Deserves to Die by Lisa Jackson

know. Drove like mad down here in that truck,” he said, hitching his chin toward the beat-up Chevy. “Brought the kid with her ’cause she wasn’t sure what was going on. She thought that maybe she could save the Jane Doe, but nah, it was . . . too late.”
    They climbed out and trudged between the vehicles to the tarp where a woman, maybe thirty or thirty-five, lay stretched onto a tarp, another sheet of plastic tented so that the body was protected and couldn’t be viewed from the vehicle where the O’Halleran boy was keeping warm.
    “We got statements from everyone?” Pescoli asked, and Watershed nodded.
    Mikhail Slatkin, a forensic scientist, was kneeling on the edge of the tarp, examining the body as they waited for someone from the coroner’s office to arrive. Over six feet and rawboned, the son of Russian immigrants, he was one of the best forensic scientists Pescoli had ever worked with.
    “What happened to her?” she asked, studying the victim.
    She’d been short, around five-two, Pescoli guessed, with long brownish hair on the curly side that was stiff and riddled with tiny ice crystals. The woman’s face was heart-shaped, with a straight little nose and blue eyes that were fixed, seeming to stare blindly upward. Neatly plucked eyebrows and thin cheeks lay above cold, blue lips. She was wearing a dress, gray and fitted, earrings that looked like diamond studs, and fingers and toes that were polished a matching cranberry hue. Unbroken fingernails, neatly manicured, suggested there had been no struggle. Well, except for the ring finger of her left hand, most of which was missing.
    What’s up with that? The killer’s trophy? Or an accident that had sent her running here? Pescoli regarded the wooded foothills where snow was covering the ground, boulders and snags protruding from the thick white blanket, the nearly frozen stream softly gurgling as it wound between the trees.
    Slatkin glanced up, his blue eyes finding her gaze. “Don’t know yet. Maybe drowned. Or could be head trauma. Got a few bruises.” He frowned thoughtfully, eyeing the woman’s slim throat. “Possible strangulation.” His thick eyebrows drew together over his cold-reddened face. “Won’t know until the autopsy.”
    Nodding, Pescoli stared down at the dead woman and wondered what had happened to her. How had she ended up in this creek? Had she made it under her own power, or had someone left her here? And why here? She glanced around the stretch of ranch land where field met forest. Why had this place been chosen as either the killing ground or dumping spot? Eyeing the creek, she saw that it was deep enough for a body to submerge, despite the encroaching ice. Where was the woman’s coat or jacket? Her shoes? Her purse and, especially, her finger?
    What kind of whacked-up freak would cut off the finger?
    Of course, Pescoli reminded herself, we don’t know one hundred percent that the woman has been murdered .
    The missing finger certainly suggested that something violent had gone down, maybe even some kind of accident. She had learned over the years not to make quick assumptions, though oftentimes her gut instinct proved right. Until all the facts were in, however, she wouldn’t make a final decision.
    Once more, she looked at the left hand where a finger had been severed, the bone and flesh visible. Her stomach turned a bit and she drew her eyes away for a second, nausea building.
    She’d never been queasy at a crime scene, except years before . . . Oh, God. Another roll of her guts, and saliva gathered in her mouth. For the love of—
    At that moment, she knew she was going to be sick. She turned away, took a few steps from the creek, and just managed to get behind a fir tree before she upchucked into the snow. She hadn’t thrown up at a crime scene since . . . she was pregnant with Bianca. Morning sickness. Perfect.
    “Hey!” Alvarez said. “You okay?”
    Pescoli heaved once more, then straightened, a sour taste in