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 checked her watch. It was almost showtime and the stage was set.
A few things about the case still bothered Pescoli and scraped at her brain, tickling her into believing there had to be more than they’d already unearthed, even though all leads pointed to Cameron Johnson. As Kacey Lambert had insisted, Pescoli believed that Johnson had been the man who had attacked her in the parking garage in Seattle years before. And now, rumor had it the good doctor might be moving in with Trace O’Halleran, just like that, when Pescoli couldn’t commit to a man she’d been in love with for years.
Now Pescoli closed her eyes for a moment and sighed, thinking hard, running over the loose ends. She was pretty sure she had it figured out. Cameron Johnson had been a whack job with a capital W. No doubt about that. Also, he’d definitely been unraveling, more and more taking risks, but that didn’t explain everything. How had he gotten all the information on the clinic and the victims? Had he really uncovered that information himself? She didn’t think so.
Another thing: it looked like Leanna O’Halleran had stolen the gun that she’d used that night, and that gun was Clarissa Werner’s. Pescoli had interviewed Clarissa and her husband and they both believed Leanna has specifically taken it as a kind of ‘up yours’ to the Johnson clan as a whole. And it looked like Leanna O’Halleran’s special touch of irony was that she drove a BMW, same make and model as Clarissa’s, to also point a finger in the Johnsons’ direction.
Maybe. Or, maybe not. But there were other issues about the case that needed to still be addressed…
Glancing at her watch again, Pescoli made a sound of impatience. Alvarez looked up, her brows lifted.
Earlier in the day, while they were grabbing coffee at Jolt, she’d asked her, “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Nope.” Pescoli had sprung for a triple chocolate mocha with a sprinkle of peppermint, just because it was the holidays.
Alvarez had ordered green tea.
Disgusting.
But Alvarez had been interested then, as she was now. “What are you planning?” she asked.
“I’ve already done it. Gerald Johnson is coming in, in about fifteen minutes, and I think he’s bringing his favorite attorney.”
“Judd?”
“Um-hmm. And I’ve got a surprise for him.”
“Can’t wait,” she said.
“C’mon, then,” Pescoli said, and Alvarez followed her to the front desk. Right on cue Gerald and Judd strode into the department. Judd was dressed as if he were going to try a case in court, Gerald in a sweater, ski jacket, jeans, and a world-weary expression.
“I don’t understand why you insisted on coming here,” Judd was saying to his father. He glanced at Pescoli and added, “I’ve told you everything I know about my brother.”
Pescoli led them into an interrogation room and Judd stiffened.
“What’s this about?” he demanded.
“The truth.” Pescoli turned on the recorder. “I’ve been doing some checking. A few things still don’t add up. Maybe you can clarify them.”
“Be glad to,” Gerald said.
Judd wasn’t as helpful. “Dad,” he warned his father, his expression brooking no argument, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Pescoli ignored him and waved them into the side chairs as Alvarez closed the door behind them. “When we were talking about Aggie’s accident, years ago, there was some discussion,” Pescoli began. “You said she got tangled in her blankets and tripped and fell down the stairs.”
“No,” Judd said, “I remember Cameron brushing up against her and she fell. No one could catch her.”
“You also said that she was pushed,” Pescoli reminded, from her chair across from them.
“Well, it was a little of both, I think.” Judd’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders stiffened slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“I do,” Gerald said. “I came home that night and Cameron was really upset. He said he didn’t mean to do it, that he didn’t want to push Aggie, but he couldn’t help himself. I didn’t understand it. Then Thane’s version was slightly different. He said that you, Judd, ran into Cameron and he fell against Aggie. And Colt said you pushed Cam into Aggie, but Cam was able to save himself.”
“We were kids. .” Judd explained with a shrug. “It was a long time ago. You can’t expect any of us to recall exactly what happened.”
Pescoli walked to the door and opened it again. Clarissa Johnson Werner stepped inside. “They called me in,” she said as a kind of sideways apology to her brother, but nevertheless stated firmly, “You’re wrong. I remember. I was there.”