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Regan cut in, “How about one day, no, make that one hour, at a time?”
“Fine.” Sarina’s lips twisted down at the corners as she stared through the window where snow was beginning to fall. “God, it’s cold here.”
“Just in the winter,” Regan said.
“Maybe I should move, but . . . not here.” She sighed and started rambling on about making a new start, of leaving the condo with “all its memories,” then made passing references to some other cities in California, LA or Sacramento, or Lake Tahoe. “Anywhere,” she finally summed up, “away from You Know Who and that woman.”
So your husband cheated on you. Big effin’ deal. It happened all the time. Ivy had seen it with her own mother, and how she’d turned away from the truth that her husband couldn’t stay faithful. Sarina was acting as if she were the only woman in the world who’d had to deal with a jerk-wad who found some other woman more attractive.
Ivy leaned back in her seat and mentally prepared herself for her interview with the detectives from San Francisco. Having Aunt Sarina with her wasn’t much comfort. The woman was brainless. Her thoughts turned to Jeremy. Now, he could help steady her through the interview but, of course, that was a no-go with Aunt Regan.
She feigned sleep and let the two women natter on. At least the guy who’d attacked her was in the hospital. She’d prefer him to be dead, but then she would be a murderer and that probably came with a whole set of new problems. She had enough as it was. More than enough.
* * *
Pescoli ignored the feeling that she was coming home when she walked through the front doors of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department. She didn’t want to dwell on the question of whether she would return to her job full time, or instead stay home with her baby, do a little private investigation on the side, partnering up with Selena Alvarez’s fiancé rather than with her. That option seemed less appealing than returning here where real cops worked and hung out, where criminals were arrested and everything from grievances about property lines and teenaged parties to brutal homicides were tackled. Officers in uniforms mingled with plainclothes detectives and office staff, laughing and talking, digging through mounds of paperwork or squinting at computer monitors, answering phone calls or writing reports. Keyboards clicked, footsteps echoed down the halls, and the struggling furnace was still rumbling. She smelled old coffee and heard a snippet of an even older joke, a raunchy one Deputy Pete Watershed told. He was always mouthing off with off-color remarks or offensive jokes.
God, she missed this place.
Maybe not Watershed so much, but she missed just about everyone else.
Still, she couldn’t get caught up in her own dilemma about her career, not when her niece was about to be questioned by Tanaka. They were setting up. Tanaka leading Sarina and Ivy into the interview room with its camera and window that looked like a mirror on one side but actually allowed a view of the room by officers and staff in the darkened viewing room adjacent.
The deal was that she and Paterno would watch through the glass while Tanaka conducted the questioning. Pescoli had been through the same routine hundreds, if not thousands, of times, standing near the glass, staring at the subject of the interview and trying to determine if he or she were telling the truth or hiding something while a camera and audio equipment recorded it all.
But today was different.
Because the subject was her niece, because now her own sister was dead, killed by someone unknown, and the question was not just how much Ivy knew about her mother’s and stepfather’s homicides but how deeply Ivy might be involved.
Usually, Pescoli was hoping that the subject would crack under questioning, that a confession to some brutal crime was forthcoming, but not today. Not when Ivy was about to be grilled.
She passed by Alvarez’s office and saw the door was ajar.
“I’ll just be a second,” she said to Paterno, and stopped while the San Francisco detective walked farther along the hallway and around the corner to the viewing room.
Alvarez was at her desk, head bent over the computer screen, her black hair pulled back into a neat bun and shining under the overhead.
“You want something?” Alvarez’s voice was clipped. She spun in her desk chair, her face a knot of frustration.
“Good to see you, too,” Pescoli said.
Alvarez’s expression softened. “Not who I expected.”
“Carson Ramsby?” Pescoli guessed.
“That would be the one. He’s . . .”
“Driving you nuts. Just like Brett Gage before him.”
“Yeah, that partnership didn’t last long. Ask Gage. I think I drove him as nuts as he drove me. And now, Ramsby. Worse. Could you just come back already?” Alvarez smiled faintly. “You’re a pain in the ass, too, but at least you give me a little space. Don’t suppose you came back to tell Blackwater to get your office ready?”
With a shake of her head, Pescoli said, “Just saying hi. I’m here with my niece.”
“Ivy Wilde, I heard. What’s her story?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Pescoli usually would tell her ex-partner everything. She rarely held back except for the times where she’d crossed the line, like recently with Chilcoate. Now, with Ivy on the list of potential suspects in the double-homicide, full disclosure was not an option.
“Tricky business,” Alvarez said, then added, “Sorry to hear about your sister.”
