Born To Die (15 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Born To Die
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“So, you're saying I don't have any ... cousins that I was never told about? Since you and Helen have been estranged, I thought—”
“What? That I lied? Why would I do that?” Her mother looked perturbed again and straightened her napkin. “I'm telling you, no cousins. You know that. I don't understand why you're asking now.”
“Okay, okay. I know it sounds a little crazy, but remember that patient I was telling you about, the one who fell while jogging and ended up in the ER?”
“Yes. At Boxer Bluff.” So Maribelle had been listening.
“Unfortunately, she didn't make it. Her name was Jocelyn Wallis, and she was a schoolteacher, who, as it turns out, was born around here. And she looked a lot like me. Enough to freak out some of the nurses I work with.”
Her mother grew deathly quiet for the first time since they'd sat down as Kacey explained the details. She refolded the napkin twice before Kacey launched into her resemblance to Shelly Bonaventure, another woman who looked like her and was born in the area.
“I saw that she'd died. Not much of an actress, if you ask me,” Maribelle said. “And I suppose she might look a little like you, but so what?” She was shaking her head. “What are you suggesting? That those women were fathered by your uncles?” She rolled her eyes. “And then what? Adopted to other families and we never heard about it?”
“Or maybe Dad, before he met you . . .”
“Oh, Acacia, stop it! Right now! If Stanley had any other children, don't you think I'd know about it?” she demanded.
“Maybe he didn't know.”
“We're talking about your father! Remember him?” She shot her daughter a withering glance. “He would be mortified if he were here, Acacia! As it is, he's probably rolling over in his damned grave!” She shuddered theatrically. “Your friends have overactive imaginations, or some need to put some drama into their lives.” Leaning back in her chair, she glared at Kacey and shook her head. “Come on, Acacia! How many long-lost cousins do you think the family's hidden from you?”
“Maybe none. I don't know. I'm just saying it's strange.”
“So many things in life are ‘strange' or ‘odd' or ‘coincidence. ' ” After making air quotes, she waved her hand as if to dismiss the entire topic, as if it were inconsequential claptrap. But her cavalier attitude didn't quite match the sliver of concern that Kacey noticed in her mother's eyes as she added, “You know, people see resemblances with each other all the time. People make entire careers out of being celebrity lookalikes. Now, that's the end of this inane conversation!” She turned her attention back to her pumpkin cheesecake. “Mitch really outdid himself with this. Try a little, and don't forget to get a bit of the whipped cream.”
“Nice dodge, Mother,” she said.
“Taste it, and drop this ridiculous inquisition—”
“It's not an inquisition. I'm just asking about the family.”
“And I've answered, so that's that.”
Her mother transformed into the Maribelle Collins Kacey recognized best: the set, jutted jaw; the pursed lips; the narrowed eyes. Her neck was nearly bowed, and Kacey knew she would learn nothing else. Tonight. Not from her mother.
What Maribelle didn't realize was that, rather than turn Kacey's attention away, she'd practically ensured her daughter was going to keep digging. There were other ways to check birth records, and she had access as a doctor. For now, she couldn't nudge her mother any further and there was no reason to antagonize her, but she was not giving up.
She'd learned while growing up that she could push her mother only so far. So now, Kacey didn't argue. It wouldn't make any difference, anyway. If Maribelle didn't want to talk about something, she just didn't.
So, it was time to feign the peace, if not make it. “Okay,” Kacey said, lifting her spoon. “Let's see if Mitch's cheesecake is all that it's cracked up to be.” Reaching across the small table, she plunged her spoon into the dessert and noticed her mother's shoulder muscles, beneath the shimmering silver silk, relax a bit.
“Mmmm, that is good,” Kacey said, as if savoring the sweet taste of caramel. But the words were rote as she wondered why her mother was determined to change the subject away from her father or uncle or cousins or anyone associated with the family. If she hadn't felt so before, Kacey was pretty certain now that there were more than a few skeletons in the family closet.
CHAPTER 12
“
W
hat're you still doing here?”
The sheriff's voice almost echoed down the empty hallway.
Seated at her desk, her gaze drawn to the computer monitor, Alvarez glanced over her shoulder just as Dan Grayson actually stepped into her office area.
Her insides tensed slightly, just as they always did whenever she was alone with him. The weird thing was that it wasn't because he was her boss; she had worked for different overseers since she was fifteen and had never experienced this reaction, but there was something about Grayson that put her just a little on edge. And she didn't like it. “I was just catching up on some things.” Rolling the chair around, she found him looming above her.
He filled the doorway, a tall man with broad shoulders and a mustache going gray. Sturgis, his dog, a black Lab who was a washout with the K-9 unit, was right behind him.
“You do know it's a holiday.”
“Thanksgiving. I heard.”
He chuckled deep in his throat, and she hated that she found the sound pleasing, that she, too, wanted to smile. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?
“I haven't authorized any overtime.”
“And I haven't asked for any, have I?”
“Or comp time.”
She nodded. “As I said, just tying up some loose ends.”
“Go home. It's a holiday,” he repeated.
She lifted a shoulder. The truth was that she never made a big deal of holidays. Most of her family was in Woodburn, Oregon, and her studio apartment was really just a place to crash, not exactly homey or a place she'd want to invite the few friends she felt close enough to have over. Besides, they all had families and, holiday traditions. Pescoli had dropped by earlier and, upon learning that Alvarez had no plans for the day, had offered a halfhearted invitation for Alvarez to join her. Though she had declined, Alvarez had felt a stupid pang of regret that she was entirely alone, especially when Pescoli had hurried out the back door on her way to meet Santana. Alvarez, glancing out the window and watching Pescoli's Jeep drive off through the falling snow, had sighed. She could imagine Pescoli and Nate Santana enjoying a quiet meal alone, in front of a crackling fire, a turkey roasting in the oven of Santana's rustic cabin, making love until long into the night.
The thought had jolted her.
Time to get a pet,
she'd told herself and gone back to work, here at her desk in the department offices.
Now, with Grayson watching her, she said, “It's quiet here. I get a lot done when no one's around. No distractions.”
“What about later? What're you doing?”
“I was thinking Chinese takeout.”
He actually smiled, his lips twitching beneath the mustache. “Great as that sounds, and, y'know, it does, why don't you stop by my place?” Her stupid heart nearly skipped a beat. “Got a few friends comin' by. Around six. Real casual.”
So they wouldn't be alone. Good. “Maybe I will.”
He chuckled again. “That sounds like a thinly disguised ‘No, thanks.'”
“A bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool maybe.”
“I'll hold you to it.” His eyes, as brown as her own, pinned her and silently accused her of trying to placate him. “And get the hell outta here.” With a nod, as if he were agreeing with himself, he whistled to the dog, then made his way toward the back door, the sound of his boot heels and the click of claws fading away.
She leaned back in her chair and reminded herself that Grayson was her boss. Yeah, she found him attractive in that grizzled ranch-hand way. With his long legs, slim hips, and broad shoulders, he was built like a cowboy, tough as leather, and, as far as she knew, had lived all of his life in the area. He'd been married once, and she didn't really know all the details there; Grayson kept a lot of his personal life close to the vest, which was another reason she admired him. She did the same.
Today, though, she hadn't been lying. The offices, for once, were nearly silent, aside from the hum of the furnace as it forced warm air through the vents. She was able to get a lot of work done without coworkers, ringing phones, fax machines, and e-mail blasting at her every ten seconds. But she wasn't playing catch-up, as she'd told Grayson.
Instead she was reviewing Jocelyn Wallis's autopsy and tox screen.
The autopsy indicated that the victim had heart disease, more advanced than she might have known. According to the ME, Jocelyn's arteries were partially blocked and could have been from a woman twice her age, the result probably of bad genes and a hard lifestyle. She probably would have suffered a heart attack if her condition was left untreated and might have died young. There was no sign of recent sexual activity, but along with evidence of the over-the-counter meds she'd been taking, there were traces of arsenic in her blood.
She looked through the report that listed the contents of the victim's stomach and found nothing out of the ordinary. It looked like chicken vegetable soup and coffee and little else.
Odd. Rather than the evidence absolving her of her suspicions, just the opposite had proved true. Glancing at a photo of the victim, she said, “So what happened to you?”
And more importantly, who did it?
Jocelyn had two ex-husbands, one living outside of Laramie, Wyoming, the other in Edmonton, Alberta, in Canada. Both had ironclad alibis and, it seemed, had had little contact with their ex-wife. Without children or custody issues or jointly held businesses, there had been no reason for them to keep in contact with her.
Also, Jocelyn had next to no life insurance, just enough to bury her. The beneficiaries listed were her parents. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She still owed on her car, so no one would end up with a vehicle. However, her phone records were more interesting. Aside from her girlfriends, she had called Trace O'Halleran a couple of times, though it seemed as if she'd just left messages; the calls were short.
Something?
Alvarez wondered. He had gone into Jocelyn's place, admitted to doing so; his fingerprints would probably match several latents they'd collected. He was one of the only persons they'd found who knew where she hid her spare key, though anyone could have found it.
Still ... Trace O'Halleran was the last man she'd dated with any kind of interest. And he was the one person someone at the school had called when they were worried about her.
He seemed normal enough, but even calm, even-keeled people could be pushed into violence given the right situation.
He was worth checking out.
Clicking off her computer, she decided it was time for a little more investigation. Even though it was Thanksgiving, a skeleton crew was working in the crime lab, so she made a quick call and asked Mikhail Slatkin, the investigator on duty, to meet her at Jocelyn Wallis's apartment. Now that she had proof that Ms. Wallis didn't just die of a misstep, she needed to take another, deeper look at her home, life, and job.
 
 
He dressed in dark slacks, a crisp shirt, and a casual sweater, then checked his hair in the mirror and decided his look for the command performance on Thanksgiving Day was perfect. Impeccable.
Truth be known, he detested the holidays, all of them, but he put on a good front, pinning on a smile and driving through the snow to his sister's home, a lakeside manor always in some phase of reconstruction.
His large family collected here each and every third Thursday in November, at his sister's home, and he was expected to show, which he always did. He feigned interest in all their petty little problems, even played with his nieces and nephews, deflected any questions about his personal life and the women he dated.
Because he knew they didn't care. In fact, they didn't trust him. He was, and always would be, the outsider. No matter how hard he tried to fit into their close-knit group.
He brushed his lips across his sister's cheek as he handed her a bottle of expensive wine that both she and her husband fawned over. He swung his niece off her chubby legs and heard her giggle in delight. He, after all, was the “fun” uncle. He even went to the trouble of going outside and trudging through the snow to view his nephew's snowman and snow fort, from which the niece, of course, was forbidden.
Inside he was charming, even suffering through one of his sister's guided tours of what they were “doing” to the house this year—a complete gutting and remodeling of the guest bathroom in the south wing.
“God help us that it gets done before Christmas. Lord, is that only five weeks away?” his sister said, looking around at the gaping holes where sinks and a toilet had once stood. Tile and grout had been displaced; the mirror, still hanging, was cracked in one corner. She sighed heavily. “I guess I'll have to get on that builder!”
“It's going to be great,” he answered, forcing enthusiasm.
“I hope so. Then you can stay with us! You'll have your own suite, and the kids would love it.” Her eyes darkened just a shade with the lie. “I'd love it, too.” Her hand touched his arm then, lingering just a bit too long. She retracted it quickly when her husband walked in, his voice booming, “Welcome to our nightmare. The continuing nightmare.”
They made their way downstairs, and shaking off his sister and her oaf of a husband, he saw that the music continued to play, the wineglasses were always refilled, that his father was never out of the conversation. Of course, he was in charge of carving the turkey, even deigning to wear one of his brother-in-law's stupid man aprons.
Throughout the meal at the seemingly mile-long table, he smiled and laughed, dodging the most pointed of their prying questions. Over the top of his wineglass he winked at his cousin, and she quickly averted her gaze, one that had been drawn to him throughout the evening, and blushed.
His sister, of course, had seen the exchange, and her lips had pursed in abject disapproval.
All of his family had speculated about his love life, and he'd given them just enough information to keep them satisfied, but it was a game, really, watching them offer help to set him up with different women.
As if he needed their charity.
This year the banter had started when his sister announced that her best friend was going through a messy divorce. The woman's attributes were pretty, good figure, decent job,
no
kids. Might even end up with several hundred thou, if her husband, the snake, didn't screw her over.
Then there was one of his brothers' old high-school girlfriends, rumored to be back in town and newly single. His mother had made note. However, his father had pointed out, the woman they were all so sure was “the one” did have three girls, the oldest already in her teens.
But what about that woman he used to work with, oh, what's-her-name? You know the one. A lawyer, wasn't she? And good-looking, too. Smart as a whip.
Such a shame his job took him so far away so often.
He needed to settle down, his father reminded him. Was the old man afraid? Did he suspect?
Maybe next year his schedule would slow down, and he could spend more time here....
He let the conversation swirl around him, smiling affably, talking about the upcoming holidays and how they would all spend Christmas together, though it was getting more and more difficult.
His sister pulled him aside when he helped clear the plates, and she worried aloud about their father's health. Who knew if the old man would make it to next Thanksgiving? Every day he was still alive and ambulatory was a blessing, didn't he know?
Next year, well, she couldn't think that far ahead.
Of course not. Who knew what new construction project would come between then and now?
But five to one the old man, hearty and hale, would outlive all his progeny. And that was saying something.
He stayed to watch his father finish a last scotch, then load himself and his wife into their waiting SUV, a Cadillac complete with driver. He shook his father's hand and found the old man's handshake as firm as ever.
“Say something to Mother,” his sister insisted, and lying through his teeth, he told the old bat that she looked “radiant,” and that he couldn't wait until they all got together again at Christmas.
The second they were driving away, through a falling screen of snow, his thoughts turned toward the future. He managed a round of quick good-byes, and then, saying he had to get home because he had an early flight in the morning, he half jogged to his car.
Only when the rambling lake house disappeared from his rearview mirror did he let down his mask and unhinge his jaw from the insipid smile he'd pinned there for the past five hours. He rubbed at the scar hidden beneath his sideburn and let his thoughts darken.
He didn't have time for holidays or nonsense.

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