The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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“Got your homework?”
“I don’t have to do homework at Lucky’s,” she said, invoking the name of her father, whom she hadn’t called “Daddy” since the divorce. “Michelle says—”
Pescoli snatched the cell phone out of her daughter’s hand.
“Hey!” Bianca cried as Pescoli snapped the phone closed.
“I don’t care what Michelle says, or really what ‘Lucky’ says either. You take your homework and you get it done, or you and ‘the warden,’ we’re going to have serious issues.”
“We already do!” Bianca declared.
“Yeah, I know. So where’s your brother?”
“Don’t know.”
“Sure you do. You got home somehow and I’m betting you didn’t take the bus.”
“Chris brought me.”
“Your boyfriend brought you home? Didn’t I tell you he wasn’t allowed in the house when I wasn’t here?”
“He dropped me off. Well, yeah, he came in and I gave him a jar of Jeremy’s Gatorade, so sue me, call the sport drink cops!”
“I am the cops,” Pescoli reminded her.
“He gave me an effin’ ride home! You should be glad. Jeremy ditched me.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know and I don’t really care. He said something about Lucky not being his real dad and him not having to go.” She glared at her mother. “Give me back my phone.”
“As soon as you’re packed, and that includes your homework.” Pescoli held tight to the cell. Fuming, she returned to the kitchen, let Cisco outside to do his business and checked his water. “Did you feed the dog?” she called over her shoulder and was met with seething, muted silence emanating from Bianca’s room. Obviously she was being given the silent treatment. Well, good. It was way better than hearing the backtalk. As the terrier pawed at the door to be let in, Pescoli dialed her son’s cell number, then opened the door. A blast of cold air followed the dog back inside.
Jeremy didn’t pick up. But then he never did. Why should now be different from every other day? The kid was being a jerk. And whose fault is that, huh? Who let him get away with murder as a kid because of guilt over Joe’s death? “Damn it all,” she muttered, not leaving a message on voice mail and, instead, defaulting to texting, which she hated, but at least now her kid would read the message.
Get your butt home. Now. xoxo Mom
“That should do it, huh?” she said to the dog, and then, hearing Bianca making noises as if she were putting together an overnight bag, Pescoli poured herself a Diet Coke, added ice and sat down on the couch. Cisco, done with his meager meal of dried food, hopped onto the lumpy cushion beside her and waited as she petted his scruffy head. “Feeling ignored?” she asked the dog. “Join the club.”
He hopped onto her lap, put his paws on her chest and licked her face.
“Okay, okay, enough already. I may be single, but I’m not this desperate.”
“Oh, sick,” Bianca said, walking out of her bedroom and carrying an overstuffed backpack.
“Grow a sense of humor,” Pescoli suggested, and finally Bianca managed a smile.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Now, can I have—”
Pescoli tossed her daughter the precious cell phone. “You do have your homework with you?”
“Yeah.” For once Bianca didn’t roll her eyes or go into her irritating pouty, put-upon act. She even bent over and petted Cisco on his head. “So what’re you doing this weekend?”
“There’s a maniac killer on the loose.”
“Oh, work?”
“Give the girl a gold star.” Regan took a long swallow from her glass, then watched as the ice cubes clicked and danced in the dark liquid.
“Don’t you get tired of it?”
“Mmm. Beats sitting at a desk nine to five. Or waiting tables. Did both of those before.”
Bianca wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. You see some pretty gross stuff.”
“Gross and totally demoralizing. Makes you wonder what’s wrong with the entire human race.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Someone has to.”
“But why you?”
“Because I’m good at my job.” And the truth of the matter was, she loved it. Lived for it. She, in her own way, was as much a workaholic as Alvarez. They just went at it from different angles. She smiled at her daughter and gave her a hug. “I try not to let it get me down.” She glanced at the muted television and saw an image of Ivor Hicks being interviewed on the screen. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Someone let the loonies out.” Hearing the sound of a large truck’s engine, Regan braced herself for the inevitable meeting with Lucky. Today, after dealing with tight-assed Mason Rivers, she wasn’t in the mood to face her own ex. “Dad’s here,” she said, and Bianca visibly brightened. God, the kid loved her father. Which was probably for the best, but it still irritated Pescoli a bit.
Bianca threw her a look. “Are you going to tell him about Jeremy, or should I?”
“I’ll handle it.”
Jillian had heard MacGregor’s keys jangling in his jacket pocket. All she had to do was fish them out when he was sleeping, right? But she kept her thoughts to herself and asked instead, “Do you live here year-round?”
“Sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
He hesitated just a second and looked over her shoulder. “Fishing, hunting, white-water guide in the summer.”
“And in the winter?”
“Mostly get ready for the summer. Sometimes someone wants to go snowshoeing or cross-country skiing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not recently, though. Not with the storms.”
Her eyes narrowed. It sounded like BS to her. And this good-ole-country-boy act didn’t wash either. “All winter long, you stay inside here, by yourself.”
“I’ve got Harley.”
At the mention of his name, the dog, with eyes still closed, thumped his tail against the rug.
“What about family? Wife? Kids?”
There was just a second’s hesitation, a slight tightening of his lips, before he shook his head. “Just Harley. Short for Harlequin.” He bent down and scratched the dog behind his ears. “And no, I didn’t name him. Someone else did the honors.”
“Who?”
“Harley came with the place. I bought it from a guy a couple of years ago. His bitch had a litter of pups. One died, he gave the other four away and this one stayed on with me.” He winked at the dog, who stretched and let out a contented sigh. “So far, it’s worked out.”
“You never get lonely?”
One side of his mouth lifted. “Not enough to make me change my ways.”
“You got family?”
“Not much.”
“How much?” she asked, wondering about him.
“Two half-sisters. Younger.”
“Your folks are dead?”
Again