wrecked or if anyone’s inside.”
“I’m on my way,” she said, digesting what the undersheriff had said as well as what he hadn’t. The temperature in that wrecked car would have been far below freezing last night and if Regan hadn’t gotten out…
She clicked off the phone and turned back to the living room where Bianca was still staring at her.
“I’ve got to go. If you think of anything else, call me.”
“That was about Mom,” Bianca guessed, her face ashen. “Wasn’t it?”
“We don’t know. We think we might have found her vehicle. Nothing’s certain yet.”
“Where?” Bianca demanded, getting up from her spot on the ottoman.
Now, finally, she had Lucky’s attention. He clicked off the television with the remote. Michelle, snowman hot pads covering her hands, had walked into the archway near the dining room and, too, was waiting.
“I don’t know anything, but I will soon,” Alvarez said. “I’ll call.”
“No…I want to come.” Bianca was already starting for the door, but Lucky reached out a long arm and stopped her, held his daughter fast. For the first time he seemed to really comprehend how dire the situation was.
“We can’t interfere with police business, pumpkin. Detective Alvarez promised to call us and she will.”
Alvarez’s heart sank as she walked to the door and let herself out. Whatever had happened to Regan wasn’t good.
She knew it.
Lucky Pescoli knew it.
Only Bianca was holding out childish hope.
Chapter Five
Alvarez stood on the icy road that cut across Horsebrier Ridge and watched nervously as the rescue workers ascended the face of the cliff using ropes. It was dark, the wind blowing through the canyon, but the blizzard had given it a rest, no new snow was falling from the dark heavens. At least for now.
Tired, hungry, her stomach in knots, the cold medication wearing off, she, along with several deputies and members of the rescue teams from both the fire and sheriff’s departments, had responded to the scene. The road was blocked, flares lit and sizzling orange, adding to the eerie incandescence of beams from flashlights, headlights, taillights, and cigarette tips all reflecting against a deathly white panorama of wintry forest.
Far below, crumpled and half buried in snow, was the remains of what had once been Pescoli’s Jeep. The rescue team, with the help of ropes and climbing gear, returned.
“No one inside,” Randy, a ruddy-faced fireman, said as he approached. He was shaking his head and turned to another fireman, Gary Goodwin, a man Alvarez had only met a couple of times. “Got a smoke?”
Goodwin obliged, offering up an opened pack of Winstons and a Bic lighter.
“Purse?” Alvarez asked as Randy, thick gloves on his hands, fumbled with the bummed cigarette and a lighter.
“I didn’t see one.”
“Weapons? I’m sure she had her sidearm, a shotgun, and rifle with her.”
“Nothing.” He was shaking his head. “But it’s damned dark, I looked real good with my flashlight, but I could have missed something.” He lit up and tossed the lighter back to his buddy.
“You didn’t,” Goodwin said, glancing down the hill again. “There was some junk in there, sunglasses, empty cigarette pack, shopping bags, but the Jeep’s pretty crumpled up. Maybe we’ll find something tomorrow, when we’ve got daylight.” He didn’t sound convinced as he jammed a cigarette into his mouth.
Alvarez silently agreed. And she figured the rest of the crew from the sheriff’s department would be on board with Randy’s assessment. If Pescoli had been abducted by the Star-Crossed Killer, her assailant would have cleaned out the Jeep, wiped away or taken any evidence with him, as he had with all the others.
Alvarez felt sick inside. She coughed, and the men stepped away from her. She flapped a hand at them and said, “Not the cigarettes. A nasty cold.”
They stayed back. Alvarez didn’t blame them.
She cleared her throat and gazed out at
“I’m on my way,” she said, digesting what the undersheriff had said as well as what he hadn’t. The temperature in that wrecked car would have been far below freezing last night and if Regan hadn’t gotten out…
She clicked off the phone and turned back to the living room where Bianca was still staring at her.
“I’ve got to go. If you think of anything else, call me.”
“That was about Mom,” Bianca guessed, her face ashen. “Wasn’t it?”
“We don’t know. We think we might have found her vehicle. Nothing’s certain yet.”
“Where?” Bianca demanded, getting up from her spot on the ottoman.
Now, finally, she had Lucky’s attention. He clicked off the television with the remote. Michelle, snowman hot pads covering her hands, had walked into the archway near the dining room and, too, was waiting.
“I don’t know anything, but I will soon,” Alvarez said. “I’ll call.”
“No…I want to come.” Bianca was already starting for the door, but Lucky reached out a long arm and stopped her, held his daughter fast. For the first time he seemed to really comprehend how dire the situation was.
“We can’t interfere with police business, pumpkin. Detective Alvarez promised to call us and she will.”
Alvarez’s heart sank as she walked to the door and let herself out. Whatever had happened to Regan wasn’t good.
She knew it.
Lucky Pescoli knew it.
Only Bianca was holding out childish hope.
Chapter Five
Alvarez stood on the icy road that cut across Horsebrier Ridge and watched nervously as the rescue workers ascended the face of the cliff using ropes. It was dark, the wind blowing through the canyon, but the blizzard had given it a rest, no new snow was falling from the dark heavens. At least for now.
Tired, hungry, her stomach in knots, the cold medication wearing off, she, along with several deputies and members of the rescue teams from both the fire and sheriff’s departments, had responded to the scene. The road was blocked, flares lit and sizzling orange, adding to the eerie incandescence of beams from flashlights, headlights, taillights, and cigarette tips all reflecting against a deathly white panorama of wintry forest.
Far below, crumpled and half buried in snow, was the remains of what had once been Pescoli’s Jeep. The rescue team, with the help of ropes and climbing gear, returned.
“No one inside,” Randy, a ruddy-faced fireman, said as he approached. He was shaking his head and turned to another fireman, Gary Goodwin, a man Alvarez had only met a couple of times. “Got a smoke?”
Goodwin obliged, offering up an opened pack of Winstons and a Bic lighter.
“Purse?” Alvarez asked as Randy, thick gloves on his hands, fumbled with the bummed cigarette and a lighter.
“I didn’t see one.”
“Weapons? I’m sure she had her sidearm, a shotgun, and rifle with her.”
“Nothing.” He was shaking his head. “But it’s damned dark, I looked real good with my flashlight, but I could have missed something.” He lit up and tossed the lighter back to his buddy.
“You didn’t,” Goodwin said, glancing down the hill again. “There was some junk in there, sunglasses, empty cigarette pack, shopping bags, but the Jeep’s pretty crumpled up. Maybe we’ll find something tomorrow, when we’ve got daylight.” He didn’t sound convinced as he jammed a cigarette into his mouth.
Alvarez silently agreed. And she figured the rest of the crew from the sheriff’s department would be on board with Randy’s assessment. If Pescoli had been abducted by the Star-Crossed Killer, her assailant would have cleaned out the Jeep, wiped away or taken any evidence with him, as he had with all the others.
Alvarez felt sick inside. She coughed, and the men stepped away from her. She flapped a hand at them and said, “Not the cigarettes. A nasty cold.”
They stayed back. Alvarez didn’t blame them.
She cleared her throat and gazed out at
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