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Alvarez heard her phone buzz, but ignored the incoming text. Instead she took the file on the desk and opened it. Inside were gruesome pictures of Troy Boxer and Ronny Stillwell. Shots of them in their blood-soaked clothes and shots of their naked, dead bodies, bullet holes and all.
She laid them on the table.
“Oh, God!” Ivy said, closing her eyes and turning away after one quick look. Horror stretched her eyes wide.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Victor asked Alvarez, staring at the photos, his face ashen.
Knapp’s lips flattened into a barely moving line. “Is this necessary, Detective?”
Alvarez ignored him. Focused on the girl.
Ivy was shaking her head. “No . . . no.”
“This is what happened, Ivy, to the people I believe were working for the same person you were.”
“No . . .” But from her expression, she was already putting two and two together, already starting to realize the danger she was in.
“Look at these pictures, Ivy,” Alvarez insisted. “We already took out the bullets from the bodies and compared them. Two guns were used, one to shoot Stillwell, the other to kill Boxer. Since the bullets retrieved from Stillwell’s body match those that were located inside your stepfather, Paul Latham, the crimes are linked. We know that. The bullets we extracted from Stillwell weren’t a match to any we had on file. Our working theory is that Boxer killed Stillwell with the same gun he used to take your stepfather’s life. Then, whoever they met in the woods here in Montana killed Boxer with his gun, after Stillwell was dead or nearly dead.”
Ivy was shaking her head, trying to deny what was obvious. “No,” she whispered, and her nose began to run. She wiped it with the back of her hand almost not realizing what she was doing.
Alvarez pressed a little harder. “Then, once they were dead, or at least incapacitated, the killer hauled them both into the truck and left them there, either to bleed out and freeze to death or just be put in cold storage.”
Ivy started quivering uncontrollably.
“Maybe he was going to return and drive them into the river or hide them somewhere nearby, but couldn’t take care of it at the moment. Maybe he was interrupted, but in the meantime the bodies were discovered.”
“I can’t believe this,” Ivy said, but the way her face was twisted, it was obvious she did. She knew that whoever was behind the scheme was capable of murder. Alvarez was finally getting through to her.
“Do you know who they were meeting?”
“No.” But her answer was shaky, unconvincing.
“That’s probably a good thing, because I believe that this person, the mastermind, is cleaning up his business, taking care of loose ends, killing anyone who might identify him.”
Tears starred the girl’s lashes.
“No one who knows him is safe,” Alvarez said with dead calm. “Even you. I believe you’re next on his hit list.”
The dam broke. Tears began rolling down Ivy’s cheeks. “Not from him,” she finally said, glancing from her father to her attorney, her voice raw and trembling. “From her. She’s . . . she’s a woman, and I swear I thought, I mean I thought she only wanted Paul’s guns and some of his money.... He was her doctor when she was sick and a real ass. . . . She said he, you know, intimidated her. Sexually. And she figured he owed her. I believed it. Paul was such a douche. I hooked her up with Troy and he found Ronny. I thought I could leave. Take some money and run . . . Troy and I even broke up so there would be no connection.”
“And you supplied him with a key?”
“Yes, but no one was supposed to get hurt. I swear!” The words were tumbling out now, and though her lawyer tried to break in, she barreled on, “And then . . . everything went upside down and I got home and found Mom and Paul like they were.” She was sobbing now. Broken. “No one was supposed to get hurt! Or killed! She told me that. Swore to it. Swore to it!” Ivy buried her face in her hands and began to wail.
“Who is she?” Alvarez demanded.
The lawyer said, “Wait a second. I want to confer with my client. If she has information I want—”
“Lorna,” Ivy said through her hands, her face still hidden, her shoulders shaking. “Her name is Lorna Percival. I met her at a clinic, when I was going through, well, you know.” She parted her fingers to glance up at her father. “Before I went to Dr. Yates.”
When her father looked at her blankly, she let out an anguished laugh. “My shrink, Dad. Dr. Yates is my doctor.”
“This is enough,” Knapp charged. “I need to confer with my client. She’s said much too much already.”
Alvarez didn’t argue. She’d gotten what she needed. A name. Now they were getting somewhere. “Turn off the camera, and the audio,” she said, staring at the window with the two-way mirror where, she knew, as did everyone in the interview room, that other officers including the detectives from San Francisco were watching. “Pull the curtain.”
She walked out of the room intent on joining the others in the darkened area when she pulled her phone from her pocket and read the messages that had come in while she’d been interviewing Ivy. They were from Pescoli and they made her blood run cold.
