The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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      Alvarez looked up sharply. “I don’t have kids.”

      “Yeah. I know.” Pescoli nodded, scraping the excess cream cheese off the knife and onto her plate. “Sometimes, believe me, that’s a blessing.” She bit into the bagel, the flavors blending on her tongue.

      Alvarez’s eyes darkened just a bit, but the shadow, if it existed at all, disappeared in a second. “You wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

      “Doesn’t mean they can’t be pains in the butt.”

      “Too much like their mother.”

      Pescoli grinned and took a long swallow of the hot coffee. “Don’t tell them that. I like to tell them all their bad traits are genetic and not from my side of the family.”

      “They seem too smart to buy it.”

      Pescoli snorted. “Probably.” She polished off her bagel while Alvarez sipped from the massive cup. They’d been partners for three years, ever since Alvarez had moved to Grizzly Falls from San Bernardino, and though they were about as alike as oil and water, they got along. Respected each other. In Pescoli’s opinion Alvarez was wound too tightly and needed to get out more. Sure, she took all kinds of martial arts classes and had trophies for her abilities, from sharpshooting to archery. She’d also mentioned something about running a marathon, the Bay to Breakers in San Francisco or some other damned long race, maybe a butt-load of races, but Alvarez didn’t have a social life. Spent her time with her nose in books, her fingers clicking a mouse as she searched for information on the Internet, and honing her mind and body to precision with classes at the university and athletic club.

      In Pescoli’s opinion, Alvarez needed to knock back a few double margaritas and get herself laid. Those two simple acts would do wonders for her partner’s temperament.

      Pescoli was certain of it.

      Chapter Eight

      The FBI agents weren’t anything like they were portrayed in the movies, Alvarez thought, crossing one ankle over the other. She, along with other members of the task force working the serial murder case, sat at the big table in the task force room. Cups of cooling coffee, pens, notepads, gum wrappers and a crushed empty pack of cigarettes littered the long, fake-woodgrain surface of the table, while pictures of the crime scenes and notes about the victims hung on one of the walls, an enlarged map of the area on an adjacent wall.

      At least, Craig Halden wasn’t typical. Shipped out from the field office in Salt Lake City, Halden seemed like a personable enough guy. His brown hair was trimmed neatly, yes, but was far from a military cut. He had an easy, country boy charm about him, probably from growing up in rural Georgia. He called himself a “cracker” and he was jovial enough, though beneath the affable, easygoing-guy exterior Alvarez sensed that he was a sharp, dedicated federal agent.

      His partner, however, was a piece of work, at least in Alvarez’s mind. Stephanie “Steff” Chandler was a tall, slim, humorless bitch. With long blond hair pulled back into a tight knot, skin that still looked tanned, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors, and little makeup, she stood in front of the poster boards and stared at the information written near the pictures of the victims, memorizing every word. At previous meetings she’d been dressed in a dark suit, but today, with a nod to the menacing weather, she wore a navy blue jogging suit and long-sleeved, turtleneck sweater. She hadn’t said a whole lot so far, but her lips were folded thoughtfully and there was an unspoken air of disapproval in her stiff-backed stance and narrowed eyes. It seemed, though it hadn’t been said, that she thought she was the only one capable of solving the crime.

      Everyone else in the small room, including Pescoli and Sheriff Grayson, were seated, but Chandler, one of those nervous types, began pacing in front of the boards, chewing on a corner of her lip. Alvarez was grateful that she was partners with irreverent, bend-the-rules Pescoli rather than this uptight woman.

      At least Regan Pescoli had a sense of humor, dark as it could be at times.

      Moving her eyes to the final panel, where Jillian Rivers’s driver’s license picture and mangled car were posted, Chandler shook her head.

      “This woman was never reported missing.”

      “Her family had no idea that she had even left Seattle. The only one who knew she’d taken off was the neighbor who took care of her cat,” Alvarez said. “Emily Hardy, nineteen. Lives in the same complex of townhouses as Rivers and goes to school at the university. U-Dub.” Chandler frowned as if she didn’t get it. “University of Washington. Instead of U W, it’s called U-Dub. Rivers has her own kind of printing company and does most of the work herself, so co-workers haven’t missed her and we’ve just started talking to her friends and ex-husband.”

      “The one that’s still alive,” Pescoli said. “I’ve got a call in to him.”

      Alvarez added, “Seattle PD found nothing out of place at her apartment. No desktop computer. Her laptop and purse are missing, likely with her.”

      “But not found at the scene?” Halden finished his coffee and tossed the empty paper cup into a nearby trash can.

      “Just like the others.” Pescoli frowned as she stared at the panels of the victims. “Same with the tire being shot.”

      “Same caliber rifle?”

      “Couldn’t find the bullet or the casing, but we’re still looking.”

      “Anything different about this one?”

      “The insurance information and registration were left behind,” Alvarez admitted. “It’s the one anomaly. But those docs weren’t kept in the usual spots, not in the glove box or above the visor. They were hidden under the driver’s seat and crushed when the car was wrecked. We didn’t find them until the car was back here and the techs went over it.”

      “An oversight by the killer?” Chandler asked.

      “Probably just couldn’t find them. Maybe she was hurt and he had to get her out of the cold, or maybe he heard something that scared him off.”

      “Why would the car’s information be under the driver’s seat?” Chandler rested a hip against the table and her ice-blue eyes zeroed in on Alvarez.

      “The papers could have slipped down there after a traffic stop, or maybe she just keeps them there.”

      “Or he dropped them as he was pulling her out of the car and didn’t realize it?” Chandler was theorizing, her face tense, the wheels turning in her mind.

      “No blood on them.” Alvarez, too, was bothered by the one thing that was different at the scene. “We’re checking for prints.”

      Chandler nodded.

      Maybe she wasn’t such a bitch after all, Alvarez thought, though she couldn’t quite believe it. She unzipped her vest, as the room was warming up. The furnace was working overtime, wheezing as it blew hot air into the room packed with too many bodies. Through the bank of windows lay a view of the white-packed parking lot, a long plowed road and, less than a quarter of a mile away, the county jail, a two-storied cinder block building with a flat roof. Snow gathered near the foot of the jail’s high fence and clung to the swirled razor wire, almost picturesque.

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