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Pescoli nodded. She didn’t have to put in that she wasn’t close to Brindel. Alvarez knew. Because the truth was that Pescoli was closer to her ex-partner than she ever had been with any of her sisters.
“So what’re you working on?” Pescoli asked.
“Much of the same. Hattie Grayson’s making noise again.”
“Ah.” Hattie was now married to Cade Grayson, though she’d first been married to Bart, both of whom were siblings of Dan, Pinewood County’s former sheriff and Pescoli’s a
nd Alvarez’s good friend. It was Hattie’s contention that both the brothers, Dan and Bart, were murdered as part of a dark conspiracy, even though Bart took his own life and Dan’s killer had been brought to justice. “She never gives up.”
“Tell me about it,” Alvarez said, then frowned. “Where’s the baby?”
“Home. With Daddy.”
Her gaze grew wistful. “You know, I get it why you want to stay home with him. If I’d had the chance . . .” She let her voice trail off and Pescoli knew she didn’t want to talk about the son she’d given up so many years ago, when she’d been a teenager.
Pescoli changed the subject. “I hear you’ve got another pretender to the crown, right? Garrett Mays, claiming that he’s the long-lost son of Brady Long.”
“So the story goes,” Alvarez said.
“They keep cropping up, don’t they?”
“Hopefully this is the last one.”
“Amen to that.” She heard footsteps behind her, then a male voice. “Detective?”
Turning, Pescoli found Sheriff Blackwater beckoning her from the door of his office. “A word?”
“Later,” she said to Alvarez, then slapped a hand on the doorjamb before walking the hallway to Blackwater’s office. She still thought of the room as belonging to Dan Grayson. For half a second she even expected to see Grayson’s Stetson hanging on a hook near the door and find his black Labrador retriever curled up in a bed in the corner. All of which was pure fantasy, of course, the dog in question probably now tucked into a spot near the fireplace of Pescoli’s house with Cisco and Nikita.
Blackwater was single and never married, at least as far as she knew. Around six feet tall, he was still trim, in such good shape she guessed he might do fingertip push-ups in his spare time. His black hair was cut military short, his clothes pressed, pants creased to a knife’s edge that she bet he ironed in himself. He closed the door and motioned her into a side chair. “I’ll keep this brief,” he said, and didn’t bother sitting himself, just leaned against the big, battle-scarred desk that he kept neat as a pin.
“Good, because I need—”
“I know—they’re waiting for you. For the interview with Ivy Wilde. I talked to Detective Paterno.” He stared at her a moment, his lips folding in on themselves before his gaze slid away. “First. My condolences. It’s hard to lose a sibling.” He acted as if he’d experienced some kind of similar pain, but he didn’t elaborate and in truth she knew little about his personal life.
“Yes. Thanks.”
His eyes found hers again and any trace of empathy she’d thought she’d glimpsed in those dark depths had now vanished. Again he was the hard-ass she’d come to know. “So, here’s the deal: I can’t keep your job open much longer. A week, maybe two, and then I need to start interviewing. I’ve already sorted through some applicants and there are a couple who would be a credit to the department. They come with a list of references as long as my arm. Good men and women. I’ve checked them out. Any one of them would be an asset to the department.”
Her insides clenched at the thought of him handing over her position, of giving up a career she’d fought so long to establish. “Good,” she heard herself saying as she sat down.
“So you’re not coming back.” A statement. Not a question.
In her mind’s eye, she saw her son, Little Tucker, smiling up at her, and in that same second, when she felt an overwhelming sense of love for the boy, she also experienced a pang at the thought of missing out on being there for his first tooth, or steps, or when he scraped a knee. She’d already raised two children nearly to adulthood and they, if they’d suffered, had survived and been stronger for it, but could she do it again? Should she?
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
The skin over his face tightened and she noted his fingers blanch as they gripped hard against the edge of the desk. “Well, figure it out,” he ordered. “February first, I’m starting to interview.”
He moved to the door. His dark gaze held hers as she stepped into the hallway. “Make a decision, Detective,” he advised. “Or I’ll make it for you.”
* * *
The girl was a liar.
And a good one.
Tanaka would give her that.
