The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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she walked through the foyer to the main dining hall, where the decor only got worse.
As she headed to the back of the large room, she passed tables and booths filled with patrons and guarded by hundred-year-old dead herbivorous animals staring down at her, all their antlers dressed in winking lights or draped in tinsel.
It was damned freaky.
Welcome to Grizzly Falls, she thought, struggling out of her jacket and realizing that some of the customers were gazing at her, questions in their eyes for the cop who was trying and failing to find a maniac.
Ignoring the garish display on the walls and the customers, who turned back to their meals, she settled into a booth near the back. She sat facing the door, a cop habit she couldn’t shake. She just couldn’t stand it if she couldn’t see who was entering or leaving a restaurant.
Sandi, the owner-waitress, came by. In her hands were two steaming coffeepots. “You want coffee? Or somethin’ stronger? The drink special tonight is what we call a Wild Christmas.”
“I hate to ask.” The last drink special had been known as a Wild Will Hiccup and had been a god-awful blend of whiskeys.
“Eggnog, cream de cacao, a splash of cola and a shot of Wild Turkey.” One of Sandi’s eyebrows lifted over the rims of her jeweled glasses. “You can have another kind of whiskey if you want. We use Wild Turkey because of the name.”
“I think I’ll stick with decaf,” Alvarez said, turning up one of the cups on her table and watching the warm stream of dark liquid flow.
“Any luck gettin’ that psycho?” Sandi asked. She was a tall woman with a long, gaunt face and eyes darkened with heavy liner and, today, probably in a nod to the season, glittery green eye shadow. She had once been married to William Aldridge, for whom the establishment had been named, but Will and she had divorced, or so rumor had it. Will had ended up with his favorite pickup, the RV, a hunting cabin and a twenty-year-younger-than-Sandi girlfriend, and Sandi had become full owner of Wild Wills, expanding the bland fare to include exotic dishes created from local trout and venison. She lived in an apartment upstairs and was at the restaurant 24-7, or so it seemed. Sandi also hadn’t been able to hide her satisfaction when she’d heard Will’s younger girlfriend had “dumped his sorry ass.” She’d confided this little morsel of information to anyone who had sat in the faux-leather booths and café chairs in the past two years.
“We’re working on it.”
“Well, speed it up, will ya? It’s got everybody in town nervous as hell. No one’s talkin’ about this blasted weather, uh-uh. Nope. It’s all about the Bitterroot Killer. That’s what Manny over at the Reporter calls him.”
Alvarez had seen the article written by Manny Douglas of the Mountain Reporter, Grizzly Falls’s answer to the L.A. Times. “We’ll get him,” she said.
“I have faith.” But it was a lie. Alvarez saw the nervousness in the edge of Sandi’s glossy-red lips as she slid a menu across the table. “The special is buffalo steak with a wild huckleberry reduction and red potatoes or rice pilaf. It comes with a house salad of spinach, green apples and hazelnuts or a cup of cream of broccoli soup.”
A man at a nearby table held up his empty drink glass and Sandi scurried off toward the bar in search of another Wild Christmas or something about as palatable.
Selena glanced around the room, where normal citizens, some with shopping bags, were clustered around tables or stuffed into booths. She listened to bits of conversation over the soft music, country-western ballads whispering through the speakers that battled with the loud thrum of the furnace and hiss of the fryer whenever the doors to the kitchen opened. As upscale as Sandi wanted to make the place, most of the patrons ordered steaks, burgers and fresh-cut fries or onion rings.
“…what kind of a monster would do it? My goodness. This was such a nice town,” a woman wearing a gray wig and large gold cross around her neck said to the man seated opposite her. Their meal finished, they were lingering over two cups of coffee and sharing a slice of coconut cake.
“…if ya ask me, we should get ourselves a posse goin’, search the hills ourselves.” The man, waiting for his new drink, was already a little flushed and full of Old West bluster. “We all got guns around here. Maybe it’s time to take justice into our own hands…. Damned police…Aaah, thank ya, dear,” he said to Sandi as she deposited the fresh glass onto the table in front of him. He picked it up and nodded. “These are real good. Real good.”
“I heard they were tortured and tied to trees with some kind of weird Satanic symbol cut into the bark.” Another woman, wearing a hand-quilted jacket and dour expression and seated at a table not far from Alvarez’s, was leaning over the remains of her buffalo steak special and stage-whispering to her friend.
“Who would think, here, in Grizzly Falls?” her companion replied with the kind of relish that meant she was savoring every tidbit of gossip cast her way.
Alvarez turned her attention away.
Who indeed?
For years, she’d hoped to be part of an investigation of a major case, one that would get her juices flowing, one that would offer some recognition, one that might even garner national attention.
But not this one. Not a case where women were held, probably tortured, then, when the sicko was finished playing with them, left naked in the woods.
She ordered trout almondine with risotto and spinach salad, and though she tried, she couldn’t take her mind off the case and the victims. Theresa Charleton had been left around the twentieth of September, near the cusp of the astrological signs, just as Chandler had pointed out. Nina Salvadore a month later, then Wendy Ito and now Jillian Rivers.
Was the killer really a Zodiac copycat?
Or something else? She glanced around the room and noted the normal-looking people out for dinner or drinks. Grizzly Falls had its share of nutcases, but now, did they have a twisted killer?
He had to know the area. He had to know his victims. He had to keep them somewhere close by. In a lair of sorts—a cabin, a cave, a basement, a barn, a shed, a damned attic—but hidden away.
And right under your damned nose.
Everyone was working nearly ’round the clock, but still, it was almost as if they were spinning their wheels, getting nowhere in a big hurry.
Pescoli was working on the maps, the FBI was checking files and creating a profile. Alvarez had calls into missing persons departments throughout Montana and the surrounding states. People of interest were being interviewed and re-interviewed. Everyone was going over notes and talking to friends and family, people in the area who might have seen something. The public had been alerted, the sheriff’s department asking for citizens to report anything they deemed suspicious. Men, dogs, four-wheel-drive units and helicopters had been searching for more victims or abandoned wrecked vehicles or any damned piece of evidence they could find whenever the weather allowed.
All in all, it was frustrating.
There weren’t enough leads and certainly not enough hours in the day.
So much for the glory of a major case, she thought as a sizzling platter was placed in front of her and a country Christmas carol sung by Wynonna Judd filtered through the speakers. So far they had no idea who was wreaking terror on this usually sleepy little Montana town.
She picked up a knife and looked at her plate, where a rainbow trout, head attached, seemed to stare up at her. Everywhere, it seemed, eyes were watching her. The man in the parka outside the restaurant, the other patrons here at Wild Wills, the heads of dead animals mounted high on the walls, the unseen eyes on the street outside and now, even her damned food.
Ah, well. She stared the trout down and cut into it, slicing out a flaky bite.
Bon appetit.
It’s time for the next phase.
As I stare at her. I know.