A blast of wind howled past the town house, rattling the windows.
“Nasty out there,” he observed, but he was already rolling off the bed, scooping up his boxers and jeans.
“You got any ski pants? It’s crazy cold outside. Saw it on the news already; the storm they’ve been predicting for a week has hit.”
As if to punctuate her observation, the lights went out.
“Crap,” he said as, fumbling, she turned on the flashlight app on her iPhone, then found a flashlight in the drawer and tossed it to him.
“Get a move on, O’Keefe; I need to get my car out of the garage.”
“You know how to disable the electricity to the garage door opener?”
“Yeah, but it would be nice if you’d help.”
He flashed her a grin in the half-light, a sexy slash of white that touched her heart. “You got it, Detective,” he said and, as she walked by, took a playful swipe at her rump.
Once again the crime scene appeared to be a madhouse, Pescoli thought, though the department had contained it, separating the area from the rest of town. This time, since Woody’s was located in the heart of the old town on the lower level of Grizzly Falls, the roads around the block had been cordoned off, barriers put in place and county vehicles were parked around the perimeter, their flashing lights in competition with the holiday strands strung over the city, with harsh-faced deputies ensuring that the crowd that had gathered was held at bay.
Despite the frigid temperature and blizzard-force winds, dozens of bystanders had collected, people on their way to work, clients on their way to appointments, joggers whose daily run was interrupted, even suspects who were being hauled into court. The heart of town was at a standstill, compliments of the Ice Mummy Killer, whoever the hell he was.
But they would catch him, Pescoli was certain, this time the maniac had fouled up. It would be impossible for him not to have been seen or captured on camera. Hopefully he would be identified.
She checked out the body, saw that it, like the others, had been posed, set in a public place, a woman trapped in an ice sculpture behind plywood cutouts of carolers holding songbooks, their two-dimensional faces posed as if they were singing, their garb reminiscent of a rudimentary version of something seen in a Currier and Ives lithograph. Brenda Sutherland was naked aside from the locket, just as she had been in the photograph sent to Alvarez in the twisted Christmas card.
Security tapes for the store were only kept a day, and the camera was motion activated, but certainly it would give some clues as to the creep who had been brazen enough to leave his latest victim on the sidewalk of the main street of town.
“There’s someone who insists on talking with you,” Pete Watershed said as he approached. “It’s Sandi Aldridge from Wild Will’s.”
Pescoli’s heart sank, but she walked to the barrier in front of the restaurant, where Sandi, wearing a thick ski jacket and matching pants, stood under the awning. There were other people gathered in the relative protection of the building, but Sandi stood a little apart from them. Her arms were wrapped around her middle and her jaw seemed to tremble a bit. Pescoli approached and saw that Sandi’s glasses were a little fogged with the cold, but she stared through them with frantic eyes shaded in a brilliant purple. “It’s Brenda, isn’t it? Oh, God, I was afraid of this.”
She lifted a gloved hand to her mouth and bit into it, as if to stop herself from breaking down and sobbing.
“It’s early. Next of kin hasn’t—”
“Screw next of kin. Brenda was like a daughter to me! I knew it. I knew that whack job had her.” She sniffed loudly. “You’ve checked on that louse of an ex-husband of hers, right? I swear—”
“I know, Sandi. We’re looking at everyone.”
“But Brenda ...” Her voice broke. “It’s just not fair!”
It never is.
Pescoli was called away and Sandi shuffled off, shoulders shaking as she made her way into the restaurant. “Crime scene team’s here,” Watershed told her. “And Detective Alvarez.”
“Good.” If anyone wanted to pick a fight with her about her partner being involved, well, bring them on. Pescoli didn’t have time for protocol and now, as she saw Brett Gage approaching, she inwardly groaned. The guy was a good enough cop, just a little soft for her liking.
Fortunately Alvarez had shown. She was talking to the cop and signing in to the scene. She walked up to Pescoli and said, “Show me.”
Gage looked about to say something, but Pescoli held up a gloved hand, warning him to tread lightly. “Over here,” she said, leading the way to the front of the music store, where techs were taking pictures of the scene, complete with the plywood decorations and the ice sculpture. “Yours?” she asked, shining her flashlight directly onto the dead woman and the locket that hung from a tiny gold chain at her neck.
“Looks like.”
Pescoli snapped off her light. “Figured.” She gazed at the ice mummy. “This whack job, he’s got a thing for you, Alvarez.”
“So you said.”
“No, I said he was targeting you. But I think it goes deeper than that. He was in your house, stole your things, displays them along with the women he kills. It’s more than targeting,” she thought aloud. “This is personal.”