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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Born To Die
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Eventually, they left Evergreen Elementary, where the bell had just rung for recess and the kids were walking in long, snaking lines toward the covered playground area.
They slid into Pescoli's Jeep, and Alvarez said, “Let's get coffee,” just as her cell phone rang. Answering with one hand, she clicked on her seat belt with the other as Pescoli drove around the teachers' vehicles and out of the once-plowed lot.
Half a mile closer to the town, Pescoli found one of those coffee-shack buildings that seemed to be sprouting up on every street corner. Alvarez finished talking to the manager of her apartment building about a number of outdoor lights that weren't working as Pescoli pulled into the open lane of the drive-thru and rolled down her window just a crack. She waited for the barista to finish taking the order from a car on the other side of the building. Silver tinsel had been strung around the window; snowflakes stenciled onto the glass. A big red sign with a winking Santa offered coffee gift cards at a discount.
The window slid open, and the barista, a girl of about eighteen who was wearing braids and a pilgrim bonnet, called out, “What can I get for you? We've got pumpkin lattes, a dollar off, just this week.” She offered a wide, toothy smile.
“Just a coffee, black,” Pescoli said.
“Skinny latte, no foam,” Alvarez said, angling her face so that she could meet the barista's gaze. “Plain.”
“But the pumpkin is on sale.”
“Plain,” Alvarez repeated and dug into her wallet for a five-dollar bill.
The barista looked disappointed, as if she got brownie points for selling the special of the week. Pescoli rolled up her window as the espresso machine started whistling shrilly.
Digging into the Jeep's console, Pescoli pulled out enough quarters to pay for her drink. “So tell me,” she said, turning to her partner before Alvarez could make another call. “Why are you so hell-bent to prove that Jocelyn Wallis was murdered?”
Alvarez readjusted the small hoop in her left ear. “Just a feeling I have. Something's off about it.”
“Maybe.”
“Worth checking out.”
A red Dodge Dart, circa somewhere in the mid-seventies, rolled in behind her Jeep just as there was a sharp tap on the driver's window. The pilgrim barista was holding two paper cups with plastic lids.
Pescoli rolled down the window, collected the two cups and, after snagging Alvarez's fiver, paid for the drinks and left a bit of a tip.
“Wow, that's hot,” Alvarez whispered after taking an experimental sip.
“Just what you need on this cold day.”
Alvarez settled deeper into the seat as she cradled her cup. “What I need are answers. Lots of answers.”
“About life's most important questions.”
One side of her mouth lifted. “I'd be satisfied for the answer to why Jocelyn Wallis, a young woman, experienced jogger, and, from all reports, athletically fit and sane, ended up on a ledge jutting over a river.” Her eyes narrowed as Pescoli braked for a red light. “Seems as if she might just have been helped over that rail.”
“Maybe.”
Alvarez was nodding as she lifted the lid from her latte and blew across the hot surface.
“And maybe not.”
She took a long sip. “I guess we'll find out. Maybe the answer's at her place.”
“We should be so lucky,” Pescoli said but was already driving to Jocelyn Wallis's apartment complex.
They found the key where O'Halleran said it would be, unlocked the door, and stepped into the one-bedroom unit the schoolteacher had called home.
To Pescoli, nothing in the dead woman's apartment seemed out of place. Jocelyn Wallis had no home phone, but Alvarez found her cell on a table near her recliner; her house key and car key had been left in a dish on a table in the foyer, by the front door. They discovered her purse on the counter and schoolbag on the seat of one of two bar stools, near a small desk where her laptop was plugged into the wall. Over-the-counter flu medication and a few tissues in the trash near her bed indicated she hadn't been feeling well, yet she'd still gone out jogging. That was a little odd, but then the flu felt like it had settled in for winter, and sometimes serious joggers and exercise enthusiasts got tired of waiting to get completely well.
Her ten-year-old Jetta was parked in its spot in the long carport that housed the vehicles for this building, one of four in the complex. But an animal was missing—a cat, if the tins of food in the pantry didn't lie. Pet bowls half filled with water and food were on the floor, and a litter box had been tucked near the toilet in the bathroom. It was clean, no evidence of the feline.
“Where's the cat?” Pescoli asked.
“Apparently missing,” Alvarez answered, looking around. “Nothing here indicates anyone broke in or that there was a struggle of any kind. It looks like Jocelyn just decided to get some exercise. If someone jumped her, it wasn't here. Probably on the trail.”
Pescoli followed Alvarez's gaze. The apartment appeared to be just as someone going out for a jog would leave it.
Still, Alvarez wasn't satisfied that Jocelyn Wallis had just taken a fateful misstep that had ultimately ended her life. “It just doesn't feel right,” she said again as they stood in the living room, where the scent of some plug-in air freshener was nearly overpowering.
“Since when did you start paying attention to feelings and hunches?” Pescoli asked. In all their years as partners, Pescoli had known Alvarez to be single-minded and scientific, one who never relied on anything other than cold, hard facts.
“Since Jocelyn Wallis's death doesn't add up,” her partner said. Alvarez was already gathering the dead woman's laptop, cell phone, and bills from the desk. “Let's just take a little time and check it out. Don't you think it might be interesting to find out just who would benefit if she died?”
“Actually, that might be real interesting.”
“Good,” Alvarez said. “Let's do it.”
CHAPTER 10
F
or Pescoli, Thanksgiving was the usual nightmare. This year the kids were supposed to spend the day with Luke and his Barbie doll of a wife, Michelle. Not quite thirty, the woman wore her long blond hair straight so that it brushed the middle of her back, and she preferred clothes that accentuated her hourglass figure. Michelle was as “girlie” as they came and pretended to be much more naive than humanly possible. Pescoli figured beneath the pale lips, thick black mascara, and perpetually surprised, sexy expression was a smart woman who for some unknown reason had set her sights on Lucky, who was handsome and, if not strongly educated, smart enough, just lacking in any kind of ambition. He drove his truck when he wanted to, and when he didn't and the weather allowed, he either fished or golfed. Otherwise he planted himself in front of his big screen.
“Made for each other,” she said beneath her breath as her children dragged themselves out of their rooms. Pescoli had insisted they spend the holiday with their father, even though Bianca feigned sickness again and Jeremy grouched that Luke wasn't his “real” dad.
“Too bad,” had been her unsympathetic response.
For the sake of the children and because she'd nearly died last year, Pescoli and Luke had made a stab at burying the hatchet. Their divorce had been less than amicable, and now, in retrospect Pescoli realized their animosity had been a mistake. However, old habits died hard, especially with all their past history. Trying to be civil was difficult, and trying to become friends had proved impossible, considering the circumstances. However, Pescoli was a firm believer in the old grin-and-bear-it motto, the reason being that she also trusted in the what-goes-around-comes-around adage. Luke Pescoli was handsome, charming, and a smooth talker. He was also a womanizer, gambler, and was pretty damned convinced that he was the center of the universe.
Michelle had gotten herself no prize.
She pushed open the door of her daughter's room just as Bianca, miffed, swept into the hallway. “You're doing this 'cuz you're mad at me,” Bianca accused, her lower lip protruding, her eyes dark with accusation.
“I'm doing it because I have an agreement with your father.”
“No one asked me,” Bianca said as she stomped into the living room.
“With that attitude, you're just lucky you still have a door.”
Jeremy, just coming up the stairs from his basement room, said, “Nobody asked me, either.”
“So you two can bond over the injustice all the way over to your dad's. Oh, wait, I said I'd contribute to the festivities.” She reached into the pantry, found an old can of cranberry sauce, the kind Luke detested. She slapped the can into Jeremy's outstretched hand and imagined the congealed sauce slithering onto a serving plate, still showing the ribs of the can. “Here it is.”
Jeremy caught her gaze. “You're wicked, Mom.”
“Just doing what I said I would.”
Jeremy tucked the can into his backpack.
“We could just stay here,” Bianca complained, though she was looking at the screen of her phone, reading a text.
“No. I've gotta work. This way I'll get the time off at Christmas so I can torture you both then.”
“Funny,” Bianca said, then, moping, put on her down jacket and wool hat, smashing down her curly hair, the tie strings dangling past her pointed chin. “But four days . . .” She was really whining now. “I'll die.”
“Three nights. You come back Sunday morning. Think of it as a vacation from me.”
Bianca managed to roll her eyes for what had to be the twentieth time since dragging herself out of bed. She let out a disgusted puff of air that caused her newly cut bangs to float up and down.
“Drive carefully,” she advised her son.
Jeremy said, “I always do!”
“That's what I love to hear.” Pescoli didn't believe it for a second and, spying Cisco dancing near the front door, ready to go anywhere Jeremy would take him, scooped up the feisty little dog. She was rewarded with a slopping doggy kiss, Cisco's tongue washing her cheek while his tail thumped against her side and he wriggled in her arms. “Tell your dad and Michelle, ‘Happy Thanksgiving.'”
“Yeah, like you mean it,” Jeremy grumbled.
“I do. I hope you have a great time.” Holding the squirming dog, she stood at the door and watched as the two of them made their way along the snowy path to Jeremy's truck. In her mind's eye she saw them as they once had been, Jer, the older, lanky brother with missing teeth and socks that never stayed up, Bianca, all springy reddish curls, chubby legs, and rosy cheeks, tagging after her adored older sibling.
Where had the time gone? Her heart twisted a little as she saw Jeremy help Bianca into the cab, slam the door, then trot around the front of his truck to climb behind the wheel.
Within seconds the pickup rumbled to life, a steady throb of bass reverberating from inside the cab as Jeremy pulled away. She stood for a while, watching the truck rumble through the trees guarding the lane, then slammed the front door shut.
“What do you think of that?” she asked, setting Cisco on the floor. “Alone at last, just you and me. Think of all the trouble we can get into.”
As if he understood, the little dog went crazy at her feet, wiggling and prancing toward the cupboard where she kept his leash and a few doggy treats. “Okay, okay, it
is
Thanksgiving.” She tossed him a bacon-flavored biscuit. “But we are
not
making a habit of this.”
She did need to run into the office; that wasn't a lie. Alvarez seemed hell-bent to prove that Jocelyn Wallis's death was a homicide. They planned to go over the autopsy, as it should have come in late last night.
Afterward, Pescoli was going over to Santana's place. A small smile played upon her lips at that thought. If there was one thing about the man, it was that he was always interesting.
And that wasn't a bad thing.
Definitely not bad at all.
 
 
Trace was halfway down the stairs when he called over his shoulder to his son, “Hey, Eli, let's get a move on!”
No response.
He paused on the landing. “Eli?”
Trace drew a breath and headed up the stairs to the second floor of his farmhouse. Eli had been exceptionally quiet after Trace, trying his hardest not to stumble and pause and struggle for words, had told him that Miss Wallis had met with a terrible accident and was now in heaven. Eli hadn't said anything in response, so Trace had asked if he knew what heaven was. Then Eli answered promptly, “That's where you go when you're dead. If you're good.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Trace responded, uncertain where to go after that. Eli had taken matters into his own hands by saying he wanted to watch TV. The subject had been dropped ever since.
Now Trace wondered if he was about to get into a deeper discussion about death with his seven-year-old. He mentally cursed Leanna for running out on them. He might not miss her, but he could've really used some help raising their son about now.
“Hey, bud,” Trace said, entering Eli's room. “We gotta get over to the Zukovs for Turkey Day. Gobble, gobble. Let's get a move on.” Eli's room was one of two that faced the front of the house, and as Trace moved into the room, he saw that his son was seated on the floor, some of his Lego blocks scattered around him, cradling his blue cast. “Are you in pain?”
“Do we have to go?” Eli asked, looking up. Trace saw the shimmer of tears in his son's eyes.
“Hey, what's wrong?” As Trace crouched to comfort him, Eli shook his head. His little chin trembled, and he swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his good arm. “Is this about your teacher? Miss Wallis is in good hands, son.”
Swallowing hard, Eli stared at Trace with serious, worried eyes. “Where's Mommy?”
Trace tried hard not to react. It felt as if his heart were being ripped from his chest. What a fool he'd been to think that Leanna's leaving had been forgotten. He totally got it that Eli losing his teacher had brought these feelings to the surface, but it still threw him for a loop. “I, uh, I don't really know where she is right now,” Trace admitted.
“She should be here. I want to talk to her.”
Of course he did. “I don't know how we can do that.” Reaching for the down jacket tossed on the foot of the unmade bed, Trace tried to reassure his boy. “At least not today. But I can try to find her if you want.”
“You don't know where she is?”
“Not at this exact moment.” His guts twisted. Truth be known, he hoped Leanna never showed her face around here again. He prayed she'd leave her son to grow up without her intervention, because she was certain to screw the boy up.
Or was that his own selfishness talking? Maybe the boy would be better off knowing his mother, despite the fact that she was a liar and had left him without a word.
“Sometimes, I'd like to talk to her, too,” Trace said to Eli, still crouching, though it was a bald-faced lie.
“I want to talk to her now.”
“I'll try to find her. That's the best I can do. C'mon, now. Tilly and Ed are waiting for us.”
“Promise?” Eli demanded. He wasn't going to let Trace off the hook.
“Promise.” Knowing this would lead to no good, he agreed nonetheless and tried to help the boy struggle into his damned jacket. The bulky sleeve fit over his good arm; the other side had to flop over his cast. Since Eli was already wearing a thermal undershirt, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, and a down vest, he'd be warm enough for the short span of time he was outside. Trace tried to force the zipper of the jacket, then gave up fighting with the stubborn tab. The Zukovs were right next door. Usually, on Thanksgiving, Trace spent the day alone with Eli. They played games, watched sports or cartoons, and ate a turkey dinner he bought as takeout from Wild Will's, his favorite restaurant, but this year he'd decided to take the Zukovs up on their invitation. He'd figured Eli was probably tired of being cooped up and needed a change of scenery, and there was also the sadness and shock over losing Miss Wallis.
Now, as he and Eli clambered down the stairs, he wondered if he'd made a mistake. He shook his head. Today wasn't the first time his son had asked about his mother, nor would it be the last, but every time the subject of Leanna came up, the questions were always unexpected and difficult to answer truthfully.
Get used to it. They're not going to get any easier as time goes on.
They walked through the kitchen, where Sarge had taken up his favorite spot under the kitchen table. He thumped his tail as they grabbed gloves and hats from the hooks near the back door.
“She should call.” Eli's little face was drawn into a frown of concentration. “She should call me.”
“Yeah, that she should.” Trace had tried to be honest with his boy from the get-go, but it hadn't always been easy, especially with the trickier queries.
“Can you call her? Right now?”
That one stopped him cold. He snagged his jacket from a hook and shoved his arms down its sleeves. “I don't know,” he said, holding his son's gaze. “I think it would be best if she found us. She knows where we are.”
“You need to call her. Maybe she's hurt! Maybe she's dead like Miss Wallis!”
“She's not dead,” Trace assured him.
“How do you know!”
“If anything happened to your mom, someone would phone us.” He jammed his Stetson onto his head.
“Not if they don't know our number!”
Trace placed his hands on his son's shoulders. Even with the padding of his quilted vest and down jacket, Eli's body felt thin and small. “After Thanksgiving, I'll call her.”
“Tell her to come back.”
“I'll talk to her.”
“Tell her to come back!”
“Eli, it's not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Trace sighed. “Because . . . grown-ups always make things complicated.”
Eli's jaw jutted out. “Then they should stop.”
“Probably.” He opened the door to the porch and felt the chill of winter seep into the house.
“She should be here.”
“She should be here, but she's not.” He managed a thin smile. “But you and I, we're solid.” With a gloved finger, he forced Eli to look into his eyes. “Right?”
“Yeah,” his son said without a lot of conviction, and one more time Trace found himself mentally berating his ex-wife for how callously she'd left her son.
“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked, knowing damned well the boy wasn't.
Eli lifted one shoulder.

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