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Alex met her gaze. Was there a challenge in his eyes? “Sure,” he said, and whatever confidence he’d lost earlier had returned.
“Then let’s go.” Pescoli was already on her feet and heading out the door.
They drove to Reservoir Point in separate vehicles. Pescoli was the first to arrive, with Alex O’Hara in a truck right behind her and Alvarez in her Subaru bringing up the rear. She didn’t doubt for a second that Manny Douglas would be on their heels.
When they arrived, she found they weren’t alone. Beyond a barricade of cones and temporary fencing, the first members of the production crew were on the scene, already cradling paper cups of coffee, smoking cigarettes, talking and stringing electrical wires.
“This is off limits.” A petite, athletic woman who was bristling with authority approached and introduced herself as Melanie Kline. She acted as if she wanted to kick them off the site, until Pescoli introduced herself and Alvarez, then produced their badges.
“Pescoli?” Mel repeated, as she made the connection. “Bianca’s mother. The cop.” She glanced over at Alvarez, sizing her up. Probably wondering how she could fit a pretty Hispanic woman into the cast. To Pescoli, she said, “What happened?”
“Another girl was attacked up here. Lara Haas.”
“What? Attacked? By who? No.” She looked stricken as she shook her head. “Is she okay?”
“Will be. She’s still in the hospital. We’re not certain who was behind it.” She shot a look to Alex, silently reminding him to keep his thoughts to himself. No need to stir up the rogue Big Foot theory any more than it already was. Yet.
“For the love of God.”
A crow flew overhead, flapping into the branches of a tall pine, cawing loudly. Mel didn’t seem to notice. For a second, she was lost in thought. Then, after drawing in a long breath, she said, “Wow. When did this happen?”
“Early this morning.”
“Up here?”
“According to her. And Mr. O’Hara here.” Mel’s gaze finally fell on Alex. She scraped a hand through her hair and bit her lip. “Alex, yes, we’ve met. You’re in the group scenes and Lara, oh my God.” She took in a long breath. “She’s part of the cast. Jesus, and we were here late.”
“It was after production had shut down for the night.” Alvarez, too, glanced at Alex, who was nodding his agreement just as a cell phone chirped, and Mel reached deep into the pocket of her cargo pants, removed the phone, glanced at the screen, pushed a button, and dropped it again. Several members of the crew had stopped their work and conversations to drift closer.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Alvarez said as more vehicles arrived, one with Manny Douglas at the wheel.
“I can’t have you messing up our equipment or our sets,” Mel said, very serious, once again the woman in charge. “We’ll help of course, accommodate you, but this is very expensive equipment and we’re on a tight schedule. There’s already trouble on another project, and Mr. Sphinx is planning to leave for Oregon again, later this afternoon, maybe tonight.”
The show about ghosts in Darby Gulch. Another intellectual masterpiece.
Mel paused. Shook her head. “Another attack. Wow.” Then, back in the moment, “We’re already setting up for tonight. We’re filming again. Try not to disturb anything. Seriously. Barclay—Mr. Sphinx, he won’t be happy.”
Not my problem, Pescoli thought and didn’t believe it anyway. Sphinx seemed like a publicity hound to her and was always looking for some way to get attention and promote his project, so she’d bet he’d turn Lara’s misfortune into his own advantage. Hadn’t he done just that with Destiny Montclaire’s death? “This is public property,” she said, stepping in. “And a continuing homicide investigation. We have the authority to be here, as my partner said, and we should be done quickly.” To Alex, she added, “Try to avoid the equipment and set—unless the attack occurred there—and show us where the attack happened.”
The conversation was over. She was already striding past two guys in watch caps sipping coffee and Mel, who was extracting her mobile phone from her pocket again, no doubt contacting Sphinx.
Fine. Bring it on.
Alex took the lead, striding up the trail where shafts of morning sunlight filtered through the branches overhead to dapple the ground. Alvarez was close behind. Pescoli fought and failed to keep up. She wasn’t one of those pregnant women who ran miles, or did yoga or any kind of weight training or aerobics. She’d taken care of herself except for gaining a few extra pounds, but now her lack of exercise regimen and approaching due date were catching up with her. The only good news was that, as she lagged behind, she heard bossy little Mel give Manny Douglas his marching orders off the site. Hearing the reporter smarmily discharged was satisfying, and brought a smile to her face.
Breathing hard, she trekked up part of the dusty trail that curved around the banks of the creek. The water was a small trickle at this point, cutting through the thickets of pine, hemlock, and aspen, sunlight dappling the ripples that twisted into shadow again. It was still early, not quite eight o’clock, and already she thought the day would be a scorcher, the August sun unforgiving.
She felt a twinge deep inside. Cursing the damned Braxton Hicks contractions, she paused to catch her breath and noted that there were hundreds of footprints in the dust of the path. Even the dry weeds and low-lying brush that flanked the trail had been trampled by dozens of boot
s, sneakers, flip-flops, sandals, whatever. But she didn’t see any huge, bare footprints, large enough to cause her to think that a Sasquatch had wandered past.
She moved along and caught up with Alvarez and Alex O’Hara at a spot where the trail was split, each side cutting around an old snag from a tree that had fallen long ago.
“It was about here,” he was saying. “I saw her phone, just there.” He pointed at a bleached, exposed root from the long-dead stump. “I handed it to her and then, while she was turning it on, I decided to take a piss, but I didn’t want to do it in front of her, even in the dark, so I went up the hill, over here. . . .” He hiked up around a copse of pines and disappeared behind it. They followed.
“And?” Pescoli said.
“Well, then I was kinda, y’know, midstream when I heard her scream.”
