Expecting to Die

CHAPTER 17
T
he morning after the meeting with Sphinx, Pescoli made a stop at a coffee
shop, where she picked up a breakfast sandwich, decaf coffee, and hash browns
and devoured every last bite before she drove to the office. “This has got to
stop,” she said, aiming the conversation at her belly as she parked. She felt a
gentle kick deep within her abdomen, as if her baby understood. “Yeah, I know.
We were both hungry.”
And so it begins with private conversations with an unborn child, all the hopes
and dreams of the future wrapped into the baby growing within you. Then, in a
blink, it seems you wake up one morning and your kid has discovered a dead
body and is furious with you for standing in the way of her chance at reality TV
stardom.
She made her way into the station and noticed the air-conditioner unit was
acting up again, her office feeling like a sauna. She flipped on the desk fan and
had just settled into her desk chair when Alvarez, looking trim in skinny jeans
and a T-shirt and open jacket, popped her head into the office. “Seen your email
yet?”
“Just got here. Something up?”
“Donny’s not the baby daddy.”
“Hmmm.”
“The lab results came in late yesterday, Blackwater gave me the word last
night and I double-checked.”
Pescoli had hoped that the paternity test would confirm what she’d thought
was obvious, one little mystery solved. “Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook for the
homicide. He could have found out and killed her in a fit of jealousy.”
“Possibly. Or . . .”
“Whoever the father is might have gone off when she told him. Killed her
accidentally or intentionally. So who’s next up?”
“The Montclaires have no idea,” Alvarez said.
“You already talked to them?”
“I didn’t want it to come from some other source, and I thought they might
have some idea who she might have been seeing.” Alvarez leaned a shoulder on
the doorframe. “When I gave them the news, they were on their home phone, a
landline with an extension. Glenn was icy, acted as if I were accusing his dead

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daughter of being . . . promiscuous. As if I were making some judgment call.
And Helene, on the extension, started crying about her ‘baby’ and ‘grandbaby.’”
It all hit home with Pescoli, pregnant as she was, about not only losing the life
of the nearly grown child, but the little unborn life as well. “Not pleasant.”
“No. I tried to talk to them about other guys she might have been seeing, but
all I got was that she had a lot of ‘friends,’ and the only names that he actually
gave me were Kip and Kywin Bell and Bryant Tophman. When I mentioned
some of the others who were at the party, he’d heard of them, but didn’t think
they were involved with Destiny. He reminded me that his daughter was a good
girl and that Donny Justison was the reason she was dead. In Glenn Montclaire’s
opinion, the mayor’s son is the embodiment of pure evil.”
“But not the father of Destiny’s infant.”
“Glenn’s not ready to acknowledge that.”
“Even though you can’t argue with science.”
“Tell that to the creationists.”
Snorting her agreement, Pescoli snagged her keys again. “Let’s go have a chat
with Kywin Bell. Lara Haas claimed he was protective of Destiny Montclaire, so
I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“You think he might have been involved with her?”
“Or know who was.” She was on her feet again and stopped dead in her tracks
as a cramp rolled through her abdomen. As it passed, she leaned against the
desk. “Whoa.”
“You okay?” Alvarez asked, her eyes dark with instant concern.
“Yeah, yeah.” Letting out a long breath, she said, “Braxton Hicks. I had ’em
with both the other kids.”
“A long time ago.”
“Which everyone keeps reminding me.” The contraction eased, and she
straightened. Without missing a beat, she grabbed her sidearm, and together they
walked outside.
“I’ll drive,” Alvarez said and for once Pescoli didn’t argue. She’d had enough
arguing last night when the discussion with Luke, Michelle, and Bianca had
gotten hot and escalated in the parking lot of the Sons of Grizzly Falls building.
Luke seemed to think Bianca’s opportunity to be a part of the reality show was
akin to finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
“Think of the money she could make. God, Regan, it might pay for her
college. Maybe that’s not a big deal for you, but I’m not a rich man and any little
bit helps.”
As if he’d paid for any damned thing since their divorce. They shared custody,
and that appeared to mean that Regan shouldered all of the bills. But Luke was

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on the hook for college—that had been written in the divorce decree—and so, of
course, he was squirming, trying to get out of it.
“Or starring in this reality show could be the start of something, maybe launch
an acting career,” Michelle had piped up, a bit of envy in her words.
“Why wouldn’t you want her to do it?” Jeremy had asked. He’d shown up late
for the meeting, but had added his two cents.
Only Santana hadn’t argued with her, just kept his silence as Bianca wheedled,
“Mom, I want to do it. Come on. What would it hurt?”
That was it. She didn’t know, but it had just felt wrong to her. Still did, she
thought, as she stared through the Subaru’s bug-splattered window at a line of
clouds, thick and white, slowly inching across the blue Montana sky.
She and Alvarez continued to discuss the case on the way to the feed store,
tossing out names of suspects and coming back to the big question mark that had
eluded them: Who had Destiny Rose gone to meet, if anyone, on the evening of
her disappearance? As far as they knew, Donny Justison was the last person to
have seen her alive and therefore was still at the top of the suspect list.
They discussed potential motives for Destiny’s murder. If the girl hadn’t been
killed by a random nutcase in a situation where she’d been at the wrong place at
the wrong time, which seemed remote, then it was someone who knew her. The
obvious motive was that she was pregnant. If the pregnancy wasn’t the reason
she was killed, then why?
Destiny didn’t have any money, no trust fund. She had no known enemies, at
least none that had surfaced yet, so that brought them back to the fact that she
was with child.
“Maybe her cell phone records will give us a clue,” Alvarez said. “There was
some kind of hiccup with getting them to us, but they’re supposed to be in
today.”
“What about her laptop?”
“Zoller’s going through it as we speak.”
“Good. I gave her another assignment. Because she’s a card-carrying member
of the Big Foot Believers, I asked her to check out who could have made off
with the missing Sasquatch costume.”
“Let’s hope we catch a break.”
The drive only took about fifteen minutes, as the feed store where Kywin Bell
worked was only a few miles from the station, past the sprawl of strip malls and
fast-food restaurants in the newer section of town.
Alvarez pulled into a two-tiered asphalt parking lot. The commercial part of
the store was located on the upper level and faced the pockmarked asphalt lot.
The lower level serviced farmers who came for truckloads of feed and heavier

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equipment.
Pickups, flatbeds, vans, and a couple of sedans were parked haphazardly in
the upper lot. If there had been any lines delineating parking spaces, they had
long since faded.
The building itself was built of concrete blocks and had obviously been
constructed for function rather than form. While the Sons of Grizzly Falls
building was ornate, this one was stark. A metal awning ran across the front of
the structure, shading the large windows and glass doors guarded by pallets of
bark dust, peat moss, and sand.
Pescoli and Alvarez made their way inside, where the air seemed dusty
despite the efforts of fans mounted high overhead. The only cashier at the front
register was a man of twenty or so, whose dark hair was clipped so short his
scalp showed through, and whose thick beard was long enough to boast two little
rat tails that had been braided beneath his chin. He offered them a smile as they
approached and asked if he could help.
The smile faded as they identified themselves, showed their badges, and asked
about Kywin Bell.
“He’s in back. Loading,” the cashier, whose name tag read BRYCE, said. His
Adam’s apple bobbed nervously and Pescoli wondered if he had something to
hide, or if police officers in general sent him into overdrive. “I’ll show you the
way.”
Quickly, head down, he ushered them along a wide center aisle that passed
through sections dedicated to a variety of pets. They walked past stacks of bags
of dry dog and cat food and shelves where dog toys, leashes, and collars had
been suspended.
Through the pet area, they headed into another section dedicated to farm
animals. Pescoli saw salt licks and saddles, veterinary and grooming supplies,
pails and feedbags before Bryce showed them a staircase that looked to be a
hundred years old. “Kywin’s down there,” he said. “In the grain depot.” He
looked over his shoulder to the front of the store. “I got to get back to the
register.”
“We can handle it from here,” Alvarez assured him as they started down the
steps.
“Okay.” He hurried off.
“You know this kid, right?” Alvarez said. She paused on the bottom step to
glance back at Pescoli, who was easing her way down the final stairs.
“Yeah, since preschool.”
“And?”
“He was always a bully. One of two of Frank Bell’s sons. Bell has been in and

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out of jail himself. Domestic violence. Of the two boys, Kywin, the younger, is
probably more law abiding, but that isn’t setting the bar all that high.”
The stairwell opened to an expansive area that was complete with loading
dock. All of the barn doors had been thrown wide, and a forklift was parked in
one corner. Pallet after pallet of grain was stacked against each other: wheat,
oats, barley, and corn. Inside an adjacent area, bales of straw, hay, and alfalfa
were kept dry.
A small forklift carrying a single pallet piled with bags of some kind of grain
slowly rounded the corner. Kywin Bell, wearing a hard hat, was at the controls
and concentrating as he pulled into the covered area and carefully lowered the
pallet into place, then backed up.
Alvarez flagged him down and he stopped, leaving the forklift to idle. Alvarez
had to shout over the rumble of the engine, and Kywin, appearing to want to
flee, glared at her. She identified herself, as did Pescoli. “We need to talk to
you.”
“I’m working,” he called loudly.
“Only take a few minutes,” Alvarez yelled back.
He scowled. “Give me a sec.” He backed the forklift to a spot near the larger
one, cut the engine, and hopped onto the dusty concrete. “This has to do with
Destiny.” It was a statement rather than a question, but Alvarez answered
anyway. “Yes.”
He tossed his hard hat onto the seat of the forklift and glanced around. Spying
a string bean of a man sweeping near an open bin of corn, he yelled, “Hey, Zach.
I’m taking five.”
“Already?” The tall guy stopped pushing his broom and squinted.
“Won’t be long.” Bell glanced at Alvarez and said more softly, “Right?”
“Shouldn’t,” she agreed.
“Good. This way.”
Pescoli had expected him to lead them inside, into some kind of break room.
Instead, he strode outside, where the sun was already climbing high, beating
down through the scanty clouds. He rounded a corner of the building, to the side
road that connected this lower part of the business to the parking lot above. The
road was chewed-up asphalt, cracked and dusty. A retaining wall ran along its
length, up the steep slope. Here, at the bottom, Kywin hoisted himself easily
onto a half wall and reached into his T-shirt pocket, withdrawing a pack of
Camel cigarettes and a lighter. He lit up and blew smoke toward the sky. “What
do you want to know?”
“How involved were you with Destiny Rose Montclaire?”
“Shit.” Another drag, then he turned his hands, palms up, the tip of his

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cigarette clenched between two fingers as it smoldered upside down. “We were
friends, okay?”
“Good friends?”
“I already told this to some cop that night. Last Saturday. At Reservoir Point.”
“Detective Zoller.”
“That’s the one. Little. Like Destiny.” He studied the smoke trailing from his
Camel.
Alvarez nodded, her black hair glistening in the morning light. “I’ve seen
Detective Zoller’s notes.”
“Then you know I had nothing to do with what happened to Destiny.” He was
sweating, hat ring visible in his short-cropped hair. “I liked her. I wouldn’t hurt
her.” He paused thoughtfully. “Never.”
Was he lying? Pescoli couldn’t tell. She stepped closer, noticed that he was
swinging his legs, his heavy work boots as dusty as everything else. And huge.
“Some people claim you were her protector, that you stepped in when she and
Donald Justison got into it.”
“I didn’t like him knocking her around. Donny’s a mean drunk and she is . . .
she was just a bit of a thing. Didn’t seem right. Even though she never seemed
afraid of him, didn’t mind going at him, y’know? Setting him off.” He squinted
in the harshness of the morning light, took a final pull on his Camel, and tossed
it into the dirt.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I told you all. I can’t really remember. A day or two before she went missing,
I guess. A bunch of us were at the diner and she came in.”
“What diner?” Alvarez asked.
“Midway Diner.”
“You and who else?” Alvarez pressed.
“Donny. TJ and Alex O’Hara and Kip, I think. Oh, and Tophman. Bryant
Tophman. He was there, too, a little later. Came with Reece and Devlin.”
“Austin Reece and Rod Devlin?” Pescoli clarified.
“Yeah.”
Alvarez gave a quick nod. “The whole gang.”
“Most of us,” he agreed as a crow lit in a scrag of tree nearby and cawed
loudly. “Is there anything else? I’ve really got to get back to work. I need this
job.”
“Just another couple of quick questions. Is there any chance you’re the father
of Destiny’s baby?” Alvarez asked.
Kywin’s lips tightened. “I said we were friends. I didn’t say we were friends
with benefits.” When neither cop responded, he added, “We didn’t get it on,

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okay? Maybe made out a couple of times, but no. Definitely not the father. I
thought Donny took a DNA test.”
Alvarez ducked that with, “We’re just ruling out everyone. So, you wouldn’t
mind giving a sample?”
“A sample?” He shook his head vehemently.
“Saliva,” Pescoli assured him.
“Oh.” He let out a breath and fished in his pocket for another cigarette. “I
thought you meant . . .”
“Yeah, I know what you thought,” she said and smiled inwardly that Kywin
had freaked a little at the thought of having to give a sperm sample. Pescoli
didn’t like him. Never had. Too cocky.
“No way that kid is mine.”
“Easy to prove.” Pescoli was tired and hot, the back of her blouse starting to
stick to her. “Come to the station, give a sample. Do it today.”
“I work,” he complained. As if the rest of the citizens of the world didn’t hold
down jobs. The crow, still giving out raw cries, flew off.
“That’s the beauty of the sheriff’s department,” Pescoli said. “We’re open
twenty-four-seven.” She eyed him through her shades. “Who do you think could
be the father?”
“Donny.”
“Anyone else?”
He screwed up his face. “Destiny . . . got around.”
Pescoli pushed. “So give me another name.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “How the hell would I know?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re her friend. Her ‘pro-tector.’”
“I wasn’t her protector. I never called myself anything like that, okay? If I was
her damned protector, I did a pretty lousy job of it, didn’t I? She’s dead.” An
emotion Pescoli couldn’t name passed behind his eyes. He ran a hand over his
head and swiped the beading sweat from his forehead. “Destiny could have
hooked up with anybody. She was . . . kinda desperate, put up with Donny’s shit
and didn’t like it when he started dating some chick in college, but hell, she
wasn’t exactly true-blue, if ya know what I mean.” He jabbed the second
cigarette into his mouth and flicked his lighter to the tip, drawing deeply.
Pescoli asked, “So where were you a week ago Friday night?”
“I don’t know. Probably just hangin’ out.” He stared at them through the rising
smoke. “Is that when . . . when she died?”
“Was killed,” Pescoli reminded him. “Give us a recap of your weekend.”
“I didn’t kill her!”
“Well, come up with someone else besides Donny.”

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“When are you gonna get Donny’s results back?”
Pescoli just shrugged, waiting.
“Well . . . a week ago Friday, I don’t know. Uh . . . oh yeah, I was with Kip,
for a while, Friday night, then later I went over to Reece’s. It was Triple Pool
Night, that’s what we call it. We do a little betting, pool our money for lottery
tickets, then play pool. We go there a lot of Friday nights. Reece’s dad has a
bitchin’ rec room.”
“With a bar?” Pescoli asked.
“Well, yeah, I guess, but they also have a swimming pool with a hot tub and
waterfall. It’s cool. We were there all night. Crashed and got up around eleven, I
think.”
“Everyone was there all night?” Pescoli asked.
“I think so. Like I said, I crashed.”
“But when you woke up, the same people were there.”
He shook his head. “Nah. Just Reece, of course, in his room and, uh,
Tophman, I think—no wait, he had to get back. His dad’s a prick.”
“The minister?” Pescoli had met Reverend Raymond Tophman at various
community events, starting with the Good Feelings Preschool years before.
He snorted. “Some minister.”
“What’s wrong with Reverend Tophman?” Pescoli asked. She had her own
feelings about the severely strict man, but wanted to hear Kywin’s.
“Doesn’t it say somewhere in the Bible that it’s okay to hit a kid or whale on
him or something?”
Before Pescoli could respond, Alvarez said, “There’s an old proverb, ‘Spare
the rod, spoil the child,’ but I think the actual translation from the Bible, book of
Proverbs, is a little more precise. It suggests that you need to discipline your
children.”
“Well, whatever. The preacher is all in his kid’s business. If I were Tophman,
I’d move out.”
“What about the rest of the weekend?”
“I had chores. I always have chores. My old man doesn’t care that I work my
ass off all week, so I mowed the lawn, cut brush. A lot of fun stuff like that.”
When she didn’t say anything, he said, “You can check with him.”
“You live with your father?”
He squinted against the cigarette smoke. “Things didn’t work out with Mom.
She’s got younger kids and thinks Kip and I, we should be on our own.” He
scowled slightly, and it was obvious to Pescoli that Kywin thought he’d been
given a raw deal in life. Maybe he had.
Alvarez asked, “Did Destiny have any known enemies?”

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His big shoulders lifted into a shrug. His neck was thick, his entire body fit
and packed with sinewy muscle, not the long muscles of a basketball player, but
the shorter, denser muscles of a running back in football or a wrestler. “The girls
were always fighting. Besties with this one for a week, then hatin’ on her the
next. Weird as shit, if ya ask me.”
“Anyone in particular who didn’t like her?”
“Nah . . . well, I did hear that Simone and she didn’t get along all the time.”
“Simone Delaney,” Alvarez clarified.
“But Simone’s a bitch.” He took a deep drag and threw a glance over his
shoulder to look at the loading area, where String Bean and another guy, older
and with a big gut, were in discussion. “They fought a lot. At school and, I
guess, at work.”
“They worked together?”
“Volunteered at the same hospital, or somethin’. Oh, shit. Look, I gotta go.”
With that, he hopped off the wall and dropped his second cigarette, crushing it
with the toe of one huge boot.
“What size shoes do you wear?” Pescoli asked as a flatbed truck turned from
the upper parking lot and rumbled down the steep road, kicking up dust, the
driver giving them a quick once-over from inside the cab.
“Fuck! That’s my boss.”
“About your shoe size?”
“I don’t know. Thirteen. Sometimes a fourteen. A real bitch to find some that
fit.” With that, he was off, jogging back to the overhang of the building where
the truck was parking. The driver climbed out and stood with his hands on his
hips, his face turned toward Alvarez and Pescoli. From his expression, Pescoli
guessed he was none too happy. He turned to watch Kywin jog back to the shed.