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“You can’t just expect me to drop everything because she’s gotten herself into a little mess.”
“Is that what you call it?” Pescoli’s blood was starting to boil. She felt her back teeth gnash and she forced herself to relax as he went rambling on.
“I have obligations here, Regan. You know that. Three daughters.”
“Who, last I checked, still have a living mother.”
He had no answer for that, and as she waited for some response she heard what sounded like another muted conversation in the background, as if he were holding his hand over the phone and talking to someone. Elana, no doubt.
“Victor? Call Ivy!” Pescoli shouted. “Tell her you’re coming.”
“Well . . . um . . . what?” More muffled conversation with his wife. Then he was back. “So what about the will?” he asked, his voice clearer.
Pescoli’s heart sank. It was about the money. Of course. Wasn’t it always?
“All of this is going to cost a pretty penny and I assume Ivy will inherit from Brindel. It was my understanding that no matter what happened to her mother she’d . . . what?” More garbled, muted conversation as, Regan guessed, the most recent Mrs. Wilde was making her instructions to her husband clear. He finished with, “All of this is sounding very expensive.”
“Victor, you sound like a man who is doing everything possible to shirk his duties as a father and is now bartering his own kid’s inheritance in the process. Just get to Grizzly Falls by tomorrow at noon. Hire a lawyer for Ivy. I’ll e-mail you some good ones I know of, and then we’ll go from there.”
She hung up before she went any further. She told herself to calm down, but dealing with the likes of Victor Wilde pushed her blood pressure into the stratosphere.
“Supercilious, self-involved son of a bitch,” she muttered, taking a corner a little too fast and feeling the Jeep slip a bit. Catching her reflection in the rearview mirror, she muttered, “Cool it, Pescoli,” and eased up on the gas.
Nearer her house, she punched in Chilcoate’s number and put him on speaker phone. When he answered she said, “This is Pescoli.”
“I know.” As ever.
Faintly in the background she heard a rock band classic playing. Pink Floyd, she thought. Another Brick in the Wall. Recorded long before Chilcoate ever thought of being a rebellious teenager. She pictured him in her mind’s eye, at his computer, fingers flying, scruff of a beard covering his chin, cigarette smoldering in a nearby ashtray, curly mop of hair bouncing to the driving beat. All the while he was wearing headphones connected to his computer and phone and scanning several screens at once, digging deep into the dark web, into places she suspected were dangerous.
He asked, “What do you need?”
“Information on Troy Boxer and Ronny Stillwell.”
“You got anything to start with on them?”
“Age and recent address, last employment. Maybe more information later.”
“Let me guess, these were the John Does found dead in the woods near Cougar Pass.”
“That’s already out?”
He didn’t answer and she let it pass, saying instead, “So, if you can get phone records, credit card information, anything. And find out if and how they’re connected to Paul and Brindel Latham and Brindel’s daughter, Ivy. I know Boxer and Ivy dated for a while, but if there’s any other information you can find, let me know.”
“That it?” he asked.
“For now.”
“Call me back in about six hours.”
“At four or five in the morning?”
“I crash after that. Till noon.”
“Okay.” She cut the connection just as she rounded the final bend to her home where, through the curtain of snow, she saw her children’s vehicles. Good. Everyone was home. Everyone was safe.
It was comforting to see evidence of her family’s safety after witnessing two dead bodies, victims of some unknown violence.
In the house, she peeled off her jacket, hat, and boots, then convinced the dogs that they needed to go back to sleep. She cracked open a Coke and drank three swallows as she made her way upstairs. Both Ivy’s and Bianca’s doors were closed, no light emanating from under either one, and when she peeked in at Little Tucker, he was sleeping soundly, on his back, arms flung wide.
