AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Not exactly P. C.,” Alvarez pointed out.
“I’m not interested in being politically correct,”
he said, irritated. “I’m just trying to hunt down a sick serial killer who has decided to use my jurisdiction as his personal playground.”
“So we should use any means possible.”
Is she really suggesting we talk to Grace Perchant? A self-proclaimed ghost whisperer or some such non- sense? In Grayson’s estimation Grace was an odd duck, nothing more. Harmless, but an odd duck, all the same. “Next thing I know you’ll be wanting to take statements from Ivor Hicks and Henry Johansen.”
“If it would help the investigation.” Fire in her dark eyes. “I just got a call from the deputy who supervised winching Pescoli’s Jeep from the canyon. Looks like a bullet went through one of her tires.”
Grayson’s deepest fear was realized. “That son of a bitch!”
“Exactly.” Selena was furious now, her cheeks flaming. “So I don’t think we should discount any statement. I just want to see what Grace knows.”
CHOSEN TO DIE
175
“She was already interviewed.”
“Before Pescoli went missing.”
They were at his office door now and stomach acid was burning a hole in his gut. His thoughts were on Pescoli, a woman he’d worked with for years. Who was he to tell Alvarez, one of his smartest detectives, what to do? It wasn’t as if he had any better ideas. “Do whatever it is you think you should.”
He waved her off and knew he was being ornery, but he didn’t care.
Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up, turning and heading toward her desk. Damn, he didn’t need a fight.
Inside his office, he hung up his hat and jacket, glanced out the window to the view of the lower part of the town and the nearly frozen river, then dropped into the desk chair and scowled at the stack of messages awaiting him. Whether he liked it or not, it seemed that Pescoli and Elyssa O’Leary were the next intended victims of Star-Crossed. There had to be a way to catch the bastard, Grayson thought as he cracked his knuckles. He just had to figure out how. And fast. In his mind’s eye he saw Pescoli, a tall, strong woman with a wicked sense of humor who was tough enough to do a damned good job while raising two kids on her own. She was unconventional, bent the rules way too far for his liking, but she always got the job done. And now she was a victim? His jaw tightened as he remembered the other women who’d died naked in the elements, left to freeze to death. Pushing aside his dark thoughts, he clicked on his computer, read his e-mail, then sent out an e-blast ad-176 Lisa Jackson
vising everyone working the Star-Crossed Killer case of a meeting at four P.M. in the task room. Maybe by then Agents Chandler and Halden from the FBI would have tied things up in Spokane and be back in Grizzly Falls. If not, he’d carry on without them. He couldn’t wait.
The weather, as always, was a problem, he thought, sliding a glance out the window where snow was collecting and icicles hung from the eaves. It had been a bitch of a winter. One of the coldest on record. And it wasn’t close to being over.
Rubbing his eyes, he heard the familiar sounds of the department on the other side of the door: ringing phones, muted voices in conversation, a humming fax machine, the furnace rumbling, footsteps clipping down the hallway.
God, he was tired. Bone weary. This job that he’d once found so engrossing, that he’d thrown himself into after his wife left him, was starting to wear him down.
Don’t let it. This is your passion; your duty. You just need a little rest.
Leaning back in his chair and propping the heels of his boots on the short filing cabinet, Grayson fought a mother of a headache. It had started near his temples when the chopper that had brought him here from Spokane had landed, just before the next storm had begun to shower this part of the state with snow all over again. It was definitely exacerbated by the fact that a killer was still terrorizing the county. The victims’ families were clamoring for justice, the townspeople were scared out of their wits, the media was demanding more information for
CHOSEN TO DIE
177
the public while both constantly airing “updates”
and trying to get exclusives from the husbands, mothers, fathers, and siblings of the dead women. Not to mention it was the Christmas season. And now Pescoli looks like she’s the next victim. No wonder his head throbbed.
But still, he shouldn’t have snapped at Alvarez. She was a good cop. Doing a damned good job. And he knew that she would put science and evidence over theory and statements from the resident nut-jobs. So if she wanted to talk to Grace Perchant or even Eleanor Mackey, the woman who not only cut hair but also read palms and held seances or the like over on Corinthian Avenue, so be it. He found a jar of aspirin in his desk drawer, unscrewed the cap, and popped a couple, swallowing them dry.
He hadn’t eaten since last night—a burger, fries, and beer in a dive not far from the police station in Spokane—but he didn’t really feel hungry. His desk phone jangled and he saw it was a call from Joelle.
“What’s
up?”
