“Who are you, you bastard?” she asked as she passed out of the business section where the office fronts gave way to apartments and houses, some decorated with hundreds of glowing lights, a few with lawn decorations that served to remind her only of the extra wise man in Preacher Mullins’s nativity scene and the snowman in
Mabel Enstad’s yard. Now, because of the sick Christmas card sent to Alvarez, the police knew that Brenda Sutherland, no doubt already dead, would probably be joining the others in someone’s Christmas display.
“Where, you creep?” she asked as the police band crackled in the console and she left the streetlights of Grizzly Falls behind her. Snowflakes danced in the beams of her headlights, and the open fields, blanketed in white, stretched away from the road as she considered the case and the victims, all different ages, sizes and shapes. The FBI was checking everyone associated with the Enstads and the Presbyterian church, cross-referencing them with friends, enemies or acquaintances of the victims. Alvarez was right, her own life was about to be thrown open to public scrutiny and Pescoli wondered about the men she’d sent up the river, or dated, or somehow wronged. Gabriel Reeve’s biological father would be questioned, and even Alberto De Maestro would be tracked down and grilled.
Pescoli even flirted with the idea that the killer might be a woman, but it just didn’t seem right; there were too many sexual innuendos involved, the naked bodies, the snow woman positioned as if the snowman was “doing” her from behind. No ... Pescoli couldn’t see a woman going to those lengths.
Anything’s possible. Maybe the killer is trying to throw you off ... Keep an open mind.
Despite the arguments running through her mind, she’d bet her next five months’ salary that the creep was a man. Again, she thought of the “artists” who sculpted ice, those that had been in Missoula over the weekend, none of which could be detained, all who had rock-solid alibis. Hank Yardley and George Flanders had been her best guesses, especially that hothead Flanders, who had wielded an ice pick before, sending his neighbor to ICU. As a farmer, he worked his own hours, but he was married and the current Mrs. Flanders was her husband’s alibi.
And Pescoli was looking into everyone who’d ever come into contact with Alvarez on a personal level, just checking their backgrounds to find out if there was a history of violence in their earlier years.
You just never knew.
And now they had new evidence to work with: the Christmas card sent to Alvarez. There was a chance the killer had gotten sloppy with a fingerprint or left saliva as he’d licked the flap of the envelope, or the block letters in the address would remind someone of a person’s handwriting, or that the card was bought locally and the store where it was purchased would be able to come up with a credit card or debit card account number. They’d already figured out that the card had been posted downtown, possibly at one of the drop boxes outside the post office, and security tapes were already being viewed. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get lucky.
Chapter 28
As he drove through the falling snow, O’Keefe decided he was going to stick like glue to Alvarez and he didn’t care what she had to say about it. Truth to tell, he was scared for her, worried sick, because the Ice Mummy Killer or whatever you wanted to call him had some kind of fascination with Selena.
As he turned onto Alvarez’s street, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, saw the bruises on his face, compliments of Junior Green. There was also a glint of determination in his eyes. Now that Aggie had fired him from his job of locating Gabe, he had no excuse to hang around, but he was going to. Whether Selena Alvarez knew it or not, she needed protection from the psycho, and O’Keefe would do what it took, including pissing her off, if he had to.
He parked his Explorer on the street across from her apartment and, armed with his tool kit, duffel bag, laptop and bag from the hardware store, walked through the falling snow to her apartment. Ringing the bell, he felt suddenly awkward, like a kid waiting for the door to be opened by his prom date.
He heard her moving around inside, then saw her eye darken the peephole.
A second later, she unlocked the door and swung it open. In oversized flannel PJs, her hair twisted into an unruly knot on the top of her head, she appeared smaller and more fragile than she was.
“You’re moving in?” Alvarez asked suspiciously as she eyed his duffel.
“How could you tell?” He wanted to keep things light.
“All those years of detective work, I guess.”
“Aaah. Well, you’re right. I thought I’d camp out here for a few days.”
“Really?” She wasn’t budging from the doorway. “Without even asking me?” Leaning one slim shoulder on the door frame, she added, “That’s kinda funny, because I don’t remember inviting you.”
“You didn’t.” He’d expected this reaction and ignored it as he swept past her into the foyer. “Lock the door behind me.”
“Hey, wait a sec, you can’t just bring all your gear and—”
“Of course I can.” Dropping his duffel on the floor of the living room and his laptop on the table, he said, “The killer’s making a statement. To you personally.”
“You found out about the Christmas card.”
“That’s just part of it, but, yeah. There’s a reason your things were left at the scene, your dog was stolen, your—”
“You think he has Roscoe?”
“I don’t know, but probably. Since he hasn’t turned up.”
“That son of a bitch. I mean, I thought it was a possibility, but I’d hoped ... Damn it all to hell.” She slammed the dead bolt shut and walked into the living room, where she dropped onto the couch. She was barefoot, her hair pinned onto her head haphazardly, as if she were getting ready for bed. Closing her eyes, she leaned back on the cushions, and the cat, hiding on a window ledge, hopped across a bookcase to navigate the back of the couch and nose Alvarez’s hair. “Grayson kicked me off the case.” Absently she plucked Jane from the couch and dropped her into her lap.
“He had to.”
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t like it.”