The Alvarez & Pescoli Series - Lisa Jackson An Alvarez & Pescoli Novel

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Instead she gritted her teeth, reminded herself that if she were on the outside looking in, if one of her friends were dealing with their rebellious teens, she would have told her friend to hang up.

      “Sorry, Jer,” she said and twirled her chair around to see the image of Wendy Ito’s corpse stare back at her. “What the hell happened to you?” she asked the eerie photo. “Who did this?”

      Whoever had shot out the tire had to have been a helluva marksman, one who could hide and wait, with his sniper rifle at the ready, and be able to fire off a shot in perfect timing to hit the vehicle dead-on. She had been going over lists of ex-military sharpshooters, winners of marksmen competitions, members of the local gun clubs and hunting associations. The lists were long, but so far she hadn’t found anyone with obvious ties to any of the three victims.

      “Who are you?” she muttered, feeling the urge for a cigarette. She settled on a stick of nicotine gum instead, telling herself she had to quit again, or at least cut back. She was up to half a pack a day and that could escalate in a hurry if she didn’t nip it in the bud.

      Her cell phone beeped again and she caught a glimpse of the incoming number. Her heart did a stupid little flip and she remembered the last time she’d seen him, lying across the bed in the motel room. “Pescoli,” she said in a soft voice.

      “Busy?” His voice was husky and rough and just the sound of it made her think of sex. Ridiculous.

      “What do you think?”

      “I think all work and no play makes Regan a…”

      “Dull girl?”

      “I was going to say bitchy.”

      “Bitchy? Isn’t that sweet?” she said sarcastically. “And I love you, too.”

      “I know,” he said, even though she’d been teasing.

      “Get over yourself.”

      “I thought we could get together.”

      “With lines like that, how could a girl resist?”

      “Okay, I take it back. You’re never bitchy.”

      “Liar,” she said, but smiled. He had that ability. To burrow beneath her thick skin and get to her. It was damned irritating. He wasn’t right for her. She knew it and he knew it; in fact, he’d said as much. But then there was that chemistry thing that couldn’t be denied. They made each other laugh, had fun together and were good in bed. In fact, even Lucky paled as a lover, and though Pescoli hated to admit it, Lucky had been damned good.

      But now he was second best. Second to Nate. The outdoorsman.

      “So, let’s get together.”

      “I’m pretty booked.”

      “I’m just talkin’ about a drink after work.”

      “Just a drink?” she asked, knowing better.

      “Well…we’ll see.”

      She wasn’t that easily conned, but she felt a little zing of anticipation slipping through her bloodstream. “It’s never just a drink, now is it?”

      She envisioned his slow grin, a crooked slash of white teeth against his tanned skin. “No, Regan, you got me there. With you, it’s never just a drink.” His chuckle was low and knowing. “Give me a call when you get off.”

      She thought about saying something dirty to his “get off” line, but bit her tongue. No reason to appear crass, even if her retort was clever. He hung up, and Pescoli tried to tell herself that she wasn’t interested, that he was just no good for her, that she wouldn’t call him or meet him in one of their favorite bars…but she knew it was a lie.

      She’d meet him. She couldn’t help herself.

      He was like a damned cocaine habit.

      One she wasn’t going to give up any time soon.

      The bitch wouldn’t stop moving.

      Even after nearly an hour.

      In that time the weather had changed again, moving from clear sky in patches to storm clouds gathering, looking more fierce than ever.

      Jesus, it was cold.

      And Jillian Rivers wouldn’t stand still.

      She would come to the window, appearing as a ghostly shadow, nearly close enough to catch in the gun sight, but then, almost as if she knew there was danger, she’d slip back into the interior of the cabin, making the shot tricky.

      What to do?

      Take a chance?

      Shoot wildly?

      But then there was the risk of missing, of warning her. Even though the point was not to kill her. Not yet. Just wound her a little more. Incapacitate her.

      But it was better to wait.

      The bitch was going to slip up.

      And shooting her hadn’t been part of the plan.

      No…there was still time.

      In this case, patience was truly a virtue.

      Chapter Fourteen

      Jillian glanced at the clock in the bookcase. Battery powered with an old-fashioned dial face, it clicked off the seconds of her life. She didn’t know what day it was, but she was pretty damned sure of the time and MacGregor had been gone over an hour.

      Her old paranoia kept taunting her….

      What if he doesn’t come back for you?

      What if this is part of his plan?

      She looked to the door, where the dog was waiting patiently. No way would he leave old Harley. No, he would be back. Unless he was hurt. Oh Lord, she didn’t want to go there. She kept searching through the cabin, searching for clues as to who he was, where they were. There were maps of the area on the walls but they didn’t mean much to her. Forestry service maps, topographical maps of a mountainous terrain.

      She hitched her way over to the gun cabinet and pulled on the handle, but he’d locked the damned thing. Out of habit? To hide something from her? “No, idiot, so you couldn’t turn a gun on him when he returned.” She thought of the eerie sensation she had that someone or something was hiding in the shadows outside and her skin crawled. She knew how to use a rifle; Grandpa Jim had made certain of that when she was still in her teens. He’d taken her out and shown her the kick of a .22, the damage it could inflict to targets, helped her learn to sight the rifle as well. She wasn’t a crack shot, but she could hold her own.

      She tried the door to the gun cabinet again.

      It didn’t budge.

      “I guess it’s back to filet knives,” she said to the dog, who actually gave his tail a couple of thumps on the floor. Which was somewhat encouraging. The beast was warming to her. She poked around in a closet, found more hunting gear, a few clothes and, on an upper shelf, under a couple of hats, a few board games that seemed to have been there since the seventies.

      If things got bad enough, she and MacGregor, if he ever returned, could play Chinese checkers.

      “Great.” She hadn’t found anything exactly illuminating, nothing that would give her any insight into the man who had rescued her. Or captured you. She pushed that stupid idea aside. He didn’t want her here; he’d made that abundantly clear.

      But he could be a liar.

      “Yeah, right, well, aren’t we all?”

      Defending him now?

      Rather than have this discussion with herself and admit she really was going crazy, she kept searching through MacGregor’s things. She glanced up to the loft. A room she couldn’t ascend to. What was up there? If she reversed as far as possible and ended up standing at the fire,

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