She didn’t have time for petty squabbles or grudges.
They had to work together and nail the bastard who’d done this, put all the bad blood aside and let bygones be bygones.
After all, as Brewster kept reminding, it was Christmas.
And some sick son of a bitch was going down if it was the last thing Pescoli ever did.
Chapter 5
Alvarez hung up her cell phone and gritted her teeth as she stared at the computer monitor in her office. There on the screen, big as life, were pictures of a wounded Dan Grayson at the crime scene, his attack becoming her newest case. That, in and of itself, was odd as she was a homicide detective and, as of the last report, Grayson was still clinging to life, if only by a thread.
Dear God.
Her phone call had been pointless. Despite identifying herself to the person manning the information desk at the hospital in Missoula, she’d gotten nowhere. Under the acting sheriff Cort Brewster’s orders, the staff of Northern General was giving out no information about Dan Grayson except to family members, which Alvarez found frustrating as hell.
She heard the sound of clipped footsteps in the hallway indicating that Joelle Fisher, ever dressed in three-inch heels, was tip-tapping along the hallway. She wasn’t alone; the sound of muted voices, computer keys, and other footsteps filled the office where just the night before there had been near silence. As acting sheriff, Brewster had notified everyone who was an employee of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department of the attack on Grayson. Nearly all of the officers, clerical workers, and even the janitorial staff who were still in town had given up their holiday to show up for a quick staff meeting and briefing.
They’d stood somber and grim-faced, most disbelieving, some obviously struggling to rein in their emotions. Shoulder to shoulder, they’d listened in silent despair as Brewster outlined what had happened to the man who had been the sheriff for the better part of a decade and how he planned to bring the perpetrator to justice.
“I want you to look through all of the case files where Grayson brought a violent offender to justice. Not only at the offender, but members of his or her family. We also want to scrutinize Grayson’s family and his financial situation, find out who would benefit from his death; who would want him dead. If you’ve heard anything or know of anyone who holds a grudge against the sheriff, let me know. Of course, every family member is suspect.” Brewster, who’d still been wearing a suit and tie, had concluded the short meeting with, “Let’s all say a prayer for Dan Grayson tonight, that God will keep him safe and that our efforts at bringing the perpetrator to justice will prevail.”
Alvarez had fought her own struggling emotions during the gathering, catching Pescoli’s eye. Her partner, too, had blinked hard, her jaw set in determination, her hands fisted, her lips compressed.
“Let’s do this,” she’d whispered to Alvarez before leaving to explain to her family why their Christmas would have to be postponed.
As unfamiliar as it was, Alvarez even prayed a little as she walked down the hallway to her office and automatically, in a throwback to her childhood, had sketched the sign of the cross quickly over her breasts. Her feelings about God and Christmas had been ambivalent for years, but now, as afternoon slid toward evening, she decided that if there truly was a supreme deity, today she’d ask for help. Any kind of help.
“I thought this was your big deal,” Jeremy said from her couch as Pescoli finally stepped into the kitchen of her house, her keys dangling from her fingers, her mind still at the crime scene as she relived those horrid moments of the attack over and over again. She really didn’t remember driving home from the station, was numb as she walked through the doorway to her house. “You know, a family Christmas, us all being together? I thought you were pissed that we spent last night with Lucky and Michelle, and then you’re not even here when we get up at the crack of dawn and bust our asses to get here. And when we show up, you’re not even here. No note, no nothin’!”
Her son was sprawled across the ever-shifting cushions of the fifteen-year-old couch and had only glanced in her direction as he played some ultra-violent video game on the living-room television. Bodies were flying, blood was spraying. In her mind’s eye, all she could see was Grayson being hit in slow motion, his body spinning, the split kindling erupting from his arms. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Christmas together?” Jeremy persisted, as Cisco, their mottled terrier, hopped down from his spot near Jeremy’s stockinged feet. “You were all about it and . . . Damn! I can’t believe I can’t get past this level!” Disgusted and angry, he threw his game controller onto the carpet, then actually twisted his head to glare across the room toward the kitchen while the little dog danced at her feet, barking and twirling frantically to get her attention.
Pescoli didn’t respond to either of them.
Her son’s face, strong and handsome, so much like Joe’s, drained of color. “Holy crap, Mom! Are you okay? What the hell happened?” He was on his feet in an instant, jogging out of the living room where the Christmas tree was listing badly near the old television. His face was a mask of concern. In a heartbeat he seemed to transform from a churlish boy to a man. “Mom?”
She must look a sight, she realized. She’d left her jacket with the crime team, in case the techs wanted to verify that the blood staining her clothes was, indeed, Grayson’s, though no one thought differently. Undoubtedly, she probably still looked as shell-shocked as she felt.
“It’s the sheriff. Dan. Dan Grayson.” She lifted a hand and closed her eyes for a second, only to visualize the horrid attack all over again. Grayson being hit, his hat flying, his body jerking. “I went to see him at his house and . . .” Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered herself. If only she could replay the events of the morning; if only she’d gone a little earlier, spent less time in bed or arguing with Santana, maybe she could have saved Grayson. Or maybe she, too, would be in a hospital ER, surgeons and staff desperately trying to keep her alive.
From the short hallway that ran toward the stairs at the back of the house, the door to Bianca’s room opened. She appeared, wearing a pink tank top and stretchy gray pants. Her hair, currently her natural black with a few streaks of blond, was twisted into an unkempt knot on her head and her ever-present cell phone was in her hand. Barefoot, she hadn’t bothered looking up as she was texting rapidly, fingers flying as if the fate of the world rested in her reply.
“Hey!” Jeremy shouted.
Bianca glanced up sharply only to stop dead in her tracks. Even her frantic fingers paused over the keypad of her phone. “Mom?”
Pescoli held up a hand to cut off any further questions. “This isn’t my blood. I’m okay. A sniper tried to kill Dan Grayson this morning and I got there just in time to witness it. He’s at the hospital in Missoula now and . . .” She was shaking her head, wanting to reassure her children, but knowing she had to tell them the truth. Her heart squeezed and she had trouble finding the right words. “It’s gonna be touch and go for a while. He was hit twice, once in the chest and then in the head, both . . . both highly vulnerable places and I don’t really know much more.”
“Oh, my God.” Bianca’s large eyes rounded, then filled with tears. “But he’s going to be okay?”
Pescoli wasn’t going to lie. “I hope so.”
“Jesus! Who?” Jeremy asked angrily. “Why?”
If only I knew.
Bianca ran forward and threw her arms around her mother.
“Hey, there . . . It’s going to be okay,” Pescoli lied, holding her. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.”