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Alvarez raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
“No, I don’t think, but this whole case has taken on a weird, carnival aspect, and that’s not good, not when we’ve got a homicide to solve. Big Foot fever aside, a girl is dead.”
The corridor opened to a waiting area with a wide bank of windows and a few scattered chairs and couches arranged around small tables, with a few potted plants.
Pescoli spied Manny Douglas, who had cornered Alex O’Hara near a potted palm tree. Alex’s hands were stuffed into the front pockets of dusty jeans, and he was obviously looking for a way to get out of a conversation with the reporter.
Pescoli’s mood went from bad to worse.
“. . . you really think it was a Big Foot?” Manny was saying. As usual, he was dressed in khakis and a flannel shirt. “And this was what time again?”
“Excuse us,” Pescoli said, directing her gaze at the reporter. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to talk to Mr. O’Hara for a few minutes.”
Manny pulled a face but didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “And, I’d like to talk to the two of you.” He had a pocket recorder on a short table, the magazines that had been fanned across its top pushed to one side. Also, he’d been taking notes on a small spiral notebook. He offered the detectives that cat-that-ate-the-canary grin Pescoli detested.
“Not now.”
“I just want an update on the Montclaire murder. The victim was pregnant. That’s already been reported.” He paused, taking in Pescoli’s condition. She didn’t comment, nor, thankfully, did he. “So, I know you’ve been taking DNA samples. Do you know who the father of the baby is?”
Almost imperceptibly Alex O’Hara stiffened, his jaw tightening despite the fact that he was struggling to keep his expression neutral.
“Not yet,” Pescoli said, “but we’re getting closer.” She added the last more for Alex’s information than the reporter’s, to see his reaction, and he seemed to blanch a little beneath his olive skin. “We’re comparing DNA of the fetus with some of the suspects.”
“Who are—?” Manny asked, pen poised as he stared at Pescoli as if she’d lost her mind. For years, she’d kept him at arm’s length, refusing to give him any insight or information on the cases she worked, and now, at last, she was offering up information.
“I can’t say,” she said, still watching the older O’Hara brother, “but we’re narrowing the field. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Had Alex O’Hara’s Adam’s apple bobbed a bit? She wondered just how intimately he’d
known Destiny Rose. He’d admitted she was an acquaintance—his friend Donny Justison’s girlfriend—but he’d acted as if they really hadn’t hung out much, or something like that. She’d have to double-check.
“How long before you know?” Manny asked.
“We’re still working on it. Look, we’re done here, Manny. You know the drill. If you want any more information, you, like the rest of the press, will have to go through the regular channels.”
Manny whined, “I’ve got a deadline.”
“Don’t we all?” she said, thinking about how the clock was ticking and they weren’t getting any closer to solving the murder. “Talk to the PIO.”
“The public information officer—the new guy, Drummond? He won’t tell me anything.”
“Not my problem,” she said and had a sudden thought. “Then call the sheriff.”
Let Blackwater handle it. Before Douglas could argue further, she said to Alex O’Hara, “We need to talk to you.” A glance to the reporter. “Alone.”
Manny Douglas held out his hands and backed away, across the expanse of the waiting room, found a chair, sat down, and pretended interest in his cell phone, though Pescoli figured he was trying to overhear the conversation. An elderly couple occupied two other chairs and they, too, had shown interest in the conversation—she, pausing in her knitting; he, not turning a page of the magazine he’d been staring at.
“There’s an alcove on the other side of the elevators,” Alvarez suggested and led the way to a small area with a couple of chairs and a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the parking lot.
“Over here,” Pescoli said, indicating a grouping of chairs around a circular coffee table strewn with dog-eared magazines. As they all took a seat, she said, “Tell us how you ended up at Reservoir Point.”
“I was helping Lara,” he said, obviously nervous, his swagger gone, his confidence shaken. “She lost her phone and thought she left it up there. . . .” He launched into the same story they’d heard from Lara. Point for point, his telling of the events of the night before was consistent with what she’d said, any variation slight enough not to matter. Either he was telling the truth, or they’d worked out and rehearsed their tale well. Had they had enough time? It seemed unlikely.
“You saw the person or thing who attacked her?” Alvarez clarified.
“I just heard it running away. I was yelling and screaming, and it went crashing off through the forest. Like it was scared of me.”
Pescoli said, “So you can show us where this all happened? If we took you up there, to Reservoir Point.”
