Expecting to Die

CHAPTER 7
P
escoli’s mood hadn’t improved by the time she arrived at the station. She was
hot and tired, and the cup of decaf coffee she’d bought at a drive-through kiosk
wasn’t doing the job. Today she needed high-octane rocket fuel, which this cup
of Mellow Morning was not.
Carrying the paper cup, she walked into the office, where the air-conditioning
unit was struggling to keep up with the stifling August heat. The department was
teeming with officers, some in uniform, others in street clothes. Conversation
buzzed, cell phones beeped, fax and copy machines chugged, and footsteps
shuffled down the polished hallways.
As she passed Blackwater’s office, she noted his door was ajar. His voice
drifted through the crack as he assured someone “it would be taken care of.” No
one was in his office, but Blackwater was holding a cell phone to his ear as he
stared out the window. “Yeah, I know. No worries. Everything’s under control.”
A small laugh. “Yes, you can quote me on that.”
Yeah, right. Everything was just peachy-keen, wasn’t it? A dead girl found at
an underage party with drugs and alcohol and some huge, hairy creature scaring
the bejeezus out of kids on top of the usual cases of domestic violence, assault,
robbery, and a handful of other miscellaneous crimes in the county. Sure. No
worries.
As she continued to her office, hugging the wall as a detective with a suspect
in chains clanked past in the opposite direction, Pescoli reminded herself not to
be irritated that Blackwater was sitting at Dan Grayson’s desk. It wasn’t as if
Grayson were ever coming back. Like it or not, she’d better get used to Cooper
Blackwater because she figured he was here to stay.
If he was actually elected sheriff.
So far, no one was opposing him.
“Detective!” Joelle Fisher’s high-pitched voice was punctuated by the click of
her ever-present high heels. Hurrying in Pescoli’s direction, Joelle waved a
manicured hand. As the receptionist for the Pinewood County Police
Department, Joelle always dressed as if she were attending a ladies’ luncheon,
circa 1955. Today she wore what Pescoli’s mother would have classified as “an
ensemble” in pale yellow. Knit suit, white blouse, yellow heels. The shoes
actually had a bit of a platform, a surprising nod to the 2000s, or maybe the

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1970s.
Joelle’s hair was short and blond, a shade of platinum closing in on silver, her
lips glistening with freshly applied pink gloss.
“Do you have a minute?” Joelle asked as they met at the door of Pescoli’s
office. Then, quickly, as if anticipating Pescoli’s negative response, she added,
“Look, I know you’re busy, but this will just take a sec.” Without an invitation,
she followed the detective inside.
There was just no fighting Joelle when she was on a mission, which, it
seemed, she was today.
Pescoli placed her unfinished coffee onto a desk that needed some serious
organizing. “What’s up?” She tried and failed to keep the impatience out of her
voice. It wasn’t Joelle’s fault Pescoli had been up all night, or that her daughter
was embroiled in what in all probability was a homicide.
“It’s about the baby shower.”
Oh. Pescoli inwardly groaned. “I thought I already said I didn’t want one.”
“I know, but it’s been years since you had a child.” Joelle stood on the
visitor’s side of the desk, as if pleading her case before a judge. She loved
anything to do with holidays, birthdays, or special occasions and intended to
celebrate each and every one. From New Year’s Day until the next New Year’s
Eve of the same year, there were multiple events that gave Joelle cause to bake,
craft and decorate. A month didn’t have a chance of slipping by without some
celebration. The walls of the lunchroom and hallways were usually covered in
snowflakes, or sunflowers, or four-leaf clovers or reindeer, depending on the
season. Small flags were strewn upon desks on the Fourth of July and Veterans
Day, eggs and bunnies appeared at Easter, and even leaves decorated the
lunchroom tables on Arbor Day. A birthday was never missed, so a new infant’s
imminent arrival was certainly reason enough to start knitting and baking and
planning a baby shower.
Joelle’s smile was almost as bright as the diamonds winking in her earlobes. “I
thought that anything you did manage to hang on to from your earlier
pregnancies is probably terribly out of date, or unsafe. I mean it’s been years.”
“Decades,” Pescoli corrected. With more effort than usual, she slid into her
chair and noticed that it wasn’t as comfortable as it had been before she’d gained
thirty-plus pounds.
“Yes, well. Exactly. I mean, do you even have a layette or a breast pump or a
baby monitor that actually has a camera in it?”
“No . . .”
“The advances in technology these days makes things so much easier, and . . .
and . . . well, there have been dozens of recalls on cribs and car seats and infant

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carriers, so you’re best with something brand new.”
“I think we’ve got everything covered,” Pescoli lied. The thought of a roomful
of women, or maybe men and women, all giggling over cute little onesies
printed with sayings like L
OOK
O
UT
, L
ADIES
, or D
ADDY’S
L
ITTLE
P
RINCESS
, or
B
ORN
T
O
B
E
A
DORABLE
was more than she could stand right now. To be feted by
Joelle—Pescoli couldn’t imagine.
“Now, Detective, let’s be honest. Even if you did have any baby stuff, it’s
probably packed away where you can never find it.” Joelle skated a quick look
over the cluttered surface of Pescoli’s work space.
Oh, come on. The mess wasn’t that bad.
“You haven’t even told us if you’re having a boy or girl.”
“We don’t know.”
A hand flew to Joelle’s chest, her splayed fingers tipped in polish the exact
match to her lipstick. “But everyone knows ahead of time these days!”
“Santana and I are a little old school.”
Joelle sighed. “I don’t get it. If you knew the child’s sex, you could decorate
the nursery appropriately and buy little outfits and be ahead of the game, you
know?” Pescoli tossed her purse into a desk drawer as Joelle asked, “Why don’t
you want to know?”
“We want to be surprised.” Why was she even having this conversation?
“Look Joelle, I appreciate the offer, for the shower. Really. I think I told you that
already?” She eyed the woman still standing resolutely on the far side of the
desk. “But seriously, no thanks. I’m just not up for it.”
The twinkle went out of the receptionist’s eyes as she realized she wasn’t
going to talk Pescoli into changing her mind, and it was that moment Pescoli
realized that Joelle had already made serious plans involving invitations, menu,