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“Oh, give it up, Sarina. Regan’s not coming here,” Collette snapped, her breath fogging a little in the brisk January morning. “And even if she did show up, what good can she do? Even Regan Pescoli can’t bring Brindel back. No one can.” Beneath the umbrella’s ribs, Collette wrapped an arm around her sister’s shoulders as the shorter woman soaked in the information and began to sob softly. “I know, I know. It’s awful, just awful, unbelievable.”
“Look,” Paterno broke in as gently as he could, “I’m heading to the station. I could meet you there and then, if you still want to view the body, or . . . bodies, I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Fine,” Collette said.
Sarina asked her sister, “You don’t think we should wait for Regan?”
The taller woman rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t. Sarina, you know as well as I do that Regan’s always been a major screwup, cop or no cop.”
Sarina’s spine seemed to stiffen and, despite her grief, she said firmly, “Well, she’s on her way. And she can help.”
“We’ll see,” Paterno said carefully. He didn’t like anyone butting into his case and that went double for anyone related to the victims. He only hoped Detective Regan Pescoli had enough sense to let the team of investigators in San Francisco handle the details. He’d listen to her opinion, if she wanted to give it, but if she turned out to be some crackpot in cowboy boots, a Stetson, and spurs who spit tobacco out the side of her mouth, they might have a problem. A problem he didn’t need.
One more case, he reminded himself as he turned his collar to the January wind.
All he had to do was solve this one and then it was adiós SFPD and hola retirement in his thirty-foot Bayliner.
Right now, in the early hours of a bleak San Francisco morning, it sounded like heaven.
Chapter 4
Pescoli was frazzled. The quickest flight she could catch was out of Missoula, stopped in Seattle, then finally landed in San Francisco, all in all taking about ten hours when she added in the time to get from her home outside Grizzly Falls to the airport. The fight with her husband about her leaving and taking Tucker with her had been a doozie and it still chased after her.
“I just don’t think this is a good idea,” he’d said as he’d loaded the diaper bag and her carry-on into her car. His face had been hard and set as they’d walked into the garage and she’d strapped Tucker into his infant seat.
“Can you give me a better one?”
“Yeah, don’t go.”
“It’s my sister,” she’d said, tightening the straps and kissing Tuck’s little nose before closing the back door and rounding the car, nearly tripping on an old skateboard of Jeremy’s. Santana had been standing near the driver’s side.
“You weren’t close.”
“Still my sister. Blood being thicker than water and all that. And she was murdered.”
“Are you going in your capacity as a cop?”
She’d angled her chin upward, her gaze holding his, silently daring him to try and tell her what to do, to order her around. “And if I am?”
A muscle had worked in his jaw and his lips had thinned. “You’re taking our son to a murder investigation.”
“No, I’m not. Bianca will be with him when I’m not.”
“In a hotel room.”
“Right.” She’d yanked her keys from her pocket. “I won’t be away from him that long. I can’t, you know, with the breast-feeding, such as it is, so even if I wanted . . . well, he’ll be fine and again, Brindel is . . . was my sister.”
“I know you, Regan,” he said, using her first name to make a point and catch her attention. “It’s the murder that’s really got you going. Don’t give me any BS about family ties. You don’t have any, or at least none that are all that strong with any of your sisters. I’m not saying you’re not sad or grieving, I’m just saying your curiosity is piqued and your cop mind is working overtime. Besides, I’m pretty sure the San Francisco Police can handle this without your help. You said the cop in charge is named Paterno, right? I met him. When I lived in California. Trust me, he’s efficient. He’ll get to the bottom of this. I don’t think Paterno or the San Francisco PD want or need your help.” He’d cocked a dark eyebrow, daring her to argue.
She’d wanted to go toe-to-toe with him. To lie. But he knew her too well and she’d made a pact with him when they’d gotten
serious: No bullshit. Complete honesty. Tell the truth and let the cards fall where they would. She’d suffered through two marriages, the second ending in divorce, worse than the first, which had ended in the tragedy of her cop husband, Joe, Jeremy’s father, dying before she’d had a chance to straighten it out. So this time around she’d vowed to Santana and herself that their relationship would be bare naked truth. Always.
“I just have to do something, and to find out what happened, you know,” she told him as she stood on her tiptoes to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. She’d expected him to sweep her into his arms as he always did, thought she’d feel him pull her close, whisper something a little dirty into her ear, and then kiss her as if he’d never get enough of her. That’s how it had always been with him, but standing in the cold garage she’d felt welling disappointment, and as she’d slid into the car, he’d taken the time to walk to the backseat, open the door and plant a kiss on his son’s face. Then he’d shut the door, come back around the driver’s side, and when she’d rolled down the window, he’d said, “Be safe,” and that was it.
She’d backed out into the snow-covered landscape and, settling a pair of sunglasses onto her nose, seen him standing in the garage, barefooted, legs spread, arms folded over his broad chest. Her heart had given a silly little squeeze and the ridiculous thought that she might never see him again had swept through her mind, but then she’d given herself a quick mental shake.
Who was he to try to pressure her into doing what he wanted, what he thought was best?
