Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [185]
As if it were just that easy.
Nope, she thought, clicking through the computer screens.
She wasn’t convinced, though a father figure for her kids certainly wouldn’t hurt. Jeremy, sick of her nagging and bored with his life, had finally agreed to go back to school come January and Pescoli was crossing her fingers that he wouldn’t change his mind again. As for his involvement with Heidi Brewster, it was still simmering, but the kids were somehow keeping it on the “down low,” which may or may not be a good thing, depending on how you looked at it.
Bianca, well enough to go back to school, had actually started talking to some other boy who’d stopped by a couple of times, some kid on the basketball team who actually called her Ms. Pescoli, rather than ignoring her. Chris was still hanging out, of course, but it definitely looked like that particular romance was dying on the vine.
And none too soon.
As for the entire Secret Santa debacle, Pescoli had decided to play along and give the undersheriff a bottle of wine with its own little knit stocking cap that Joelle, Pescoli was certain, would do backflips over. Pescoli, herself, found it kind of gaggy. But she couldn’t come up with anything else. The Oregon pinot noir had been on a special sale, keeping under the ten-dollar limit, and in Pescoli’s mind, the gift was a bit of an olive branch. At least that’s what she hoped.
After all, she had to work for the prick.
So life was looking up. Except for Alvarez who had sunk into her usual Christmas funk. There was something going on with her, just like every other holiday season. She never returned home to Oregon for Christmas and this year she’d said she planned to work over the holiday and let the people with families have the time off. When invited to Pescoli’s she’d declined, claiming she wanted to spend her free time with Jane Doe, her newly adopted cat.
Pescoli had tried to ask her partner about her avoidance of all things to do with the yuletide, but Alvarez, as ever, managed to evade the questions or change the subject.
Christmas, as far as Alvarez was concerned, was a taboo topic.
Pescoli glanced out the window, noticed it was still snowing. At least, though, the storms had slowed and the workload at the department was back to a more normal level. As for Cameron Johnson, a sicko serial killer if there ever had been one, the FBI had stepped in and taken all of the files, notes, and computer information from Johnson’s secret room in the basement of his house and were working the case.
It seemed Cameron had been hell-bent on eradicating the female offspring of Donor 727 for years. In his notes, the deputies had found reference to forty-two women, some who lived as far away as New England.
DNA tests had proven the victims around this part of Montana as well as others, including Shelly Bonaventure in LA, had, indeed, been Gerald Johnson’s offspring. Other “accident” victims, the “Unknowings” named in Johnson’s notes who were already dead, were being examined. If there were any DNA samples taken before they were buried, they were being compared, or the bodies were now being exhumed. They would probably never know about the few who had been cremated as there was no DNA left behind to be tested.
There was other physical evidence that tied Cameron Johnson to his crimes as well. The black paint on Kacey’s Ford and Elle Alexander’s minivan had matched the custommade spray-painted bumper guard that had been hidden in a shed and fit perfectly on Johnson’s truck. A cache of stolen plates had been located, which explained some of the difficulty they’d had in ID-ing the damned truck.
Pescoli leaned back in her chair until it squeaked in protest and she heard, muted softly, the sound of voices raised in song ...
“I heard the bells on Christmas Day . . .”
Pescoli