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“He’s asked about you coming back.”
“I know.” He’d called several times.
“And?”
“I haven’t decided. I’ve got another couple of months.”
Actually she didn’t. The department was allowing her to use years of accumulated sick leave after returning to the force briefly a few months earlier right after her maternity leave. Now she needed to make a final decision.
Alvarez lowered her voice. “Well, figure it out, okay? And let me know. He’s got me paired with Ramsby and it’s killing me.”
Carson Ramsby, twenty-seven, a bachelor, and a know-it-all who never shut up, considered himself a walking/talking Wikipedia. “I thought you were going to get a new transfer from Helena. Amy Something-or-other.”
“Amy Glass. Didn’t work out. She took a job in Butte.” A pause. “Blackwater has let it be known that he doesn’t expect you back and he thinks I can be a good influence on Ramsby, if that’s even possible.” She hesitated, then added, “Look, I know that you and Dylan have been talking.”
That much was true. Pescoli had spoken a couple of times to Dylan O’Keefe, Alvarez’s fiancé. They’d discussed her becoming a PI as well as his partner.
Alvarez continued, “I can’t tell you what to do—”
“But?” Finding the robe she’d tossed off earlier at the end of her bed, Pescoli slipped one arm through a sleeve, then the next.
“Give me a heads-up, okay?”
“I will. Really.”
They hung up and Pescoli headed into the adjoining bath where she saw her image in the mirror and frowned. Not only were a few irritating gray hairs revealing themselves in her wild, red-blond hair, but also dark circles appeared under her eyes from lack of sleep, and those irritating ten pounds of baby weight. “You’re too old for this,” she told her reflection, then stripped and walked through the shower, feeling the warm jets douse her hair and body while chasing the remaining cobwebs from her brain.
Drying off, she threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, pulled her hair back into a quick ponytail, and didn’t bother with any makeup. She peeked into the nursery and saw that Tucker was sleeping soundly, his little lips moving in a sucking motion, his eyes closed, his cap of dark hair mussed. Silently she backed out of the room and hurried downstairs to find that Santana had already made coffee, thank God, and Bianca was shoving books and her iPad into her backpack. Bianca’s wet hair was pulled into a messy bun and she was wearing worn, holey jeans and a black sweater with a wide neck. For years Bianca had spent hours doing her makeup, hair, and nails before stepping one foot out the door. Not so much anymore.
A new worry.
To go along with a slew of others.
“You get breakfast?” Pescoli poured herself a cup of coffee and saw from the package left near the pot that it was decaf. Not her first choice, but necessary for as long as she breast-fed her baby.
“A yogurt.”
“That all?”
“For now.” Wide eyes looked up at her mother, silently daring her to argue.
Pescoli held up a hand.
“Tuck’s not awake?”
“Not yet. And we want him to stay that way . . . for a while. So have you seen your brother this morning? Your other brother?”
“Nah.” Bianca glanced out the window to the snow-crusted morning and the driveway where several vehicles were parked, including Jeremy’s pickup. “But his truck’s still here.” He lived in a room, well, more like a studio apartment, over the garage. He was always talking about moving out, but so far hadn’t done so and was still working part time while going to school. That was all good. The fact that he was still talking about becoming a cop wasn’t.
Jeremy’s father, Joe, had been on the force, killed in the line of duty, a fate she fervently prayed would not be her son’s. The fact that she, too, was a detective was Jeremy’s favorite fallback position whenever she tried to steer him away from law enforcement.
“I’ll check.”
“You don’t have to check, Mom. He’s an adult and . . . and, you know, he could have company,” Bianca reminded her as her phone gave a quick ring tone and she glanced at the screen. “Oh, fu-frick!” Her lips twisted downward as she read the message.
“Trouble?”
“No. Just Dad. He keeps texting me.” She slid the phone into her back pocket, then grabbed her jacket and backpack from a hook near the rear door.
