"Good," Alvarez said. "We need to see the registration for"-she met Pescoli's gaze-"Mr. . . . Bryan Smith. I saw cameras outside. Does the motel keep the tapes?"

Rhonda shook her head. "The outside cameras are all for show. All they are is a red light to make it look like they're filming. Just like the security signs about a company that is monitoring the place. It's all just to make people think twice about stealing or loitering or whatever. The only cameras that work are in the lobby."

Alvarez said, "Then we'll need to see the lobby tapes."

They left the room.

Arms wrapped around her, shoulders hunched against the cold, Rhonda led them toward the main building. "You'll have to talk to Carla about that. She's the manager."

"We will," Pescoli said as she tightened her scarf and wondered about Ryder's "friend" in room twenty-five. She had a bad feeling about Bryan Smith. It didn't make sense. Did the two men know each other? She doubted it. Could the maid have been wrong about a possible connection? Probably not. "Just seal the room, make certain it's not cleaned." She recalled Blackwater's comment about Bruce Calderone, Anne-Marie Calderone, and Troy Ryder being in the plot together. Far-fetched, she'd thought, but maybe some part of it was true?

Rhonda was already on a walkie-talkie, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

Alvarez whipped out her cell phone. "I'll get officers over here ASAP," she told Pescoli as they headed back to the reception area.

Looking over the registration information in the River View's lobby, they added a 1998 Ford Explorer with Texas plates to the APB they'd sent out earlier for Ryder's Dodge pickup and asked for any and all security tapes from the motel's archives, which, Carla told them proudly, were kept for a month.

As they walked back to the Jeep, Alvarez's phone rang again.

"Do you have those head shots yet?" Blackwater asked, finding Zoller at her desk, her fingers on the keyboard of her computer. As a junior detective, she shared an open s.p.a.ce with several other detectives, each desk area divided by half walls to create a cubicle.

"Yes, sir," she said, hitting a few keys. Within seconds, a slide show of images appeared on her monitor, each essentially the same face and expression. The features were different in each, changing as they would look if artificially manipulated or permanently altered with surgery. The hairstyles were different, the cut and color changing, gla.s.ses added, contacts used to alter eye color, makeup to change the shadows of the cheekbones, eyebrows plucked or thickened, lips made fuller or thinned out, and the aging process factored in, just in case Anne-Marie Calderone had decided to disappear into middle-age. Twenty-five different shots rolled slowly by and with each one, Blackwater became more frustrated.

He was certain he'd seen her before. Would have sworn to it. Something about her eyes and shape of her face caused a memory to tug at his brain. He was good with faces, to the point that he never forgot one, so why then did he sense he'd met her but couldn't quite recall?

One image swept by and he asked Zoller to freeze it. In the shot, the woman looked a good ten or fifteen years older. Her brown hair was short, her gla.s.ses rimless, her lips thin. "Can you make her blond? Not like before." There had been several blondes in the lineup. "But this particular hairstyle."

"Sure." With a keystroke, the head shot was of a woman with pale hair.

Blackwater nodded. That seemed better. "And give this one the full lips."

Again, Zoller altered the shot.

G.o.d, he knew he'd seen her. But where? He concentrated. It was important on a lot of levels. If Anne-Marie Calderone was found under his watch, and the detectives managed to prove a case against her, his job as sheriff would be secure. Solving the bizarre crime would attract lots of media attention. It was already happening, and it wasn't just the local press. Papers and news agencies from as far away as Spokane and Boise were calling. If Anne-Marie Calderone, involved in bigamy and murder, were captured in Grizzly Falls, he might be hailed as a national hero . . . And if his team stopped a serial killer's rampage? Though that kind of spotlight had never been his goal, he would take any means to become the next sheriff of Pinewood County. Any political ambitions after that would have to wait.

But first things first. They still needed to locate and capture Calderone.

"Anything else?" Zoller asked, looking up at him with her hands poised over the keyboard.

He heard footsteps in the hallway and turned to find the receptionist craning her neck around the corner. "Sheriff," Joelle said with a tentative smile. "I don't want to bother you, but Manny Douglas of the Mountain Reporter phoned for the third time this morning and I told him you'd call him back. If he calls again, I could refer him to the public information officer, but I've dealt with him before and he doesn't seem to take the hint, if you know what I mean." Her glossy red lips pursed. "The last time he called, less than two minutes ago, he said he was on his way to the station and was only five minutes away."

Blackwater held back his initial annoyance and said, "I'll phone him as soon as I'm done here. If he's already here, give him coffee and let me know. I'll talk to him. In my office." The last thing he wanted to do at this point in his career was p.i.s.s off a reporter.

She handed him a WHILE-YOU-WERE-OUT memo with Douglas's name and number, then hurried off as a phone started ringing down the hallway.

As he folded the note and tucked it into his pocket, Blackwater swung his attention back to the screen. The break in his attention had given him a fresh perspective. As his eyes narrowed on the image, he felt a little sizzle of antic.i.p.ation, and realized what was wrong, what had to change. To Zoller, he said, "Is it possible for you to change her teeth? Or her jawline? Give her more jowls?"

Concentrating so hard she bit into her lower lip, Zoller actually was able to draw on the screen with her mouse, the computer filling in the gaps or shaving off what she took off. She was able to change the contour of the face and add in some more crooked teeth so that in a matter of minutes, he was no longer staring at the face of Anne-Marie Calderone as pictured on her driver's license. Instead, he was looking at a much dowdier, older appearing woman that he was certain he'd seen before.

"Darken her eyes." He knew before Zoller had finished the change that he would be staring into the face of the waitress from the Midway Diner. Her name tag had read JESSICA, he remembered, but he would bet his badge she was the missing heiress, Anne-Marie Calderone.

Pescoli had already gotten a text from Bianca that there was no school today and, of course, her daughter was ecstatic, saying she was going back to bed for a while, then hoping to get a ride to a friend's later. Driving back to the station, Pescoli hoped her daughter stayed put. As far as she knew, Jeremy was at home, probably still fast asleep and would be for a while. Good. At least for the morning, she needed not to worry about either of them.

She wheeled into the station's parking lot and spied a spot in the thickening snow. "If this keeps up, Blackwater will have us all shoveling," she said, cutting the engine. "I can see it now, part of his new military regimen to keep his officers in shape. Did I tell you I caught him in full uniform doing push-ups in his office? Told me it kept the blood flowing."

"It does," Alvarez said as she unbuckled her seat belt.

"Yeah, well, once up and showered, I'm not interested in getting my blood flowing," Pescoli grumbled, climbing out of the car and spying Cade Grayson just parking his pickup in the visitor's lot not far from the pole where the flag was still positioned at half-mast, Old Glory billowing in the falling snow. "Take a look."

"Let's see what he has to say."

He wasn't alone. As he hopped out of one side of the truck, his brother Zed, several inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier, stepped his size fourteen boots into six inches of icy powder. Both men were dressed in thick outerwear and cowboy hats, the wide brims collecting a white dusting as they made their way to the officers.

"Got your message," Cade said to Alvarez. "We were already in town, picking up supplies, so I thought it might be best to talk face-to-face."

"Let's go inside." Alvarez led the way, and within minutes, they were seated at the conference table, hats removed, jackets unzipped, faces stern, coffee supplied by Joelle on the table, untouched. Alvarez had taken time to dash into her office to retrieve her files and Pescoli, as was her custom these days, had made a quick trip to the bathroom.

The brothers were obviously uncomfortable, whether it was because Cade was being questioned, or due to the fact that they were seated in the sheriff's department, a door away from what had been Dan's office.

"Is this about Bart?" Zed asked, bushy eyebrows pulling together. "We all know that Hattie won't let that one go." He sent his brother a glance that was unreadable, one that Cade tried to ignore.

"I did look through the case files on your brother's suicide," Pescoli said, taking in both brothers as they were seated across from her. "But I can't find any reason to reopen the case. It looks to me that Bart took his own life. I'm sorry."

"Not unexpected," Zed said, his lips twisting down.

More, Pescoli thought, in disapproval of his ex-sister-in-law, than in disappointment about his brother's cause of death.

"Hattie's had a bug up her b.u.t.t about it from the first but h.e.l.l . . . we all just have to accept what happened. We may not like it, but it's time to move on." Pointedly, he glanced at the door leading to the office once occupied by his brother.

Cade's gaze zeroed in on Alvarez. "Why did you call? You seemed to think it was pretty d.a.m.n important."

"It is," she said, her tablet firing up in front of her. "I've been in contact with Detective Montoya of the New Orleans Police Department."

"New Orleans?" Zed said. "What the h.e.l.l's this all about? We've got a ranch to run and a h.e.l.luva snowstorm to deal with." He shot a disgusted look at Cade. "I told you we should've just called."

"What about New Orleans?" Cade asked, deathly solemn, but not surprised.

"Montoya says you were involved with a woman from there, a woman by the name of Anne-Marie Calderone, or possibly, at that time she might have told you her name was Anne-Marie Favier, though she was married."

He didn't respond, so Alvarez attempted to jog his memory. "You were in Texas at a rodeo, took a side trip to Louisiana, and met her there?" She slid a copy of the woman in question's driver's license across the table.

The edges of Cade's lips turned white as he let his gaze skate over the image on the license before he found Alvarez's eyes again. "What about her?"

"For the love of Christ," Zed said. "You and your G.o.dd.a.m.n women!" He snorted through his nose and shook his head.

"We're investigating a couple homicides here in Grizzly Falls. You've no doubt heard of them. We think there's a connection to Ms. Calderone, and we think she's here. Has she contacted you?"

"You think there's a connection between Anne-Marie and those murders?" Cade sounded poleaxed.

"s.h.i.t, that woman? The waitress?" Zed said in a huff of disgust. "I knew she was trouble."

"Slow down," Pescoli advised. "So, she is here in Grizzly Falls?"

Alvarez asked, "A waitress?"

"I don't know all the details, but she admitted she was in trouble, that she thought-" Cade closed his eyes for a second, then clenched his jaw and spit out, "s.h.i.t-fire," as if he were on the horns of a dilemma.

"She thought what?" Alvarez pressed.

When Cade remained silent for a few moments, clearly trying to get his head around what he'd just heard, Zed jumped into the fray. "She came to the ranch." He flung an angry glare at his brother. "Whatever you think you're doin' by holdin' back, like you're saving her or something, or keeping some d.a.m.n confidence, it's over. They're on to her."

A muscle worked in Cade's jaw.

"Mr. Grayson," Alvarez urged.

Cade scowled, angry with his brother and quite possibly himself. "She dropped by a few days ago. Said she was in trouble, that it had something to do with those women who'd been found. I don't know how, but she was afraid."

"About what? Being caught?" Pescoli asked.

"That she was in danger. For her life, or something. She'd wanted to talk to Dan about what was going on, but of course that didn't happen. I turned her away. I thought . . . h.e.l.l, I'd hoped she was going to talk to you."

"She works down at the Midway Diner," Zed stated flatly.

"Did she say what she was afraid of?" Alvarez was making notes, but Pescoli was ready to shoot out of her chair and drive like a maniac to the diner. It was time to end this.

"Yeah." Cade leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily. "She did, but I didn't believe her. She . . . well, she has a history of lying."

Zed swore under his breath.

Cade straightened. "The thing is, she told me she was afraid of her own d.a.m.n husband."

"You can't do this!" Anne-Marie spat, trying to worm her way out of the handcuffs he'd slapped on her wrists.

"You had the option. You wouldn't leave on your own."

"You really are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d." She was furious, nearly spitting as, to her horror, he walked unerringly to the area along the baseboard where she'd stashed her important doc.u.ments, her extra cash, her pa.s.sports. "Don't! You can't!"

Ignoring her, he withdrew her switchblade from his pocket, clicked it open, and bent down to pry the board off to expose her niche. "We'll have to wait until the fire dies a little for the other spot," he said over his shoulder. He was serious. He was actually going to force her back to New Orleans.

He dug out the baseboard, then pulled her papers from their hiding spot. As he straightened, he snapped the knife closed and looked over the doc.u.ments. "This must've cost you," he said, opening one pa.s.sport after another, his eyebrows rising in appreciation. "Or your grandmother."

"I had to do it," Anne-Marie said, desperate to change his mind. "If I went back, he would've killed me."

"The police would have protected you."

She gave a short, dry laugh. "I don't think so."

"You should've-"

"I should've nothing," she cut him off. She'd had enough. Taken enough.

With a sudden yank, she removed the ring she wore, the fat piece of costume jewelry that hid her joint. Then quickly, with little effort, she grabbed her left hand with her right and removed the lifelike prosthesis to reveal the stump of her left ring finger, all that remained after the butcher she'd been married to had cleaved off the very finger on which he'd slipped her engagement ring years earlier.

Chapter 27.

"The Midway Diner?" Pescoli said after the Grayson brothers had left the sheriff's department. She and Alvarez were still in the conference room, picking up their things. "It's almost lunchtime and maybe we'll get lucky. She'll be there, or we can get information from her boss or coworkers." Pescoli's stomach was rumbling again. Close enough for a meal, she decided. Even if it was one on the run. They hadn't learned much from the Grayson brothers.

Zed Grayson had been certain he'd spied Anne-Marie Calderone in her job as a waitress at the diner, though the one time Cade had seen her had been at his home when she had come to visit him, desperate, it appeared. He'd suggested she turn herself in and tell her story to the police. So far, she hadn't taken his advice. Pescoli only hoped that Anne-Marie hadn't run again. That woman had about half a million questions to answer, though Pescoli still wasn't convinced she was a killer, fingerprint or no.

During the interview, Alvarez had pulled up the most recent photos of Troy Ryder and Bruce Calderone, sent to her by Montoya in New Orleans. She showed Zed and Cade several shots of the men in question. Besides his Texas driver's license photo, there was another picture of Troy Ryder from his rodeo days. As for Calderone, his driver's license photo issued by the state of Louisiana was tucked between two posed shots, one in a business suit, the other of the man in a lab coat, a stethoscope visible in his pocket. Both men were good-looking and about the same height and weight if the information on their licenses was to be believed. Troy Ryder was a little more rough and tumble looking, an outdoorsy type with tanned skin, light brown hair, and a c.o.c.ksure grin. Dr. Bruce Calderone, dark hair combed neatly, chin lifted in authority, smile forced, did appear more polished and sophisticated, at least according to the shots, but that was how the photographer had staged the pictures, how the man wanted to be portrayed.

The Grayson brothers hadn't recognized either of the two men who had said "I do" to Anne-Marie.

"Let's go." Alvarez was sliding her iPad into its case. "Maybe one of Anne-Marie's coworkers has gotten close to her and knows where we can find her."

Keys in hand, Pescoli said, "Don't count on it." She was already at the door to the hallway when the other door of the conference room, the one leading directly to the sheriff's office, opened.

Blackwater took one step into the conference room. "Detectives," he said, motioning them into his office. "We need to talk. I want you to bring me up to speed, but before you brief me on what you've learned, I think you should know that Anne-Marie Calderone is in Grizzly Falls."

Alvarez gave a swift nod. "We just heard."

"From Cade Grayson?" Blackwater's eyes narrowed.

"Zed thinks he saw her at the Midway Diner, and she showed up at the ranch to visit Cade," Pescoli said. "Neither of them has any idea where she lives, but Zed said she's driving an older model Chevy Tahoe. Silver or gray or light blue, he thought. Colorado plates. Neither brother got the number."

"They still involved? She and Cade?" Blackwater asked. "Or . . . Zed?"

"They both say not." Pescoli shook her head.

"Come into the office and brief me. I know about the Midway Diner. Already talked to the owner." He stepped out of the doorway and they filed in.

Waving them into chairs, he said, "She's e-mailing me information about Jessica Williams-the alias Anne-Marie Calderone is using-her employment application, tax info, and cell number. I asked Zoller to get in touch with the cell phone company who issued the phone, but of course, it's one of those pre-paid things that requires little or no info." His dark eyes sparked and Pescoli recognized the look-a cop hot on the trail of a suspect. "Still, we don't have a physical address for her. Yet. She did pick up mail at a local postal annex, you know, where the box is the 'suite' number?" He made air quotes and added, "I've already sent deputies over there checking her application."

"You're taking over the case now?" Pescoli asked, trying and failing to mask her irritation. He was the boss, yeah, but this was their case and she was a little bristly about it . . . well, about most things these days.

"No. No way." He held up a hand, fingers splayed. "It's all yours. All yours." He glanced from one detective to the other. "But we're a team here, all work together, and so I want you to report to me. I wanted to get some answers p.r.o.nto and I didn't want to interrupt your meeting with the Graysons. Time is crucial on this one; I thought it best if we get moving. Anne-Marie Calderone has a history of slipping away."

Bugged, Pescoli, for once, didn't argue. "Okay. Anything else? How did you find her?"

"Computer enhancement of her driver's license photo." He actually smiled a bit. "I had Zoller tweak it because I was certain I recognized her. It's amazing what Photoshop can do."