Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“Nice dodge, Mother,” she said.

“Taste it, and drop this ridiculous inquisition—”

“It’s not an inquisition. I’m just asking about the family.”

“And I’ve answered, so that’s that.”

Her mother transformed into the Maribelle Collins Kacey recognized best: the set, jutted jaw; the pursed lips; the narrowed eyes. Her neck was nearly bowed, and Kacey knew she would learn nothing else. Tonight. Not from her mother.

What Maribelle didn’t realize was that, rather than turn Kacey’s attention away, she’d practically ensured her daughter was going to keep digging. There were other ways to check birth records, and she had access as a doctor. For now, she couldn’t nudge her mother any further and there was no reason to antagonize her, but she was not giving up.

She’d learned while growing up that she could push her mother only so far. So now, Kacey didn’t argue. It wouldn’t make any difference, anyway. If Maribelle didn’t want to talk about something, she just didn’t.

So, it was time to feign the peace, if not make it. “Okay,” Kacey said, lifting her spoon. “Let’s see if Mitch’s cheesecake is all that it’s cracked up to be.” Reaching across the small table, she plunged her spoon into the dessert and noticed her mother’s shoulder muscles, beneath the shimmering silver silk, relax a bit.

“Mmmm, that is good,” Kacey said, as if savoring the sweet taste of caramel. But the words were rote as she wondered why her mother was determined to change the subject away from her father or uncle or cousins or anyone associated with the family. If she hadn’t felt so before, Kacey was pretty certain now that there were more than a few skeletons in the family closet.

“ What’re you still doing here?”

The sheriff’s voice almost echoed down the empty hallway.

Seated at her desk, her gaze drawn to the computer monitor, Alvarez glanced over her shoulder just as Dan Grayson actually stepped into her office area.

Her insides tensed slightly, just as they always did whenever she was alone with him. The weird thing was that it wasn’t because he was her boss; she had worked for different overseers since she was fifteen and had never experienced this reaction, but there was something about Grayson that put her just a little on edge. And she didn’t like it. “I was just catching up on some things.” Rolling the chair around, she found him looming above her.

He filled the doorway, a tall man with broad shoulders and a mustache going gray. Sturgis, his dog, a black Lab who was a washout with the K-9 unit, was right behind him.

“You do know it’s a holiday.”

“Thanksgiving. I heard.”

He chuckled deep in his throat, and she hated that she found the sound pleasing, that she, too, wanted to smile. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?

“I haven’t authorized any overtime.”

“And I haven’t asked for any, have I?”

“Or comp time.”

She nodded. “As I said, just tying up some loose ends.”

“Go home. It’s a holiday,” he repeated.

She lifted a shoulder. The truth was that she never made a big deal of holidays. Most of her family was in Woodburn, Oregon, and her studio apartment was really just a place to crash, not exactly homey or a place she’d want to invite the few friends she felt close enough to have over. Besides, they all had families and, holiday traditions. Pescoli had dropped by earlier and, upon learning that Alvarez had no plans for the day, had offered a halfhearted invitation for Alvarez to join her. Though she had declined, Alvarez had felt a stupid pang of regret that she was entirely alone, especially when Pescoli had hurried out the back door on her way to meet Santana. Alvarez, glancing out the window and watching Pescoli’s Jeep drive off through the falling snow, had sighed. She could imagine Pescoli and Nate Santana enjoying a quiet meal alone, in front of a crackling fire, a turkey roasting in the oven of Santana’s rustic cabin, making love until long into the night.

The thought had jolted her.

Time to get a pet, she’d told herself and gone back to work, here at her desk in the department offices.

Now, with Grayson watching her, she said, “It’s quiet here. I get a lot done when no one’s around. No distractions.”

“What about later? What’re you doing?”

“I was thinking Chinese takeout.”

He actually smiled, his lips twitching beneath the mustache. “Great as that sounds, and, y’know, it does, why don’t you stop by my place?” Her stupid heart nearly skipped a beat. “Got a few friends comin’ by. Around six. Real casual.”

So they wouldn’t be alone. Good. “Maybe I will.”

He chuckled again. “That sounds like a thinly disguised ‘No, thanks.’”

“A bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool maybe.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” His eyes, as brown as her own, pinned her and silently accused her of trying to placate him. “And get the hell outta here.” With a nod, as if he were agreeing with himself, he whistled to the dog, then made his way toward the back door, the sound of his boot heels and the click of claws fading away.

She leaned back in her chair and reminded herself that Grayson was her boss. Yeah, she found him attractive in that grizzled ranch-hand way. With his long legs, slim hips, and broad shoulders, he was built like a cowboy, tough as leather, and, as far as she knew, had lived all of his life in the area. He’d been married once, and she didn’t really know all the details there; Grayson kept a lot of his personal life close to the vest, which was another reason she admired him. She did the same.

Today, though, she hadn’t been lying. The offices, for once, were nearly silent, aside from the hum of the furnace as it forced warm air through the vents. She was able to get a lot of work done without coworkers, ringing phones, fax machines, and e-mail blasting at her every ten seconds. But she wasn’t playing catch-up, as she’d told Grayson.

Instead she was reviewing Jocelyn Wallis’s autopsy and tox screen.

The autopsy indicated that the victim had heart disease, more advanced than she might have known. According to the ME, Jocelyn’s arteries were partially blocked and could have been from a woman twice her age, the result probably of bad genes and a hard lifestyle. She probably would have suffered a heart attack if her condition was left untreated and might have died young. There was no sign of recent sexual activity, but along with evidence of the over-the-counter meds she’d been taking, there were traces of arsenic in her blood.

She looked through the report that listed the contents of the victim’s stomach and found nothing out of the ordinary. It looked like chicken vegetable soup and coffee and little else.

Odd. Rather than the evidence absolving her of her suspicions, just the opposite had proved true. Glancing at a photo of the victim, she said, “So what happened to you?”

And more importantly, who did it?

Jocelyn had two ex-husbands, one living outside of Laramie, Wyoming, the other in Edmonton, Alberta, in Canada. Both had ironclad alibis and, it seemed, had had little contact with their ex-wife. Without children or custody issues or jointly held businesses, there had been no reason for them to keep in contact with her.

Also, Jocelyn had next to no life insurance, just enough to bury her. The beneficiaries listed were her parents. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She still owed on her car, so no one would end up with a vehicle. However, her phone records were more interesting. Aside from her girlfriends, she had called Trace O’Halleran a couple of times, though it seemed as if she’d just left messages; the calls were short.