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balls. As for Brewster, he might kill in the line of duty or as an act of passion, as was proven by his attack on Jeremy Strand. But Alvarez couldn’t believe either of them had the time, effort, or dedication to have plotted and carried out these killings. As much as she’d worried about Brewster earlier, it just didn’t fit.
Besides, she couldn’t prove that either man had means, motive, and opportunity.
And though she was relieved to knock Brewster off the suspect list, it only meant that Star-Crossed was someone else.
Someone who would love to see her chasing her tail or arresting the wrong suspect, someone who thought he was so much smarter than the police. We’ll see about that, bastard. Don’t count me out yet. Chapter Twenty-Six
Santana shut the stable door and eyed the sky warily. Another blizzard was bearing down on the Bitterroots. Another night had passed with no news of Pescoli.
And he still hadn’t heard one damned word from Chilcoate. Not one.
The guy wasn’t returning his calls, nor had he bothered to phone and give Santana an update. It hasn’t even been twelve hours and here you are jumping out of your skin. Give the guy some time, he told himself.
But that was the problem.
He felt like he had no time left, not a minute. And he had to do something.
Couldn’t just sit around and wait, for God’s sake!
Turning his collar to the wind, with Nakita leaping and bounding in the fresh snow, he glanced down the lane to the main house where lights were 356
Lisa Jackson
glowing, lights that had been on ever since he’d discovered Brady Long’s body. Was it just yesterday?
Jesus H. Christ, it seemed like a lifetime had passed.
He noticed a car in the drive . . . no, a Jeep, and for a split second hope jumped in his heart. Until he saw Selena Alvarez leaving through the front door and striding swiftly to the Jeep, a governmentissue vehicle that was almost identical to Pescoli’s, the one that had been totaled in its horrific spiral from Horsebrier Ridge.
He started jogging toward the main house and Nakita, loving the acceleration, yipped excitedly, then ran in circles around Santana as he yelled,
“Hey!” before Alvarez could slide behind the wheel. She paused and he waved while slogging through the snow that was beginning to pile up along the lane that he’d plowed late last night. He was breathing hard by the time he reached her rig.
“Something up?” she asked, the door to her Jeep open.
“I just wanted to know if you’ve heard anything.”
He didn’t bother trying to mask his emotions.
“About Regan.”
“No. Don’t make me remind you that you’re not part of the investigation.”
He ignored her. “What about Ivor Hicks?”
“What about him?”
“Did anyone find out what he was doing here . . . I mean, besides that cock-and-bull story about being forced here by aliens and seeing a Yeti.”
“Ivor was drunk. At ten in the morning. That was pretty obvious to both of us, I believe.”
“Didn’t he find another one of the victims?”
CHOSEN TO DIE
357
Alvarez nodded slowly, her lips tight, snow catching on the brim of her hat.
