The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ slid a pair of sunglasses onto her nose and, following Grayson’s rig, drove out of the lot and into the hills.

      “Did you have a chance to see the paper today?” Alvarez asked as they drove past the “Welcome to Grizzly Falls” sign on the north end of town.

      “Something interesting?”

      “You might say, and the reason Grayson’s on a tear.”

      “Something more than finding dead women lashed to trees in his jurisdiction?”

      “Someone leaked details to the press.”

      “What?” Pescoli couldn’t believe it. “What details? They already reported that the cars had been wrecked, probably shot at.”

      “Now they know about the notes. Not all the details, but that the victims were tied to trees, a star carved over their heads. Before, there wasn’t any mention of the notes.”

      Pescoli’s fingers tightened over the wheel and the headache at the base of her neck began to throb. One of the advantages the sheriff’s department had was knowing the true nature of the crimes, of keeping details out of the press, so they could sort out the real culprit from the nutcases who wanted their fifteen minutes of fame. Up in this neck of the woods, there were plenty of idiots who might want a bit of notoriety by claiming participation in the killings.

      “Who talked?”

      Alvarez snorted. “Unknown at this time. But my money’s on Ivor Hicks. That guy can’t keep his mouth shut.”

      “I know we can’t get through to Ivor, but maybe his family can.”

      “He’s only got a son, and I think Bill tries to keep his distance from the old man. Wouldn’t you?”

      “I’d move away,” Pescoli said.

      “Would you?” Alvarez shook her head. “People stay where they want to. Near family, even if it’s not that great.”

      Pescoli thought about it. She was still in the same town as her ex. Maybe Alvarez had a point. Or did she? “You moved.”

      “Yeah, well, the job opportunities where I grew up were limited.”

      “Not like here in Grizzly Falls.” Pescoli turned off the main road and started along the uphill grade leading into the mountains.

      Alvarez didn’t respond, but that didn’t surprise Pescoli. Her partner was always touchy whenever her family was mentioned. She’d never discussed it with Pescoli, but it was obvious there was bad blood in that family. Real bad.

      “So someone’s got to keep Ivor from spouting off to the press.”

      “If it was Ivor.”

      “Who else?” Pescoli asked.

      “Now there’s an interesting question,” Alvarez stated. “Who else indeed? Anyway, the point is, someone did the honors and Grayson is not amused.”

      “I’ll bet.” Pescoli kept the sheriff’s Suburban in sight while half-listening to the police-band conversation crackling over the hum of the Jeep’s engine as it climbed the steep mountain road, tires digging into the sanded, packed snow. Tree trunks, flanking the side of the road, were obscured by mounds of ice and snow that had been tossed to the side by the heavy blades of the plows that worked these hills.

      They passed no cars as the convoy of vehicles headed to the latest killing ground.

      Pescoli tried to picture this part of Cougar Pass, about fifteen miles out of town. It was accessible only by an old mining road, which was buried in snow but protected enough that they would be able to trudge the hundred yards to the spot where the body had been left.

      “We’re gonna need boots and shovels today,” she said. “This guy sure likes distant locales.”

      Tramping through drifts of snow that rose above her knees, Alvarez thought of her siblings, how, years ago, they had all prayed for a huge snowstorm, a snow day. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen too often in Woodburn, Oregon.

      Field agents from the FBI arrived as she was signing in at the crime scene, which had been secured by Pete Watershed, the first detective to arrive. As a group, they made their way down the snowy road and saw, as the hiking couple had reported, a dead woman strapped to a tree. The people who’d called 911 were huddled in their SUV and agreed to wait to be interviewed by the detectives.

      “God have mercy,” Alvarez said, and made the sign of the cross over her chest. A professed woman of science, she always fell back on the religion of her youth when she was faced with the darkest parts of human depravity.

      Selena Alvarez believed in God, maybe not as deeply as her grandmother Rosarita had wished, but she believed and made no excuses for it. At times she’d gotten sideways glances from Brewster and Watershed but ignored them. Pescoli, at least, had never commented or acted like anything was out of the ordinary.

      Now, as she stared at the body of the dead woman, she needed the tiniest connection to her faith, though reassurance was fleeting as she stood in the bitter cold and stared at the dead, naked woman roped to a solitary fir tree. She was petite and Caucasian, though her skin was tinged blue. Her short blond hair hung in frozen strands. Her head, covered with snow, tilted forward. Bruises were evident on her body, the heavy ropes having cut into her skin.

      “Sweet Jesus,” Brett Gage whispered, his expression grim.

      “Not pretty, is it?” Pescoli was serious as she studied the gruesome scene. “God, I’d love to nail the psycho who did this.”

      Stephanie Chandler eyed the tracks in the snow. “Maybe we’ll catch a break this time. Maybe the dogs can pick up a scent.”

      “Let’s hope,” Alvarez whispered. So far, the search-and-rescue dogs had proved useless, but today the weather was clearer, as were visible tracks leading to and from the clearing on the far side of the woods. “What’s over there?”

      “No access road, at least not one that’s used, but there was a private lane leading to a mining operation that hasn’t been in use for decades.” Gage had pulled out a map and was folding it so that he could view the area where they were located.

      “Any of the buildings left?” Alvarez asked.

      Gage shook his head. “Don’t know.”

      “One way to find out.”

      “I’ll go,” Gage offered. Giving the tracks wide berth so as not to disturb any piece of evidence, he started toward the stand of pines at the far edge of the clearing, the area from where the tracks appeared.

      “The guy wouldn’t be so stupid as to be nearby.” Alvarez was sure.

      “Really?” Pescoli viewed her partner through amber-colored sunglasses. “Everyone makes mistakes. Even psychos.”

      True enough, Alvarez thought.

      “Not this guy.” Stephanie Chandler was standing a few feet away, her blond hair tucked into a navy blue FBI hat, her gaze taking in every inch of the crime scene. “He’s СКАЧАТЬ