Pescoli bit into the Reuben and ignored not only great-great- great-grannie’s cake but also the Christmas decorations and the big sign that Joelle had pinned on the bulletin board. The sign was Joelle’s way of reminding everyone of their Secret Santas and the party she had planned for the week before Christmas. Plenty of time to figure out what special little gift to buy the undersheriff.
Thank God the limit was ten bucks.
Still too much in Pescoli’s opinion.
“DNA report come in?” she asked.
“It’s at the lab. So, we’ll see. Compare it to Jocelyn Wallis’s. I’ve already told them to put a rush on it.”
“And did they tell you to shove it?” Pescoli asked. “They’re pretty busy.”
“They’ll do what they can.”
“You think the doctor’s a potential target?” Pescoli had trouble wrapping her mind around that. “Just because she looks like the others and claims to have been bugged doesn’t connect her.”
“Except for O’Halleran.”
“Back to him.” Pescoli chewed thoughtfully. Some serial killers were known to go after a type. Time and time again, that had proven true. Ted Bundy was a classic case in point. But it was a big leap to think that a killer was after a victim with a certain DNA profile. It was one thing for a wack job to be attracted to long hair or blue eyes or whatever, quite another for him to be looking for women with DNA patterns or common ancestors.
How would a person even go about that? Geez, it was hard enough for the department, with access to a crime lab, to get a DNA profile.
If the DNA was important, then it only made sense that the common ancestry was the key.
“Whether the victims are linked through DNA or an ancestor or whatever, I wonder if we should talk to Grayson about going public.”
Alvarez tried to show no emotion at the mention of their boss. How could she? Like it or not, they worked for the guy, but something wasn’t right there. “I think we should,” she said now. “Talk to Grayson.”
“But it’s iffy,” Pescoli said. So far all they really knew was that someone had been trying to poison Jocelyn Wallis. The other potential victims were an actress in Southern California and a woman whose minivan had slid off the road with a little help, probably by a hit-and-run driver. Nothing concrete to tie the crimes to one killer. Maybe they were getting ahead of themselves. They couldn’t even prove that they had a serial killer in their midst, hadn’t alerted the FBI.
Alvarez eyed the cake and, as if she’d read Pescoli’s mind, said, “I’m checking with other departments, not just statewide. Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and California to start. See if they have any recent suspicious deaths where the victim has connections here or to Helena. I’ve also got a call in to Elle Alexander’s parents to find out if she was really born in Idaho.”
“It all sounds kind of thin, doesn’t it?”
Alvarez shook her head, unwilling to be sidetracked. “If Shelly Bonaventure is part of this, then our guy moves around a lot. Could be he has a job that takes him to other parts of the country. If so, there might be a trail of victims. Individual accidents.”
“And if Bonaventure, who the LAPD are still claiming offed herself, isn’t one of our guy’s victims?” Pescoli asked, finishing her sandwich.
Alvarez scowled. “Then we’re back to square one.”
At two o’clock Herbert Long’s wife called to say, with a heavy dose of disgust, that her husband was going to have to cancel his appointment. Kacey, who had been unable to get Dr. Martin Cortez to take the appointment as he was already double-booked, pumped her fist in the air. She could drive to Missoula earlier than planned, and though dark clouds were gathering along the ridge of mountains surrounding the valley, the heavy snowfall had abated, just as Heather had said the forecasters had predicted.
After grabbing a bottle of water from the staff room’s small refrigerator, she donned her coat and headed for her car. She had managed to choke down a tuna sandwich for lunch but had no real appetite. She’d put a call in to Trace, ostensibly to talk about Eli, and learned that he’d talked to the police about the microphones. “I think they’re planning to sweep your house,” he said. “Probably dust for fingerprints.”
“I should remind them about Bonzi.”
“They want you there, too.”
“Good. I’ll call them later.”
She didn’t tell him what she had planned, though it was on the tip of her tongue. But he would try to talk her out of it, or join in, and she really wanted to do this herself.
She’d decided to meet Gerald Johnson face-to-face, see what her newfound dad had to say for himself, and try to figure out why her mother held him in such reverent esteem.
Theirs, it seemed, at least in Maribelle’s nostalgic mind, was an affair that transcended all others, a star-crossed, tragic love story that was equal to or more intense than Antony and Cleopatra, or Romeo and Juliet.
The incredibly pathos-riddled tale of Gerald and Maribelle.
“Give me a break,” she muttered under her breath as she moved her all-wheel drive onto I-90. In her head she mapped out what she might say to the father who, according to Maribelle, had never known she existed.
Great.
Some of her courage seeped away as the tires of her Ford ate up the miles. She’d done her research. All Gerald’s legitimate children lived within fifty miles of their parents. No offspring going to college on the East Coast and putting down roots, or marrying and taking a job in San Francisco or Birmingham or Chicago.
No, all of those who had survived still lived close to Daddy and, she suspected, the fortune he’d amassed. She chastised herself mentally for her suspicions as she reached the city limits of Missoula, but she’d done her research: Gerald Johnson was a very wealthy man.
As she’d gathered information on him, Kacey had also learned that most of his surviving children worked for him. The oldest, Clarissa, had an MBA from Stanford, and she was in charge of marketing. Married, with a couple of kids, she’d been with the company for years. After Clarissa, Gerald had sired two sons in three years, Judd and Thane. Both of them were lawyers: Judd worked for the company, and Thane consulted from his own firm. Neither was married. Then came the twins, Cameron and Colt. Kacey hadn’t found out much about them, but they, too, lived in the area, and she would bet they were on the company payroll in some capacity. The last of Gerald’s children had been the ill-fated Kathleen, who’d died right before her pending marriage.
There had been a few mentions of seven children, however, so Kacey had scoured deeper. When she’d looked through the archived obituaries, she’d discovered an earlier daughter, Agatha-Rae, “Aggie,” who had died at the age of eight from a fall. Agatha-Rae’s birthday was exactly one week before her own, so she and Kacey would have been the same age, had she lived. Inwardly, Kacey shuddered and gripped the wheel of her car a little more tightly. No wonder her mother had been vague about Gerald’s children.
Snow was beginning to fall again, and she flipped on her wipers. Using her portable GPS as a guide, she made her way through Missoula, a larger city by Montana standards that lay in a valley near the river and was rimmed in snow-covered mountains. She drove past restaurants and storefronts, and an old lumber mill turned into several individual shops now, and then finally crossed a wide bridge to discover Johnson Industrial Park. Newly shoveled pathways cut through the lowlying buildings and rimmed a series of icy ponds complete with cattails and ducks. The new snowfall was already covering the cement.
Though the structures seemed identical, they looked to be built in pods, each grouping housing a different piece of Gerald Johnson’s empire and connected by breezeways edging several parking lots.