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“Taj might have something,” Alvarez said. “Possible ID on our Jane Doe.”
“About damn time.” Pescoli tossed the wrapper into the trash can near her desk and was out of her chair in one swift motion. They needed a break on this one.
In the missing persons department, Taj Nyak was waiting for them. She stood on the other side of a long counter covered in some kind of wood veneer that was popular in the 1970s. An exotic looking African-American woman with features that hinted at some Asian ancestry in her genealogical mix, she flashed them a quick smile. “That was quick.”
Alvarez asked, “What’ve you got?”
Taj turned her computer screen around so that they could see the image thereon, a clear picture of a female who appeared identical to the woman they’d seen in the morgue the day before, the woman found on the creek at the O’Halleran ranch.
“Ladies,” Taj said, “meet Sheree Cantnor.”
I know how to handle death, Alvarez thought as she sat in the interrogation room.
Dealing with those who had died was all a part of her job. She made her living trying to find justice for the dead. Death was business as usual except in the case of those near to her. Dan Grayson’s death had leveled her, made her question her decision to be a cop, caused her to lose sleep at night. There were no platitudes nor soft words of encouragement that would assuage the pain she felt when she thought of the sheriff and how cruelly and needlessly he’d died. She’d toyed with quitting or transferring to another department, but she’d made this part of Montana her home, had a biological son with whom she’d recently been reunited, and had finally found a steady partner in Dylan O’Keefe, a man who had been in and out of her life for years.
He was back, and she felt centered for the first time in memory. Though the hole in her heart was painful, she had decided she would heal, given enough time and enough work. She worked as a cop because she loved it, and as she eyed the man seated in the interrogation room, she remembered why.
Heat flowed through the air duct overhead, whispering into the room little more than a cubicle. It was warm. Stuffy. A camera mounted in a ceiling corner recorded her conversation with Douglas Pollard, the man who had reported Sheree Cantnor missing. Slouched in the molded plastic chair on the other side of the table, he was sweating, dark circles evident beneath his sleeves, dots of perspiration dotting his high forehead.
Was he sweating from the heat?
Or a case of nerves?
Probably a little of both.
Though he had reported Sheree Cantnor missing, it wasn’t inconceivable that he had killed her. Most violent crimes were committed by someone close, a “loved” one, and so Alvarez handled him carefully
and wasn’t going to take his story or his alibi at face value. It happened often enough that the person who murdered the victim, after he or she had come up with a solid alibi, was the one who also reported that their loved one hadn’t come home. It was a tactic to throw off the police and to show innocence, but most of the time, it didn’t work.
“So you and Sheree Cantnor were engaged?” Alvarez was seated at a table across from the distraught man. He was tall with a soft look about him, twenty-six years old with reddish-blond hair that was already starting to recede despite his efforts to comb it forward. His jaw was unshaven, at least for the past few days, and his eyes were a sad brown that matched his uniform. He drove a truck for a local delivery company.
“Are engaged. We are engaged.” He frowned. “Do you know something?”
No reason to beat around the bush. “You probably heard that we found a body,” Alvarez said quietly, then pushed a folder across the table.
He eyed it skeptically, not touching it, as if he expected something to jump out at him.
“We’d like you to tell us if you recognize the woman in the picture.”
Biting his lip, he reached forward to flip the folder open. Two pictures of the woman in the morgue were visible. One of her face, the second of the daisy tattoo on her ankle. Pollard’s color drained and his chin wobbled. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head and pushed the folder away. “No . . . no.”
Alvarez suspected his denial was that she was gone, not her identity, so she asked gently, “Is this your fiancée, Mr. Pollard?”
“Yes,” he choked out. “It can’t be true.” He shuddered and when he opened his eyes, they glistened with tears. “Who did this? Huh? Who the fuck did this?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“We?” he repeated.
“My partner, me. Everyone in the department.”
He glanced nervously at the mirror, behind which, everyone knew, was a darkened viewing room where Pescoli, the DA, and Blackwater were standing. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with when was the last time you saw Sheree?”
“Two days ago. In the morning. Before work.” He closed his eyes and screwed up his face. “We fought.”
Alvarez’s ears perked up. “What about?”
