Free Born To Die by Lisa Jackson Page B

early afternoon. The entire cafeteria area was what Pescoli had termed “Joelled.” Christmas lights winked around every surface, the tables all had little snowmen centerpieces, fir boughs festooned with ribbons had been swagged over the doorway, and the regular white napkins in the coffee station had been replaced with red and green.
    Even so, Pescoli suspected, the decorating wasn’t yet finished; it would soon spill into the hallways, offices, and reception area, where already a ten-foot, yet-to-be-adorned tree stood near the bulletproof glass that had been installed over the counter this past spring.
    â€œI was here at seven, then had work out of the office,” Pescoli said, then gave herself a swift mental kick. She didn’t need to explain her whereabouts to the receptionist.
    â€œWell, you’re not the only one who missed out.” Joelle’s eyes twinkled, and Pescoli inwardly groaned, knowing she hadn’t escaped. “So here . . .” She picked up a basket decorated with candy canes and held it high over her head, as if she truly expected Pescoli to cheat and look at the names she’d scribbled on the scraps of paper.
    â€œSeriously? Everyone’s doing this?” Pescoli asked suspiciously.
    â€œOf course!”
    â€œIncluding the sheriff?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œWhat about Rule?” Pescoli asked, mentioning Kayan Rule, a strapping African American man who had no use for any kind of silliness. One of the more independent of the road deputies, Rule was as unlikely as anyone to be involved in Joelle’s stupid games.
    â€œAlready drew his name this morning, as did Selena.”
    Great, Pescoli thought but, deciding she had been accused too many times of not being a team player, lifted her arm and reached into the basket, where she plucked one of the few remaining scraps of paper with her fingertips.
    â€œWonderful!” Joelle was pleased with herself. “Now, don’t forget to leave him or her little gifts at least one a week, until Christmas!”
    Pescoli unfolded the piece of paper, and her stomach dropped as she read the name scrawled across the small scrap:
    Cort Brewster .
    â€œI have to draw again!” she blurted.
    Joelle snatched back the basket and raised a condescending, if perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “There are no doovers, Detective. That’s what happens when you come late to the party.”
    Pescoli wanted to argue the point but decided she couldn’t stoop to groveling over something so trivial. She nearly forgot her cup of coffee as she left the lunchroom, with its festive snowmen and sparkling lights, and made her way to Alvarez’s cubicle.
    Her partner, as usual, was bent over paperwork. “Trade with me,” Pescoli said.
    â€œWhat?” Alvarez glanced up.
    â€œFor the Secret Santa thing. Trade with me.”
    For once, Alvarez actually laughed. “No way.”
    â€œI’m serious.”
    â€œSo am I.”
    â€œThe whole thing is ridiculous,” Pescoli grumbled.
    â€œSo don’t worry about it. Just buy some candy or a DVD or something, leave it on Brewster’s desk, and call it good.”
    â€œYou know?”
    â€œI am a detective. No one else’s name would get you so agitated.” Her smile was knowing. “You could have some fun with this, you know.”
    â€œIt’s not that easy,” Pescoli said, thinking of how the undersheriff and she hadn’t gotten along since the debacle last year, when Jeremy had been arrested. At the time he’d been with Heidi Brewster, and her father had intervened. Pescoli hadn’t, and her son hadn’t really ever forgiven her. Nor had Cort. He seemed to blame Pescoli for her son’s and his daughter’s bad behavior.
    â€œSure it is. Or opt out.”
    â€œJoelle said—”
    â€œThat it was mandatory? Seriously? The Secret Santa thing? I don’t think so, but I’ll