Leanna . . . who had left her boy with O’Halleran . . .
Her boy . . .
He contemplated that for several moments, calming himself, thinking.
O’Halleran was already concerned the police would look at him as a suspect. He was already connected to Leanna and Acacia, and it sounded like Jocelyn Wallis as well.
He wasn’t wrong. Of course he would be a suspect! The rancher was the perfect suspect. O’Halleran could be blamed for all of it. With a little bit of outside help, he would be.
Someone just had to push things along in the right direction.
Pescoli drove into the station lot, slid a little in the ice-crusted snow, and swore violently, way out of proportion to the situation. Hearing her words echo back through her mind, she tried very, very hard not to be totally pissed off, at the world in general, and at herself, too.
Bianca had mono. Mononucleosis. Yep. The kissing disease. And though Pescoli had hoped this affliction might be visited upon her boyfriend as well, no such luck, apparently. Chris was as healthy as a horse and as sticky as Gorilla Glue. Chris, who heretofore had shown no interest whatsoever in hanging around the Pescoli home if Regan was there, now seemed to think it was his life’s mission to take care of Bianca, and he’d planted himself on the property.
“Go back to school,” Pescoli had told him yesterday, when he’d showed up at noon. He’d left, only to return in the evening and hover around while Bianca basically slept on the couch.
But even worse, it had been Lucky’s bimbo wife, Michelle, who’d set the wheels in motion by intimating that Bianca hadn’t been herself over the holidays, and didn’t Pescoli think maybe she should see a doctor? Never mind the fact that Pescoli had already been trying her damnedest to get Bianca to the doctor’s office but had run up against a brick wall at even the mention of visiting Dr. Lundell, Bianca’s pediatrician.
“I’m too old!” Bianca had yelled at her. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone!”
So, okay, maybe she should have insisted. She’d half believed Bianca had been faking just so she could hang out with Chris. And things were crazy at work, so she’d let it slide. It was no excuse, and she sure as hell felt guilty about it now, but it was the truth. The good news: at least her daughter wasn’t on drugs or suffering from some more serious malaise.
But Bianca was home sick, and Jeremy was there, too, doing nothing constructive, and Chris would be on their doorstep again the first chance he got.
She needed to be there, too.
Pulling back her sleeve with a gloved hand, Pescoli checked her watch. Seven a.m. Maybe she could get a couple of hours in before anyone stirred at home. She planned to work as long as she could, then head home and check on things. It galled her that Michelle had been the one to finally make her force the issue with Bianca. And this after Bianca came back in clothes too raunchy for even a streetwalker—in Pescoli’s unbiased opinion—clothes Michelle had helped her pick out during their trip to the mall. Good. God.
And then Jeremy, with his video-game playing and no plan to do anything else ...
She stepped out into unrelenting snow. Huge flakes were falling steadily, and she bent her head as she headed up the steps to the station. Her jaw was tight, her thoughts on her son. What the hell did he think he was doing? She wasn’t going to just have him home doing nothing. Even Lucky wouldn’t be up for that. And if Jeremy didn’t get his butt off the couch and do something soon, Pescoli was going to go postal. The video games that were his lifeblood were this close to being given to charity. She was pretty sure there was some deserving kid out there who would be thrilled with Kill ’Em Dead or Annihilation or The End of the World, or whatever the hell they were called. Something like that. The perfect Christmas stocking stuffers.
Thinking of Jeremy reminded her of Heidi Brewster, which in turn reminded her of the undersheriff and the fact that she’d drawn Cort Brewster’s name for a Secret Santa gift.
Stomping snow from her boots, she headed down the still half-darkened hallway toward her desk. She stopped short upon seeing Alvarez already at her workstation, her dark, smoothed hair pulled back tight as she hunched over an area lit by a desk lamp, a small oasis of
illumination in an otherwise dimly lit room.
Pescoli flipped the switch by the door and flooded the place with fluorescent lighting, which buzzed and shook and generally made everything look harsh and unappealing.
Alvarez glanced up. “You’re in a mood.”
“How can you tell?”
She gave Pescoli a look that made her realize she was standing with her feet apart, arms crossed, glaring aggressively into the room.
“How’s Bianca?” Alvarez asked.
“Asleep. Hopefully alone, although Chris won’t stay away now that he thinks he’s appointed himself her angel of mercy.”
“Her boyfriend?”
Pescoli made a rude sound, then brought her partner up to speed on Bianca’s boyfriend’s new desire to be at the Pescoli home 24-7. “Like all of a sudden he’s the concerned parent, and none of the rules apply anymore. And then Jeremy . . . if he isn’t spending time playing some video game where he has to annihilate legions of futuristic zombie robots, he’s sexting Heidi Brewster. I got a real surprise the last time Jeremy left his cell phone just lying around for anyone to pick up. Photos. Of Heidi. If a picture’s worth a thousand words, these are like a whole new vocabulary. Some of Heidi’s are . . . Actually, I don’t even have the words.”
Alvarez’s dark eyes were wide and staring straight at Pescoli, telegraphing messages.
“Brewster?” Pescoli said aloud, figuring he must be standing right behind her.