“An elk?” Alvarez said and Samuels’s head jerked in her direction.
“Oh, shit. I mean, I know I poached the thing, but don’t kill me over it.” He licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting back and forth in his head as she lowered her weapon. “I shot a damned elk. Yeah, not in season. With no tag. But . . .” As his mind cleared a bit, his expression changed slightly, fear giving way to confusion. “You . . . you thought Maurice was here?”
“Isn’t he?”
“No.” Samuels looked even more stunned than before. “Why would he be? I haven’t seen him in ages . . . last I heard he got himself sent to the big house by hacking up his brother-in-law. Kathy, er, oh, excuse me. I mean the ‘Honorable Judge Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’ threw the book at Verdago. He never forgave me. Like it was my fault or something.”
“You think we’re here because you killed an elk?” Alvarez clarified and thought of the bloody pool, the drag marks in the snow.
“The damned thing just wandered over here and so I nailed it. It . . . it’s hanging in the garage. A buck,” he added quickly, as if the animal’s sex mattered.
Pescoli wasn’t convinced. Her weapon was still trained on Samuels. “You don’t mind if we look inside?”
“Well, Jesus.” He was getting a little pissy now. “Go right ahead. Knock yourself out.”
“Step off the porch,” she ordered. Then as Alvarez heard the back door open, Pescoli, sidearm aimed in front of her, moved cautiously into the house and out of sight just as in the distance the scream of sirens cut through the night.
“Clear!” a male voice yelled from inside the house. Watershed. Again: “Clear!”
Slowly, his gaze on her gun, Samuels lowered his hands and said to Alvarez, “I don’t know what you people think you’re doing, but trust me, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Do we?”
“I’m not blowing smoke when I say that I haven’t seen Maurice. He’s a con, for the love of God. I just don’t know why you came up here! Did Kathy send you?”
Alvarez had wondered at his earlier tone. Now she realized he was still unaware of his sister’s death.
“That wou
ld be just like her,” Samuels was going on, annoyed. “And trust me. All of you people and that dick Grayson aren’t going to hear the last of it either. I know people . . . attorneys and . . . Oh, shit. What’s this?” He looked over Alvarez’s shoulder as blue and red lights flashed in the night, reflecting on the snow, splashing off the trees. Engines rumbled and sirens shrieked as headlights appeared over the rise. “More cops? What the fuck do you think I did?” And then more soberly, “What is this? What’s Maurice got himself into?”
“You’ve been at this cabin awhile,” Alvarez started.
“What the fuck’s going on?” he demanded. “Yeah, I’ve been out here for weeks and there’s no phone, no electricity—just the way I like it. Kathy thinks I’ve got a screw loose or something. Accuses me of being a damned hermit, but I don’t really give a rat’s ass what she thinks. I suppose she’s the one who signed the damned search warrant for you guys to come bustin’ into my place. And, oh, by the way, I haven’t seen that warrant yet. Better show it, or get the hell off my property.”
“We don’t have a warrant, Mr. Samuels,” Alvarez responded, all but shouting to be heard over the sirens. Something in her serious tone or expression must have gotten through, because suddenly he dropped all his bluster.
“What’s wrong? Why are you here?”
“I’m sorry to inform you that your sister is dead.”
“No . . . no . . .”
“She was shot, Mr. Samuels, not too far from here, probably a few days before Christmas.”
“That can’t be right. I don’t believe it. Who would shoot her . . . oh, Jesus . . . who wouldn’t?” Swallowing and blinking, he appeared to be trying to absorb what she was telling him, make some sense of it. “Verdago? You suspect him? And you think he was hiding here at my place?” Finally putting the pieces together, he sagged against the doorjamb. Alvarez reached out to keep him from falling and helped slide him down onto the single crooked step of the porch. “No . . . This can’t be true. We had our problems, me and Kath, but oh . . . God.” His attention was caught by the cop cars, the beams of their headlights illuminating the small clearing as sirens were abruptly cut and the SUVs slid to a stop. Doors flew open. Two deputies from each vehicle slid to the ground to use the doors as shields.
“Stand down!” Alvarez yelled, still keeping her gaze trained on the judge’s brother.
“What?” The first deputy, Jan Spitzer, called from the other side of her open car door.
“I said, ‘Stand down.’ Verdago’s not here!”
“About time you figured that out,” Samuels said. He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “Oh, what the fuck?”
He looked past the cop cars and Alvarez followed his gaze to spy a man, bundled in a heavy jacket, hurrying along the snowy landscape. Ducking furtively, running from one tree to another as if expecting a barrage of gunfire at any second, he carried a small bag.
With a sinking feeling, Alvarez recognized Manny Douglas. “Get back,” she yelled at him, then to Spitzer, who was starting to approach the scene, “Secure the perimeter! Nothing’s going down here!” She located Spitzer’s partner and shouted, “And get him”—she indicated the crouching reporter—“the hell out of here!”