As she stepped into the landing, where stairs split to go either up or down, Jeremy pulled the door shut. Pictures of the Brewster girls lined the walls, from all ages, as if every school shot of each of Cort’s daughters had been framed and mounted.
“We’ve got a serious problem,” Jeremy said, and Pescoli braced herself for the news she expected.
“I figured.”
“It’s Heidi’s dad. The undersheriff.”
Heidi was bawling loudly now, her shoulders shaking, tears running freely.
This is about Cort Brewster?
“Show her,” he said as Heidi reached into the pocket of her jacket to withdraw her phone. She handed it to Jeremy, who messed with it for a second, then, lips tight against his teeth, turned it around so that Pescoli could see the picture on the phone’s tiny screen, a picture of Judge Kathryn Samuels-Piquard, completely naked.
Pescoli’s stomach dropped.
“There’s more,” Jeremy admitted and scrolled through a few more, enough to show the judge and undersheriff in compromising positions. “And there’s a tape.”
“They made a sex tape?” Pescoli said, wondering at the stupidity of people. Heidi slid to the bottom step of the upward-leading staircase. Burying her face in her hands, she continued crying softly.
“I . . . I can’t believe this,” she whispered, hiccups interrupting her. “This . . . this”—she waved at the phone—“will kill Mom.”
“She doesn’t know?” Pescoli asked, though it was clear her son and Heidi had brought the evidence of Brewster’s infidelity to her first.
Sniffing loudly, Heidi looked up at Jeremy. “I should have erased all of it. I found it on a computer in the basement and sent it to my phone and then . . . then it was stolen by that horrible man, that killer, and he was probably blackmailing Dad or something. But then I showed it all to Jeremy and he said I should tell you and . . . and now I think I’m going to be in big trouble.” She was gulping for air, winding herself up. Obviously what had been worrying her for weeks had finally come to the surface, probably because of Jeremy’s insistence that Heidi tell Pescoli. Worse yet, the girl suspected something more sinister, a suspicion that had probably been growing for days. “Mom’s going to be home soon. I don’t know what to tell her.”
Neither do I, Pescoli thought, but couldn’t tell the poor girl that her father was a suspected serial killer. “Look, Jer, why don’t you take Heidi to our place. Leave Mrs. Brewster a note.” Then she bent down on a knee so she was closer to the girl. “You’re going to be okay. And so is your mom.”
“And . . . and my dad?”
“We’ll see, but he’s tough.” That much was true. She glanced at the screen once more and looked beyond the subject matter to the backdrop. Wherever the film had been taken, it was unfamiliar territory to Pescoli. “Do you know where this is? Where the pictures were taken?”
Heidi was nodding, her blond head bobbing. “It’s at the mountain house.”
“You have one?”
“Yeah . . . it was my grandparents’.”
“Do you know where it is?” Pescoli asked.
“Sure.” She blinked. “Why?”
Just then Pescoli’s phone rang and she picked up.
“All clear here,” Alvarez said. “Grayson’s the same. I’ve got a guard coming. Now, we just have to find Brewster.”
“I think I’ve got that covered,” Pescoli said, and armed with this new information, she was convinced that Verdago, the sap, had been set up.
Cort Brewster was the killer and man, oh, man was he going down.
Chapter 35
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He felt time running out.
There was a chance that Grayson would pull through. After all he’d planned, all the risks he’d taken, all the sacrifices he’d made, the damned sheriff might just make it. He’d been reading up on wounds like Grayson’s, which were so often fatal, but sometimes, like in the case of that politician from Arizona, the victims made a nearly full recovery.
He just couldn’t let that happen.