A muscle worked in Brewster’s jaw. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was up here to discuss some things about the department,” Pescoli said, omitting the part about considering leaving the sheriff’s department. That idea had fled the second a bullet tore through Grayson’s chest.
“What things?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, then gave a quick, abbreviated version of what had transpired at the cabin. “I told Lazlo all about this, twice. And I’ll give another statement at the department later. Is there any word on Grayson?”
“In surgery,” Brewster said grimly. “Don’t know anything else. The doctor promised to call, and I sent a unit to the hospital to guard him.”
“You think the assailant will try again?” Pescoli asked.
“Can’t be too cautious.” Brewster glanced around the area. “Don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“A psycho, that’s what we’re dealing with. A sick-fuck psycho with a high-powered assault rifle.”
She felt the pressure of Alvarez’s hand on her arm.
“You know the caliber?” Brewster asked.
“No, not yet, but I think because of the way he fell, the killer had to be up there on that knoll.” Pescoli pointed up the hill a bit. “Crime scene team is searching, hoping to find a bullet. And there should be one nearby because there were entry and exit wounds.”
“Shouldn’t it have been under the body?” Alvarez asked.
“You’d think,” Pescoli said, “but there was just so much snow and blood. God, the blood . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Brewster turned his head to yell, “Get a damned metal detector if you have to!”
“Got it!” One of the techs who was searching the perimeter of the house suddenly plucked a bullet out of snow by the front steps and held it up.
“Now, if someone can find the shell casings up on the ridge,” Pescoli muttered.
“Good luck.” Scowling at the heavens, Brewster seemed to take measure of the amount of snow that was still steadily falling, destroying the scene. Even the bloody patch on the ground was being covered. “Keep looking. Hopefully we’ll get tire impressions or footprints or something.”
Alvarez shook her head as she eyed the knoll with its frozen brush and brambles, a thicket of pine, and a large snow-crusted stump. Two investigators were searching the area. “No car could get up there.”
“Probably snowshoed, or better yet, skied. For a quick getaway.” Pescoli’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t there an old mining road or logging road nearby?” She was frowning, trying to picture the area in her mind. “Some kind of access road, I think.”
Brewster said, “We’ll check it out.”
Alvarez’s phone beeped and she drew it from her pocket, looked at the screen, but didn’t answer. “No caller ID, but I recognized the number,” she explained. “Manny Douglas’s cell.”
“Damned vultures,” Pescoli muttered. She’d never pandered to the press and made no bones about the fact. Manny Douglas was a particularly persistent reporter for the Mountain Reporter, the local paper. Smart as a whip, dressed forever in outfits straight from an outdoor catalog store, Manny considered himself the local authority on serial killers and was forever sticking his weasel-like nose into police business.
“The press could be useful,” Brewster reminded her, ever the diplomat. Well, except when it came to his daughters. “We might be able to use them if we need to send information out to the public.” Brewster was always the authority and forever putting Pescoli in her place, but now because of Grayson’s incapacitation, he truly was in charge. Pescoli’s already twisted stomach tightened a bit.
The new commander eyed the sky again. Though it was now after eight, no sunshine poked through the cloud cover. “Wish the snow would give it a rest.”
Pescoli said, “You’d better talk to God about that one.”
Brewster cut her an unforgiving look. “It’s Christmas,” he ground out.
“Tell that to the freak who tried to deep-six Gr
ayson.”
Alvarez placed her hand on Pescoli’s arm once again, but she shook it off. She didn’t much like Brewster and he knew it. The whole damned department understood the tension between them. She and he were like oil and water, and the fact that their kids had found teenage love and trouble with the law hadn’t endeared the parents to each other. The only thing that stopped Brewster and Pescoli from an out-and-out attack was that they were professionals, grudgingly giving each other credit where credit was due. Bottom line? They were both dedicated cops.
Though it was incredibly difficult, Pescoli bit her tongue.