Afraid to Die Page 8

  He didn’t. Somehow Roscoe must’ve escaped in all of the hubbub, maybe even gone out the same upstairs window. . . except there were no paw prints in the snow on the roof and he would have been trapped in the backyard if he’d gone out the sliding door in the dining area ...

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” Pescoli said to O’Keefe. She’d arrived after Alvarez had phoned her and Pescoli, along with O’Keefe, had returned to the house, where they now stood in the living room, not far from the front door. “You were chasing an underage armed robber who just happened to end up here and steal my partner’s dog.”

  O’Keefe asked Pescoli, “You’re her new partner?”

  “Not so new,” Pescoli said, and shot Alvarez a questioning look.

  “I don’t know that he took the dog,” O’Keefe replied, “but, yeah, the rest of it’s essentially true. And what’s worse, I lost the suspect. We need more officers to find the kid!”

  “We’ll see.” Pescoli was obviously still trying to get a handle on what went down. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Who is this Reeve kid?” She was skewering him with green-blue eyes that said more loudly than words, And don’t try to sell me any BS cuz I ain’t buyin’.

  “Gabe is my cousin’s son, but I don’t know the kid all that well, have only met him a couple of times.”

  “But he’s a criminal?” Pescoli pressed. “Or just a psycho dog snatcher?”

  “He got in with a bad crowd. My cousin, Aggie, was worried sick, same with her husband. There was a robbery in Helena and the gun used in the crime was found in Gabe’s backpack.”

  “How?” Alvarez asked, not following. “How did the police find it?”

  “They didn’t. David, Aggie’s husband and Gabe’s father, he found it and called the cops after he talked to his son. No one got all that excited until the cops realized that the gun was used in a robbery. No one was hurt, but a shot was fired and lodged in the door frame. Turns out it was from the gun that Gabe had. Not registered. Probably bought on the street. Gabe had told his father he was keeping it for a friend.”

  Pescoli snorted.

  “Yeah, that was bull, and after the cops left, Gabe snuck out and has been on the run ever since.”

  “Cops are looking for him?” Pescoli asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “But you took it on yourself to chase him down.”

  “I wanted to talk to him first.”

  “He’s not only an ex-cop and a PI, but he’s got a law degree,” Alvarez supplied.

  “So whose side are you on?” Pescoli demanded.

  “I want Gabe to turn himself in. With a lawyer.”

  “Meaning you?”

  “Right. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to shake some sense into him.”

  “So,” Pescoli said, “you’re not a cop?”

  “Working with someone in Helena.”

  “Who?” Pescoli’s eyes narrowed.

  “Detective Trey Williams.”

  “I can call him and confirm?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Do that.”

  “I will,” she said. “You haven’t been deputized?”

  “Officially? By the sheriff? No.”

  Apparently she didn’t like his response. “A little loosey-goosey, isn’t it?”

  “I said I was working with the city.”

  “Strange how they do things over there, but we’ll see. Now,” she said, changing the subject again, “so what’s the deal with Gabriel Reeve. You’re his uncle ... no wait. Your cousin’s boy, right?”

  “Yeah,” O’Keefe said. “He’s a pistol. The kid’s always been trouble. Ever since they adopted him.”

  “He’s not your cousin’s?”

  “Of course he is. That’s not what I meant. All three of Aggie and Dave’s kids are adopted. And, yeah, they are all definitely theirs. It’s not a matter of blood. It’s just that from the time they brought Gabe home, he was difficult. Harder than the other two. More strong-willed.”

  “Yeah, I know about that,” Pescoli said, obviously thinking about her own two kids. Pescoli’s son, Jeremy, had already had several run-ins with the law.

  “So you’re involved because your cousin asked you to be and, oh, yeah, you wanted to help the boy out of a jam or something. Be his advocate or attorney or whatever, but—” Pescoli said, wagging a finger back and forth between Alvarez and O’Keefe. “You two know each other?”

  “Worked together in San Bernardino,” Alvarez said quickly. “Before I moved here.”

  One of Pescoli’s eyebrows arched. “You were with the San Bernardino Sheriff ’s Department?” she asked O’Keefe.

  “Yeah, I worked for the county.” He gave a curt nod and his jaw tightened a bit. “A while back.”

  “That’s right,” Alvarez cut in and forced a smile she didn’t feel while sending O’Keefe a quick, warning glance, cautioning him to keep his mouth shut. What had happened in California was a long time ago, a blemish on her career and the ruination of his. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.

  “You don’t look like a lawyer,” Pescoli said, and his mouth twitched.

  “Left my three-piece suit in the truck.” When she didn’t crack a smile, he added, “Corporate law slash criminal law, didn’t really take with me. I’m not the behind-a-desk kind of guy.”

  “Lots of money and lots of years in school to finally figure it out,” she observed as her cell phone jangled. Frowning, she read the small screen, then her face lost some of its hard edges as she picked up. “Hey,” she said into the phone, her voice a little softer than usual, indicating that Nate Santana or one of her kids was on the other end of the line. “... Yeah ... No. At my partner’s house. No. Just wrapping up something here. Mmm ... about half an hour.” She glanced up at Alvarez, who gave her a quick wave, silently advising her to leave. There was nothing more for Pescoli to do except dig a little deeper into Alvarez’s private life and that was something Alvarez would prefer to avoid.

  As she hung up, Alvarez said, “There’s nothing more to do here, I guess.”

  And Pescoli, glancing around, nodded. “Nothing taken but the dog?”

  “Nothing of value, except maybe around twenty bucks that I had in a top drawer by my bed. My computer, TV are all in place, I had my laptop and cell phone with me and I don’t have any jewelry or silver that’s worth much, though I can’t find a hoop earring ... one with a fake ruby in it. One my grandmother gave me years ago. I could have lost it, I suppose, and misplaced the cash, but I don’t think so. Maybe a couple of other things are missing. I can’t find my locket, one I had since high school but never wear, and a ring or two; stuff I haven’t looked at in years. And a week or so ago, I noticed one of my silver stud earrings wasn’t with the other one. I looked around, couldn’t find it, but didn’t think much about it. All of the stuff that I can’t find, if you add it all together, isn’t worth a hundred dollars, maybe not even fifty.”

  “Weird.” Frowning, Pescoli gave O’Keefe the once-over, and asked, “So what’s your story? I take it you’re not on the force any longer.”

  “No story.”

  “You’re a PI now.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “As an ex-cop, you should know better. Leave chasing down suspects to the police.” To Alvarez, she added, “I’ll call the Helena PD. See what’s up and let them know their suspect’s been spotted here, chased down by a relative with a law degree, someone not in uniform. They’re gonna love that.”

  “No doubt,” he said as she zipped up her coat and headed outside, a blast of cold air in her wake, the front door nearly slamming behind her.

  “Sweet, isn’t she?” he observed.

  “Cuddly as a porcupine.”

  “You two get along?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Figures.” He glanced around the living room with its smooth hardwood floors, muted rug and sleek modern furniture. Everything in white, black and tan. Only a splash of color in the art or throw pillows, one o
f which was deflated after suffering Roscoe’s fury the morning before, all of the stuffing, batting and feathers long vacuumed away. She thought of Roscoe with his big, lolling tongue, bright eyes and enthusiasm for life. Damn, she already missed that miserable pup.

  O’Keefe glanced at the stairway where wet tracks were visible on the carpet. “Why do you think Reeve ended up here?”

  “Don’t know. Dumb luck?” Jane Doe, who had been perched on one of the dinette chairs, plopped down and, with a dismissive glance at O’Keefe, trotted over to Alvarez, where she began walking in figure eights and rubbing against Alvarez’s ankles.

  “Maybe.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his five o’clock shadow scraping beneath his fingers. “But he seemed to beeline here. From the pizza parlor on Grand.”

  “That’s half a mile away.”

  “I know,” he said. “I chased him. Reeve didn’t hesitate for a second.” O’Keefe walked to the sliding door and eyed it. “No forced entry.”

  “I must’ve forgotten to lock it when I let the dog out earlier,” she said as she picked up the cat and held her close. Jane began to purr as Alvarez petted her soft head. “I usually double-check all the doors and windows before I leave, but I was in a hurry.”

  “Aren’t you always?” he thought aloud, and shook his head.

  “I came back twice; once midday and then again after four because I knew I’d be working late, so I let him out, walked him around the complex, fed him and left. I guess ... I guess I missed the latch.”

  Which was odd; but she had been out of sync all day.

  O’Keefe said, “It seemed as if he were on some kind of mission, that he knew where he was going. He hitchhiked here from Helena. Why not keep going? Spokane? Or even farther west to Seattle, or down to Boise, some place bigger where he could get lost. If that’s what he really wanted to do.” His thick eyebrows pulled together as he worked it out. “Instead he runs directly to this complex, this damned unit.” He pointed a finger at her floor. “Then he finds his way in?”

  “And takes my dog.”

  “Possibly, but the dog could have gotten out.” His jaw moved to one side as he thought. “It doesn’t make a helluva lot of sense.” He leaned down, eyeing the floor as if hoping for a boot print or some other evidence, and she tried not to notice how his jacket rode up, exposing a strip of skin over the waistband of a beat-up pair of Levi’s. Then his gaze moved over the interior, as if he were the suspect and had just run inside, and all the while Alvarez’s mind was turning over the information she’d just learned: runaway boy of about sixteen. Adopted. Who had run straight here.

  Once more, Grace Perchant’s weird warning sifted through her mind: Your son needs you. He’s in grave danger. . .

  She swallowed hard, petted the cat without thinking. Was it possible? Could the boy be hers? She knew nothing about the son she’d given up for adoption a lifetime ago. His age was right. And he had landed here.

  Was it possible?

  “I need to know more about Reeve,” she heard herself saying as Jane scrambled from her hands and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.

  “His rap sheet? There isn’t much of one. He’s still a juvenile.”

  “Yeah, but also, I need to know more about him personally. You said he was adopted. How?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Private adoption. Through an attorney that handles that kind of thing.”

  “Where?”

  “Where did they find the attorney? Don’t know. Probably Helena. Or ... no. Wait!” He snapped his fingers. “They lived in Denver for a while, about the time they got Gabe and then the younger one, too.” He straightened and his eyes, a flinty gray, bored into hers. “Why?”

  “Just curious. You have a picture of him?” She wasn’t going to confide in him about the baby she gave up; she could be wrong. Just because a woman who purportedly talked to ghosts warned her that her son was in danger, there was no reason to go off the deep end and divulge all of her secrets.

  “Yeah.” He flipped open his phone, hit a couple of buttons, then showed her the first of several shots of a boy with dark hair and eyes, his skin tanned, his features Hispanic. In several of the pictures, he was smiling, his teeth white and straight, but his eyes definitely suspicious. “Good-lookin’ kid,” he added, then showed her a picture of the family. Mom and dad, and three kids, two boys and a girl, stepping stones with Gabriel squarely in the middle.

  Alvarez’s heart beat a little faster, pounding in her ears. Could it be? There was some resemblance, right? Or was she imagining that the boy had a nose that was as straight as hers, that his eyes were as round ... “Could you e-mail these to me?” she asked, her voice a little raspier than usual. She cleared her throat. “It might help.”

  “Sure.”

  She rattled off her e-mail address and he typed it in.

  “Done,” he said, then looked up. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “Am I?” She shrugged it off. “It’s ... it’s been a long day.” And it’s not over yet. Glancing around the apartment, the images of the boy indelibly burned in her mind, she tried to change the subject. “There’s nothing more here. I’m going to start looking for my dog. Just in case he escaped rather than was dognapped.”

  “I’ll come with.”

  She wasn’t certain that being around O’Keefe was a good idea, but she needed help finding Roscoe.

  Together they scoured the neighborhood but found no sign of the dog. They knocked on doors and walked down alleys, eyeing carports and garbage cans, and located a raccoon on his nightly mission, his beady eyes daring Alvarez to come near the small pond where he’d broken a hole in the ice. Baring his teeth in warning, the raccoon stood his ground as she approached. Alvarez left the masked animal to its fishing and continued searching, to no avail.

  They gave up an hour later and she put a call in to animal control and left a message with the local vets.

  “Gabe’s got him,” O’Keefe said finally as she hung up. Once again they were standing in the front hallway at the base of the stairs, snow melting from their jackets to drip onto the tile floor. She unwound her scarf and hung it, along with her jacket, on the coat tree. “You want some coffee or something?” The last person she wanted to sit down and share a cup of joe with was Dylan O’Keefe, but the guy had just spent over an hour searching for her dog and, quite possibly, was on the trail of her runaway son, a boy she had tried for sixteen years not to think about.

  He was about to decline, then thought better of it and yanked off his gloves. “Beer?”

  She shook her head. “I only have coffee because it came in a Christmas basket. No wine, either. And come to think of it, I’m fresh out of hot water, but I can heat some in the microwave.”

  Still surveying her living area, he said, “Coffee’s fine,” then asked, “You a teetotaler?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Just not interested.”

  “Into fitness,” he observed, motioning to the free weights stacked in her bookcase along with police procedural manuals, medical texts and criminology books.

  “Most of the time.”

  She walked into the kitchen and glanced at the empty pen where her dog had spent so many hours. Her heart ached and it wasn’t just for Roscoe; no, that old painful hole in her heart, the one for her lost child, a rupture that had never completely scarred over, ripped a little more. Her hands shook a little as she found cups and the prepackaged holiday blend, then somehow managed to brew the coffee. “It’s flavored,” she said as she poured them each a cup. “My aunt thinks that makes it Christmasy. I don’t have any creamer.”

  “I drink it black anyway.” He’d pulled out a chair at the small, glass table and she noticed that he’d aged in the past few years, but the lines around his eyes and the tiniest bit of silver in his coffee-colored hair made him seem only a little more interesting, adding to his rugged appeal.

  Geez, she had to quit thinking that way.

  “I’m going to have to file a report, along
with Pescoli, so tell me more about the suspect.”

  “Not much to tell. I’m not close to him, nor really, my cousin. Aggie’s a few years older than I am, her husband, Dave, is an accountant. They live outside of Helena. Aggie couldn’t have kids so they adopted. The oldest, Leo, he’s like a dream kid. Athlete, straight A’s, already talking about Stanford, and the youngest, Josie, she seems to be on the straight and narrow, too. But Gabe, square in the middle, he’s been difficult from the get-go. A fussy baby. Colicky, I guess. In grade school he was an out-there kind of kid, a little rough around the edges with this chip on his shoulder. He got into some trouble in junior high, started running with the wrong crowd and had all the earmarks of a JD in the making. Just last year, in an effort to break him up from his friends, they forced him to go to a private school. I guess it backfired because he and his friends tried to rob a house, get this, of a judge, no less. The judge’s daughter just happened to go to the same private school with Gabe. He, it appears, was the link to set up the crime.”

  “The mastermind?”

  “Trust me, it was anything but masterful. Gabe’s lucky he didn’t get shot.” He blew across his cup, took a sip and pulled a face. “Wow. Your aunt can really pick ’em.”

  “I warned you.”

  “I should have held out for a beer.”

  “You would’ve been holding out for a while.”

  “Not the first time,” he said, his eyes finding hers before shifting away and an awkward silence ensued. “So, what’s with your hot water?”

  “I don’t have any. I haven’t been able to figure it out and the complex’s handyman is MIA. Not unusual for Jon, let me tell you.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  She wasn’t sure this was a good idea but was sick of being without hot water, so she led him first to the half bath downstairs, where he tested the water, and then did the same upstairs.

  Alvarez felt her stomach tighten as he stepped into her bathroom and turned on the shower, feeling the spray, reminding her of another time and place that she had locked away in a forbidden part of her mind. She felt it then, that he, too, remembered that night, and the air in the small bathroom seemed suddenly heavy.