Part 30 (1/2)

”Good,” Alvarez said. ”We need to see the registration for”-she met Pescoli's gaze-”Mr. . . . Bryan Smith. I saw cameras outside. Does the motel keep the tapes?”

Rhonda shook her head. ”The outside cameras are all for show. All they are is a red light to make it look like they're filming. Just like the security signs about a company that is monitoring the place. It's all just to make people think twice about stealing or loitering or whatever. The only cameras that work are in the lobby.”

Alvarez said, ”Then we'll need to see the lobby tapes.”

They left the room.

Arms wrapped around her, shoulders hunched against the cold, Rhonda led them toward the main building. ”You'll have to talk to Carla about that. She's the manager.”

”We will,” Pescoli said as she tightened her scarf and wondered about Ryder's ”friend” in room twenty-five. She had a bad feeling about Bryan Smith. It didn't make sense. Did the two men know each other? She doubted it. Could the maid have been wrong about a possible connection? Probably not. ”Just seal the room, make certain it's not cleaned.” She recalled Blackwater's comment about Bruce Calderone, Anne-Marie Calderone, and Troy Ryder being in the plot together. Far-fetched, she'd thought, but maybe some part of it was true?

Rhonda was already on a walkie-talkie, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

Alvarez whipped out her cell phone. ”I'll get officers over here ASAP,” she told Pescoli as they headed back to the reception area.

Looking over the registration information in the River View's lobby, they added a 1998 Ford Explorer with Texas plates to the APB they'd sent out earlier for Ryder's Dodge pickup and asked for any and all security tapes from the motel's archives, which, Carla told them proudly, were kept for a month.

As they walked back to the Jeep, Alvarez's phone rang again.

”Do you have those head shots yet?” Blackwater asked, finding Zoller at her desk, her fingers on the keyboard of her computer. As a junior detective, she shared an open s.p.a.ce with several other detectives, each desk area divided by half walls to create a cubicle.

”Yes, sir,” she said, hitting a few keys. Within seconds, a slide show of images appeared on her monitor, each essentially the same face and expression. The features were different in each, changing as they would look if artificially manipulated or permanently altered with surgery. The hairstyles were different, the cut and color changing, gla.s.ses added, contacts used to alter eye color, makeup to change the shadows of the cheekbones, eyebrows plucked or thickened, lips made fuller or thinned out, and the aging process factored in, just in case Anne-Marie Calderone had decided to disappear into middle-age. Twenty-five different shots rolled slowly by and with each one, Blackwater became more frustrated.

He was certain he'd seen her before. Would have sworn to it. Something about her eyes and shape of her face caused a memory to tug at his brain. He was good with faces, to the point that he never forgot one, so why then did he sense he'd met her but couldn't quite recall?

One image swept by and he asked Zoller to freeze it. In the shot, the woman looked a good ten or fifteen years older. Her brown hair was short, her gla.s.ses rimless, her lips thin. ”Can you make her blond? Not like before.” There had been several blondes in the lineup. ”But this particular hairstyle.”

”Sure.” With a keystroke, the head shot was of a woman with pale hair.

Blackwater nodded. That seemed better. ”And give this one the full lips.”

Again, Zoller altered the shot.

G.o.d, he knew he'd seen her. But where? He concentrated. It was important on a lot of levels. If Anne-Marie Calderone was found under his watch, and the detectives managed to prove a case against her, his job as sheriff would be secure. Solving the bizarre crime would attract lots of media attention. It was already happening, and it wasn't just the local press. Papers and news agencies from as far away as Spokane and Boise were calling. If Anne-Marie Calderone, involved in bigamy and murder, were captured in Grizzly Falls, he might be hailed as a national hero . . . And if his team stopped a serial killer's rampage? Though that kind of spotlight had never been his goal, he would take any means to become the next sheriff of Pinewood County. Any political ambitions after that would have to wait.

But first things first. They still needed to locate and capture Calderone.

”Anything else?” Zoller asked, looking up at him with her hands poised over the keyboard.

He heard footsteps in the hallway and turned to find the receptionist craning her neck around the corner. ”Sheriff,” Joelle said with a tentative smile. ”I don't want to bother you, but Manny Douglas of the Mountain Reporter phoned for the third time this morning and I told him you'd call him back. If he calls again, I could refer him to the public information officer, but I've dealt with him before and he doesn't seem to take the hint, if you know what I mean.” Her glossy red lips pursed. ”The last time he called, less than two minutes ago, he said he was on his way to the station and was only five minutes away.”

Blackwater held back his initial annoyance and said, ”I'll phone him as soon as I'm done here. If he's already here, give him coffee and let me know. I'll talk to him. In my office.” The last thing he wanted to do at this point in his career was p.i.s.s off a reporter.

She handed him a WHILE-YOU-WERE-OUT memo with Douglas's name and number, then hurried off as a phone started ringing down the hallway.

As he folded the note and tucked it into his pocket, Blackwater swung his attention back to the screen. The break in his attention had given him a fresh perspective. As his eyes narrowed on the image, he felt a little sizzle of antic.i.p.ation, and realized what was wrong, what had to change. To Zoller, he said, ”Is it possible for you to change her teeth? Or her jawline? Give her more jowls?”

Concentrating so hard she bit into her lower lip, Zoller actually was able to draw on the screen with her mouse, the computer filling in the gaps or shaving off what she took off. She was able to change the contour of the face and add in some more crooked teeth so that in a matter of minutes, he was no longer staring at the face of Anne-Marie Calderone as pictured on her driver's license. Instead, he was looking at a much dowdier, older appearing woman that he was certain he'd seen before.

”Darken her eyes.” He knew before Zoller had finished the change that he would be staring into the face of the waitress from the Midway Diner. Her name tag had read JESSICA, he remembered, but he would bet his badge she was the missing heiress, Anne-Marie Calderone.

Pescoli had already gotten a text from Bianca that there was no school today and, of course, her daughter was ecstatic, saying she was going back to bed for a while, then hoping to get a ride to a friend's later. Driving back to the station, Pescoli hoped her daughter stayed put. As far as she knew, Jeremy was at home, probably still fast asleep and would be for a while. Good. At least for the morning, she needed not to worry about either of them.

She wheeled into the station's parking lot and spied a spot in the thickening snow. ”If this keeps up, Blackwater will have us all shoveling,” she said, cutting the engine. ”I can see it now, part of his new military regimen to keep his officers in shape. Did I tell you I caught him in full uniform doing push-ups in his office? Told me it kept the blood flowing.”

”It does,” Alvarez said as she unbuckled her seat belt.

”Yeah, well, once up and showered, I'm not interested in getting my blood flowing,” Pescoli grumbled, climbing out of the car and spying Cade Grayson just parking his pickup in the visitor's lot not far from the pole where the flag was still positioned at half-mast, Old Glory billowing in the falling snow. ”Take a look.”

”Let's see what he has to say.”

He wasn't alone. As he hopped out of one side of the truck, his brother Zed, several inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier, stepped his size fourteen boots into six inches of icy powder. Both men were dressed in thick outerwear and cowboy hats, the wide brims collecting a white dusting as they made their way to the officers.

”Got your message,” Cade said to Alvarez. ”We were already in town, picking up supplies, so I thought it might be best to talk face-to-face.”

”Let's go inside.” Alvarez led the way, and within minutes, they were seated at the conference table, hats removed, jackets unzipped, faces stern, coffee supplied by Joelle on the table, untouched. Alvarez had taken time to dash into her office to retrieve her files and Pescoli, as was her custom these days, had made a quick trip to the bathroom.

The brothers were obviously uncomfortable, whether it was because Cade was being questioned, or due to the fact that they were seated in the sheriff's department, a door away from what had been Dan's office.

”Is this about Bart?” Zed asked, bushy eyebrows pulling together. ”We all know that Hattie won't let that one go.” He sent his brother a glance that was unreadable, one that Cade tried to ignore.

”I did look through the case files on your brother's suicide,” Pescoli said, taking in both brothers as they were seated across from her. ”But I can't find any reason to reopen the case. It looks to me that Bart took his own life. I'm sorry.”

”Not unexpected,” Zed said, his lips twisting down.

More, Pescoli thought, in disapproval of his ex-sister-in-law, than in disappointment about his brother's cause of death.

”Hattie's had a bug up her b.u.t.t about it from the first but h.e.l.l . . . we all just have to accept what happened. We may not like it, but it's time to move on.” Pointedly, he glanced at the door leading to the office once occupied by his brother.

Cade's gaze zeroed in on Alvarez. ”Why did you call? You seemed to think it was pretty d.a.m.n important.”

”It is,” she said, her tablet firing up in front of her. ”I've been in contact with Detective Montoya of the New Orleans Police Department.”

”New Orleans?” Zed said. ”What the h.e.l.l's this all about? We've got a ranch to run and a h.e.l.luva snowstorm to deal with.” He shot a disgusted look at Cade. ”I told you we should've just called.”

”What about New Orleans?” Cade asked, deathly solemn, but not surprised.

”Montoya says you were involved with a woman from there, a woman by the name of Anne-Marie Calderone, or possibly, at that time she might have told you her name was Anne-Marie Favier, though she was married.”

He didn't respond, so Alvarez attempted to jog his memory. ”You were in Texas at a rodeo, took a side trip to Louisiana, and met her there?” She slid a copy of the woman in question's driver's license across the table.

The edges of Cade's lips turned white as he let his gaze skate over the image on the license before he found Alvarez's eyes again. ”What about her?”

”For the love of Christ,” Zed said. ”You and your G.o.dd.a.m.n women!” He snorted through his nose and shook his head.

”We're investigating a couple homicides here in Grizzly Falls. You've no doubt heard of them. We think there's a connection to Ms. Calderone, and we think she's here. Has she contacted you?”