Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“Any chance there was some paint transfer? From his vehicle to yours?” Alvarez asked, suddenly more interested.

“Maybe. . I saw black marks and a bit of a dent on my bumper.”

“We’d like to keep your car. Try and get at some of those black marks, see if they’re paint.” Alvarez was all business. “Is there anything else you remember?”

“Not really… oh, but, there was a witness,” Kacey said. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

Because it was random. You didn’t really think the accident was connected to anything else. The driver hadn’t intentionally tried to run you down, she thought. Now, though…

“Grace Perchant, she was out walking her dog, the one that’s part wolf.”

“Did you talk to her?”

Grace’s warning ran like blood through Kacey’s brain: You should never speak to him. He is evil. He means you harm. She’d tried to dismiss the pale woman’s message, but it had stuck with her, invaded her dreams.

“She told me not to try and chase him down, that the driver was ‘evil.’ When I asked her who he was, she couldn’t come up with a name, just that he meant me harm.”

“Sounds like Grace,” Alvarez said. “We’ll check it out.”

Fishing in her purse, Kacey came up with her key ring, then removed the key to her Ford and handed it to Alvarez. “I’ll need the car back soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Alvarez promised, scooting back her chair, indicating the interview was finally over. “And I’ll get hold of Grace Perchant.”

Trace had listened to most of the interview without saying too much, but as the discussion had worn on, he’d become more and more concerned for Kacey’s safety. After learning that she had possibly been poisoned and then viewing Pescoli’s gruesome pictures of Karalee Rierson, the most recent accident victim, he’d made up his mind.

As he held the glass door open for her, then followed her outside, he said, “You’re coming to my place.”

“Oh, I am?” Outside the snow was thick now, still falling, a wind blowing off the mountains. Night had fallen in earnest while they were in the police station. Streetlights glowed, offering a thin blue light to the powdery landscape.

“You’re sure as hell not going home alone. Dog or no dog.”

“Yeah?” she asked, but even in the semidarkness, he saw that she was teasing, her eyes a deeper green. Turning the collar of her coat against the wind, she followed a trail of footprints along a footpath leading past a flagpole, where chains rattled and the flags had already been taken down for the night. As Trace jogged to catch up with her, he noticed snowflakes settling onto her shoulders, sparkling like glitter in the dark strands of her hair.

“I don’t like what’s going on,” he said seriously.

“Me, neither.”

“So, no arguments?”

She studied him for a second. “None from me, but we have to pick up my dog and a few things, and then, in the morning, I’m going to need a way to get to work.”

“I think I can handle it. My neighbors, Tilly and Ed Zukov, are watching over things at my place until I get back.”

During Trace’s last conversation Tilly had assured him that Ed had taken care of the horses and cattle and she was already frying chicken. Trace had heard the sizzle of the meat cooking and the blare of the television, as Ed was more than a little hard of hearing. Satisfied that his son was safe and feeling well enough to ask Tilly to bake him brownies, Trace had relaxed a little.

But his sense of ease had been short-lived as the interview had worn on.

He didn’t know who was behind the “accidents” of the women who’d died, but the fact that Kacey looked like a target was enough to convince him that she shouldn’t be alone. Someone had gotten into her house without forced entry, had possibly poisoned her, was privy to her private conversations, and knew when she was alone.

Trace’s back muscles tightened just at the thought of someone listening in.

Was it possible that the person behind the surveillance equipment was the killer?

You bet. In Trace’s mind there was no question. None whatsoever. He unlocked the truck, waited as she climbed into the cab, then closed the door.

She smiled at him through the passenger window, and he felt that now familiar little tug on his heart that he felt whenever he was around her. In another time and place he might think he was falling in love. Right here, right now, he couldn’t even go there. Not while women who looked like her were dying.

As he slid behind the wheel, she voiced second thoughts. “I don’t know if staying with you is the answer,” she said.

“Eli would love it.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking about.” She slid a glance his way. “And you know it.”

He realized suddenly how close the cab of his truck was, how their breaths had fogged the glass. “Yeah.” To break the mood, he flipped on the defrost.

He jammed the truck into reverse, backed out of the parking spot, then switched gears to drive. Slowing so that he could ease into the steady stream of traffic heading out of the town, he inched forward, feeling her gaze upon him as he slid into a spot behind a flatbed truck with a load of Christmas trees.

“It’s just that I have to know that you’re safe, okay? So I want you to stay with me.”

“You want to protect me.”

“Something like that.”

She half smiled, and it was about the sexiest gesture he’d ever seen. “You know what, O’Halleran? Maybe I’ll end up protecting you. Or something like that.”

“I want to surprise Gerald Johnson and see what he has to say for himself,” Pescoli said as she and Alvarez walked to her office.

“Okay. I was doing some research earlier. Let’s follow up some more and then take it to Grayson, so he can contact the FBI.”

“FBI, my ass,” Pescoli muttered.

Alvarez grabbed up the information she’d already pulled from the Internet, and then she and Pescoli spent time searching for other women born twenty-five to forty years earlier in Helena who’d died accidentally. There was a raft of them, but they chose about a dozen.

“This is just so bizarre,” Alvarez said.

“Beyond bizarre. And there are a lot more to sift through. If this is our guy, he sure as hell got around.”

“Which means he had money and free time.”

They looked at each other. “One of Gerald Johnson’s kids?” Pescoli asked.

“Not the youngest. He would have only been six when the first fatal ‘accident’ took place.”

“Unless the first accidents really are accidents or aren’t our lookalikes. . These deaths really started piling up around fifteen years ago, about the time the youngest of Johnson’s kids, the twins, were twenty-two, which is about the same time they would have graduated from college if they went.”

“And ended up on Daddy’s payroll?” Alvarez thought aloud. “But why? And how would whoever it is know where to find the daughters of Seven-twenty-seven?” She grimaced. “Maybe they worked at the clinic while going to college, got the information that way.”

“Could be. Or even bought the information if they found dear old Dad had made regular deposits to the local sperm bank. You know what they say, ‘Everything has a price.’ That includes personal information.” Pescoli thought of her own son and his fascination with the Internet. She’d worried that he was playing games and wasting time, or perusing porn, but what if he was hacking, breaking into private files? “What do you think? Is anyone in Johnson’s family a computer geek?”

The roads were a mess, traffic snarled, the storm relentless as it dumped more snow over northwestern Montana. It took over an hour for Trace and Kacey to collect her dog, computer, and an overnight bag. Trace’s truck slid twice, but he was able to finally reach the old farmhouse he called home.