Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [98]
And something else bothered her. A vague intuition that skimmed along her body, just under her skin, and caused her a deep unease. Elle, like Shelly Bonaventure before her and Jocelyn Wallis just last week, resembled her.
She thought of the swab she’d taken of the woman’s saliva and the fact that she was checking Elle’s DNA. She was glad she’d done it. Maybe there wasn’t a conspiracy going on, per se, but there was something there ... something strange.
“You can listen to the nine-one-one tape yourself,” Alvarez said as she walked with Pescoli into the lunchroom, which had been totally Joelle-ized from top to bottom. Christmas lights, garlands of fake pine boughs decorated with gold beads, and red ribbons were draped around the room. Silver snowflakes dangled and twisted from the overhead lights like fishing lures on forgotten reels.
“For the love of God, is this even allowed in a public building?” Pescoli groused, noticing the coffeepot had a red bow tied to its plastic handle. “This is just too much.”
Alvarez ripped off the bow and poured a long stream of coffee into a mug she’d pulled down from the shelf. She took a big gulp from her cup, then turned the conversation back to the single-car accident near the North Fork Bridge. “Tom Alexander thinks his wife was run off the road intentionally. Claims he was on the phone with her when her van was hit.”
“Seriously?” Pescoli pulled her favorite cracked cup from the shelf. “So he’s, what? Claiming that he heard her die?”
“Something like that.”
“Dear God. Can you imagine?”
“No.” Alvarez scowled. “So it’s our case. Homicide.”
“Possible homicide. Man oh man.”
Before they could discuss the case any further, the sound of footsteps reached their ears, and Joelle, dressed head to foot in Christmas red, appeared. “Happy Holidays!” she greeted them, her blond hair decorated with matching poinsettias tucked over her ears. She carried three pink boxes into the lunchroom and plunked them down.
Pescoli noticed that the same red flowers displayed in Joelle’s blond locks were also pinned to the tops of her scarlet four-inch heels.
“I hope you all aren’t sick of sweets!” Joelle chirped with a toothy smile.
“Never,” Pescoli assured her.
Joelle picked up a little fake tree that, when she pressed a button, started to rotate, its lights glowing almost eerily, then set it back onto the table. She said, “My cousin Beth’s kids came down with that nasty flu, so they weren’t able to come to Thanksgiving dinner, and Uncle Bud and his wife, they’re in their eighties, you know, and were snowed in, so they didn’t show, either. Jennifer, my sister, she’s on one of her wacko diets again, only eats fruit and honey, I think, so the upshot is, I had waaay too much food.” Folding open each box, she exposed what appeared to be a pumpkin pie, some kind of berry torte, and a plastic container of sugar cookies cut into the shape of cornucopias, turkeys, and Pilgrim hats. Pescoli wasn’t sure, but it looked like there was at least one Easter Bunny, which must’ve taken a wrong turn from the freezer six months earlier.
As Joelle leaned forward, Pescoli caught a glimpse of her gold hoop earrings. Dear God, a minuscule elf sat in each eighteen-karat loop.
Joelle quickly spread the cookies on a plate, then, hearing the phones start to jangle, froze for a second, her lips pursing. “Duty calls,” she said with a shrug, then clicked quickly out of the lunchroom as a couple of road deputies walked in.
“She’s something else,” Pescoli muttered, but Alvarez wasn’t listening, so she opted for a black hat cookie and bit off the crown, down to the gold-colored buckle.
Alvarez, deep in thought, ignored all the goodies and said, as Pescoli poured herself a cup of the strong-looking coffee, “The Alexanders’ van is in the department’s garage. I thought I’d swing by and take a look.”
“I’m with you.” Pescoli wondered about the single-car accident. Maybe the husband was frantic, grief-stricken, trying to blame anyone for