Part 25 (1/2)

That thought was foreign. Unappealing.

”Oh, G.o.d,” she whispered. Throwing off the covers, she opened her eyes.

The cabin was nearly dark, of course, though she discerned from the bits of gray light filtering through the shades or cracks in the curtains that dawn had broken. Good. It was time to stoke the fire and get moving, face the d.a.m.n music.

Finally, the waiting, and, oh G.o.d, the running, were nearly over.

She flung her legs off the couch and, stretching her arms over her head, yawned as she tried to wake up. Rotating the tightness from her neck, she felt it-that sizzling, heart-stopping sensation that something wasn't right.

Don't be silly.

Then she heard a sc.r.a.pe of leather against old floorboards.

Instinctively she rolled off the couch, her arm shooting forward under the pillow, her fingers searching for the hard steel of her pistol.

Nothing.

What? No!

”It's not there,” a deep voice said.

Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw him then, the huge dark figure standing against the door.

Oh, G.o.d!

He'd found her.

Chapter 22.

Pescoli had half-expected the atmosphere around the department to be different after Grayson's funeral, but when she got to work on Monday it didn't feel that way. Stomping snow from her boots, she felt a wall of heat greet her along with that same sense of somberness. Everyone who'd worked for Grayson may have gotten some closure from the ceremony, but it was going to take a while until it was business as usual again.

Winter had returned full force, a mother of a storm blowing in from Canada that had dumped nearly a foot of snow in the area and wasn't done yet. The wind was gusting and brutal, the temperature plunging to below freezing. Currently, most of the roads were clogged, some closed, maintenance crews working overtime. Deputies from the department had been called in early to deal with traffic snarls. Parts of the county were reporting electrical outages. Frozen pipes might be next, and the homeless population needed more shelter.

All that along with their current whack job-one who liked fingers and rings and dead women.

Pescoli, who had always claimed to have hated all the folderol over celebrations from New Year's to Christmas, found she missed the lightheartedness of Joelle's attempts to decorate the office, or at least her chance to poke fun at it. It was going to take a while until denial slowly morphed into reality and people got back into routine.

She had gotten up early and it was still predawn outside, not her norm by a long shot. She'd been unable to sleep, so she'd come to the station earlier than usual, ready to get back to the job, even though she was working for a man she didn't much like.

As she unwound her scarf, she told herself it was time for a personal att.i.tude adjustment. She didn't like Blackwater, and she was pretty sure he didn't like her. So what? It was time to get along, at least as long as she was employed in the department. Considering her current state-engaged, pregnant, the mother of teenagers who still needed her words of wisdom and guidance-it might be time to pack it in.

But not quite yet.

She still needed to find who'd killed Sheree Cantnor and Calypso Pope. That part-solving the mysteries of homicides, catching the culprits, and slamming their a.s.ses behind bars-she would miss. As for the particular freak they were currently chasing, she wanted him behind bars and fast. She and Alvarez needed to wrap it up.

Unzipping her outer coat as she walked by Blackwater's office, she caught a glimpse of him on the floor doing a slow, determined set of push-ups. ”Detective?” he called before she could move past. ”I'd like to have a word.”

She paused. Backed up a step. Stood in the open doorway.

”Glad you're in early.”

His face was away from her and as far as she could tell he hadn't even looked in her direction, which was a little disconcerting. She hadn't spoken, wasn't usually in before eight, and didn't think her footsteps were all that unique, yet there was no doubt he'd known it was she who was pa.s.sing by his door.

”Come on in.” He lifted one arm, still balancing himself off the floor with the other as he waved her inside.

Was he showing off? For her? She could have told him it wasn't going to work.

She stepped inside the small room that had once held a dog bed and hat rack. Both were gone, as were all of Grayson's personal belongings. Then again, his memorabilia had been missing for a while because Blackwater wasn't the first person to claim this office after Grayson had been shot; another man had sat in his chair, wielding his own brand of distorted power for a very short period.

”What can I do for you?” she asked him.

Dressed in uniform, his sleeves rolled up, his body straight as a board, not so much as breaking a sweat, Blackwater did three more slow, perfect push-ups, holding his body rigidly off the floor.

”You look busy,” she said, looking longingly toward her office door.

”Nope. Finished. For now.” In one swift, athletic motion he hopped to his feet and straightened, his face only slightly flushed. ”Have a seat,” he said, and she thought better of arguing, even though she was still wearing her jacket and hadn't even spent a second at her desk. ”I'd like your take on the Cantnor and Pope homicides. Bring me up to speed.”

”I thought Alvarez talked to you.” Pescoli was pretty sure Blackwater had all the information they did.

”She did. As did Gage. But I'd like to hear what you think.” He was staring at her intently, almost as if he were trying to read her mind.

So, he wants a recitation. Fine. ”Well, I think we've got ourselves another nutcase.” She perched stiffly on the chair she'd occupied so often when Grayson was alive.

Some kind of cla.s.sical music was playing softly, Blackwater's computer was at the ready, the monitor glowing with the logo for the department on display, and every book, file, pen, or note pad was placed neatly on the desk or the surrounding cases, his awards mounted precisely on the walls. The whole ”neat as a pin” feel gave Pescoli a bad feeling-kind of like Alvarez's office on steroids. It was all part and parcel of Blackwater's consistent military style.

”I think the murders are linked. That's the obvious conclusion, and I think it's the right one. We've got one sick j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. who gets his jollies by slicing off the victim's ring finger. I've got no real idea who's behind the deeds yet.” She almost lost her train of thought, he was staring at her so intently, but she went through all the facts again as they knew them, finally returning to, ”The big connection so far is the missing fingers and rings, and that fingerprint. We only hope we'll come up with a hit and be able to ID whoever picked up Sheree Cantnor's shoe and Calypso Pope's bag.”

His eyebrows pinched together. ”Not one suspect so far?”

He knew that, too, but apparently wanted her to reiterate. ”No. At least not until we identify the print found on Cantnor's shoe and Pope's bag. Or, if our killer is dumb enough to try and p.a.w.n the rings and give himself away.”

Blackwater picked a pencil out of the holder and leaning back in his chair, fiddled with it. ”Odd case.”

”We get our share around here.”

”And then some,” he agreed.

”Must be the water, or the hard winters. Makes people crazy.”

He didn't so much as crack a smile. So much for a little levity.

”You got anything else?” he asked.

”We're still looking for a connection between the two women, old schools or boyfriends or friends, even friends of friends, but as near as we can tell at this point, the two victims didn't know each other.”

”Random?”