Expecting to Die

But Bianca saw something . . . something large and frightening....
Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t good.

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CHAPTER 9
T
he Montclaires were devastated and numb at the murder of their child. They
wanted their daughter’s remains released so that they could plan a service, but
could barely talk about Destiny without breaking down. Helene had a washed-
out look. In jeans and a blouse, she hadn’t bothered with makeup, her thinning
blond hair lank, her eyes red-rimmed. Glenn was a big man with the beginnings
of a belly hanging over his belt, his hair thin though he appeared to be in his
early forties.
He talked to Alvarez and Pescoli while his wife worked hard to stem the tears.
Twisting a nearly shredded Kleenex, she remained on a worn leather couch as
Glenn led the detectives down a short hallway to Destiny’s room.
Pescoli’s heart was heavy as she eyed the room, neat and tidy, probably
straightened up, with a twin bed with a thick black and white striped quilt and
tall posts that had once, it seemed, held a canopy. A dresser and night table were
the only other furniture atop a vinyl floor softened by a white shag rug that was
starting to gray. A poster from Frozen seemed at odds with the head shots of teen
heartthrobs that decorated the walls. A corkboard held ticket stubs and photos, a
report card and a wrist corsage that had long wilted and dried—memories of a
life cut short. But not one picture of Donald Justison. There were a few shots of
friends tacked to the corkboard. Donny wasn’t in them.
Odd, Pescoli thought as she searched a pillowcase and the pillow inside.
Glenn Montclaire stared into the room where his daughter had grown up and
Pescoli guessed he was seeing his child in his mind. “Have at it,” he said, as if
suddenly snapping to. “Just please respect our daughter, okay? Her mother . . .
Helene would be very upset if things were disturbed too much.”
“We’ll be careful,” Alvarez said.
“Fine.” He blinked, fighting tears. “Then get on with it.”
“Did she have a laptop or tablet?” Alvarez asked.
He nodded, walking to the nightstand and opening the top drawer. A small,
silver laptop was tucked next to a box of tissues, some open packs of gum, and
change.
Pescoli asked, “What about credit cards?”
“She would borrow ours if she was going shopping, but no, she didn’t have
her own. I told this all to the officer when I gave the missing persons report.”

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Alvarez nodded. “Thanks.”
“I just want you to know she was a good girl. Good. Despite all this talk about
her being pregnant.” His voice cracked.
Pescoli had thought he might stick around, but he held on to the doorframe for
a second, then, with a sad shake of his head, said, “You get the guy who did this.
You get Donny Justison.”
“We’re not sure who did this,” Pescoli said.
“Justison,” he repeated, then left them alone. They looked through her closet
and bureau, the nightstand and the bed, underneath the mattress and box springs,
even searching for hidey-holes in the walls or floor.
Other than the laptop, they found nothing that would help. They took the
computer with them, leaving the Montclaires to their grief.
“It never gets any easier,” Alvarez said as she climbed behind the steering
wheel and started the engine.
“Never.” Pescoli slid into the passenger seat, buckled in, and stared out the
window. “Justison place?”
“Let’s see what Donny has to say.” She threw a look toward the house, where,
through the picture window, she could see Destiny’s folks seated on the couch,
close together. “The Montclaires, or at least Glenn, think he’s the doer.”
“Early days yet.”
“I want to know what his alibi is. Wish we had a time of death.”
“Yeah, stop by Midway okay? I’m starving.” And that was the truth. At least it
felt that way. Ever since she’d learned she was pregnant, she couldn’t inhale
enough food and it was a problem. But not one she could solve today.
Alvarez made the stop, and inside the small burger joint with its 1950s motif,
they found a table near a bank of windows. A long L-shaped counter guarded the
area leading to the kitchen, and a handful of patrons were sitting on stools, while
other diners filled the tables scattered between the counter and windows.
A tall redheaded waitress with a bad attitude and a name tag that read MISTY
took their orders. Pescoli asked for a cheeseburger and a sparkling water while
Alvarez settled on a chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side, and an iced tea
with lemon.
While waiting to be served, Alvarez and Pescoli talked over the case and the
suspects, and then Alvarez went over the autopsy. “No water found in her lungs,
so she probably wasn’t killed in the creek. Her hyoid bone was crushed,
consistent with strangulation, and the only thing of any significance was a tiny
bit of what looks like latex found under two of her fingernails.”
“Latex?” Pescoli repeated, then thought about it, how Destiny had probably
been trying to pry the killer’s hands from her neck. “As in gloves?”

---

“Maybe. The lab is looking into it. The pieces are tiny. But definitely latex as
opposed to nitrile or vinyl.”
“Or cloth or leather.”
“Uh-huh,” she said as a sizzling noise emanated from the kitchen, as if a fresh
batch of sliced potatoes or frozen shrimp or the like had been lowered into the
deep fat fryer.
“Could be a break?” Pescoli asked.
“All of the hospitals, clinics, dental offices, you name it, use latex gloves. You
can pick up a pack at your local supermarket, or drug store, or online, so they’re
easily attainable.”
“Still . . . it’s something.”
“Yeah.” Alvarez nodded. “Something. I hope.”
Misty returned with their orders. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked
without a lot of enthusiasm.
Pescoli eyed the pieces of her put-it-together-yourself burger. “Just ketchup.”
“I’m good,” Alvarez said, and Misty, slanting a look at Pescoli’s belly, turned
to a table tucked near the swinging doors to the kitchen, where rows of
condiments were lined like tiny plastic soldiers getting ready for a twenty-mile
march. She retrieved a squirt bottle of ketchup and dropped it onto the table as
Pescoli began placing the sliced onion, lettuce, and tomato on the open face of
her cheeseburger.
Pescoli asked, “No DNA?”
“No. And due to decomp, not much we could find on the body, like blood
from the assailant if there was some. The only reason we got the bits of latex is
that it doesn’t decompose quickly, even though it’s biodegradable.”
“Long shelf life.”
“Yeah.” Alvarez drizzled a little dressing onto her salad and dug in.
Once her sandwich was stacked and the French fries covered with ketchup,
Pescoli took a bite and nearly sighed in relief. The burger tasted like heaven. As
for the fries, she might taste them all afternoon, but she didn’t care. For now, she
could quiet the rumbling in her belly, satisfy her hunger, and regroup before the
next interview.
* * *
The Justison residence was one of a dozen or so imposing houses that had
been built along the ridge overlooking the river, all with views of the falls for
which the town was named. Most of the homes had been built before the turn of
the last century, and from the street they stood, constructed of brick and stone,

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their mullioned windows sparkling in the afternoon sunlight.
“What do we know about this kid, other than that he dated the victim,
graduated from the local high school, and was a wrestler?” Pescoli asked.
“Is. He still wrestles for the University of Montana.”
“So not that far away,” Pescoli said. “A road trip to Missoula, weather
permitting, takes less than an hour.”
“Uh-huh. He lives near campus during the year, but, as I understand it, he’s
home for the summer. He’s had a few minor brushes with the law, but Mom and
Dad have worked hard to make sure all charges have been dropped.”
“What’s he doing this summer?”
“That’s what we’re about to find out.” She pulled into the drive.
The Justison home was a boxy Georgian building constructed of red brick,
paned windows, and a wide front porch flanked by gas-lit sconces. Black
shutters framed floor-to-ceiling windows, a wrought-iron balcony rail stretched
overhead and matched the fence surrounding the yard. A huge chandelier was
poised to illuminate the porch, and a fountain splashed and bubbled in the center
of the lawn. All in all, the home was imposing, a mansion by Grizzly Falls’s
standards.
Alvarez parked in front of a building that appeared to be a carriage house that
had been converted into a garage. Out with the horses, in with a Ford Minivan or
Ferrari or Prius, depending on one’s taste. The mayor, who had once proclaimed
to want a simpler life, had apparently done very well for herself since her move
to western Montana.
A dusty four-by-four was parked in front of the garage. A Jeep Wrangler. The
same rig had been parked at Reservoir Point the night before and, as they’d
already discovered, was registered to Donald Justison Junior.
So, unless Donny had gone off with a friend or his mother, he was home.
Good.
Alvarez and Pescoli headed to the grand porch with its front door—actually,
two huge doors—flanked by narrow beveled windows and guarded by
flowerpots overflowing with blooms of red, white, and blue. The sidelights
offered a glimpse into a marble-floored foyer with a sweeping staircase. Alvarez
poked the doorbell and heard the peal of chimes from within. Then silence. No
footsteps. They waited on the brick stoop, Alvarez noting a few honeybees
buzzing through the hedge of lavender that grew beneath the windows of the
first story, Pescoli tapping the toe of one boot impatiently.
Still no sign of life from inside the house.
Selena exchanged a look with Pescoli, who, swearing under her breath, hit the
bell and held it down for a full five seconds. She was sweating, now shifting

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from one foot to the other, as the chimes rang. “He’s here,” she said. “The little
coward. Probably saw us pull up.”
Selena wasn’t so sure.
Pescoli shook her head in frustration. She was due to have the baby within the
month, her leave of absence slated to begin next week, all things being equal.
Which they weren’t. But now, despite the impending birth, she knew she
wouldn’t want to leave the department until the case was solved.
“Screw this,” Pescoli muttered and took a swipe at the perspiration beading
her brow. “He’s not home or not answering . . . or—wait a sec.” Holding up a
finger, she cocked her head, and that’s when they both heard the familiar slap of
a basketball hitting concrete, then the accompanying thwang of a hoop as a ball
bounded against it. With a hitch of her head toward the corner of the house near
the garage, Pescoli said, “Let’s go.”
They skirted the house, followed the driveway to the backyard, then stepped
through an open wrought-iron gate, which had been cut into a ten-foot-high
hedge of arborvitae. Inside, they saw Donald Justison Junior, shirtless, in
basketball shorts, shooting hoops at a private sport court that, Alvarez noted,
appeared to be multipurpose, if someone preferred tennis over basketball.
Only nineteen, he was definitely a man, and a big one at that, several inches
over six feet. With a mop of brown hair, now covered in sweat, and sculpted
muscles that gleamed beneath hair that grew not only on his legs but on his arms
and the backs of his hands, he moved quickly around the court. His chest was
shaved, but growing back to shadow his pecs and arrow down into his shiny
silver shorts, which hung low on his waist.
He must’ve caught sight of them from the corner of his eye as he launched an
arcing shot that hit the rim, robbing him of his expected three points. He swore
under his breath, then jogged after the ball, which was bouncing toward a corner
of the court. He grabbed it, spun, tried for a short jumper; missed. Another quiet
oath under his breath. No wonder he was a wrestler rather than on the basketball
team.
“Donald Justison Junior?” Pescoli asked.
“Yeah?” He snatched the retreating ball and tucked it under his arm before
turning to face her and the badge she was holding up. He actually rolled his eyes.
“I know who you are, Mrs. Pescoli. Bianca’s mom.”
“Today I’m Detective Pescoli,” she said without the hint of a smile. “Just so
we understand each other. This is my partner, Detective Alvarez.”
He nodded. “We met.”
“Last night at Reservoir Point,” Alvarez clarified.
Pescoli said, “Good. We just need to ask you a few questions.”

---

“My mom said I wasn’t to talk to anyone without a lawyer present.” He
headed for the shade cast by the overhang of another huge porch. Its ceiling was
extended to cover part of a patio where lounge chairs were arranged near side
tables. Holding the ball between his knees, he snagged a T-shirt that had seen
better days and yanked the worn cotton over his head.
“Do you need a lawyer?” Pescoli asked.
“’Course not.” He jabbed first one arm, then the other, through holes where
once there had been sleeves.
Alvarez said, “We just need to clarify things.”
“I said, I need—I mean—I should have a lawyer here, okay? I heard that the
girl you found is Destiny. And yeah, we were a couple. But we broke up weeks
ago. I can’t help it if she was still hung up on me. Still hanging around.” He
swiped his sweaty face with the hem of his shirt. “She thought we were gonna
get married or some such shit. Couldn’t take no for an answer.” He stopped
himself and smiled humorlessly. “Didn’t I just say I can’t talk to you?”
“We can wait,” Alvarez said.
“Wait?”
“For the attorney you don’t need,” Pescoli helped out.
“Shit, no . . . I mean . . . oh, hell.” He flopped into a lounge chair positioned
near a glass-topped table, where a water bottle was perched by a cell phone, a
pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. With a hungry glance at the Winstons, he
uncapped the bottle and took a big gulp. “What do you want to know?” he asked,
checking his phone just as it beeped, indicating a text had come in.
Alvarez was taking notes and didn’t bother hiding the recorder.
“You’re taping this?” he asked.
“Unless your attorney won’t allow it.”
“I don’t give a . . . I’ve got nothing to hide. So, go right ahead,” he added
expansively.
“When was the last time you saw Destiny?”
“Uh, God, when? I don’t know. Sometime last week. No . . . Friday. A week
ago Friday.” He squinted into the sun, sweat rolling into his eyes. “I remember
because it was the weekend, y’know, the start of it. She called and came by
here.”
“You remember the time?” Alvarez asked.
A lift of a massive shoulder. “Maybe four . . . or no, had to be after five, cuz
she was off work.” His gaze slid away from hers and Pescoli guessed he was
lying or working on one, testing it in his mind to see if it would hold water. “Oh,
no, wait,” he said, holding up a finger. “It was later than that. More like eight.
After dinner.” He nodded, satisfied. “Yeah, that’s right. Getting dark.” A bounce

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of the basketball. “She worked that day—she did volunteer stuff at the hospital,
in the kids’ ward, I think—and she went home and had dinner with her family
and then she came over.”
“So she works at the hospital,” Pescoli interjected. “What about you?”
“What do I do?” Then, at the slight tilt of Pescoli’s face, he answered his own
question. “I work construction. Well, in the summer, when I’m not in school.
Mostly cleanup around the sites, y’know, but I’m learnin’ to frame. So I get off
earlier than Des does—uh, than she did, I mean. At my job, we start early, real
early, like sometimes before seven, y’know, if my boss can get away with it, like
there are no noise restrictions or whatever. It’s a killer getting up that early, but
then we knock off around four, sometimes four-thirty.”
“What did you do after work that Friday?” Pescoli figured this was where the
real lying would start.
“Came home,” Donny said. He was frowning, as if trying to remember. “I,
um, showered, then got pizza at Dino’s with a couple of friends.”
“Who?” Pescoli asked.
“Uh, there were four of us. Alex and Teej and Tophman. And me.”
“The O’Hara brothers and Bryant Tophman were with you?” Pescoli knew
them all.
Donny was nodding, warming to his story. “That’s right.”
Alvarez asked, “How long did you hang out?”
“Until . . . I dunno, we played video games for a while. Here, and then . . .
then they all left and Des called. Then she texted, I think, wanted to come over.
So she did.”
“How long did Destiny stay?” Alvarez asked.
“Maybe half an hour? Forty-five minutes?” Again, he bounced the basketball.
“Not long.”
“What did the two of you do?” Pescoli asked.
“We hung out.” He grew a little belligerent, his dark eyebrows pulling
together as if by purse strings.
Pescoli believed he was still trying to work things out in his mind, figure out
how much they, the cops, knew, how to make his story believable. “Did you
talk?”
He shot her a cold look. “’Course.” Another swallow from his bottle.
“What about?” she pressed.
“Nothin’. Just that she wanted to get back with me.” He shrugged. “She kinda
cried because I told her it was over. I was interested in someone else.”
“Who?” Alvarez asked.
“Does it matter?”

---

“Maybe,” Pescoli said.
“It’s personal,” he said. “And complicated.”
“Okay,” Pescoli agreed.
“It doesn’t matter because this girl, she doesn’t even know. I said it mainly to
prove to Des that I was serious about the break-up. Geez.” He took another swig
from his bottle. Appeared nervous.
Alvarez asked, “Did Destiny drive over here?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think she walked.”
“And when she left?” Alvarez again.
“She just left. Yeah, on foot. I don’t know where she went.”
“Did you offer to give her a ride?” Pescoli asked. “By the time she left, it
would’ve been dark.”
“No. Sorry. I didn’t,” he snapped. “We’d broken up. She didn’t want it, and
neither did I.”
“Her folks said she took off across the field, as if she were going to go
walking in the woods, up by Reservoir Point, where she was found, where you
all partied the other night,” Pescoli said. “If she was coming to visit you, here”—
she pointed at the baking concrete at her feet—“it seems odd that she wouldn’t
take the road, save herself the hill to climb, cut off what? Half an hour or so.”
“She did what she did,” he said, but his jaw worked and he looked away,
rotated the ball in his hands, then grabbed his water bottle and lifted it to his lips.
Alvarez asked, “Did she tell you she was pregnant?”
He choked on the water. “Wh–what? Pregnant? No. What? No! You’re lying!”
“So you didn’t know?” Pescoli asked, pushing.
“I don’t believe it.” His face had turned to chalk.
“Could the baby be yours?” Alvarez asked.
“Baby? Jesus. No . . . I mean, we were careful. She told me she was on the
pill, for Christ’s sake.” Panic rose in his eyes and his knee was jumping
frantically. “You mean she lied to me?”
Pescoli said, “I mean we’ll need to take a swab of your mouth for a DNA
sample.”
“Oh, God. No.” He was wagging his head. “My mom can’t find out about this.
She would kill me. I mean it.”
“Come in to the station,” Alvarez suggested. “Or we can send a tech out
here.”
“No! Don’t! Shit! Can’t you just do it right now?”
“We prefer for it to happen in the lab.” Alvarez didn’t want any chance for
some lawyer to scream about lack of control or any question of the chain of
evidence. “By a tech.”

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“Oh . . . okay.”
“Today.” Alvarez met his eyes.
“Yeah . . .” He licked his lips as if they were suddenly dry, and his eyes
rounded. If he’d known about the pregnancy, he was certainly putting up a pretty
good act. “I just can’t believe it,” he said, hanging his head and shaking it
slowly, as if he were trying to put things right in his mind and kept failing.
“Knocked up? Des?” He clasped his hands over his eyes. “How the hell—?”
Alvarez heard the sound of a motorcycle, engine racing loudly on the street in
front of the house.
Donny’s head snapped up. “Look, this”—he moved his hands back and forth
to include both of the police officers—“is over. I gotta go.”
Pescoli didn’t budge. “You’d better not be lying to us, Donny, because we will
find out and then, if you haven’t been truthful with us, we’ll wonder why and
we’ll be back.”
“Come into the station for that swab,” Alvarez reminded.
He nodded and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
The roar got closer, coming from the driveway on the other side of the hedge,
only to stop suddenly as the engine was cut.
“Can you just leave now?” Donny pleaded, climbing to his feet.
Footsteps approached, and a second later Alex O’Hara stepped through the
open gate to the backyard. In faded jeans and a black T-shirt printed with an
image of a Harley-Davidson, Alex was a little leaner than Donny and two or
three inches shorter. His dark hair was clipped tightly to his head and he
definitely resembled his brother, TJ, but Alex seemed older and, if not wiser,
then cagier. At least in Alvarez’s opinion. It was the way he carried himself with
a bit of bravado, and the too-quick grin, eyes hidden by reflective shades. But he
was here and that was good luck.

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