“Wow. Seems far-fetched, but okay.”
“She benefits the most financially. That’s all I’m saying.”
Again, Pescoli looked at the glove box, and again resisted the temptation within. “What else?”
“Well, there’s the political angle. The sheriff’s up for reelection soon and he’s got a couple of people who’ve made noise about running.”
“Please don’t tell me Brewster’s already making moves,” she groaned as she passed a snowplow scraping snow from the oncoming lane as it moved slowly in the opposite direction.
“Not that I know of, no. I’m talking about Cal Moran and Shirley Braddock.”
“Both good cops.” Pescoli, too, had heard that Cal and Shirley might run, each having political ambitions. Cal was a fiftyish father of five, grandfather of two, and Shirley was a single woman, a dedicated cop who was probably being urged by her lawyer boyfriend, Hans Tobias, who just happened to be an assistant district attorney. Hans was pushy, his mind as sharp as the crease in the pants of his Armani suits. However, even when you threw ambitious Hans into the mix, a political angle didn’t quite wash. “Far-fetched,” she said.
“I agree. Next up are the ex-cons.”
“Now you’re talkin’. Who’s around?”
“Of all the dirtbags Grayson sent up the river, I’ve got several possibles. I’m checking with their parole officers, but the most likely suspects are, first, Floyd Cranston. He’s been out two months after doing time for domestic violence; tried to kill his wife and her lover with an ax.”
“Nice guy.”
“Then there’s Maurice Verdago. In and out of jail for domestic abuse before he finally ended up in Judge Samuels-Piquard’s courtroom. Once he was sentenced, he gave her the finger, pointed at her, and yelled, ‘You’ll get yours, bitch.’ ”
“Another charmer.” Pescoli had always thought Verdago was a blasting cap with a very short fuse. She loathed the guy, and he seemed to feel the same way. She’d been with Grayson when Verdago had been nabbed and the hatred in his eyes had zeroed in on her. He’d gone so far as to call her a “cunt cop” and then spat on the ground when she’d handcuffed him. She figured him for a woman hater: the kind of guy who can’t live with them, can’t help roughing them up. “Really, he’s out?”
“For the last six months. Attempted murder of his brother-in-law.”
“Ah . . . yes. Sucks for the sister.”
Alvarez nodded. “He had a whole arsenal of weapons. Military stuff, all kinds of weaponry, even Russian guns. Everything from grenades and an AK-47 to some kind of fancy sword. What got him arrested, though, was that he tried hacking up his victim with a butcher knife. Business partners. The brother-in-law, Ronnie Watkins, was skimming funds from their recently started trucking company. Supposedly, Verdago’s been staying out of trouble, working as a janitor in a Helena apartment building.”
Pescoli snorted. “Once a crook, always a crook. And he’d been in the army, right? A sharpshooter?”
“Uh-huh. His file mentions that he was the prime suspect in the disappearance of Joey Lundeen, someone he knew, but the case went cold.”
“Quite a résumé.”
“Not only that, but he hated Grayson’s guts, or so he told his cell mate. I found mention of it when that guy, what’s his name, oh, here it is, Gerald Resler, was released.”
“He’s out too?”
“Resler? Yeah, walking the straight and narrow for three years now. Married. With a kid.”
Pescoli said, “Resler took a can opener to his girlfriend.”
“When he was nineteen.”
“Still . . .”
“I’ll double-check on him, but Resler wasn’t Grayson’s collar.”
“He was mine,” Pescoli said, remembering the scruffy kid with a bad case of acne, shaved head, and hate-filled eyes. “A real piece of work. Now he’s married with a kid?” She let out a huff of disbelief and finally opened the damned glove box for her cigs.
“He found God.”
“Good for him.” Discovering the pack, she yanked both it and a lighter from the compartment.
“I think he’s a better bet than Verdago and Cranston.”