Alvarez asked.
“I told them it was a rush. I, uh, I might have invoked Sheriff Blackwater’s name.”
“Better than God’s,” Pescoli observed, then shut up as Alvarez sent her another sharp look. Her partner was right. If she wanted to keep her job, she needed to keep the peace. You attract more flies with honey than vinegar. Wasn’t that the old saying? Well, it sucks, she thought.
“So here it is.” Zoller freeze-framed the tape. “This is Bryan Smith as he checked in.”
Pescoli recognized the registration desk, the same brochures on the stand nearby, the coffeepot, and old couch. Carla, the heavyset manager of the River View Motel, was standing on the business side of the counter, her gold tooth catching the light. A tall man stood on the other side, leaning over to fill out the card. He was handsome, fit, with dark hair and the very visage of Dr. Bruce Effin’ Calderone.
