Expecting to Die

For what? Pescoli thought. Big Foot Capital of Montana? Already, she was
seeing signs that it was happening. A few statues of the creature that had been
tucked away collecting dust were now front and center in storefronts.
The hype was already beginning.
And Pescoli hated it.
Despite her ex-husband’s pleas and Barclay Sphinx’s interest in her “story
line” and “character development,” Pescoli had avoided meeting with the
producer. She’d stepped away from Bianca being involved only because her
daughter had been adamant, and Lucky had supported her a hundred and fifty
percent. Pescoli had even bitten her tongue when she’d wondered what was in it
for Lucky. She wanted no part of it for herself, though. Let Bianca deal with her
father on this one.
Fortunately, Sphinx had been out of town for a few days, so all Pescoli had to
do to ignore him was refuse his calls and not return them. Easy deal. She was too
damned busy. Not only did she hear the clock ticking toward her ever looming
delivery date, but as the days passed, she felt frustrated and stymied in the
homicide investigation.
Not that she wanted Bianca involved at all.
“Maybe you’ve gotta let go a little, just let this happen,” Santana had told her
a few days earlier. “Roll with it.”
They’d been standing in the kitchen, he with a beer, she with a damned
sparkling water, as they’d tried to find something from the refrigerator to put
together for dinner. The dogs, hopeful a crumb could fall their way, had been
milling at their feet.
“Roll with it?” Pescoli had repeated as she’d pulled out a third of an extra-
large pizza left over from the night before. “That’s your suggestion?” She
dropped the pizza, still in its oversized cardboard box and smelling of garlic,
onions, and cheese, onto the counter.
“I don’t see how you can fight it.”

---

“Pretty sure I can.”
“But is it worth it? You’ve got a big case to work out and, like it or not, the
baby’s coming.” He touched her on the belly and she slapped his hand away. She
was spoiling for a fight, irritated to the back teeth at his attitude about Bianca,
Big Foot, and especially her ex.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes told her how far she’d stepped over the
line.
“Sorry,” she said shortly, shutting the refrigerator door. “I don’t mean to be
such a bitch, but damn it, all this Big Foot reality show crap is bugging the hell
out of me. The production crew is here, there’s talk of ‘Big Foot Daze,’ and the
town’s buzzing like an angry wasp. Tourists rolling in. Gawkers. People drawn
to the spectacle. And the first scene that they’re shooting for Sphinx’s reality
series? They’re filming right after the candlelight vigil Friday night! Can you
believe that? It’s all crazy-making, that’s what it is, but yeah, as you pointed out,
I’ve got a murder investigation to handle.”
His gaze dropped pointedly to her stomach.
“I know, the baby. I’m sorry.” She picked up his hand, drew it to her, and held
it close over her protruding belly. “I can’t wait for him to get here and to be done
with this ‘high risk’ pregnancy, all because I’m pushing forty.” That pissed her
off, too. Along with a myriad of other things.
“Him?”
“Or her? Whatever he/she is.” Pescoli leaned into him. “It’s just that the
timing isn’t great.”
“When is it ever?”
He pulled her in close and she closed her eyes and drank in the smell of him.
Even when she was at her worst, he managed to still love her. It was humbling,
and she vowed to stop being such a bitch.
“It’ll be over soon.”
No, no, it wouldn’t. Yeah, she wouldn’t be pregnant any longer, but the
journey of raising a child would just be beginning. Santana didn’t really
understand it, not deep in his gut like she did in hers. He’d never had a child
before and had come into her life when her kids were in high school. But he’d
learn.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he kissed her forehead and said, “It’ll be fun. An
adventure.”
She’d managed to choke out a laugh, and he’d reached around her, flipped
open the box, and found a piece of cold pepperoni.
“I know. ’Course I know, Santana. I’m only afraid he . . . or she . . . will be as
bad-ass as you are and then what the hell are we gonna do?”

---

She still didn’t know.
Now, as Michelle hurried to Lucky’s side, standing on her tiptoes and giving
him a light kiss on the cheek, Pescoli turned her attention back to the rest of the
throng, those mourners who had come to listen to Tophman go on and on. She
noticed Lara Haas, edging through the crowd to talk to Emmett Tufts and his
brother, Preston. Marjory, slipping away from her husband’s protective grip for a
second, said a word or two to Lara and the Tufts brothers, her stepsons.
Preston, a few years older than Emmett, spoke to both girls while Emmett,
who had two or three inches and twenty or thirty pounds on his older brother,
kept looking over his shoulder at his father, who came up, caught his wife’s
hand, and gave it a tight squeeze.
A little tension there.
She realized both Preston and Emmett kept sneaking glances at Marjory, as
well as Terri and Billie. The whole scene hit Pescoli the wrong way—like they
were all guilty of some collusion—but she told herself she was being overly
suspicious. Not everyone in this crowd was involved in murder or abduction.
Catching movement in the parking lot, she saw Fred Nesmith pull up in a
Chevy Silverado. Edie, the authoritarian cashier at the meeting, and two men
with flowing gray beards climbed out of the king cab, their boots crunching on
the gravel as they alighted. Nesmith reached into his pocket. The pickup’s
headlights blinked and it gave a sharp beep as it locked.
Within seconds, a black Lexus rolled into the lot, Barclay Sphinx at the wheel,
Jeffe in the passenger seat. They parked and caught up to the others; then the
entire entourage of members from the club joined the congregation.
Pescoli noticed that Barclay moved through the crowd to settle in next to the
Montclaires. Destiny’s father nodded to the producer while the minister, if he
noticed any commotion, didn’t so much as stumble over a word. In his smooth
tone, Reverend Tophman continued to preach to the people who’d come to pay
their respects.
There appeared to be some kind of silent conversation going on between
Glenn Montclaire and Barclay Sphinx. She raised an eyebrow at Alvarez, who
had caught the producer’s arrival as well.
“He’s already set up a reward, ten grand for help in finding and convicting
Destiny’s killer,” Alvarez whispered. “I just got a text from Blackwater. It
happened late this afternoon. Sphinx called the Montclaires, then set it up
through the mayor, who gave the word to Blackwater. He wasn’t happy that
Sphinx hadn’t come to him directly.”
Pescoli was irked, as well. The investigation had barely gotten going, and
though she encouraged the public’s help, the mention of a reward always

---

brought out the crazies and the desperate, all of which the sheriff’s office would
have to wade through.
“Sphinx wanted to hold a press conference about it,” Alvarez added.
“I bet.”
“The sheriff is balking.”
“Really?” Pescoli found that hard to believe.
“He thinks we should handle any press conference.”
“For once, I agree.”
“The mayor doesn’t see it that way.”
Pescoli hazarded a glance at Carolina Justison, who was sliding through the
crowd, aiming for a position near Sphinx.
And all the while, Reverend Tophman kept talking about Destiny Rose
Montclaire going home to God.
“Let us pray,” he intoned again, smiling beatifically. Pescoli bowed her head,
but she watched the group, faces lit by the unsteady light of candles or images of
candles via cell phone apps, all devoutly praying or wanting to appear that way.

---