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“Still hurts. Bad.”
“Probably will for a while.”
“Great.”
“How about the rest of you?”
“My lip hurts, too and my shoulder—” She glanced in the mirror, where she saw a bruise forming under the strap of her T-shirt. “It’s turning black and blue. And green.”
“I was talking about your emotions. How’re you feeling? Detective Alvarez needs to talk to you and so we’ll be home in . . . probably about forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.”
“I know. She called.” She glanced at the television again. A video of Reservoir Point rimmed in trees, the reporter walking up the path that bordered the creek where Destiny’s body had been caught in the roots of a tree.
“I’ll be here,” she said and clicked off the television.
* * *
Pescoli hung up from Bianca and tried to tell herself that her daughter’s conversation with Alvarez was no big deal, that it happened all of the time, but she couldn’t convince herself. The fact that her daughter’s name was in the slightest way linked to the homicide investigation was unsettling.
Bianca wasn’t under suspicion of anything, of course, but still . . . it was hard being on the other side of the interrogation table.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the scone on the way to work and a candy bar later in the day weren’t enough to sustain her and the baby that was due to arrive in the next three weeks. Scrounging in her bag, she located a protein bar deep in the bottom of her purse, then made a trip to the lunchroom, where she found a jar of instant decaffeinated coffee crystals that made the low-octane cup she’d grabbed at The Buzz seem like rocket fuel.
Back at her desk, she’d no more than unwrapped the oat and peanut butter bar when her phone rang. She answered only to discover Manny Douglas on the other end of the connection.
Her already bad day took a decided turn for the worse.
The reporter was always looking for a big scoop, and she wasn’t in the mood today. Nor was she any day for that matter. She didn’t have a lot of use for the press and certainly not for Manny Douglas. He was a weasel of a man, a reporter who slanted everything he wrote while looking like a model for L.L. Bean or Orvis with his ever-present khakis, flannel shirts, and down vests.
After identifying himself, he got right down to brass tacks. “I’m working on a piece for the Reporter about the body found up near Reservoir Point this morning. A young girl, in her teens, who has been identified as Destiny Rose Montclaire. Can you confirm?”
“I’m sure the sheriff will hold a press conference about it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cause of death?”
“Unknown.”
“But there’s going to be an autopsy, yes?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“And then you’ll know cause of death and whether or not this is a homicide.”
“You know how it works. Again, the sheriff, or maybe the PIO, will speak to the press.” Currently there was no public information officer—the last one had quit earlier in the year—but Pescoli wasn’t about to elaborate.
Ignoring her dodge, he plowed on, “There was a teen party up at the reservoir last night. Drinking, drugs.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
“And your daughter, Bianca, she was up there?”
Pescoli’s irritation catapulted to anger. “No comment,” she said tightly. Bianca was a minor, and her name would be kept out of the papers. At least for now.
“Rumor has it she thinks she was chased by a Big Foot.”
