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He didn’t say anything, but his eyes told her how far she’d stepped over the line.
“Sorry,” she said shortly, shutting the refrigerator door. “I don’t mean to be such a bitch, but damn it, all this Big Foot reality show crap is bugging the hell out of me. The production crew is here, there’s talk of ‘Big Foot Daze,’ and the town’s buzzing like an angry wasp. Tourists rolling in. Gawkers. People drawn to the spectacle. And the first scene that they’re shooting for Sphinx’s reality series? They’re filming right after the candlelight vigil Friday night! Can you believe that? It’s all crazy-making, that’s what it is, but yeah, as you pointed out, I’ve got a murder investigation to handle.”
His gaze dropped pointedly to her stomach.
“I know, the baby. I’m sorry.” She picked up his hand, drew it to her, and held it close over her protruding belly. “I can’t wait for him to get here and to be done with this ‘high risk’ pregnancy, all because I’m pushing forty.” That pissed her off, too. Along with a myriad of other things.
/> “Him?”
“Or her? Whatever he/she is.” Pescoli leaned into him. “It’s just that the timing isn’t great.”
“When is it ever?”
He pulled her in close and she closed her eyes and drank in the smell of him. Even when she was at her worst, he managed to still love her. It was humbling, and she vowed to stop being such a bitch.
“It’ll be over soon.”
No, no, it wouldn’t. Yeah, she wouldn’t be pregnant any longer, but the journey of raising a child would just be beginning. Santana didn’t really understand it, not deep in his gut like she did in hers. He’d never had a child before and had come into her life when her kids were in high school. But he’d learn.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he kissed her forehead and said, “It’ll be fun. An adventure.”
She’d managed to choke out a laugh, and he’d reached around her, flipped open the box, and found a piece of cold pepperoni.
“I know. ’Course I know, Santana. I’m only afraid he . . . or she . . . will be as bad-ass as you are and then what the hell are we gonna do?”
She still didn’t know.
Now, as Michelle hurried to Lucky’s side, standing on her tiptoes and giving him a light kiss on the cheek, Pescoli turned her attention back to the rest of the throng, those mourners who had come to listen to Tophman go on and on. She noticed Lara Haas, edging through the crowd to talk to Emmett Tufts and his brother, Preston. Marjory, slipping away from her husband’s protective grip for a second, said a word or two to Lara and the Tufts brothers, her stepsons.
Preston, a few years older than Emmett, spoke to both girls while Emmett, who had two or three inches and twenty or thirty pounds on his older brother, kept looking over his shoulder at his father, who came up, caught his wife’s hand, and gave it a tight squeeze.
A little tension there.
She realized both Preston and Emmett kept sneaking glances at Marjory, as well as Terri and Billie. The whole scene hit Pescoli the wrong way—like they were all guilty of some collusion—but she told herself she was being overly suspicious. Not everyone in this crowd was involved in murder or abduction.
Catching movement in the parking lot, she saw Fred Nesmith pull up in a Chevy Silverado. Edie, the authoritarian cashier at the meeting, and two men with flowing gray beards climbed out of the king cab, their boots crunching on the gravel as they alighted. Nesmith reached into his pocket. The pickup’s headlights blinked and it gave a sharp beep as it locked.
Within seconds, a black Lexus rolled into the lot, Barclay Sphinx at the wheel, Jeffe in the passenger seat. They parked and caught up to the others; then the entire entourage of members from the club joined the congregation.
Pescoli noticed that Barclay moved through the crowd to settle in next to the Montclaires. Destiny’s father nodded to the producer while the minister, if he noticed any commotion, didn’t so much as stumble over a word. In his smooth tone, Reverend Tophman continued to preach to the people who’d come to pay their respects.
There appeared to be some kind of silent conversation going on between Glenn Montclaire and Barclay Sphinx. She raised an eyebrow at Alvarez, who had caught the producer’s arrival as well.
“He’s already set up a reward, ten grand for help in finding and convicting Destiny’s killer,” Alvarez whispered. “I just got a text from Blackwater. It happened late this afternoon. Sphinx called the Montclaires, then set it up through the mayor, who gave the word to Blackwater. He wasn’t happy that Sphinx hadn’t come to him directly.”
Pescoli was irked, as well. The investigation had barely gotten going, and though she encouraged the public’s help, the mention of a reward always brought out the crazies and the desperate, all of which the sheriff’s office would have to wade through.
“Sphinx wanted to hold a press conference about it,” Alvarez added.
“I bet.”
“The sheriff is balking.”
“Really?” Pescoli found that hard to believe.
“He thinks we should handle any press conference.”
“For once, I agree.”
