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his last, weak breath. “So if our Jane Doe’s a homicide victim, why do you think it was personal?”
“The ring finger. That makes a statement.”
“Could be we have a nutcase who collects fingers,” Pescoli said.
“And possibly rings? Wedding rings? Engagement rings? What’s the significance there?” Alvarez was thinking hard, absently rubbing her chin between her finger and thumb.
“Maybe just the handiest finger.”
Alvarez splayed the fingers of her left hand in front of her. “Nope. One of the hardest to lop off. It’s significant.”
“So we’ve got ourselves another psycho. You know, we’ve been getting more than our share.”
“Uh-huh.” She was still staring at her hand and seemed lost in thought. “And why the creek? Was she taken there? Drowned?” Her lips compressed as Pescoli slowed for a light. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this one.”
Pescoli actually laughed. “Like Grace Perchant?”
Alvarez shot her a pissy look.
Grace was one of the local nut jobs. She swore she held conversations with ghosts, could commune with spirits from the other side of life, poor trapped souls who hadn’t completely passed. She also owned a couple wolf hybrids and had come into town with them in tow to warn some of the citizens about their murky futures. It was a little unsettling.
“More like you and your gut instincts.”
The light changed and Pescoli held herself back from pointing out that Alvarez had always dismissed her sometimes unscientific approach to a case. “Here we go,” she said, spying a coffee kiosk, then making a quick turn to pull behind a dirty red Jetta that was just pulling out. As she found her wallet, she asked Alvarez, “Want anything?”
“Sure. Tea. Hot. Some morning blend. Whatever they have.”
“Got it.” Pescoli turned to face the girl who was standing within the kiosk, waiting. Quickly rolling down her window, Pescoli repeated Alvarez’s request and added a decaf latte for herself.
As the barista turned away, Alvarez asked, “What happened to black coffee?”
“I’m hungry this morning. Thought a latte would take care of it.”
“A decaf latte,” Alvarez reminded her. “Aren’t you the same woman who drinks yesterday’s Diet Coke when you find it in your Jeep’s cup holder and orders double or triple espresso shots if your morning gears aren’t revved?”
“Sometimes.”
“All times. ‘Coffee and a cigarette—a working woman’s breakfast,’ to quote you not so long ago.”
“A loooong time ago,” Pescoli disagreed as cash and cups were exchanged. “I’m jazzed enough today, okay?” She handed Alvarez her cup and placed her latte into the drink holder of the console.
Alvarez took an experimental sip. “Just wondered if you were feeling okay. Or coming down with something, considering that you lost your lunch.”
“Weird that, huh? Guess all the changes in the department have gotten to me.” Pescoli cringed inwardly, uncomfortable using Grayson’s death as an excuse. But it was true enough, and she wasn’t willing to admit to Alvarez just yet that she was pregnant. First, she told herself, I have to give Santana the news. She owed him that much. Then, when she felt the time was right, she’d explain it all to her partner.
But not now.
Though the snow was still coming down, it seemed lighter, the windshield wipers keeping up with the flakes. The interior of the Jeep smelled of coffee, the police band crackled.
“The department’s never going to be the same,” Pescoli observed, keeping emotion out of her voice with an effort as they drove past snow-crusted fields. “I mean, without Grayson.”
Alvarez sighed, frowning into her cup as she obviously struggled with a wave of grief. Then, as if she’d convinced herself that she had to face the inevitable, she took a deep breath and said, “We’ll all just have to adjust. It’ll be difficult, but that’s the way it is.”
“It sucks.”
“Amen.”
Pescoli drove onto a curving bridge, a semi heading in the opposite direction. “I was thinking about cutting back on my hours anyway and since we’ve got Grayson’s killer in custody, I’ll probably put in a request. See what happens.”
