The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ as she scoops up a couple of empty glasses and drops them into a sink. Quick as a rattler striking, she slides the tips across the bar with her polished fingernails and stuffs the bills into the pocket of her apron. She glances up at the television screen, where a reporter is standing in front of the local hospital.

      “I hope she survives,” she whispers.

      “Who?” Ole, true to character, missed a vital part of the earlier conversation.

      “The woman they found in the forest, the one who didn’t die.” Nadine is starting to get pissed.

      “She’s seen that psycho,” Ole says, catching on.

      I feel an unlikely chill. My face was exposed. She knows my touch, can recognize me.

      “Yep. She’ll nail his ass in court.” Nadine nods, stiff red-blond hair unmoving.

      Dell snorts before draining his glass and wiggling the empty as a signal for another. “He’s got to be caught first, and my money says that Sheriff Numb-Nuts won’t come close.”

      I take a drink to hide my smile.

      “Oh, Grayson will catch him all right.” Coming to Grayson’s defense, Nadine looks to me for support.

      I lift a noncommittal shoulder that says Maybe, though I think Don’t count on it.

      “He will!” Nadine is certain as she snaps a clean towel from a stack under the counter. “You just wait and see.” She swabs the bar with a vengeance.

      “Humph. Not by countin’ on the likes of crazy Ivor Hicks. Shit, that nutcase found a body and claimed the aliens sent him there,” Ole says.

      “That Crypton, he’s one smart sergeant,” Dell corrects.

      “It’s Crytor, moron. And he’s a fuckin’ general. Get it right. An orange reptile and a fuckin’ general.”

      They both laugh uproariously.

      “The old man hallucinates,” Nadine says quickly, and looks at me, embarrassed. She doesn’t like the way the conversation has turned. The crazy old man’s a regular, too, when he’s not on the wagon. “Give Ivor a break, will ya? And for God’s sake, have some faith in Sheriff Grayson. He’s doing a great job.”

      I finish the first drink and wait as she places a fresh glass and coaster in front of me.

      “Great job, my ass.” Dell isn’t cutting Grayson any breaks. “Why hasn’t this piece of shit been brought in? Huh? How hard could it be to track a killer in the goddamned snow? What the hell are those tracking dogs for? Hell, do you know what it costs for one of them? Sheeeeiiiiit.”

      “Grayson will get the guy,” Nadine insists, with a look at me, as if she and I, the two of us, have a secret. As if we co-conspirators realize that Big Belly is an oaf and we, of far superior intellect, have the good sense to trust Sheriff Dan Grayson.

      “What’s he waitin’ for?” Big Belly Dell is staring up at the television, where the cameraman in the chopper zooms in on Grayson’s worried, hard face.

      “Grayson’s an asshole,” a voice from my other side affirms. “I went to school with him. He don’t know up from damned sideways. Hey, Nadine, how about another?”

      “Whiskey sour is it, Ed?” she asks, and flashes him a grin meant to tease the biggest tip possible from Ed’s slim wallet. Nadine knows how to work the crowd. She’s flirty and sassy enough to keep the men interested. On the skinny side, smelling of cigarettes, she nonetheless has teeth that always show a brilliant white behind lips always glossed to a fine peach shine. And her blouse is always buttoned low enough to allow the regulars a glimpse of the tops of her breasts. She wears low-cut jeans with a silvery belt that dangles low and offers just a hint of skin and the tease of a tattoo peeking above her waistband. Turquoise and pink swirls rise up her backbone, widening visibly before dipping suggestively below the denim and giving a man a hard-on just thinking about what naughty splay of colors might be caressing her buttocks.

      I hear the men speculate.

      “I think it’s a butterfly,” one bearded young man once said.

      “No way. It’s like some kind of Chinese symbol,” his compatriot argued.

      Another said, “I’ve got it on good account that it’s humming birds, a whole flock of ’em, some peering out from between her butt cheeks.”

      This caused some raucous laughter but none of the simpletons had the faintest idea of the intricacies that really lay beneath her clothes, that sexy, wild series of waves that undulate around her hips as she slowly undresses.

      Few have had the privilege of actually seeing her lying naked, butt up, hips tilted, suggesting she wants to rut like a mare in heat, those pink-tinged waves offering a warm, wet sea for me to thrust into.

      I look at her and she catches the glance.

      Doesn’t say a word.

      But she knows.

      I take a long pull from my drink and suck in ice cubes, cracking them between my teeth, as I turn my attention back to the television screen, where now the sheriff, hanging up his phone, begins striding away from the crime scene.

      That’s not right.

      Another mistake. You made another mistake!

      I won’t think of it, but I can feel my nerves tighten as I see the detectives rushing to their vehicles. I zero in on Regan Pescoli, that bitch of a woman. Beautiful and rough. Tough as nails.

      Or so she thinks.

      I feel my eyes narrow upon her as the fantasy unwinds in my mind…. Get ready, I think, but her time has not yet come.

      I have others…one not yet discovered.

      Or am I wrong?

      Is that possible?

      Why are the cops hurrying away from the scene, running to their vehicles, lights on their SUVs flashing red and blue as they peel out of the lot of the old lodge.

      Where the hell are they going?

      My heart nearly stops.

      I crack an ice cube so loudly, Dell slides a glance my way.

      “Jesus, you got jaws of steel or what?”

      I laugh. “’Course I do,” I say, trying to appear calm, attempting to hide my agitation, as on the screen the posse drives away and deep inside fear threatens to consume me. I couldn’t have erred again. Couldn’t have.

      “See what I mean? A real asshole,” Dell says, looking upward at the television. “Grayson’s useless.”

      Of course he is.

      I calm.

      Tamp down my momentary fear.

      As Burl Ives’s voice starts to sing “A Holly, Jolly Christmas” from hidden speakers, СКАЧАТЬ