The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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      Pescoli glanced down at her paperwork and stifled a yawn. What she wouldn’t give for a hit of nicotine to sharpen her focus.

      “Son of a bitch!” Sheriff Grayson stormed out of his office, swearing a blue streak.

      Every muscle around Pescoli’s spine went rigid and her stomach clenched tight as her fists. It was Saturday afternoon, the skies had cleared in the last few hours and several of the detectives had come into the office to catch up on paperwork or go over their notes. She tossed her pen aside and pushed away from her desk. “Let me guess,” she said, already knowing the answer. “Someone found another DB in the forest?”

      “Yep,” Grayson said, his face muscles taut, his jaw rigid with barely suppressed rage. He was already stuffing his arms through his jacket, his sidearm visible in its shoulder holster. “We didn’t get the bastard soon enough.”

      “What?” Brewster, who had heard the conversation through the open door to his office, strode into the hallway, his jacket in hand. “Are you shittin’ me?”

      “Wouldn’t do it,” Grayson said as the undersheriff reached him.

      “Well, fuck!” Cort Brewster’s ruddy face flushed in fury as he tugged his jacket over his sidearm. “That goddamned cocksucker.”

      Alvarez, whose cubicle was on the other side of the partition from Pescoli’s, was already stuffing her hair into a cap as she hurried down the hallway between the desks to catch up with the rest of the little posse.

      Through the open door of Grayson’s office, Sturgis poked his head into the hallway and gave a nervous little bark.

      “Stay!” Grayson ordered as his dog started to put a paw outside the office. In a gentler voice, Grayson said, “I’ll be back soon, boy.”

      With a dejected look, the Lab turned around and, casting a final woebegone glance over his shoulder, eased back into the office, where a dog bed filled with cedar shavings was tucked not far from a heat register.

      Pescoli grabbed her jacket, purse and pistol. “Jillian Rivers?” she asked as she followed the sheriff.

      Grayson nodded sharply. “Looks like the bastard got to her. Same MO.”

      “Poor woman.” Pescoli couldn’t imagine the terror that must’ve been the victim’s companion as she was forced to walk naked through the forest and, unable to fight, was bound to a tree to face the elements. “Who found her?”

      “A couple out hiking called it in. They found her in a clearing up near Cougar Pass. A dead woman roped to a tree, just like the others. Scared them spitless.” Grayson’s eyes were haunted, guilt and frustration evident in the lines around the corners of his mouth. “We were just too damned late to save her.”

      No one tried platitudes.

      As they strode through the building, their boots treading heavy on the flooring, he said to Brewster, “Call the state police. See if they can put up some helicopters to view the surrounding area, take pictures, see what they can come up with before a new storm hits.”

      Pescoli added, “Have them make note of any cabins where smoke is rising from the chimneys. They’re out of power up in that area, and if our killer is around, he’ll need some kind of heat.”

      “He might have a generator.”

      “Then he’s buying fuel for it somewhere, propane or diesel, and lots of it.”

      “We’ve already got calls into distributors in a hundred-mile radius,” Alvarez said.

      “Then have choppers look for disturbances in the snow. See if it’s melted around any of the cabins that are supposed to be vacant. Generators give off exhaust and heat and noise. Maybe someone’s heard one running that shouldn’t be. And let’s bring out the dogs. Maybe they can finally get a hit or lead us to where the bastard is.” Grayson shoved open the glass door so hard, it banged against the building.

      The sun was nearly blinding. Beams dazzled and bounced off the mantle of white, while the chain on the flagpole clanged in the wind that caused the Stars and Stripes to wave. Clumps of snow shuddered and fell from branches of trees planted near the parking lot.

      Pescoli unlocked her Jeep and slid behind the wheel while Alvarez climbed into the passenger side. Regan was battling a slight hangover from one too many margaritas and not much sleep. Since Jeremy spent the night at his friend’s house, Pescoli had spent a lot of hours with Nate.

      All of them worth it.

      That man had a way of turning her inside out. Of course they’d ended up in bed; they always did. And though the lovemaking put a smile on Pescoli’s face, there was sometimes a hangover to dim the glow. This morning she didn’t have time to remember the way Nate’s muscular legs stretched СКАЧАТЬ