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She dropped her phone onto the bed and stared at it as another soft ding alerted her to a new text coming in.
Great.
“Look, I gotta go. There’s stuff for breakfast or lunch in the fridge, yogurt and cheese, bread and I think some tuna. Eggs if you want to make them. And some cocoa mix if your brother didn’t wipe me out.”
Ignoring her cell, Bianca arched a brow and met her mother’s gaze. “What’re the chances of that?”
“Not good.”
“Zero.”
“Probably. Call me if you need anything, okay? And oh, someone from the department will be wanting to talk to you. You know, for your ‘official’ statement.”
“I already talked to you,” Bianca protested.
Pescoli nodded. “I don’t really count this time.”
“Because I’m your kid.”
“You got it.”
“Fine. Doesn’t matter. I’ll tell whoever the same thing.”
“I know. But if you want me around . . . ?”
“I can handle it, Mom,” Bianca said as Regan made her way to the door. Bianca had scooped up her phone again, her thumbs working fluidly over its surface, her head somewhere else.
Pescoli called over her shoulder. “I’ll check in with you later,” and picked her way down the steps, careful to avoid Bianca’s pink Nikes and two dog toys. “Bye!” she yelled to utter silence.
Bianca hadn’t heard or had decided not to reply.
No big surprise there.
CHAPTER 7
Pescoli’s mood hadn’t improved by the time she arrived at the station. She was hot and tired, and the cup of decaf coffee she’d bought at a drive-through kiosk wasn’t doing the job. Today she needed high-octane rocket fuel, which this cup of Mellow Morning was not.
Carrying the paper cup, she walked into the office, where the air-conditioning unit was struggling to keep up with the stifling August heat. The department was teeming with officers, some in uniform, others in street clothes. Conversation buzzed, cell phones beeped, fax and copy machines chugged, and footsteps shuffled down the polished hallways.
As she passed Blackwater’s office, she noted his door was ajar. His voice drifted through the crack as he assured someone “it would be taken care of.” No one was in his office, but Blackwater was holding a cell phone to his ear as he stared out the window. “Yeah, I know. No worries. Everything’s under control.” A small laugh. “Yes, you can quote me on that.”
Yeah, right. Everything was just peachy-keen, wasn’t it? A dead girl found at an underage party with drugs and alcohol and some huge, hairy creature scaring the bejeezus out of kids on top of the usual cases of domestic violence, assault, robbery, and a handful of other miscellaneous crimes in the county. Sure. No worries.
As she continued to her office, hugging the wall as a detective with a suspect in chains clanked past in the opposite direction, Pescoli reminded herself not to be irritated that Blackwater was sitting at Dan Grayson’s desk. It wasn’t as if Grayson were ever coming back. Like it or not, she’d better get used to Cooper Blackwater because she figured he was here to stay.
If he was actually elected sheriff.
So far, no one was opposing him.
“Detective!” Joelle Fisher’s high-pitched voice was punctuated by the click of her ever-present high heels. Hurrying in Pescoli’s direction, Joelle waved a manicured hand. As the receptionist for the Pinewood County Police Department, Joelle always dressed as if she were attending a ladies’ luncheon, circa 1955. Today she wore what Pescoli’s mother would have classified as “an ensemble” in pale yellow. Knit suit, white blouse, yellow heels. The shoes actually had a bit of a platform, a surprising nod to the 2000s, or maybe the 1970s.
Joelle’s hair was short and blond, a shade of platinum closing in on silver, her lips glistening with freshly applied pink gloss.
“Do you have a minute?” Joelle asked as they met at the door of Pescoli’s office. Then, quickly, as if anticipating Pescoli’s negative response, she added, “Look, I know you’re busy, but this will just take a sec.” Without an invitation, she followed the detective inside.
There was just no fighting Joelle when she was on a mission, which, it seemed, she was today.
Pescoli placed her unfinished coffee onto a desk that needed some serious organizing. “What’s up?” She tried and failed to keep the impatience out of her voice. It wasn’t Joelle’s fault Pescoli had been up all night, or that her daughter was embroiled in what in all probability was a homicide.
