Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [60]
Something? Alvarez wondered. He had gone into Jocelyn’s place, admitted to doing so; his fingerprints would probably match several latents they’d collected. He was one of the only persons they’d found who knew where she hid her spare key, though anyone could have found it.
Still ... Trace O’Halleran was the last man she’d dated with any kind of interest. And he was the one person someone at the school had called when they were worried about her.
He seemed normal enough, but even calm, even-keeled people could be pushed into violence given the right situation.
He was worth checking out.
Clicking off her computer, she decided it was time for a little more investigation. Even though it was Thanksgiving, a skeleton crew was working in the crime lab, so she made a quick call and asked Mikhail Slatkin, the investigator on duty, to meet her at Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment. Now that she had proof that Ms. Wallis didn’t just die of a misstep, she needed to take another, deeper look at her home, life, and job.
He dressed in dark slacks, a crisp shirt, and a casual sweater, then checked his hair in the mirror and decided his look for the command performance on Thanksgiving Day was perfect. Impeccable.
Truth be known, he detested the holidays, all of them, but he put on a good front, pinning on a smile and driving through the snow to his sister’s home, a lakeside manor always in some phase of reconstruction.
His large family collected here each and every third Thursday in November, at his sister’s home, and he was expected to show, which he always did. He feigned interest in all their petty little problems, even played with his nieces and nephews, deflected any questions about his personal life and the women he dated.
Because he knew they didn’t care. In fact, they didn’t trust him. He was, and always would be, the outsider. No matter how hard he tried to fit into their close-knit group.
He brushed his lips across his sister’s cheek as he handed her a bottle of expensive wine that both she and her husband fawned over. He swung his niece off her chubby legs and heard her giggle in delight. He, after all, was the “fun” uncle. He even went to the trouble of going outside and trudging through the snow to view his nephew’s snowman and snow fort, from which the niece, of course, was forbidden.
Inside he was charming, even suffering through one of his sister’s guided tours of what they were “doing” to the house this year—a complete gutting and remodeling of the guest bathroom in the south wing.
“God help us that it gets done before Christmas. Lord, is that only five weeks away?” his sister said, looking around at the gaping holes where sinks and a toilet had once stood. Tile and grout had been displaced; the mirror, still hanging, was cracked in one corner. She sighed heavily. “I guess I’ll have to get on that builder!”
“It’s going to be great,” he answered, forcing enthusiasm.
“I hope so. Then you can stay with us! You’ll have your own suite, and the kids would love it.” Her eyes darkened just a shade with the lie. “I’d love it, too.” Her hand touched his arm then, lingering just a bit too long. She retracted it quickly when her husband walked in, his voice booming, “Welcome to our nightmare. The continuing nightmare.”
They made their way downstairs, and shaking off his sister and her oaf of a husband, he saw that the music continued to play, the wineglasses were always refilled, that his father was never out of the conversation. Of course, he was in charge of carving the turkey, even deigning to wear one of his brother-in-law’s stupid man aprons.
Throughout the meal at the seemingly mile-long table, he smiled and laughed, dodging the most pointed of their prying questions. Over the top of his wineglass he winked at