“He killed Verdago,” she reminded, for the first time that she could remember coming to the man’s defense.
“Not to save you. To silence him.”
“But . . .” As if a bolt of lightning suddenly struck her, she remembered Wanda Verdago referring to her husband’s hit list as the “Dirty Half Dozen.” Six people. Not seven. When she’d entered Davis Briscoe’s cabin, she’d seen six pictures on the table, pictures that included herself, an assistant D.A., a couple of witnesses in Verdago’s trial, Grayson, and Brewster. As she eased off the gas, she saw those photographs clearly in her mind’s eye. “Sweet Jesus.” That part of her brain that had been so blocked suddenly opened, the neurons firing wildly again.
Six pictures. Dirty half dozen. All on the desk. And yet Manny Douglas had received one in the mail.
So the killer must’ve fouled up and Verdago wouldn’t have. He would have focused on those who had done him dirt.
Brewster? With his quick claim to Grayson’s office? His need to become sheriff? It seemed so far-fetched.
“I don’t know.”
“He was crotch-deep in an affair with Judge Samuels-Piquard and she was pressuring him to marry her. He wasn’t going to give up his entire life.”
“This is your theory.”
“I’m getting proof now. My guess is that Brewster used his own key to get into the judge’s house; then he cleaned every surface and burned whatever it was in the den fireplace. Probably a calendar or love letters.”
Was it possible? The un
dersheriff? “I don’t know,” she heard herself say.
“Trust me on this one, Pescoli!”
It could be true, couldn’t it? Alvarez was always so careful. It wasn’t like her to jump to wild conclusions without facts.
The driver of the car behind her, a low-slung sports model, laid on the horn, then sped around the Jeep, spraying snow and slush as he roared past.
Pescoli barely noticed, so intent was she on the conversation. Through the windshield, she glanced up at Brewster’s All-American house in his All-American subdivision. “Has anyone tried to contact Brewster? I’m at his house now.”
“What? Why?”
“Long story. About Jeremy. He asked me to meet him here.”
“Be careful,” Alvarez warned. “Brewster seems to be MIA and so far, just you and I know about this. We don’t want to tip our hand. He’s already trigger-happy.”
“Got it. Let me check things out; then I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon.”
“No, wait. Don’t come here. I’m just pulling into the hospital’s lot,” Alvarez explained. “I called ahead and the staff said Grayson was fine, still resting, but I still thought I’d double-check, see for myself. Once I know he’s secure, that Brewster hasn’t come by and maybe given him something slow-acting, I’ll reinstate a guard. So give me five minutes. If I don’t call you, there’s trouble. Then alert hospital security and call in the cavalry. Missoula PD would be the closest.”
She clicked off and Pescoli, stunned, set her stopwatch. With one eye on the minutes and the second hand counting down, she studied the area. Nothing looked out of place. The house was blanketed in snow, tire tracks in the drive that led to a garage under one half of the house. Footprints were visible on the steps leading to the front door, one set crossing the yard. The biggest prints had originated at Jeremy’s truck.
For a second she wondered if Brewster was inside. If he’d gone so completely crazy that he’d kidnap her kid.
Don’t get caught up in this. Not yet. Alvarez isn’t one to flip out and not think things through. If she says she has evidence, then she probably does.
She was just starting up the steps when the front door of the Brewster’s house flew open and Jeremy stepped onto the concrete porch. His face was grave, nearly ashen, his eyes round as if he were shell-shocked.
Oh, God.
Then she spied Heidi, who looked so incredibly small, even frail. Her face was red, tears still visible, her makeup a mess. Placing an arm around her slim shoulders, Jeremy automatically assumed the role of protector.
Pescoli thought she might be sick. “Hi,” she said.
“Come inside.” Jeremy stepped aside from the door and Heidi started to sob.
“Whatever’s going on here, we’ll figure it out,” she assured them, feeling, for the first time in her life, sorry for Heidi Brewster. She was, after all, just a teenaged girl in trouble.