Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“If Heidi’s dad saw it, I don’t think he’d agree,” Pescoli responded.

“You showed it to him!”

“How could I show it to him? It’s on your phone. But he knows about it. Pay attention here. Sending pictures like that over the Internet is not a good idea.”

“There’s nothing illegal about it. Nothing!”

“You’re putting words in my mouth. I said it’s not a good idea. Period.”

“It’s just on my phone. Mine. Which you looked at without asking. That’s an invasion of privacy!”

“Invasion of privacy?” Pescoli swept an arm to angrily encompass the mess surrounding her, the detritus from Jeremy’s video gaming: empty soda cups, a plate with the remnants of his cheese sandwich, or maybe Bianca’s — that had yet to be determined — several pairs of his shoes scattered haphazardly over the floor. “Everything you do is an invasion of privacy these days.”

“Fine. I’ll leave.” He stomped across the living room and headed down to his bedroom.

“Praise God. He listens.”

“Mom. .?” Bianca’s voice warbled from down the hall. Pescoli walked briskly down the hall and peeked into her daughter’s room, where Bianca lay on the bed, big eyes wide and a little teary. “Why can’t Chris come over?”

“When I’m here. He can come over when I’m here.”

“I want him here now. He brings me water.”

“I’ll get you a glass of water. Did you eat any of your cheese sandwich?”

“What cheese sandwich?”

“Jeremy!” Pescoli yelled, stomping out of Bianca’s room and turning to the stairs that led down to his bedroom.

“I asked her! She said she didn’t want it!” he yelled back up at her.

Pescoli returned to Bianca’s room. She looked at her daughter, buried in the blankets on her bed. “Is there something that sounds good?” she asked her.

“Soup.”

“Campbell’s okay?”

“Chicken noodle.”

As she headed toward the kitchen to whip up this culinary delight, she heard softly, “Thanks, Mom,” and she exhaled a long breath and almost smiled, remembering why she’d had children in the first place.

Thirty minutes later she was back at the station, and Alvarez was just hanging up the phone as she entered the squad room. “What have you got?” Pescoli asked, and her partner told her about the sperm donor theory from top to bottom.

When she finished, Alvarez said, “Well?” and Pescoli nodded, processing.

“Wow,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“I’m working that out. But that’s the connection. The common denominator.”

“If—”

“Pescoli.” Cort Brewster’s voice barked her name as if it tasted bad.

“Brewster,” she responded neutrally, turning her eye his way.

“Come into my office.” Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

“Well, shit,” she muttered under her breath as she followed after the undersheriff.

Brewster didn’t bother to sit at his desk. He stood behind it and Pescoli did likewise, preferring to stand herself.

“I talked to Heidi. She says there are no pictures.”

“Ahh. .”

“I think she might not be telling the truth,” he admitted. Pescoli lifted her brows. This was a surprise. “It’s no secret I don’t like your son seeing my daughter. He’s a dog in heat, and if I could, I’d bust his ass.”

“You tried that once before,” Pescoli reminded.

“I don’t need an unemployed loser hanging around, and neither does Heidi. He’s a bad influence on her. You and I don’t always see eye to eye, but we have to work together. I’m doing my best to keep things professional. I expect the same from you.” He paused, and when Pescoli didn’t respond, he added, “That’s all.”

She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, annoyed, frustrated, and a little overwhelmed. Not that she’d let Cort Brewster see that. Bastard.

She suddenly ached for Joe. Man, it would be good if he were around. Theirs hadn’t been a perfect marriage; she could admit it had already been fraying when he was killed in the line of duty. But, oh, she could use his level head now in dealing with their son.

And then she thought about Santana. The man she loved. Maybe she should move in with him. What was she waiting for? Her kids to accept him? Ha. That’d be a cold day in hell.

Shaking off her confrontation with Brewster, Pescoli returned to Alvarez’s desk. “Should I call Jocelyn Wallis’s parents and ask them if Dad was a sperm donor?”

“I already left a message,” Alvarez admitted. “Told them to call. But I think it’s time we take this to Grayson.”

Pescoli heard something in Alvarez’s tone that she probably wouldn’t have wanted to be heard. “What’s with you and the sheriff?”

“Not a damn thing,” she responded with uncharacteristic punch.

Grayson was just leaving his office, but upon seeing Alvarez and Pescoli heading straight his way, he stepped back inside and asked, “What?”

“We think the deaths of Elle Alexander and Jocelyn Wallis are connected,” Alvarez said. “And there may be a number of others.”

“Should I sit down?”

“I would advise yes,” Pescoli said dryly.

Twenty minutes later Alvarez had recapped where they were so far, finishing with, “We have a lot of questions, and we’re following up with the relatives of the victims. One thing. Those victims are all women. Brenda Morris, Elle Alexander’s mother, said both of her children were from Donor Seven-twenty-seven. Her son, Bruce, is in Florida and presumably alive and well. Is he on the list? Or is it only women?”

“The list. .,” Grayson said wearily. “That implies there’s more.”

“Maybe a lot more,” Alvarez admitted.

“Every damned Christmas,” Pescoli said. “The season for homicidal nut jobs.”

Grayson’s gaze met Alvarez’s, and Pescoli looked from one to the other. Sturgis, Grayson’s dog, crawled from beneath the sheriff’s desk and stretched and yawned.

“Damn it all,” Grayson said. “Get me some more information. If we’ve got another serial killer on the loose, I’m going to have to call the FBI.”

“We’re meeting one of the lookalikes later today.” Alvarez looked out the window.

“You think she’s on ‘the list’?” Grayson asked.

Alvarez looked at Pescoli, and Pescoli looked back at her.

“Yeah,” Alvarez said. “I do.”

The boardroom was decorated no differently than the rest of the building. A sea of the same industrial-grade carpet was crowned by a long glass-topped table that was surrounded by ten black leather chairs. On one wall was a slim, low cabinet, above which a bronze sculpture of flying geese had been hung. Two other interior walls were of glass, with shades, pulled down, while the only exterior wall was all windows with another commanding view of the surrounding mountains. This part of the building projected over the sloping earth, so that those inside the boardroom had the feeling that they were on the second level, as the ground below fell away dramatically and leveled off at another pond, where snow was gathering on the frozen surface.

If the muted colors and dramatic view were offered to inspire calm or peace, that aura was shattered as Gerald Johnson’s offspring entered and joined Kacey, Clarissa, and their father around the table. A few glances were cast in Kacey’s direction, and though some were curious, none seemed surprised.

No doubt Clarissa had warned them all. She sat in a chair directly to her father’s right, like the apostle John in da Vinci’s The Last Supper. She opened her computer case and pulled out her laptop, just as if this were a regular business meeting and she were about to take notes or share information she’d gathered.