The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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the weather, a small one, but a break.”
The other detective, a quieter, calmer woman with shiny black hair knotted at the base of her neck and eyes that were an intense, unreadable brown, was listening. Something in her demeanor suggested that she believed him, or that at least enough of his rendition of the events was believable to have her doubt him as a suspect.
He’d told them the entire story. Once the helicopter had rescued Jillian and he, too, had been hauled into the chopper, he’d been handcuffed and brought to the sheriff’s department while Jillian was taken to a hospital. Here, in this dull, windowless room with its flat gray walls and cement floor, he’d been offered a folding chair at a simple table and the cuffs had been removed as he’d given his statement. At first he’d been spitting mad, demanding his freedom, insisting that someone find his dog, cursing the fact that no one seemed to believe that he’d actually saved Jillian Rivers rather than tried to harm her.
But this woman, Alvarez, had told him they’d found his dog, alive, and she was beginning to buy into some of what he was telling her. It had been hours since the helicopter had touched down, a long time since he’d been hauled in here and they’d begun interrogating him.
The room was cold but he’d been given another one of his shirts, one brought from his cabin, which, he knew, had been turned inside out while the detectives had looked for evidence, clues that he’d been involved not only in Jillian Rivers’s abduction but the murders of several other women.
Pictures of corpses had been laid on the table in front of him, photos of battered, dead women, all of whom had been lashed to trees and left in the elements to die.
“You’ve never met any of these women before?” he was asked for about the twentieth time.
“No.”
“You don’t recognize them?”
“No.”
He held Pescoli’s gaze. “I’ve never seen any of them before in my life.”
Pissed, she walked away from him and rotated her neck a bit, as if she, too, were weary of this discussion that was going nowhere.
“You have a record,” she said, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms under her chest.
“That’s right.”
“And we’re not talking about speeding tickets. You killed a man in Denver. Did time.”
MacGregor didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. They had his file, knew all about the charges.
“So you’re not a stranger to murder.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t rise to the bait. The charge had been manslaughter. Big difference. They both knew it. He wondered what time it was but resisted the urge to check his watch. They’d been at it long enough that he’d told them not only how he’d found Jillian but what had transpired in the ensuing days. He figured everything he told them would be confirmed by his cabin or by Jillian herself. He’d already asked about her, and they’d responded with, “She’s at the hospital under a doctor’s care,” but wouldn’t give him any other information. The same was true of Harley. “He’s alive. A vet is examining him,” was all he got.
“You have books on astrology and astronomy,” Alvarez said. Again, a statement.
“And you’re a guide, know the area,” Pescoli added, double-teaming him. “You’ve led expeditions to Cougar Pass?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve fished in September Creek?”
“Of course.”
“Know about Broken Pine Lodge?” she asked, leaning closer, near enough that he smelled the faint scent of perfume laced with cigarette smoke.
“I’m a guide. I know the area.”
“Including all the places the bodies and cars were found.” She pulled a map from the file on the edge of the desk. Upon the familiar topography were red marks that he assumed were the areas in which they found the bodies and the cars. “You’ve been to all of these places, right?” She pointed out the marked areas.
“At one time or another, yes. But not recently.”
They kept at it, asking him what he’d done this winter, specifically centering on the dates around the twentieth of each month. They asked what he could tell them about the significance of the stars carved into the boles of the trees and then they showed him copies of notes on white paper, notes with letters that meant nothing to him other than they seemed to progress—with each new victim, new letters, the initials of the dead woman, were inserted.
“So you’re asking us to believe that you’re not the Star-Crossed Killer. That’s what the press has dubbed you.”
“Ask Jillian Rivers,” he suggested.
“We have. And you know what? She’s not exactly backing you up.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t believe this hard-nosed detective with her narrowed eyes. “In fact, she said there were times when you were gone for hours. Hours.” She closed the gap between herself and the table and pointed to the pictures of the dead women. “Enough time to get to your lair and prod your victim to her doom.”
“My lair?” he repeated. “Are you kidding? Lair?”
“A cave or another cabin, maybe something like the old abandoned lodge, a mining shed, some place where you keep them.”
She was fishing. Didn’t have a case and she knew it, all the while hoping he’d get mad enough to blurt out some piece of critical information to lock him to the murders.
“So are you going to arrest me or what?” he asked, finally tired of the game. He was exhausted, mentally fatigued, and his bullshit meter hovered well over full. He’d said what he had to say.
“We’re holding you.”
He knew the law, knew this was within their rights. “Okay, but I’m done answering questions. I’ve given you my statement, so anything else you want to ask me will be with my attorney present. Garret Wilkes in Missoula. Give him a call.” He stood then, half-expecting the bigger woman to order him back into his chair, but she didn’t.
She looked as tired as he felt, and if she was any cop at all, she’d already figured out he was innocent.
“I want to see my dog and talk to Jillian.”
Pescoli was having none of it. “Can’t do it.”
“Sure you can. As soon as you give up all this ‘bad cop’ act.”
Pescoli’s eyes flashed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Alvarez said, stepping in before her partner did anything they’d both regret. She fished her handcuffs from her back pocket. “For now, though, Mr. MacGregor, you’re going to have to spend the rest of the night in a holding cell. Compliments of Pinewood County.”
Chapter Twenty
“I don’t care what the doctor says, I need to be released and I need to be released now,” Jillian insisted until a nurse shut her up by stuffing a thermometer under her tongue. Lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, nearly gagging on the damned thermometer, she plotted her escape. It was only a matter of going against her doctor’s orders, and as far as she was concerned, she needed to get out now.
She’d never been one to sit idle, and lying around in a hospital bed was worse. The television was tuned in to some sitcom that should have died a death three seasons earlier, and there was noise from the outer hallway. The nurses’ hub was just outside her door and conversation, along with the rattle of carts and whisper of footsteps, seeped in through her cracked door.
Her room was small but private, with a large window overlooking a nearly empty parking lot that had been plowed of