His jaw was clamped shut, and irritation caused a muscle to work in his jaw. “No.” He slid the pictures back toward Pescoli, who was still standing near the table.
Kacey asked, “Who is she?”
Pescoli thought for a moment and said, “I guess we can tell you, considering the situation, but keep it to yourselves. Next of kin is being notified as we speak. Her name is Karalee Rierson. She’s local. A nurse. Divorced. A couple of times. No kids. Lived in Oregon for a while.” She paused a moment, as if thinking things over, then said, “She grew up in Helena.”
“Dear God,” Kacey whispered, sick inside. Who was behind all these accidents? Why was he killing?
“Dr. Lambert went to see Gerald Johnson today,” Alvarez said, then nodded to Kacey, who explained again about getting her mother to come up with the truth, then forcing herself on Gerald Johnson and his family.
“Did you go to see Johnson and his clan to try and flush out the kil
ler?” Pescoli asked, her expression stern. She stood leaning against the far wall, below a camera mounted near the ceiling.
“I actually went to meet them, show them the pictures, tell them what I knew. I wanted to see their expressions, especially Gerald’s, as he seems to be the link to all of this.” She felt cold inside again, just remembering his reaction and those of her half siblings. Though she didn’t really know them, she realized she would never be close to any of them, might, in fact, never see them again. Her curiosity was satisfied, though; as far as she was concerned, they weren’t part of her family. “Gerald was concerned when I showed him the pictures of the dead women, and even though I don’t think he wanted to, he owned up to the whole sperm donor thing, which bothered most of his kids.”
“I’d say,” Pescoli muttered.
“From now on, stay away from them,” Alvarez advised.
Trace asked, “You think they’re dangerous?”
“I think it’s police business.” Pescoli was firm. “Not that we don’t appreciate the fact that you found out who our sperm donor is. We only had a number.”
They discussed the meeting with the Johnson clan, and then Kacey told the detectives about Gloria Sanders-O’Malley, the instructor at Fit Forever. “She looks like the rest of us, and she was born in Helena.”
“I’ve seen her at the gym,” Alvarez said, her expression growing tense. “She does resemble the others.”
“For the love of God, how many victims and potential victims are we talking about?” Pescoli broke in. “This is nuts!” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Go on.”
“Once I figured out there were more people like me, those with Gerald Johnson as a father, I went to meet him, see what he was like. I wasn’t sure I’d meet his kids, but once Clarissa barged into his office and figured out who I was, they called a family meeting.”
“You should have come here first,” Pescoli said.
“What would I have come with? Some half-baked theory about people who looked like me getting killed off? A few days ago I didn’t even know that Stanley Collins wasn’t my biological father.” The newfound anger and sense of betrayal that had been with her ever since her mother’s confession still burned bright.
“You know of any other potential victims?” Alvarez asked.
“I have a friend looking through state files. I’m not going to give up their name,” she said, instinctively covering for Riza. “And I believe, from what I’ve learned, that there may have been others already killed.... It’s as if the guy started out years ago working in a wide circle, then slowly tightened it, until he’s now concentrating here, in this corner of Montana. From as far away as Detroit to all along the West Coast, Seattle and San Francisco, women have been having accidents. I haven’t had time to look into them all, but I’ve got names and addresses and dates of death.” Reaching into her purse, she found a manila envelope that contained the information from Riza. She slid it across the table toward Alvarez, but she didn’t take her fingers off the end of the envelope closest to her.
Alvarez frowned and placed her fingers on the other side of the envelope. Inside the envelope were copies without any information about Riza or the state offices from which they came, but it would be a simple enough matter for the police, if they were so inclined, to figure out where they had come from, and a simple search into Kacey’s background and her schooling would connect her to Riza. She had to come clean. “A friend of mine risked their job for this. You have to promise me that they won’t get into any kind of trouble. None.”
“This is a sheriff’s department investigation,” Pescoli reminded everyone in the room.
Kacey held fast to the envelope. “Women are dying. As far as I know, no men have been killed, which is really odd, since Gerald Johnson has fathered a number of males, too.”
“No one will lose their job or get into serious trouble,” Alvarez promised, and Kacey let go of the envelope.
“I’m going to have someone get right on this,” Pescoli said and left the room quickly.
Alvarez continued the interview. When she asked if Kacey had ever felt stalked or if things were strange, Kacey was reminded again of the attack in Seattle and mentioned it. Then she remembered the accident and Grace Perchant’s warning. “This is probably nothing,” she said, “but I was in an accident, or almost an accident. Less than a fender bender. The roads were icy and another car lost control, I had to swerve to miss it, and when I did, I slid into the other lane. A big truck, going the opposite direction, clipped my bumper. It seemed like on purpose. Even though it was obviously my fault, the other driver took off, rather than stop and swap insurance information.”
Alvarez, who was taking notes, asked, “You didn’t get a look at the driver?”
“Just a quick glimpse, but other than seeing it was a man with dark hair, no.” Kacey shook her head and, out of her peripheral vision, saw Trace tense, the muscles in his neck tighten. “For the most part, his face was averted. I had the impression I’d seen him before, but ... I couldn’t place him. He did look like some of Gerald Johnson’s sons I met today, but I might be pushing that.”
Alvarez asked, “Do you know the make or model of the truck?”
“I was too busy trying to stay on the road. It was big, probably domestic—Chevy or Ford, I think—but I’m not sure. What I did notice was that it had a huge bumper guard of some kind on it, looked like it was steel, but painted black, and even though I didn’t get a good look at the plates, I had a feeling that they weren’t from Montana. One of the numbers was either a three or an eight. Or, maybe it was a B? The back plate was really dirty, and there wasn’t time to get a second look. It all happened in just a few seconds.”