The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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      Pescoli was eyeball deep in reports. Lab reports, notes on the victims’ relatives and friends and cell phone bills. She’d read each of the women’s backgrounds until she felt that she knew them as well as their siblings did. All of the victims, it turned out, had traces of Valium in their systems, so Pescoli figured the guy who’d held them had restrained them all with drugs, probably tranquilizers and pain pills. The FBI was already all over the local distributors, hoping to find a link to where the killer could have gotten the drugs.

      The trouble was, each of the victims had prescriptions. Legal prescriptions for anxiety, pain and sleep.

      Her back was beginning to ache a bit; she’d never been one to sit for hours on end. She just had too much restless energy and had to keep moving. She never would have been able to handle a desk job. As it was, the time she spent at her desk, reading through files and clicking on the damned mouse of her computer, was enough to drive her crazy.

      She walked down a hallway and saw, for the first time in days, a sliver of late-afternoon sunlight shining through the windows, bright rays cutting through the clouds, which were collecting again. For a few seconds, the light was nearly blinding as it bounced off the thick drifts of snow piled outside around the parking lot and the yard where the flagpole stood. Old Glory moved slightly in the breeze, the State of Montana’s flag, too, billowing a bit, gold fringe glinting in the sun.

      Thank God for the tiny break in the weather, even if it was predicted to be short-lived.

      Now, if there was only a break in the case.

      She walked to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of “Joelle’s Special Blend,” according to the note left on the counter, and headed back to her desk.

      Taking a sip as she sat in her chair, she thought the coffee tasted the same as it did every day. “Special blend, my ass,” she whispered, setting the cup down and scanning the lists of friends and relatives of the three women one last time. None matched, nor did towns where they lived, schools they attended…anything. As far as she could tell, the women didn’t know each other. But they were all targeted by one guy who had connections with each one; she was sure of it.

      Her cell phone rang and she recognized her son’s number on the ID. She let it ring twice and reined in the urge to answer with “Where the hell are you?” Instead, she picked up and said neutrally, “Detective Pescoli.”

      “You called me?”

      “Yeah, Jer, I did. You’re supposed to be with your fa—with Lucky this weekend.”

      “I didn’t want to go.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s boring over there.”

      “And?” she prodded, twisting her desk chair around so that she couldn’t see her computer monitor or the notes spread over her desk.

      “He’s not my real dad.”

      “He raised you.”

      “Part of the time, cuz he had to,” Jeremy shot back indignantly.

      “Look, Jeremy, this is part of the deal. You know it and I know it. You spend every other weekend with Lucky.”

      “It’s your deal, not mine,” he said. “I didn’t get any say in it.”

      “I guess I need to remind you that you’re the kid.”

      “I’m almost eighteen.”

      She winced. Hadn’t she uttered the same words with the same passion to her own parents? “This might come as a big surprise to you, but just being eighteen doesn’t mean you get to do anything you want.”

      “I’ll be an adult then!”

      If only.

      “Jer, the rules won’t change just because you’re another day older. Eighteen shmeighteen. I think it just means that legally I can kick you out of the house.”

      “What?” СКАЧАТЬ