Born To Die (43 page)

Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Born To Die

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During the recitation Kacey recalled Cameron's taunts after he'd hit her with the rifle butt. He'd believed she and Leanna and the rest of Gerald's female offspring weren't mentally sound when his own mental illness was the reason he'd targeted all of them.

Tilly wound up by adding that Cameron had admitted his deadly deeds to Leanna when he'd tried to kill her years before, but she'd gotten away and found Trace. She'd left her son with Trace fearing Cameron would take his sick vengeance upon Eli. But her fear for Eli was the reason she came back, to save the boy everyone assumed she'd abandoned and to stop Cameron in his tracks.

“We were horrified,” Tilly finished. “And trapped. We wanted Eli to be safe, but we were worried sick about you all. Ed even tried to start the old John Deere in hopes of getting to the Foxx's, our neighbors to the north and calling the police.”

“Dang thing wouldn't even turn over in the cold,” Ed admitted. Both he and his wife looked worn out and beleaguered.

Pescoli returned with Eli who was interested in poking at the fake marshmallows floating in his hot chocolate. She also brought several cups of steaming coffee. Kacey took one, more for the warmth than anything else.

She turned to Ed and Tilly, softly asking the question that was now haunting her, “So . . . Eli is Cameron's son?”

“Not according to her. She was very adamant on that,” Tilly said and Ed nodded his agreement.

“I'm my dad's son,” Eli put in, blowing across his cocoa.

“Of course you are.” Kacey walked across the room and hugged him fiercely, sorry he'd overheard her; she'd thought he was out of earshot. She was so glad that he was safe. She would have to deal with his questions about his mother, she knew that, but she was willing to do it; to be with him and to be with Trace. Her feelings about Leanna were torn, but she couldn't deny that the woman had sacrificed herself for the sake of her son.

Alvarez's cell phone jangled and she looked at the screen. “I've got to take this,” she said, before walking into an adjoining room.

She was gone about ten minutes and when she returned, she said. “Looks like we can convict Cameron Johnson for more crimes than we know. The team who went to his house found a secret room down in the basement. There are pictures of the victims, information about each of them, many already dead, some who escaped.”

Kacey thought of Gloria Sanders-O'Malley, the fitness instructor.

“I'm going to have to call Jonas Hayes in L.A.,” Alvarez said to Pescoli. “I think we can tie Cam Johnson to Shelly Bonaventure's supposed suicide.”

“He was the creep who attacked me in Seattle,” Kacey said. “He admitted as much.” She sighed and shook her head. “If we're done here, can I get a ride to the hospital?”

Pescoli nodded. “I'll drive.”

Turning to Eli, Kacey said with a smile, “Come on. Let's go see your dad.”

As it turned out, Kacey wasn't alone in wanting to go to the hospital. Pescoli and Alvarez planned to question Trace when he woke up and Ed and Tilly, though tired, drove to St. Bart's as well.

But being back in the familiar hospital halls was a little surreal for Kacey. Though everything looked the way it had the last time she'd been here, after all she'd been through, it seemed different. Changed. She told herself that it was because of the fact she'd been hit in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle, but it was more, a deeper disconnect that all had to do with meeting a murderer face-to-face and killing him. Though she felt no regret for taking Cameron Johnson's life as he'd intended to murder Trace, she still felt out of step. She'd dedicated her professional life to helping heal, to save lives, and now she'd purposefully taken one.

Shake it off,
she told herself and after leaving a protesting Eli with Tilly and Ed, made her way to the Recovery Room as she was a doctor on staff. Alvarez and Pescoli were right behind her, but hung back to give her a second's privacy when she headed to the bed where Trace lay.

He was just coming around and woozy, his leg bandaged, his hospital gown askew. His leg had been saved, the femoral artery nicked but repaired. He moaned, his head dark against the white sheets. He blinked slowly awake.

“Hey, there,” she said, leaning over his bed as the Recovery Room nurse stepped away to allow them some privacy.

With obvious effort, he tried to focus.

“It's me.” She took his hand and her heart squeezed at the sight of him, his hair rumpled on the pillow, his jaw dark with beard shadow. God, she loved him and for a few harrowing minutes she'd thought she'd lost him forever. “Trace?”

One side of his mouth lifted in a dopey grin, but his eyes were far from clear. “Kacey?” he said, his voice rough.

“Yeah, it's me.” Her throat nearly closed as his grip tightened over hers.

“Eli?” he whispered.

“He's fine.” Tears burned the back of her eyes. “And he's here, waiting to see you. He's with the Zukovs, just down the hall.”

He seemed relieved, then goofy again. “Oh. Tilly. Ed.”

“Yes.” She knew he wouldn't remember much about waking up, maybe nothing, but she couldn't help herself from squeezing his hand. “Trace, I need to tell you something,” she said.

“Hmmmm . . .” He was drifting again.

“First of all, Leanna turned out to be okay. More than okay. I think she saved your life.” He didn't respond. Probably hadn't heard. “And there's something else,” she admitted, leaning close over the bed. “I love you.” She smiled, though she felt warm tears slide down her face. “It's crazy and I know it, but damn it, I love you.”

“I know . . .” His voice was far away. “You're gonna marry me.”

He was still out of it; didn't know what he was saying, but it filled her heart with joy. “We . . . we'll talk about it when you're better . . .”

His eyes opened suddenly and in that split second his gaze was clear. “I
am
better,” he said, and reached up quickly, his fingers sliding around her nape, as he lifted his head from the pillow and pulled her close so that their noses were nearly touching. “And you're gonna marry me, Dr. Lambert.”

Before she could say a word, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was as crushing as it was desperate. “No arguments,” he said when he finally released her and fell back on the sheets, spent, his eyes closing again.

“Faker,” she accused.

He didn't respond.

She felt a smile tug on her swollen lips and she didn't say it, but thought.
I am going to marry you, Trace O'Halleran. Count on it.

Epilogue

“
C
ome on, come on ... we're going to go caroling!”

Joelle, wearing ridiculous, red felt reindeer antlers was herding everyone into the lobby.

Pescoli looked up from her desk where she was studying the death certificates and newspaper reports on the two sisters of Cameron Johnson who had died young . . . in accidents. “I am
not
caroling!
I've
got work to do.”

“Oh, don't be a Scrooge!” Joelle admonished before clipping off in her clear high heels that looked like something Barbie would wear . . . well, and Michelle. Yeah, Lucky's young wife would
love
those heels.

It was only a week until Christmas and Joelle was really ramped up for the holiday. Christmas music and cookies and garlands and even the spinning tree with its fake presents stacked beneath it. What more could one woman do to a government office?

Not that Pescoli paid much attention. She'd had more than enough to deal with in her own life. For starters, Santana was pressuring her big-time. It turned out that Brady Long had left him part of his immense estate and Nate thought she and her children
and
the dog should move in with him.

As if it were just that easy.

Nope, she thought, clicking through the computer screens.

She wasn't convinced, though a father figure for her kids certainly wouldn't hurt. Jeremy, sick of her nagging and bored with his life, had finally agreed to go back to school come January and Pescoli was crossing her fingers that he wouldn't change his mind again. As for his involvement with Heidi Brewster, it was still simmering, but the kids were somehow keeping it on the “down low,” which may or may not be a good thing, depending on how you looked at it.

Bianca, well enough to go back to school, had actually started talking to some other boy who'd stopped by a couple of times, some kid on the basketball team who actually called her
Ms. Pescoli,
rather than ignoring her. Chris was still hanging out, of course, but it definitely looked like that particular romance was dying on the vine.

And none too soon.

As for the entire Secret Santa debacle, Pescoli had decided to play along and give the undersheriff a bottle of wine with its own little knit stocking cap that Joelle, Pescoli was certain, would do backflips over. Pescoli, herself, found it kind of gaggy. But she couldn't come up with anything else. The Oregon pinot noir had been on a special sale, keeping under the ten-dollar limit, and in Pescoli's mind, the gift was a bit of an olive branch. At least that's what she hoped.

After all, she had to work for the prick.

So life was looking up. Except for Alvarez who had sunk into her usual Christmas funk. There was something going on with her, just like every other holiday season. She never returned home to Oregon for Christmas and this year she'd said she planned to work over the holiday and let the people with families have the time off. When invited to Pescoli's she'd declined, claiming she wanted to spend her free time with Jane Doe, her newly adopted cat.

Pescoli had tried to ask her partner about her avoidance of all things to do with the yuletide, but Alvarez, as ever, managed to evade the questions or change the subject.

Christmas, as far as Alvarez was concerned, was a taboo topic.

Pescoli glanced out the window, noticed it was still snowing. At least, though, the storms had slowed and the workload at the department was back to a more normal level. As for Cameron Johnson, a sicko serial killer if there ever had been one, the FBI had stepped in and taken all of the files, notes, and computer information from Johnson's secret room in the basement of his house and were working the case.

It seemed Cameron had been hell-bent on eradicating the female offspring of Donor 727 for years. In his notes, the deputies had found reference to forty-two women, some who lived as far away as New England.

DNA tests had proven the victims around this part of Montana as well as others, including Shelly Bonaventure in LA, had, indeed, been Gerald Johnson's offspring. Other “accident” victims, the “Unknowings” named in Johnson's notes who were already dead, were being examined. If there were any DNA samples taken before they were buried, they were being compared, or the bodies were now being exhumed. They would probably never know about the few who had been cremated as there was no DNA left behind to be tested.

There was other physical evidence that tied Cameron Johnson to his crimes as well. The black paint on Kacey's Ford and Elle Alexander's minivan had matched the custommade spray-painted bumper guard that had been hidden in a shed and fit perfectly on Johnson's truck. A cache of stolen plates had been located, which explained some of the difficulty they'd had in ID-ing the damned truck.

Pescoli leaned back in her chair until it squeaked in protest and she heard, muted softly, the sound of voices raised in song ...

“I heard the bells on Christmas Day . . .”

Pescoli checked her watch. It was almost showtime and the stage was set.

A few things about the case still bothered Pescoli and scraped at her brain, tickling her into believing there had to be more than they'd already unearthed, even though all leads pointed to Cameron Johnson. As Kacey Lambert had insisted, Pescoli believed that Johnson had been the man who had attacked her in the parking garage in Seattle years before. And now, rumor had it the good doctor might be moving in with Trace O'Halleran, just like that, when Pescoli couldn't commit to a man she'd been in love with for years.

Now Pescoli closed her eyes for a moment and sighed, thinking hard, running over the loose ends. She was pretty sure she had it figured out. Cameron Johnson had been a whack job with a capital W. No doubt about that. Also, he'd definitely been unraveling, more and more taking risks, but that didn't explain everything. How had he gotten all the information on the clinic and the victims? Had he really uncovered that information himself? She didn't think so.

Another thing: it looked like Leanna O'Halleran had stolen the gun that she'd used that night, and that gun was Clarissa Werner's. Pescoli had interviewed Clarissa and her husband and they both believed Leanna has specifically taken it as a kind of âup yours' to the Johnson clan as a whole. And it looked like Leanna O'Halleran's special touch of irony was that she drove a BMW, same make and model as Clarissa's, to also point a finger in the Johnsons' direction.

Maybe. Or, maybe not. But there were other issues about the case that needed to still be addressed ...

Glancing at her watch again, Pescoli made a sound of impatience. Alvarez looked up, her brows lifted.

Earlier in the day, while they were grabbing coffee at Jolt, she'd asked her, “You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Pescoli had sprung for a triple chocolate mocha with a sprinkle of peppermint, just because it was the holidays.

Alvarez had ordered green tea.

Disgusting.

But Alvarez had been interested then, as she was now. “What are you planning?” she asked.

“I've already done it. Gerald Johnson is coming in, in about fifteen minutes, and I think he's bringing his favorite attorney.”

“Judd?”

“Um-hmm. And I've got a surprise for him.”

“Can't wait,” she said.

“C'mon, then,” Pescoli said, and Alvarez followed her to the front desk. Right on cue Gerald and Judd strode into the department. Judd was dressed as if he were going to try a case in court, Gerald in a sweater, ski jacket, jeans, and a world-weary expression.

“I don't understand why you insisted on coming here,” Judd was saying to his father. He glanced at Pescoli and added, “I've told you everything I know about my brother.”

Pescoli led them into an interrogation room and Judd stiffened.

“What's this about?” he demanded.

“The truth.” Pescoli turned on the recorder. “I've been doing some checking. A few things still don't add up. Maybe you can clarify them.”

“Be glad to,” Gerald said.

Judd wasn't as helpful. “Dad,” he warned his father, his expression brooking no argument, “I don't think this is a good idea.”

Pescoli ignored him and waved them into the side chairs as Alvarez closed the door behind them. “When we were talking about Aggie's accident, years ago, there was some discussion,” Pescoli began. “You said she got tangled in her blankets and tripped and fell down the stairs.”

“No,” Judd said, “I remember Cameron brushing up against her and she fell. No one could catch her.”

“You also said that she was pushed,” Pescoli reminded, from her chair across from them.

“Well, it was a little of both, I think.” Judd's eyes narrowed and his shoulders stiffened slightly. “I don't understand.”

“I do,” Gerald said. “I came home that night and Cameron was really upset. He said he didn't mean to do it, that he didn't want to push Aggie, but he couldn't help himself. I didn't understand it. Then Thane's version was slightly different. He said that you, Judd, ran into Cameron and he fell against Aggie. And Colt said you pushed Cam into Aggie, but Cam was able to save himself.”

“We were kids . . .” Judd explained with a shrug. “It was a long time ago. You can't expect any of us to recall exactly what happened.”

Pescoli walked to the door and opened it again. Clarissa Johnson Werner stepped inside. “They called me in,” she said as a kind of sideways apology to her brother, but nevertheless stated firmly, “You're wrong. I remember. I was there.”

“What is this?” Judd demanded. “You've been listening in.”

“Watching on a monitor,” she said tersely. “And you're lying. I saw what happened that day and you were behind it, Judd. You probably didn't mean for Aggie to fall down the stairs, but you shoved Cameron hard and he fell against her. I was on the phone, coming out to check and ... you pushed him.”

“Where is this going?” Judd demanded tensely. “It was an accident. Kids roughhousing.” But he was beginning to sweat, a tiny bead drizzling down his temple.

“And then on the ski slopes when Kathleen died,” Clarissa went on determinedly, “you were there. Skiing with Cam and Kathy. I saw you talking to them and later Cam told me you dared him to race Kathy and to go off trail where the snow wasn't groomed. You told him that Kathy, like Aggie, wasn't normal. That she was crazy, when really, Cam was the one who wasn't balanced.”

“What are you talking about?” Judd said, the sweat now collecting on his upper lip. “This is crazy. Nuts.
Old
news and I'm not going to listen to this a second longer.”

Pescoli was expecting his reaction. She said evenly, “My partner and I intend to get to the bottom of this. We know Cameron was the killer, and maybe he acted alone. But it seems to me he had some help and at first I thought it was his twin. Colt. What better alibi? But then I discovered that your father's corporation, under the guise of several different companies, bought out the old fertility clinic. And guess whose name is all over the documents?”

Judd didn't flinch. “We buy a lot of companies. Especially small medical facilities.”

Pescoli leaned back in her chair. “You want to tell us just what your relationship was with your brother, Cameron?”

“My brother was crazy.”

“And one sister was mentally challenged, another bipolar. Huh. Looks like mental problems aren't just limited to the women your father sired. I think it only makes sense that Cameron had someone helping him along, giving him a little mental . . . âshove' you might say.”

“You're the one who's out of her mind, detective!” Judd's face flushed red, his one hand clenched into a fist.” He kicked out his chair and walked to the door. “This interview is over!”

“We'll be seeing you, Mr. Johnson,” Pescoli said.

“The hell you will!” He slammed out of the room and Gerald, looking deeply concerned, followed a few moments later, with Clarissa taking up the rear.

When they were alone Pescoli turned to Alvarez and said, “Well?”

Alvarez half smiled. “Well. We're going to nail him, aren't we?”

“Count on it.”

They walked out of the room together and Alvarez glanced up at Pescoli as they reached the hallway. “Another Merry Christmas, partner.”

“Another Merry Christmas.”