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“Yeah.” That was a lie.
“I’m coming over.”
“No. Don’t. Look, Santana, uh, I need to deal with the kids first.” He hesitated and she sensed he thought she was shutting him out. “Seriously. I’m fine. The kids will be, too, but we have to deal.”
Again silence.
“I need you to understand,” she said.
“Okay. But, I’m here.”
“I know. I . . . thank you.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’ll call. It’s crazy at the station. Weird. I . . . just give me a little space to sort this all out.”
“I always do,” he said and she squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t shed a tear.
She hung up quickly. Afraid he might tell her he loved her and want to talk about their upcoming wedding. She just felt too raw and uncertain. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. She did. Totally. But it was hard for her to be vulnerable, and uttering those three little words could break the dam of her emotions. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as if he could hear her and was so glad he couldn’t.
Jeremy called from the living room, “Hey, Mom. Maybe you wanna see this.”
Still holding the menu, she walked from the kitchen and saw Hooper Blackwater’s image on the screen. In full uniform, standing ramrod straight in front of the half-masted flags that were snapping in the wind, snow blowing around him, he was a somber and solid officer of the law. Looking directly into the camera’s lens, he vowed to prosecute Dan Grayson’s killer to the maximum extent of the law.
“This is what I was talking about,” she said, glaring at the screen. “It’s called grandstanding.” She slid a look at her son. “And for the record? I don’t like it.”
Chapter 7
Talk about doom and gloom. The sheriff’s office couldn’t have been more somber if it were draped in black and a funeral dirge was playing throughout the hallways. Everyone was grim, feeling Grayson’s loss, going about their business in whispered tones, not smiling, just getting through the day. Joelle had toned it down to a long charcoal-colored dress with a lighter gray sweater. Though she still wore three-inch heels, their clip was decidedly less sharp as she made her way down the hallway. Now that he’d spoken to the press and made his position clear, Blackwater had even holed himself into his office.
Pescoli hated the department’s vibe as well as the empty feeling that had stayed with her throughout the night and followed after her like a shadow. She tried burying herself in work, but found herself distracted.
When Alvarez stuck her head into the office, Pescoli looked up, rolled back her chair, and said, “Come on, let’s go,” before her partner could utter a word. “I’ll drive.” She yanked her keys from her purse.
“Where?”
“To the morgue.” Pescoli was already standing and reaching for her jacket and sidearm. “I can’t stand this place another second.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe the ME can tell us about our Jane Doe. Any luck IDing her yet?”
Alvarez stepped out of the doorway to let Pescoli pass. “I talked to Taj in Missing Persons and so far no reports of anyone resembling our victim have been filed.”
Pescoli’s bad mood didn’t get any better. As she waited for Alvarez to grab her own jacket, scarf, and gloves, she wondered about the woman found in the frozen creek. Though it wasn’t conclusive that foul play had occurred, it seemed likely.
Once Alvarez slipped her cell phone into her pocket, they were on the move again, working their way to the back door, skirting a few solemn-faced officers walking in the other direction.
“It’s personal,” Alvarez said as she pushed open the door to the outside and a gust of frigid air swept inside. “If our vic was killed, I mean.”
Squinting against the snow flurries, Pescoli shot a look at her partner. “I’m betting a year’s salary that she didn’t slice off her own finger, find a way to the O’Halleran ranch, and fling herself into the creek to commit suicide.” They reached the Jeep just as Pescoli hit the button twice to unlock all the doors. Across the snow-covered roof, she added, “That’s not how it’s usually done. And an accident? With a recently lopped off finger?” She opened the driver’s door and got behind the wheel.
“I’m just saying all the evidence isn’t in yet.”
“Sometimes evidence only proves what you already know.” Pescoli started out of the lot, but waited for a snowplow to pass. Moving slowly, it piled a berm of snow and clods to the side of the road, impeding the driveways of the surrounding businesses but freeing up the street.
Rather than follow the slow-moving plow, she turned in the wrong direction for a few blocks, then circled back and headed for the main road leading to Missoula, and the basement of the very hospital where Dan Grayson had drawn
