To this day it was locked in the bottom drawer of the night table next to his bed. Hidden beneath the family Bible.
A rush of warm air tinged with the scents of oregano and tomato sauce hit Pescoli full force as she walked into Dino’s Pizza Parlor. It had been a long day of spinning her wheels. She and Alvarez were following up on some of the information they’d gathered today, but still, the investigation seemed caught in a quagmire. Grayson’s condition hadn’t changed. The alibis of the ex-cons in the area hadn’t been broken, at least not yet, and though it was a separate matter, the missing judge still hadn’t been located.
She’d called ahead and ordered two pizzas, a meat lover’s for Jeremy and a vegetarian for Bianca. That’s how her kids were, opposite as night to day. For herself, she figured she’d sample a little of each, while the family gathered around the tree to exchange gifts in the spirit of the rapidly passing season.
Was it late? Yes, but not too late, she figured.
Was it untraditional? You bet, but maybe she preferred to think of it as “unique,” as theirs wasn’t a particularly religious family. Nonetheless, she liked to inject a little bit of Christ into Christmas. Really, that was the point. Right?
She wended her way through tables that were half filled. A few families gathered at the smaller tables near the fireplace, while groups of teenagers who had apparently devoured more than their fill of Grandma’s home cooking had come down to the pizza parlor to hang out. Clusters of the kids filled one section of booths, spilling over to nearby tables, laughing, talking, eating, and, of course, texting. Busboys couldn’t keep up with the half-drunk sodas and plates covered with unwanted crusts that littered some abandoned tables. She paid for her order and a surly-faced twentysomething found her two boxes under the warming lights. His name tag read “Eric,” and Pescoli pegged him as the much-disliked boyfriend of Allison Banks.
Huh.
“You’re Allison Banks’s boyfriend?” she asked as he carried the flat boxes to the cash register. Something flickered in his dark eyes.
“Yeah, I know her,” he answered, suspicion heavy in his voice.
“I think she thought you might be stopping by.”
“Who are you?” he asked, then glanced at her ticket. “Regan?”
“Actually, I’m a detective with the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department.”
A little bit of panic rose in his eyes. “What are the cops doing talking to Alli?” he asked as she reached for the boxes. “She do something wrong?”
“No, we were just asking questions. Mrs. Banks was married to Sheriff Grayson at one time.”
“So?” he asked.
“He was shot yesterday morning.”
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “It’s, like, all everyone is talking about, how some sniper dude tried to take him out, but that don’t have anything to do with Alli.”
“It was just a few questions.”
His boss, a man in his seventies with a thick gray mustache, was staring at Eric with the sharp eye of an owner anticipating someone skimming money from the till.
Lowering his voice, Eric said, “Alli don’t know nothing.”
“Do you?”
“Are you crazy?” He glanced over Pescoli’s shoulder to the couple who were impatiently standing behind her. “Can I help you?” he asked as Pescoli scooped up the boxes and headed outside. She didn’t really consider Eric a suspect in an attempted murder plot, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he had a problem with the police. She made a mental note to check into his record and see what it was that made Allison Banks’s boyfriend so nervous around the cops.
After finding her car in the parking lot, she placed the boxes on the front seat, then dashed across the street to the veterinary clinic and dog shelter.
Jordan Eagle had spied Pescoli approaching and brought Sturgis into the reception area, his black coat gleaming, a jaunty red kerchief knotted around his neck. At the sight of a familiar face, Sturgis let out a sharp yip and began straining on the leash. All the while, his tail wagged furiously.
Pescoli felt a rush of relief at the sight of the dog as Jordan said, “Guess he’s glad to see you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
A petite woman whose coppery skin and straight black hair hinted at her Native American heritage, Jordan was barely over five feet and probably not much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, yet she had a quiet way about her that was calming to the animals she treated, even if they outweighed her.
“Is he okay?” Pescoli asked.
“Fine,” she said, patting the old dog, whose muzzle
was graying. “A little concerned as he’s out of his routine, I think, but physically strong. All his vitals are normal, he’s not dehydrated, and no obvious signs of any trauma. He needed his nails clipped and his teeth should be cleaned soon, but that requires anesthesia, so I thought I’d wait to find out what Sheriff Grayson wants.” Her eyes clouded a bit. “How is he?”