LITMIR.BIZ

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of eighty-eight that had wiped out the boat landing and wildlife refuge located on the banks of the Grizzly River.

      But now some goddamned psycho had decided to start leaving naked women bound to trees in this section of the Bitterroot Mountains and that had brought the camera crews, with their recording equipment, lights and vans sprouting satellite dishes, descending like Ivor’s aliens upon this sleepy, usually boring town. Freelance reporters and photographers for the local, statewide and even national newspapers were filling the local motels. Armed with pocket recorders, sharp rapid-fire questions and a sense of importance, they, along with their television counterparts, had been mixing it up with the locals.

      One idiot of an innkeeper had winked at Grayson over coffee and said, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Sheriff, all this press is damned good for business.”

      Grayson had wanted to shove Rod Larimer’s cherry Danish down his throat. Instead, he’d finished his coffee in one swallow and said, “What’s happening around here, Rod, isn’t good for anything. Including business.”

      Now, Grayson found a bottle of antacids in his desk, opened the plastic lid with one hand and popped a pill dry before settling into his squeaky, old leather chair. Earlier in the day, just after noon, he’d held a press conference, warning the public, explaining the severity of the situation. You would think that’d satisfy them, but when he was finished, the reporters had still clamored for more information. He had given them what he could, had held back only a few vital bits of knowledge, and he’d locked Ivor Hicks up on a trumped-up charge just to keep him away from the press.

      Ivor’s son, Bill, had gotten wind of his father’s predicament and had insisted the old man be released. “You can’t hold him, Sheriff,” he’d insisted on a telephone call earlier in the day. “For God’s sake, Dad helped you, didn’t he?”

      Grayson hadn’t been able to argue that point and had promised to let Ivor go free as soon as the detectives had interviewed him again and taken his statement.

      “I’ll hold you to it,” Bill Hicks had growled before hanging up. It wasn’t the first time Ivor’s son had tried to bail his father out of a tight spot. It wouldn’t be the last.

      The truth of the matter was that Ivor’s son had called his bluff. Holding the old man was really a load of cock and bull. Several detectives had interviewed Hicks. Grayson was convinced that the sheriff’s department had learned everything they could from the old man, yet he hated to think what would happen if one reporter offered to buy Ivor a drink. Ivor could very easily give the guy details of the investigation only the police knew, though, if pressed, he would start talking about the aliens prodding him to the killing site and the reporter would rule the old man out as a credible source.

      Or not.

      “Hell,” Grayson grumbled.

      As soon as he figured out a way to keep Ivor from spouting off to the press or neighbors or anyone who would buy him a drink for a good story, he’d release him.

      But Ivor Hicks wasn’t his only concern. The Feds were involved, too, though this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Right now, he felt he needed all the help he could get, from the state police to the Feds.

      Absently, Grayson tugged on his moustache and stared at the snow blowing in from the north. Predictions were that another blizzard was heading their way. Which was only more bad news. The department was stretched to the limit as it was. Roads were closing, power crews were working double time to keep the electricity and gas flowing, and meanwhile there were some people who didn’t have heat, idiots were still trying to drive and ending up wrecking their cars and, if that weren’t enough, somewhere in the frigid coming night, a psycho was plotting his next move.

      Grayson’s jaw slid to one side. “Not in my county,” he said, but even to himself the words sounded hollow. Already three murders had been committed, all within the boundaries of Pinewood County.

      He just hoped there wouldn’t be more.

      A rap on the door snapped him out of his reverie.

      “Sheriff,” Selena Alvarez said as he looked over his shoulder. “I thought you’d like to see what we came up with on the third victim.”

      “Just tell me you figured out who the bastard is.”

      Alvarez’s brown eyes darkened a shade. “Not yet,” she admitted. She was serious, even more than usual, her mouth drawn down at the edges, her black hair twisted into a knot at the base of her neck, a few thin lines appearing between black, arched eyebrows. Smart as a whip, Selena Alvarez worked at a hundred and twenty percent but kept her private life locked away, as if she had some secret.

      Not that it mattered.

      He followed her down a short hallway to what had become a special room for a task force that was coming together. Tacked to the scratched green walls were panels of pictures and information on each of the victims, along with details of their deaths. Photographs of the bodies, the wrecked vehicles and the victims’ driver’s licenses were part of the tableau as well. Theresa Charleton’s pictures and info were next to Nina Salvadore’s, and in the third space the name Wendy Ito was written next to a question mark.

      “We’ve IDed her?” he asked.

      “Not positively, but we think her initials are W and I, or I and W,” Alvarez said, “and in our statewide search looking for a missing Asian woman, we found Wendy Ito. Single hairdresser from Spokane, Washington, missing since the second week in November after she spent a weekend with friends in Whitefish. We’re checking with those friends now, and the parents.” She shook her head. “Still waiting for photo identification from the Washington state DMV.”

      She pointed to a large map of Pinewood County on one of the other walls. Pushpins had been shoved into the map indicating where the bodies and wrecked cars had been discovered. Three red pins pointed out where the bodies were found, all in different small valleys of the mountain range. Two yellow pins signaled where the crumpled vehicles had been located. A large circle had been drawn around the area and other marks showed the distance between the existing crime scenes.

      Grayson stared at the map. “You’ve talked to all of the people who own property or live here?” he asked, tapping the circle’s center.

      “We’re working on it. Pretty isolated country. Some summer homes, but not many. A few full-time residents.” She glanced up at him. “We’ve talked to most of them.” Before he could ask, she added, “No one knows anything.”

      The knot that was his stomach tightened. “Keep asking. Have we located the last victim’s car?”

      “Not yet.”

      He glanced at the map again. “And keep looking.”

      “We are,” she assured him and the set of her jaw convinced him she’d leave no stone unturned in her quest. He just wasn’t sure that was going to be good enough.

      At six thirty the sun wasn’t quite up in Seattle. Jillian Rivers poured herself a second cup of coffee and nearly sloshed it onto the sleeve of her robe as her cell phone beeped from somewhere in the bowels of her purse. She glanced at the digital clock in the microwave and wondered who in the world would call her so early.

      The same idiot who called three days ago at five a.m. and didn’t leave a message. Like it’s a big joke.

      She felt an immediate flush of anger before trying to convince herself she was overreacting. The call might be from someone on the East Coast forgetting how early it was three time zones away. Hadn’t her college roommate made the mistake not once, but twice before?

      Digging through her handbag, she found the phone just as it quit ringing, and called “hello” to no one. “Great.” Using the cell’s menu, she clicked onto a list of received calls. The last one appeared with no information.

      “Wonderful,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm as the cat door clicked loudly.

      Marilyn, her long-haired calico, pressed

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