Expecting to Die

CHAPTER 25
A
s they walked down the hallway of Northern General, Pescoli cast a look over
her shoulder to Lara’s room. “Her injuries seem minor, so why is she spending
the night in the hospital?”
“I asked that before you came,” Alvarez said. “She’s slightly concussed and
they want to watch her. No broken bones, but some minor contusions and
abrasions. I think they might have released her earlier, but she’s a minor and her
parents aren’t around. They’re probably being cautious. Don’t want a lawsuit.”
“Is the whole country lawsuit happy?” Pescoli groused as they passed an
orderly pushing a rattling cart in the other direction. “Almost every witness
we’ve interviewed has asked about lawyering up. As if they’re all in it together.”
Alvarez raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
“No, I don’t think, but this whole case has taken on a weird, carnival aspect,
and that’s not good, not when we’ve got a homicide to solve. Big Foot fever
aside, a girl is dead.”
The corridor opened to a waiting area with a wide bank of windows and a few
scattered chairs and couches arranged around small tables, with a few potted
plants.
Pescoli spied Manny Douglas, who had cornered Alex O’Hara near a potted
palm tree. Alex’s hands were stuffed into the front pockets of dusty jeans, and he
was obviously looking for a way to get out of a conversation with the reporter.
Pescoli’s mood went from bad to worse.
“. . . you really think it was a Big Foot?” Manny was saying. As usual, he was
dressed in khakis and a flannel shirt. “And this was what time again?”
“Excuse us,” Pescoli said, directing her gaze at the reporter. “If you don’t
mind, we’d like to talk to Mr. O’Hara for a few minutes.”
Manny pulled a face but didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “And, I’d like to talk to
the two of you.” He had a pocket recorder on a short table, the magazines that
had been fanned across its top pushed to one side. Also, he’d been taking notes
on a small spiral notebook. He offered the detectives that cat-that-ate-the-canary
grin Pescoli detested.
“Not now.”
“I just want an update on the Montclaire murder. The victim was pregnant.
That’s already been reported.” He paused, taking in Pescoli’s condition. She

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didn’t comment, nor, thankfully, did he. “So, I know you’ve been taking DNA
samples. Do you know who the father of the baby is?”
Almost imperceptibly Alex O’Hara stiffened, his jaw tightening despite the
fact that he was struggling to keep his expression neutral.
“Not yet,” Pescoli said, “but we’re getting closer.” She added the last more for
Alex’s information than the reporter’s, to see his reaction, and he seemed to
blanch a little beneath his olive skin. “We’re comparing DNA of the fetus with
some of the suspects.”
“Who are—?” Manny asked, pen poised as he stared at Pescoli as if she’d lost
her mind. For years, she’d kept him at arm’s length, refusing to give him any
insight or information on the cases she worked, and now, at last, she was offering
up information.
“I can’t say,” she said, still watching the older O’Hara brother, “but we’re
narrowing the field. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Had Alex O’Hara’s Adam’s apple bobbed a bit? She wondered just how
intimately he’d known Destiny Rose. He’d admitted she was an acquaintance—
his friend Donny Justison’s girlfriend—but he’d acted as if they really hadn’t
hung out much, or something like that. She’d have to double-check.
“How long before you know?” Manny asked.
“We’re still working on it. Look, we’re done here, Manny. You know the drill.
If you want any more information, you, like the rest of the press, will have to go
through the regular channels.”
Manny whined, “I’ve got a deadline.”
“Don’t we all?” she said, thinking about how the clock was ticking and they
weren’t getting any closer to solving the murder. “Talk to the PIO.”
“The public information officer—the new guy, Drummond? He won’t tell me
anything.”
“Not my problem,” she said and had a sudden thought. “Then call the sheriff.”
Let Blackwater handle it. Before Douglas could argue further, she said to Alex
O’Hara, “We need to talk to you.” A glance to the reporter. “Alone.”
Manny Douglas held out his hands and backed away, across the expanse of the
waiting room, found a chair, sat down, and pretended interest in his cell phone,
though Pescoli figured he was trying to overhear the conversation. An elderly
couple occupied two other chairs and they, too, had shown interest in the
conversation—she, pausing in her knitting; he, not turning a page of the
magazine he’d been staring at.
“There’s an alcove on the other side of the elevators,” Alvarez suggested and
led the way to a small area with a couple of chairs and a floor-to-ceiling window
that overlooked the parking lot.

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“Over here,” Pescoli said, indicating a grouping of chairs around a circular
coffee table strewn with dog-eared magazines. As they all took a seat, she said,
“Tell us how you ended up at Reservoir Point.”
“I was helping Lara,” he said, obviously nervous, his swagger gone, his
confidence shaken. “She lost her phone and thought she left it up there. . . .” He
launched into the same story they’d heard from Lara. Point for point, his telling
of the events of the night before was consistent with what she’d said, any
variation slight enough not to matter. Either he was telling the truth, or they’d
worked out and rehearsed their tale well. Had they had enough time? It seemed
unlikely.
“You saw the person or thing who attacked her?” Alvarez clarified.
“I just heard it running away. I was yelling and screaming, and it went
crashing off through the forest. Like it was scared of me.”
Pescoli said, “So you can show us where this all happened? If we took you up
there, to Reservoir Point.”
Alex met her gaze. Was there a challenge in his eyes? “Sure,” he said, and
whatever confidence he’d lost earlier had returned.
“Then let’s go.” Pescoli was already on her feet and heading out the door.
They drove to Reservoir Point in separate vehicles. Pescoli was the first to
arrive, with Alex O’Hara in a truck right behind her and Alvarez in her Subaru
bringing up the rear. She didn’t doubt for a second that Manny Douglas would be
on their heels.
When they arrived, she found they weren’t alone. Beyond a barricade of cones
and temporary fencing, the first members of the production crew were on the
scene, already cradling paper cups of coffee, smoking cigarettes, talking and
stringing electrical wires.
“This is off limits.” A petite, athletic woman who was bristling with authority
approached and introduced herself as Melanie Kline. She acted as if she wanted
to kick them off the site, until Pescoli introduced herself and Alvarez, then
produced their badges.
“Pescoli?” Mel repeated, as she made the connection. “Bianca’s mother. The
cop.” She glanced over at Alvarez, sizing her up. Probably wondering how she
could fit a pretty Hispanic woman into the cast. To Pescoli, she said, “What
happened?”
“Another girl was attacked up here. Lara Haas.”
“What? Attacked? By who? No.” She looked stricken as she shook her head.
“Is she okay?”
“Will be. She’s still in the hospital. We’re not certain who was behind it.” She
shot a look to Alex, silently reminding him to keep his thoughts to himself. No

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need to stir up the rogue Big Foot theory any more than it already was. Yet.
“For the love of God.”
A crow flew overhead, flapping into the branches of a tall pine, cawing loudly.
Mel didn’t seem to notice. For a second, she was lost in thought. Then, after
drawing in a long breath, she said, “Wow. When did this happen?”
“Early this morning.”
“Up here?”
“According to her. And Mr. O’Hara here.” Mel’s gaze finally fell on Alex. She
scraped a hand through her hair and bit her lip. “Alex, yes, we’ve met. You’re in
the group scenes and Lara, oh my God.” She took in a long breath. “She’s part of
the cast. Jesus, and we were here late.”
“It was after production had shut down for the night.” Alvarez, too, glanced at
Alex, who was nodding his agreement just as a cell phone chirped, and Mel
reached deep into the pocket of her cargo pants, removed the phone, glanced at
the screen, pushed a button, and dropped it again. Several members of the crew
had stopped their work and conversations to drift closer.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Alvarez said as more vehicles arrived, one with
Manny Douglas at the wheel.
“I can’t have you messing up our equipment or our sets,” Mel said, very
serious, once again the woman in charge. “We’ll help of course, accommodate
you, but this is very expensive equipment and we’re on a tight schedule. There’s
already trouble on another project, and Mr. Sphinx is planning to leave for
Oregon again, later this afternoon, maybe tonight.”