Chapter 9
“It’s Rory Amhurst,” Janet Quinn was saying from the other end of the connection, “Marla’s brother. DOA at Bayside.”
“What?” Paterno had been sitting in his recliner, beer in one hand, slab of takeout pizza in the other, when his cell had gone off. His eyes had been trained on his new flat-screen television, but his concentration on the basketball game stopped short with Quinn’s announcement. “You’re talking about the mentally disabled guy, right?”
“One and the same. Looks like someone left him with a lethal dose of chocolate. We won’t know for certain until all the lab tests come in, but the staff doesn’t know where the chocolate around his mouth came from. Probably a visitor, an older woman, one Mrs. Mary Smith. A nurse saw her in the hallway a few minutes before Rory was discovered.”
“Marla in disguise?”
“Highly possible. You wanna meet me at Bayside and we’ll go to the assisted-care center together? There’s already a unit there, and they’ve cordoned off Rory Amhurst’s room.”
“I’m on my way.” Paterno left his pizza, beer, and remote on the table, then found his service weapon, coat, and keys. His notepad and recorder were already in the pockets of his overcoat.
Would Marla kill a man who was mentally disabled?
She’d certainly been involved in killings before.
Corpse number two this week, compliments of Marla Amhurst Cahill.
He locked the door to his condo, the one-bedroom unit he’d bought after his wife died, then took the stairs two flights down to the garage. He didn’t much like the place, but he was rarely here, so he figured it didn’t matter much. His and his wife’s marriage had been rocky, her unhappiness stemming from the hours he’d spent at work, and they’d separated time and again, but, damn, he still missed her.
He shouldered open the door to the garage that was located underground. His Caddy was wedged into a tight spot between a Ford Focus and a Toyota, and he could barely get the door open, but he slid inside, turned on the ignition, and carefully backed out of his assigned spot. The Cadillac was just too big for newer parking spaces, but he couldn’t sell it, even though getting parts for it was growing tougher every year.
He drove slowly up a narrow ramp that wound up to the street. Waiting for the electronic garage door to open slowly, its warning system beeping loudly to make pedestrians aware that he was coming through, he thought about Marla. Obviously she was still in the area. Otherwise the body count of people she knew wouldn’t be going up.
And someone had to be helping her. Hiding her out. But who? He’d checked everyone she’d known on the outside and talked with her cell mates in that country club of a prison. No one purported to know anything. But someone did. Either someone was lying, or he’d missed a person close to her, close enough to harbor her and help her commit murder, someone with his or her own agenda. Someone who would benefit by Marla’s freedom and the resulting deaths.
Who?
The gate swung open, and Paterno eased the big car’s nose outside. Then, carefully, he rolled across the sidewalk, waited for the light a block down the street to change, and wended into the ever-heavy traffic of this section of the city.
It took him nearly half an hour to reach Bayside, and he had a helluva time finding a parking space, but eventually he was walking through the hallway and into the ER, where he caught up with Quinn and the emergency-room doctor, who explained about anaphylactic shock. Again he heard how it would take some time for the blood work to come back, and, as he looked down at the peaceful face of Rory Amhurst, the dead green eyes, still-thick brown hair, heavy beard shadow, and skull that wasn’t quite evenly shaped, Paterno felt rage. Deep-seated and hot. Marla was behind this, he knew it, and her brother would still be alive today if she hadn’t escaped. The system had failed Rory. Big time.
“Send everything you get on this guy to us,” he instructed the ER doc, who looked as if he wasn’t yet thirty. “Then we’ll want a full autopsy.”
“I already called the ME’s office,” Quinn said.
“Good. Let’s go to the care facility. I’ll drive.”
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Harborside Assisted Living Center, which wasn’t near any harbor, but, Paterno supposed, you might get a glimpse of the bay from the roof, if you looked down a street, through a series of buildings. But then again, maybe not.
Rory Amhurst’s room was small, roped off by crime-scene tape, and Paterno had to weave through residents with wheelchairs, scooters, or walkers as he made his way down the hallway.
“This has never happened before, not at Harborside,” the director of the facility, Anne Baldwin, insisted as she walked with him. Paterno tried to ignore the smell of the institution—cleaning solvent, urine, and the remnants of some meat that had been served for dinner. Mixed in with the depressing odors was the feeling of overall malaise and sadness, despite the cheery, yellow-painted walls and the smiles of the staff.
Anne was thin and direct. Her blond hair was frizzy, her glasses as skinny as she was, and she wore a prim pink sweater and pressed black slacks. “I just can’t imagine who would want to hurt Rory. He was such a sweet man, a favorite with the caretakers and staff.”
Paterno held his tongue about Marla. “I heard he had a visitor last night.”
“Mary Smith, yes. She’s from a local church and visits fairly often.”
“When did the visits start?” he asked, since Marla had been on the loose less than a week.
“A month, maybe six weeks ago.”
That stopped him short, and he looked directly at her. “You’re sure?”
She nodded so fast, he thought her glasses might fall off. “It was in December, the holiday season…sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas.” Her forehead puckered above the bridge of her long, straight nose. “I remember she commented on the decorations the first time I met her. Said she liked our light display.”
So Mary Smith was not Marla Cahill, as Marla had still been locked up at that time. “Can you describe her for us?”
“Oh, yes. She was, oh, five six or seven, I think, heavy, in her late fifties, probably. She wore big glasses, the kind that turn dark with the sun.”
“Hair color?”
“Dishwater blond, going gray. Cut short.”
“Does the facility here have any cameras?”
She shook her head. “No. We don’t believe in invading the residents’ privacy.”
“But in the parking lot, right? Or the grounds?”
She was shaking her head some more. “Really, Detective, you have to believe me, we just don’t have any need of them. There is no crime here—” She heard herself and sighed. “Well, I guess that’s all changed now, hasn’t it?”
“Maybe someone had a cell phone, the kind that takes pictures? Or a camera?” Quinn asked.
Anne let out a short, amused laugh. “The residents aren’t exactly high-tech, and the staff, I don’t think so. But I’ll ask, send a memo.”
“Would you mind talking to a police artist?”
“Not at all. If it will help, of course!”
They’d reached Rory’s room, and one look inside was enough to silence Paterno for long moments. A single dresser with a television on top, a twin bed, wheelchair, night table, and movable bed table were the extent of Rory Amhurst’s furnishings. There wasn’t even a personal picture on the wall, almost as if the man had no family or friends.
So much for being an Amhurst.
Crime techs were already dusting for prints, collecting evidence, and taking pictures of the place, but Paterno was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that they’d come up with diddly-squat. “I’d like to see his records.”
“You know that’s a breach of patient rights.”
“I’ll get a warrant.”
Anne nodded. “And when you do, I’ll hand everything over. As much as I want to help you, Detective Paterno, I have to go by the book on this. It’s a matter of liability.”
He’d expected no better. “We’ll need to notify next of kin.”
“That might be difficult,” she admitted. “Marla Cahill is listed as his closest relative.”
I got away with it!
As she drove into the city, Elyse couldn’t believe her good luck. She glanced at the other drivers, all caught up in their own private worlds, their own little problems, never once knowing that she was beside them—or that the frumpy woman in the nondescript car was a murderess, a genius, damned near infallible.
Elyse was so convinced she needn’t worry that she hadn’t bothered switching license plates after all. It would just be her luck that some anal jerk would be hanging around, watching, wondering what she was doing. The kind that would report the anomaly and send the police screaming her way. No, this time it was safer to keep things status quo.
But, oh God, what a high!
Yanking off the itchy wig, she rolled down the windows, inhaling salty-fresh air mingled with exhaust as she ripped down the freeway.
A part of her, that stubborn egotistical part, considered driving back to tell Marla and crow about her feat, but Elyse decided to wait. Marla was such a downer, and Elyse wanted to celebrate. She’d driven around the south side of the bay and stopped at a minimart where she changed her clothes quickly and tore off the padding around her neck, spitting out the stuffing in her mouth. Now, after wiping off the wig glue, she stripped out of the rest of her hated Mary Smith disguise.
Once again she was Elyse, her alter ego. She gassed up the car and made certain again that she wasn’t being followed as she drove the last few miles to her townhouse, pulling into her garage. Relieved, she plotted out the next steps. She planned to leave pieces of her fat suit in dumpsters all over other parts of the city. She would roll up the wig and glasses, put them in a sack, and toss the bag into a garbage bin behind a restaurant in Oakland. She’d leave the dress and shoes anonymously at a thrift-shop collection site in San Jose. Eventually there would be nothing to link her to the nefarious and murderous Mrs. Smith. She’d even hoist her fake set of rings into the bay for good luck.
Adios, Mary!
Grinning to herself, Elyse hurried upstairs to her bathroom, needing to wash the remnants away. She stepped into the shower and felt the hot needles of water ease the tension from her muscles as it washed the thick makeup from her face. She was thankful that she’d never have to return to Harborside Assisted Living ever again. The place was so depressing. How did the retard stand it?
Besides, she had others who would meet a similar fate as had Rory; others she was more interested in seeing suffer. First and foremost was Cissy, that miserable, spoiled brat. What a loser! Elyse couldn’t wait to confront the bitch and make her understand just how useless and stupid she was.
But tonight she wanted to celebrate, so she would avoid crossing the bay. Seeing Marla would only make her miserable. Tonight, she was going to have a little fun, and she wouldn’t tell Marla about it, not ever. Elyse would meet the man she intended to marry and spend the rest of the night with him. Hot sex after a chilling killing. Oooh, she liked the sound of that.
Licking her lips, she thought about the evening ahead and was already fantasizing. Should she reveal to him what she’d done? Or wait?
She thought it best to keep her secret to herself. He might not understand, and she didn’t want to risk losing him. But it would be hard not to brag about it. She wanted to boast and shout it to the world.
See how smart I am?
How clever?
I’m the one who sprang Marla Cahill.
I’m the one who killed her mother-in-law.
I’m the one who took care of the retard.
And I’m the one who bloody well will reap the rewards.
No matter what Marla thinks.
Detective Paterno stood on the porch outside her front door.
Cissy couldn’t believe her bad luck as she caught a glimpse of him through the window. What now? she thought, bracing herself for another barrage of pointed, privacy-invading questions. The guy just never gave up. His face was long and drawn and reminded her of a bloodhound, but his personality was more like a pit bull with a bone.
Lucky me, she thought.
It was as if she couldn’t get away from the man.
She waited for him to ring the doorbell, and Coco went nuts. Of course the dog had to bark madly, as if Cissy didn’t already know that someone was on the other side of the door panels.
“Coco, hush!” Cissy commanded, and for once the little white scruff stopped yapping, cowering behind Cissy’s ankles and peering around her legs as Cissy opened the door to find that Paterno wasn’t alone. The mannish-looking woman detective, Janet Quinn, was with him, and Cissy could tell from their expressions they were not the bearers of good news.
Would it never end? Last night she’d been subjected to Jack’s less-than-warm-and-fuzzy family, the night before Gran had been killed, and now…Oh God, what if something had happened to Jack?
Her knees threatened to buckle, and her heart lost a beat as she recognized the detectives’ grim expressions for what they were.
“What?” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Can we come in?” Paterno asked. His tone was almost kind.
“I-uh-yes, of course.” She backed up on rubbery legs, then somehow guided them into the living room. B.J. was asleep upstairs, thank God, but Jack…Where the hell was Jack? Now that he’d invaded her life again, she’d come to expect him. “What is it?”
“There’s been another death.”
Cissy inhaled sharply. She couldn’t believe it. Not Jack. Please, God, not Jack! “Who?” she whispered.
“Please, sit down,” Paterno said, and she dropped into a chair, letting the force of gravity pull her into the deep, soft cushions.
“Rory Amhurst was killed earlier tonight.”
Cissy blinked. “Rory…? Killed?”
“Murdered.”
She felt cold inside. Numb. “My uncle in the care center.” She was shaking her head. This was crazy. “There must be some mistake. No one would want to harm him. He’s…well, he’s not all there.”
But both the detectives were nodding. “I know,” Quinn said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“But this is wrong. No—” She couldn’t believe it. First Gran, now Rory?
“Do you have someone who can stay with you?”
“What?”
“You probably shouldn’t be alone.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” It was an automatic response, knee jerk, a lie, and everyone in the room knew it.
“Do you remember the last time you saw your uncle?”
“Uh…no…well, yeah, maybe around Christmas. I took B.J. to visit him. We brought him some Christmas cookies. I don’t really know him, not well. All my life he’s been at one home or another.” The numbness was wearing off now, and her mind was starting to piece things together. “You think this has something to do with Marla’s escape,” she guessed and read a silent acknowledgment in Paterno’s eyes. “You think she’s behind his death? That’s what you’re saying.”
“We don’t really know what happened. Yet.”
“Just like you think she killed Gran?”
“It’s possible.”
Cissy shoved the hair from her eyes and tried to think straight. “You’re insinuating that she broke out of prison and now is on some kind of killing spree, annihilating members of her, of my, family?”
“We don’t know what her involvement is at this point.”
“But you think it’s something.”
Janet Quinn said, “Marla Amhurst Cahill is the link between Eugenia Cahill and Rory Amhurst. She’s related to both of them. As are you.”
Cissy felt a chill deep in her soul.
“As is your son,” Paterno added, and she felt colder still. Fear and despair clawed at her. Her baby. Oh God, no one would ever want to hurt her baby. Surely not.
“Just a second,” she said, her throat catching. Before anyone could say another word, she ran upstairs, taking them two at a time, hearing Coco on her heels. On the second floor, she tore down the hallway to Beej’s room, pushing open the door that was already ajar. Heart thumping with fear, she hurried to the crib and found him fast asleep, his eyes closed, his tiny lips open as he breathed.
“Oh, Beej,” she whispered. Her heart felt bruised. He was safe, and she would make certain he would always be safe no matter what it took. Her eyes burned, and Cissy fought back tears. Then she checked both of the windows in his room to see that they were latched and double-locked.
She couldn’t think about losing B.J., about his life being in jeopardy. Feeling unsteady, she splashed cold water over her face in the bathroom before returning downstairs. “I’m sorry,” she said to the two detectives as she returned to the living room where they sat unmoving, waiting. “You scared me so much I had to make sure Beej was all right.”
“We understand.” Did they? She doubted it, but she just listened while they explained they weren’t certain of the details of her uncle’s death, but it looked like he’d been poisoned. They would know more once the tox screens and other lab work and autopsy were performed.
Cissy felt her insides quiver.
Of course they were doing the same with her grandmother’s remains, but they promised to release the bodies as soon as possible because they knew she had to make funeral arrangements. They asked her to stop by the station to look over a computer-generated sketch of the assailant, as several people at Harborside had seen her.
“Her?” Cissy repeated.
“Yes, a woman. In her sixties, maybe even seventies.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“She could have been disguised; in fact, we suspect she was,” Paterno said.
“Does she have a name?”
“Mary Smith. Claims she was from a local church, and, of course, the church in question has four Mary Smiths, and one Mary Smythe, in their congregation. We’re checking them all out, but figure the name is an alias.”
“You think it’s Marla,” Cissy stated flatly.
Quinn shook her head. “This Mary Smith has been visiting Rory since before your mother escaped. So, no, it wasn’t Marla.”
Paterno said, “Unless she started impersonating the real Mary Smith.”
“But why?” Cissy said. “My uncle could hurt no one.”
“We’re working on that too.” Paterno stood. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”
“Believe me, I’m fine.”
“Your husband’s not home?”
“No,” she said, and smiled. “Not yet.” Why go into it? She’d consider telling them the true state of her relationship with Jack when she went to the station, looking at the picture of the suspect, whoever Mary Smith was.
After escorting the detectives to the door, Cissy closed and locked it behind her, throwing the deadbolt and punching in the lock on the knob. She thought of the figure she’d seen outside her house and the guy who’d bumped into her outside the coffee shop. Were they related to all this or not? Little goose bumps raised on the back of her arms, and she hurried upstairs again, walking directly to B.J.’s room. He was inside, of course. Just like earlier. He hadn’t been snatched away in the last thirty minutes.
Nonetheless, she adjusted his blanket around him and sent up a silent prayer for his safety. Downstairs, Coco growled, and for the first time since the dog had come to live with her, Cissy decided it might not be such a bad thing to have a furry little house alarm always on guard.
“Sleep tight,” she said and couldn’t help but wish Jack were with them. It would be comforting, knowing he was here to protect them.
Even if he was a lying, cheating son of a bitch.
Bayside Hospital
San Francisco, California
Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
Oh God, I’m going to die. The hospital staff doesn’t know I’m alive. This is so wrong. So damned wrong.
I’m so frustrated! With all my might I try and fail to move any part of my body—an eyelid, an eyebrow, a finger, my lips—but my muscles are frozen, useless. As hard as I try, I can’t do anything!
Please, God, let them understand that I’m awake, I can hear them. Don’t let them kill me…. Please…It’s a miracle they’ve kept me on life support, I know that. But now they’re talking about discontinuing it. At any second they could pull the plug and not give me the time to prove to them that I’m awake, I’m alive, and I have so much to tell!
How can I make them understand? If only I’d had a real mother, one who embraced me, one who was not so cold, always unavailable. Everything, it seems, was more important than her daughter. Her parties. Her “women’s retreats.” Her charity work. Everything! She acted like she wanted me, but it was just that—an act. The truth of the matter is, I was an inconvenience, something to be kept in a drawer until she needed me, like one of her precious pieces of jewelry.
And so I’m alone.
Again.
As always.
The nurses have given up hope, and the doctor is convinced I’ll never wake up. Here he comes now. With his low voice, bright light that he shines in my eyes, cold stethoscope that he puts on my chest. Can’t my damned body please react so that he can understand? If only I could hold my breath. Or freak out enough to elevate my heart rate or anything!
“Condition unchanged,” he says.
No way! My condition has changed. Listen to me, you old fool—I’M ALIVE.ALIVE!
If only I could scream or even whisper!
Surely they can’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t completely wake up. Yes, I’ve dozed; yes, I’ve had only a few moments of lucidity; and yes, I can’t seem to communicate with anyone, but please, please give me a chance. It’s not hopeless.
“I don’t know how much longer we can keep her like this,” the doctor says. “I’ve consulted all the specialists in the area. No one has any hope.”
But they’re wrong! Can’t you see that?
Oh, sweet Jesus, if I just had more time!
If only I had one more opportunity to tell Jack that I forgive him, that I love him, that I was wrong…so wrong. I remember what happened…every little detail…