Left To Die (42 page)

“Then you should let the police handle it.”

She stared at him. Hard. “Would you?” When he didn’t answer, she half-smiled. “Okay, I know the answer to that. And the police will probably want me to go somewhere safe and hide.”

“Probably.”

She shook her head. “How would you feel if someone tried to kill you twice? If they jumped you, stripped you and tied you to a damned tree?” She felt her blood burning through her veins again, anger and adrenalin spurring her on. “I know how to shoot a gun. I’ve had courses in self-defense. I’m no wimp—”

“And right now you’re feeling angry and self-righteous and foolish,” he said. “But you’re right, I’d feel the same way. But even with all your qualifications, this guy’s got something over you, something that you just can’t fight.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s nuts, Jillian. A bonafide, dyed-in-the-wool psychopath. You can’t begin to fathom the depths of depravity in his black soul, so leave the investigating to the cops. Let them do their job.”

“Because they’ve done it so well? How many women are dead now? Four? Five?”

“Four dead, two in the hospital, counting you.”

“Six victims.” She began working on the IV, peeling off the tape. “And you know what? I have a feeling this guy’s not done. So I’m not going to be a sitting duck here at the hospital, okay? I’m not pinning my hopes on Nurse Claire and the rent-a-cop out in the hallway being my first line of defense. Everyone knows I’m here; I saw it on a news broadcast. And I’m willing to bet that the reason I haven’t gotten any calls from reporters is that the hospital is blocking them, and the police are checking them out. I think the smarter move is to just leave. Let the police say that I’m still here; I’m cool with that. But I can’t just lie here and wait, hoping the guards will protect me.”

“I could stay—”

“And you’re going to tell me that you’re not after this guy? That you don’t intend to track down the guy who set you up?”

MacGregor frowned. “I won’t lie to you, Jillian. That bastard is going to pay. But ’til he’s caught, you need to be safe.”

Jillian winced as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her taped ankle visible beneath the hem of her short, unflattering hospital gown. She thought about telling him the truth about Aaron, about how the louse had stolen money from clients, people who had trusted him, and left her to deal with the victims of his fraud. Whether he’d really died in Suriname or faked his death, he’d set her up for a major, horrible and scandalizing fall. Between the police, the press and the victims of a pyramid scheme that she’d known nothing about, she was left to deal with the fallout and try to pick up the pieces of her life. It had taken her years to regain her reputation, and she couldn’t deny that remarrying and changing her name had held more than a little appeal, a fact that Mason had accused her of more often than once. If Aaron Caruso dared to be alive, she damned well wanted to see him.

Face to face.

But, of course, she hadn’t confided in Zane MacGregor, at least not yet. It just wasn’t an easy thing to admit that she’d been played for the ultimate schmuck—a fool in love.

She couldn’t count the number of times she’d thought of what he’d done to her and looked in the mirror only to say, “Idiot,” as she’d washed her face or brushed her teeth or combed her hair. It had taken years to bury all that anger and pain. However, upon learning that Aaron might be alive today, the old wounds had reopened, as if the scars had been slit, then burned with acid.

MacGregor said, “You can’t leave, Jillian. It’s unsafe.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, feigning a smile she didn’t feel. “Besides, I’ve got you to protect me.”

“You’re out of your mind.” But he grinned, and it was a killer smile, the kind that melted her to the center of her heart.

“Not yet. But I will be totally nuts if I stay here a second longer, so don’t argue with me, MacGregor, okay? It’s just not gonna work.”

On her way to the office, Pescoli stopped at the Safeway store for a cup of coffee and while she was inside she picked up a copy of the local paper and, from a revolving rack, some colorful gift bags and a couple of gift cards to stores, restaurants, even airlines. She plucked one for Bianca’s favorite department store, another for an electronics superstore for Jeremy. She also picked up a couple of fast-food cards and one for gas for Jeremy. In a shopping mood, she found foil-wrapped candy in holiday bags and a couple of novels in the book section. Within twenty minutes some of her Christmas shopping was accomplished. Not too inspired, but the kids would be okay with it. And it was the best she could do.

She eyed the cigarettes, considered buying a pack and keeping up the habit just until the Star-Crossed Killer case was solved, then decided she might be ninety and in the lung cancer ward before that happened.

She could get through raising teenagers without nicotine. Or so she tried to convince herself.

At the checkout, she swiped her credit card to pay for her purchases and was denied. “What the hell?” she muttered, tried again, but the card didn’t work.

By now two other people were behind her in the “under fifteen items” line. A third swipe of the card was no good. The checker, a girl of about nineteen with hair streaked purple and wearing a Santa hat held onto her head with a bobby pin, asked, “Do you want to call the credit card company?”

“No…wait.” Pescoli, irritated and embarrassed, fished through her wallet, while the guy behind her, unshaven and wearing thick glasses, tried not to look pissy. He failed. She found her debit card and swiped it, wiping out a good portion of the money she’d set aside for the rest of the month.

A minute later the transaction was finished and she was over two hundred dollars poorer, but she did have a few paltry presents. “It’s going to be a spiritual Christmas this year,” she muttered under her breath as she climbed into her rig, fired up the engine and pulled out of the lot. It was still early, traffic sparse, and she was almost to the crest of Boxer Bluff and past the jail when the phone rang.

She picked up as she wheeled into the parking lot, which, in the past few hours, had been plowed. “Pescoli,” she said, without checking caller ID.

“Hey, Regan.” Lucky’s voice was low and gravelly, a combination of too many smokes and not enough sleep, if she guessed right. “Jeremy just called.”

Pescoli yanked on the emergency brake. “Oh? And what did he have to say for himself?”

“He told me the story about how he and his friends had a few beers and got picked up, the whole nine yards.” He yawned, and Pescoli imagined him standing in his boxers and a T-shirt that was tight over the shoulders—Lucky Pescoli’s answer to pajamas. His hair would be rumpled, his jaw covered by a thick beard, his hazel eyes heavy with sleep.

The image used to turn her on.

No more.

“Did he also tell you that I let him sit all night in juvie?”

“Oh yeah.”

“So why did he call you?”

There was a pause, then he got right down to it. “Jeremy wants to come and live with me and Michelle.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s what he says.”

“And you believe him?” She was seeing red, her hand clenching the damned cell phone in a death grip. “He won’t even stay with you for a weekend, Lucky! And now he wants to make a permanent arrangement?” What was all that talk about Lucky not being his real father just a few days ago?

“So he says.”

“’Cuz he’s ticked off. That’ll change.” Another beat and she felt her own heart stutter. “Wait a second. You
want
this?” The world seemed off-kilter, tipping on its axis.

“Michelle and I have been talking.”

“Leave your wife out of this. She’s
not
the kids’ mother.”

“But I’m their dad. Bianca’s my daughter and I’ve been the most significant male influence in Jeremy’s life.”

“Well, that explains his sudden bout of insanity!” she said, suddenly hot.

“Face it, Regan, you’re always working.”

“And you’re on the road when you are working.”

“Michelle can be there for them when I can’t.”

“Michelle’s a kid herself! For the love of God, Lucky, you can’t be serious!” She noticed movement in her rearview mirror, and her insides curdled a bit when she recognized Cort Brewster’s pickup as the undersheriff parked in his designated spot.

“Maybe it’s time for a change, Regan,” Lucky said so calmly she wanted to reach right through the airwaves and shake some sense into him. “I’m married, more stable than you. Jeremy knows about the men—”

“Men?” she repeated, dumbstruck. Yes, she’d had a couple of boyfriends, none of whom had ever lived, or even shown up, at the house. No, she wasn’t a virgin, but there had been more years than she’d like to remember when abstinence was her lifestyle. She’d lived the life of a nun.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Nate, with his sexy, crooked, blindingly white smile and honed, muscular body. He was an outdoorsman, good with animals, and oh so good with her. Yeah, she was into him. Yeah, the sex was phenomenal. No, it hadn’t messed her up with her kids. Nate never came first. The kids did.

But the job—now the job was demanding.

“Jeremy knows you’re dating some drifter type.”

“My private life, or lack thereof, is not relevant to this conversation. I take care of the kids, Lucky, and you know it.”

“You work all the time.”

“Except when I’m screwing my brains out with some drifter, right? Now, you listen to me, Lucky. I was faithful to you from the time we met. You, on the other hand, didn’t seem to realize what the term ‘adultery’ meant, so get off your high horse and leave my personal life out of this. I’ve tried like hell to get along with you because you are Bianca’s father, but if push comes to shove, I’ll take the kids from you.”

“Michelle and I are more stable, more financially secure.”

“And why is that? Because you owe me over seven thousand dollars in back child support and medical expenses? You know, I could use that money. The only reason I haven’t taken you to court already is that I didn’t want the kids to see us fight. I figured you’d be good for it anyway, that when college rolled around, you’d make it up to them. But now I’m not so sure. So take all your ‘emotionally stable, financially secure’ crap and shove it. Tell Jeremy, and Bianca, for that matter, the answer is no. Now I’ve got work to do—”

“Always. You’ve always got work to do.”

“Someone has to pay the bills,” she said, “and it sure as hell isn’t going to be the kids’ stable, secure father, is it?” In the rearview, she watched Cort Brewster walk across the lot to a back door. He didn’t so much as glance in her direction, a bad sign, as they always waved or acknowledged each other. Again her guts tightened.

Lucky wasn’t taking her attack lying down. “You know, Regan, Bianca’s right. You really can be a bitch.”

“That’s hardly a news flash.” But he’d wounded her. Bringing their daughter into the fight, hitting her where it hurt the most. But she wasn’t about to buckle. “Just make sure the kids are both home tonight. Jeremy has chores, which, by the way, you could back me up on. He was picked up last night. He was in the wrong. And when you leave Bianca at the house, leave a check, too. At least a grand. No…make that two, and start the hell whittling that debt down or, trust me, I will take you to court. Merry Christmas!” She snapped off the phone and found herself shaking inside. No one on this earth could make her as crazy as Lucky Pescoli. Even his cute little wife wasn’t as irritating. In fact, given spending an evening with either Michelle or Lucky, Pescoli would probably pick the bubblehead.

“Damn. Damn. Damn.” She climbed out of the car and was still steaming as she marched through the wintry cold and into the back door of the building.

Alvarez had done her homework.

And something was off.

Really off, she thought as she drove into the parking lot of the station, spying the group of news reporters huddled near the front door, the vans parked in the visitors’ lot.

The case had turned on its ear and the press knew all about it. They’d known that MacGregor had been held as a “person of interest,” then released early this morning.

She pulled into the spot reserved for employees, then walked to a back door to avoid the cluster of reporters camped out near the front of the building. She was fighting a headache, and her nose was starting to run, but she’d be damned if she was going to fall victim to a cold virus now, a few days before Christmas, with this case still unsolved.

And just wait until the holiday.

For all the peace and goodwill of the season, there were always the family disputes and suicides and officers taking time off to be with their loved ones.

She could not afford to be less than a hundred percent. Not now. She had far too much to do.

Inside, the sheriff’s office was a madhouse.

All calm shattered.

Everyone who could be was on duty.

Phones rang, people talked, boots scraped on the floor. Somewhere a copy machine was churning out pages, and through it all, barely discernible, was the sound of piped-in music, orchestral arrangements of Christmas classics.

Peeling off her jacket and hat, Selena found her cubicle, checked her e-mail and messages, then, still sniffing, walked into the break room, where she made herself a cup of hot tea. Her grandmother swore by tea with lemon and honey in it; her grandfather always supplemented the home remedy with a shot or two of whiskey or tequila, whatever was handy and out of Grandma Rosarita’s watchful eye.

Still dunking the tea bag in her cup, she walked to Pescoli’s desk.

Her partner was flipping through a thick stack of lab and autopsy reports, witness statements and notes she’d taken. “I can’t believe MacGregor wasn’t our killer,” she groused. “Now we’re back to square one.”

“It happens,” Alvarez said, sharing her partner’s disappointment.

Pescoli rolled her chair back and shook her head. “I just hate being two steps behind this guy.” She rubbed the nape of her neck.

“How’d it go with Jeremy?” Alvarez asked, tossing her tea bag into the plastic wastebasket at the corner of Pescoli’s desk.