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“And you’re right,” Paterno said. “Ivy Wilde did tangle with the human shish kebab, claims he attacked and robbed her and tried to rape or kill her. She set him on fire and took off, hailing down the bus she’d nearly missed.”
“That’s quite a way to fend off an attack.”
“She worked with what she had.”
“How did she do it?”
“With aerosol hair spray and a victim with a lit lighter and copious amounts of gel in his hair.”
“Man.” The fiery image that came to Tanaka’s mind made her shudder. “How’s Wilde doing?”
“Well, she survived the attack pretty much unscathed, at least physically.”
“That kind of thing’ll mess you up bad, and from what we know, that girl isn’t exactly even-keeled to begin with. First her parents are killed and then she’s attacked by this guy, probably. She might’ve got the better of him, but it was ugly. Even if she’s somehow involved in her mom’s death, it’s hard to push it away unless you’re a complete psycho.”
He nodded.
“But at least we know where she is.”
“According to Pescoli, Ivy changed her appearance and, like you said, spent some time in a motel not far from the Greyhound station. Got attacked on her way to hop a bus north.”
“Huh. Okay.” A pause. “What are we waiting for?” she said, her mind whirling. “Looks like the road trip just got extended to include—what was it? Bear River?”
“Close enough,” Paterno said, and plucked his jacket from the hook again.
Tanaka was already making her way to the door.
“By the way, I told Pescoli about Boxer and Stillwell going missing,” said Paterno.
“You know that she’s—”
“—not on the case. Yes. But if she’s got Ivy Wilde, I figured we’d better bring her up to speed. Forewarned is forearmed.”
* * *
“Thank God!” Sarina’s voice trembled over the wireless connection.
Pescoli had called with the news that Ivy had arrived at her home in Montana. Now, in her family room, the television turned on but muted, she could picture Sarina, ever the drama queen, now nearly overcome, crumpling against the wall and sliding down it.
Sarina whispered, “I was so afraid, I mean, I didn’t know what happened to her. How did she end up at your house? Not that it matters, of course. I just thank the good Lord that she’s there and safe. She’s okay, isn’t she?”
“Fine,” Pescoli lied. The girl was a wreck. But then who wouldn’t be after what she’d been through?
And then there was the niggling suspicion that Ivy wasn’t on the up-and-up.
With the phone to her ear, Pescoli walked onto the deck and watched as Santana let out the horses. One by one, bucking and prancing through the snow, they ran from one end of the long pasture that bordered the lake, to the other. The gelding was an ebony streak, the buckskin mare, black mane and tail flying, followed close behind, with the bay pausing to give Pescoli the eye before tearing after the others. Only the older gelding, a rangy chestnut, eyed the others as if they were crazy and strolled slowly along the fence line while Nikita bounded over to Santana, who watched the display, then bent down to pat the husky on his furry head. Tall and lean, an irreverent cowboy, he stood with his back to her, not realizing she was watching him.
God, she loved that man.
Even though, often as not, she wanted to personally throttle him.
“. . . live with me. We’ll make room in the loft,” Sarina was saying.
“What?”
“I just said she could come and live with us. We’ve got room now that . . . well, you know who isn’t coming back, at least right away.”
Sarina had taken to not saying Denny’s name as if in so doing she was denying her cheating husband’s existence. Pescoli understood. She’d been through the same scenario herself.
