Chapter 15
Elyse’s blood sang through her veins.
Killing Cherise had felt so right. And the confusion and sheer terror in her eyes when she’d thought she was facing off with wicked Marla.
Priceless!
Almost as satisfying as watching that pampered bitch Cissy nearly stumble down the stairs when she’d thought she’d seen her mother in the doorway of the house on Mt. Sutro. God, what a rush! It would have been so easy to kill her then, and Elyse had considered it. She’d had the gun with her. But she wanted Cissy to twist in the wind a bit more, feel a little pain, the kind Elyse had lived with for years.
“You’ll get yours,” she said and thought about the man she loved…. Oh, wouldn’t it be perfect to make love to him tonight, when the thrill of the kill was still in her bloodstream, the adrenaline rush still pounding through her.
Eyes on the road, she reached into the side pocket of her purse, pulled out her cell, and hit the “2” pre-set button. It rang once, and a male voice answered.
“Hello?”
Holy Christ! This was the wrong phone. She’d used Cissy’s damned phone.
She clicked off and cussed herself up one side and down the other. What had she been thinking? Had she been too high, too revved up not to notice the subtle difference in the cell phones?
She had to ditch it now. Fast. Fortunately, she was near the bridge. Stepping on the gas, she drove across the illuminated span and tried hard to keep the needle of her speedometer under the limit. Her heart was pounding, her skin hot, sweat collecting under her hair.
“Son of a bitch,” she whispered, and at the south end of the bridge, before driving into the city, she turned into the park and left her car so that she could walk back along the span and, once she was a distance from the shoreline, wipe Cissy’s cell phone clean and drop it over the railing and into the water so far below. It would never be found. Quickly, once her mission was accomplished, she walked briskly back to her car and climbed behind the wheel. She had t o be more careful. She’d already nearly run over a bicyclist, and then there was the woman walking her damned dog when Elyse had left Cherise’s house. Fortunately she was wearing the disguise and it had been dark, but there was always a remote chance either she or her car would be recognized. And then she called the wrong number by dialing Cissy’s bloody phone. God, she had to be smarter if this was going to work. She had a few people on the payroll; the guy from whom she’d bought her fake ID had also done a great job of terrorizing Cissy, bumping into her at the coffee shop and then walking in front of her car. But he could talk. Elyse just wasn’t too sure how much she could trust him.
And she couldn’t afford any more slipups.
Not now.
Not when she was so close to getting everything that was due her.
Though she wasn’t as high as she had been a few minutes earlier, she was still keyed up, and so she tried again, this time with the right phone. Her phone.
The phone rang three times before he picked up. “Hello?”
“Hi,” she said a little breathily. “What’re you doing?”
“Not much,” he admitted, and she heard the wariness in his voice.
“Are you alone?”
“No,” he said, giving nothing away to whoever was close by.
“I thought we could get together.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if we can meet tomorrow.”
“I’m talking about tonight.”
“I know.” He was covering, trying to hide the fact that he was talking to her because of the other person or persons he was with. That was the trouble with cell phones, the double-edged sword of anonymity. Not only could the person you called not know where you were, but you too had no idea where he was when he picked up. He could well be in the city, across the country, or at home in bed…with whomever.
She felt a burning in her gut, but disguised it. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“I told you this wasn’t a done deal.”
“You know where I’ll be,” she said in a low voice. “And you know what I’ll be wearing…. We’ll have ourselves a really good time.”
“I just don’t know.”
“Trust me, you want to see me. To touch me. To kiss me. I’ll do things to your body you can’t begin to imagine.”
He laughed a little then. “Look, I’ll be in the office in the morning. I’ll call you.”
And then the bastard hung up.
“You goddamned cocksucker!” she hissed, knowing full well that he’d show. He couldn’t resist her. Oh, sure, there were other women in his life; she knew that. He wasn’t the kind of man to be satisfied with only one woman, but hell, she intended to change that. Maybe tonight. She was sick to the back teeth of him admitting that he still loved his wife. What a crock!
“Bastard.” He’d better be careful.
Now that the phone was properly ditched, she swung the car around again and headed back to Sausalito, to the place to which she knew he would return. It was there that they laughed and made love, there that they’d plotted out how to spring Marla from prison, there that they’d laid out their plans.
He’d show up.
He couldn’t resist. She knew that about him.
She considered meeting him in her Marla garb, but decided against it. Once she was back at the house, she’d ditch the green contacts, red-brown wig, padding in her bra, enhancers in her cheeks, and lifts in her shoes.
She didn’t look that much like Marla, but the power of suggestion was a strong and wonderful thing, especially if one was seeing ghostly elevators open or staring down the barrel of a handgun.
She smiled to herself, gave herself a pat on the back. “Good work, Marla,” she said and thought of the real Marla Cahill, that pathetic creature in the basement.
She couldn’t wait to take off anything that remotely resembled the woman. In only a few minutes, she’d shower and be herself again.
And then she’d wait for the turn of the key and the familiar sound of his footsteps as he climbed the stairs to her bedroom….
“The Sausalito police just called,” Janet Quinn said, strapping on her sidearm as she reached Paterno’s desk. It was ten in the morning, and she was serious. “Looks like we’ve got another dead relative of Marla Cahill.”
“What?” He glanced up from his notes. The homicide unit was bustling this morning, conversation loud, phones ringing, computers humming, shoes scraping against the floor as detectives walked from one area to the next. “Who?”
“Cherise Favier. Shot dead in her own house.”
“Jesus!” Paterno said. He hadn’t seen that one coming.
“The neighbor she usually goes walking with called 9-1-1 this morning. She was so upset the operator could barely understand her. Come on, I’ll drive and fill you in.” They walked out of the station together and headed for Quinn’s car rather than use a department vehicle. Paterno forced himself into the passenger side of Quinn’s red Jetta and clicked on his seatbelt as she tore out of the lot. The traffic was thick, morning rush hour still creating gridlock in the city, but a few rays of sun filtered through the thick, gray sky.
“This is what we know so far,” Quinn said, turning on her blinker and looking over her shoulder as she wove her way into the next lane. “Cherise was alone. Her husband was in Sacramento on church business.”
“He’s got an alibi?” Paterno had never liked the Reverend Donald and thought the preacher was full of hot air and BS, heavy on the BS.
Quinn’s mouth twisted wryly. “You’re going to love this one. Turns out he was with Heather Van Arsdale.”
“Cissy Holt’s friend?” He remembered seeing her at the funeral. Young and hip. Pretty. Good body.
“One and the same. And it gets more and more interesting. Heather, when she’s not an elementary school teacher, volunteers at the church. She’s some kind of computer whiz or something. Anyway, she and the reverend, they were a little more than business associates, or preacher and parishioner. They were pretty cozy. Had connecting rooms at the hotel in Sacramento.”
“Figures,” Paterno said. “I never trusted the guy.” He slid Quinn a glance. “You remember, he was in trouble before. Can’t seem to keep his zipper up.”
“It goes further than that,” Quinn said, cutting through traffic toward the Golden Gate Bridge. On the north end of the span lay the community of Sausalito and Marin County. “Heather was a college friend of Cissy Cahill.”
“I know. So how does that all work together?”
She shook her head and reached into the console for her sunglasses.
“Optimist,” Paterno said as she slipped the shades onto her face and eased toward the incredible rust-colored bridge with its spiraling towers and wide span. There was more traffic flowing into the city than flowing out, but the lanes were still clogged. Paterno barely noticed the view as they spanned the neck of water connecting San Francisco Bay with the Pacific Ocean. Two hundred feet below, green water sparkled in the wintry sunlight, a few sailboats and islands visible, but Paterno was trying to piece together the puzzle that was the Cahill murders. He reached in his pocket, withdrew a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, and offered a stick to Quinn.
She shook her head and kept talking, giving out what little information they had on the case. Already Favier, who’d been called hours earlier, as soon as the first detectives had gone to the house and seen the dead woman, was at the Sausalito Police Station being interviewed. Heather Van Arsdale, who had taken “personal days” from her teaching job, was in a separate interrogation room, but so far their stories matched.
“Why would anyone kill Cherise?” He unwrapped the gum, folded the stick, and shoved it into his mouth.
“Don’t know. It doesn’t look like robbery was a motive. Cherise had some pretty high-wattage rocks on her fingers and in her jewelry case. Computer, stereo, iPods, televisions—all untouched.”
Paterno didn’t like it.
“The Sausalito police have been canvassing the area near the church and Favier home. A few neighbors remember hearing a ‘pop’ last night, around eight, about the time, according to the ME, that Cherise died. One neighbor, Mrs. Bangs, reported that she’d been out walking her dog about that time. While the dog was taking a leak, she saw a woman coming out of the Favier house through the front door. The woman climbed into a silver car and drove away.”
“That’s it? Just a silver car? No license, make, or model?”
“Silver car. Sedan. Probably. That’s it.”
“What about a description of the person leaving the crime scene?”
“A woman. Average. Nothing special. Probably white and not fat. Maybe dark hair.”
“Some eyewitness.”
“She was busy with her dog.”
“Great,” Paterno groused.
“It’s something.”
“And gets Favier off the hook.”
“Does it?” Quinn asked. “If the blessed reverend wanted out of his marriage without going through a divorce, he could have hired a hit. It would have been perfect timing, as we’re all looking for a way to connect the murders. That’s why we were called in.”
“We’ll see,” Paterno said, chewing the gum and thinking the jury was still out on that one…way out.
“The Sausalito detectives are talking to the witness, offering up a photo lineup of various people, including Marla, to see if she zeroes in on her.”
“What are the chances?” Paterno muttered.
“As I said, it’s something. We’re closer than we were yesterday.”
“Yeah, and another person is dead.”
Could Marla Cahill, Cherise’s cousin by marriage, be involved in this too? The woman seen driving away from the crime scene? Paterno was willing to stake his badge on it.
On the far side of the bridge, Quinn drove through the quaint hillside village. Once known for fishing, it had become trendy with its Victorian cottages perched on slopes offering breathtaking views of the city and bay. Artists and craftsmen and people who wanted to live a quieter lifestyle, yet be minutes from the city, had driven real-estate prices through the roof.
Yeah, the Reverend Donald, reinventing himself after a career-ending tackle had forced him from the NFL, had carved himself out a nice little spot in one of the wealthiest communities in Northern California. A coincidence? Paterno didn’t think so.
“So, did you know the Amhursts were from Marin County?” she asked.
Paterno nodded; he remembered that from the last time he’d been on Marla’s trail. “She grew up in a fancy house overlooking the bay around here somewhere, I think. Her father, Conrad, lived out his final days in a care facility in Tiburon, just a few miles away.”
“And now someone related to Marla dies up here.”
“Related by marriage, through Marla’s husband.”
“It’s all a little incestuous if you ask me.”
“Won’t argue that,” Paterno agreed.
Hours later, after viewing the interview tapes of Favier and Van Arsdale, he still found it hard to think that the preacher had iced his wife. He had too much at stake.
And now he was exposed.
If not as a murderer, as an adulterer and a liar.
The media was out en masse, of course, and as Donald Favier left the police station, he made a statement to the media, admitting his sins to God and his flock at Holy Trinity of God. He stood in the winter sunlight, his breath fogging, his hair neatly in place, his mistress nowhere in sight. In jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled over his forearms, he asked Jesus’s and everyone’s forgiveness. Gold rings flashing, he clenched his fist and promised, if God would help him on his quest, to find the sorry, misguided soul who had taken precious, loving Cherise’s life.
“Can you believe this guy?” Quinn asked as they stood to one side and watched the display.
“Not for a minute.” Paterno eyed the reverend, hypocrite that he was. With a determined, square jawline, conviction in his intense eyes and talk of Jesus’s forgiveness, he turned the crowd. He vowed to find the killer of his beloved wife, and, though he was but a man, a man with flaws and weaknesses, with Christ’s help, he would seek justice.
“Touching, ain’t it?” Paterno muttered to Quinn as he watched the charismatic man work the crowd. “Almost makes me want to believe him.”
“You think he’s our killer?”
Squinting against cool winter sunshine, Paterno shook his head. “Don’t know,” he said, “but I doubt it. I’m talking about his whole act. The forgiveness, the shame, the vows of becoming a reformed sinner.” He watched the reverend nod at the cameras and slide behind the wheel of his Mercedes.
“You don’t think people can change?”
“My old man had a saying. A leopard doesn’t change his spots. That’s all I’m telling you. Nothin’ more.”
His cell phone rang, and he picked it up. “Paterno.”
“It’s Underhill,” a voice said, and Paterno pictured the detective, a strapping black man of about thirty-five or thirty-six. With short-cropped hair and a take-no-prisoners attitude he’d picked up in the military, Underhill was all business. “A security guard at the medical school up on Mt. Sutro issued a ticket to a silver Taurus, older model, that was parked up on the hill the day Cissy Holt said she saw Marla Cahill. The parking lot backs up to the Cahill mansion, and I thought you might like to know.”
Paterno couldn’t believe it.
“And there’s more. A security camera not only caught the license plate of the vehicle, confirming the ticket, but also might have got a picture of the driver.”
“Marla Cahill?”
“Could be. A copy of the tape is being sent here to the station by messenger. I’ve got one coming for the state police and the feds as well.”
“Good. And put out a BOLF for the license plate.”
“Already done,” Underhill said. “I’ve got the name and address of the registered owner. One Hector Alvarez. Lives near San Jose. I already contacted the authorities down there. Someone should be knocking on Mr. Alvarez’s door as we speak.”
“Keep me posted.”
“You got it.”
Paterno clicked off.
“Good news?” Quinn asked.
“Could be.” Paterno tamped down his enthusiasm until he’d actually looked at the tape. “Let’s go. We might have our first serious lead in the Eugenia Cahill case.”
“Hallelujah and amen.”
“I’m not ready to celebrate quite yet.” Marla Cahill was still on the loose. A silver car and a videotape didn’t ensure her capture. He’d wait before he cracked out the champagne.
“What do you mean, Cherise is dead?” Cissy said, the pit of her stomach suddenly like ice. She’d been wiping the remains of B.J.’s lunch, a combination of macaroni and cheese and vegetables, from his face when Jack had walked in. Coco, momentarily distracted from patrolling the floor for pieces of Beej’s lunch that had accidentally or purposely fallen to the floor, started barking, but stopped when Cissy reprimanded the dog with a sharp “Oh, Coco, hush! Give it up, would you?”
Today she was taking care of her son. Tanya had called in sick, but Cissy thought she was probably on a job interview. Not that she cared. Now that she was over the surprise of it all, she was glad the decision had been made and the nanny was leaving.
As for her and Jack, they were basically living together ever since Cissy had told him about her “encounter” with Marla. He’d been camped out on the sofa, and sometimes he slipped into the master bedroom. Neither of them was addressing the issue. Neither wanted to break the fragile truce.
Now Jack’s face was pale, his lips compressed. “Cherise was killed, Cissy,” he revealed. “Shot.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
For an answer, Jack clicked on the television, turning to an all-news station, and, sure enough, within five minutes a picture of the front lawn and porch of the Favier house came into view.
Cissy sank into a chair, feeling detached from reality. What was going on?
The reporter was telling a story about an intruder, a gunshot, and a husband who was out of town, apparently with his mistress.
“They’re saying Cherise’s husband was involved with Heather?” Cissy whispered, disbelieving, as she saw a camera shot of her friend scuttling away from reporters, heading out the back door of the police station while Donald Favier held court on the front steps. She listened in stunned silence. Coco settled onto the couch beside her. B.J., unaware, babbled to himself as he tried to put a series of plastic, rainbow-colored rings onto a spindle.
Cherise was dead.
Murdered.
Like Gran and Rory.
“Who’s next?” Cissy asked.
“I’m moving back in for good,” Jack stated flatly. “Permanently. As your husband.”
Cissy didn’t have the strength to argue. She wouldn’t have if she did. Whatever was wrong with her and Jack’s relationship would have to be set aside. This was a matter of safety.
“This killer seems to be knocking off every member of your extended family. I’m moving back, and we’re getting an updated security system that we’re going to use.”
“Okay…you’re right. Of course.”
“And you have to trust me, Cissy,” he insisted. “I’m going to tell you this one last time, and then I don’t want to hear about it again. I never slept with Larissa. I never made love to her. That’s not to say that it didn’t cross my mind that night. I was tempted, because I thought it was over between us, but even so,” he said, shoving his face nose-to-nose with hers, “even so, I couldn’t go through with it. Because I fell in love with you, Cissy Cahill Holt, the first time I saw you in that hot little red dress; and even now, when you’re driving me out of my head with your insecurities, your doubts, and your accusations, I still love you.” He said it all without touching her, but that took nothing away from its power.
“I love you too, Jack,” Cissy said around a lump in her throat.
“Are you willing to try again? Do you believe me?”
The honesty and pain were so evident on his face. “Yes,” she whispered, nodding. “I do.”
He wrapped himself around her and kissed her so hard her breath was lost somewhere in her soul. It felt so right to be in his arms again. She held him tightly, her arms wound around his neck.
The phone jangled, and Cissy jumped.
Jack said urgently, “Let’s not answer it.” He kissed her again.
“With everything that’s going on…you know we have to,” Cissy said, extricating herself.
Muttering under his breath, Jack walked into the kitchen and snatched up the receiver. “Hello?” he answered.
She picked up B.J. and carried him into the dining area. She saw Jack’s expression turn from exasperation to something darker. The brackets near the corners of his mouth tightened, and his gaze slid to hers.
Now what?
Holding Beej as if she might lose him, Cissy stared at her husband. She felt as if the temperature in the house had just dropped ten degrees. During the one-sided conversation, Jack nodded but said little. “Yeah,” he finished, “we caught it on the news…. sure…we will…you got it…Thanks.” He hung up and walked back to the living room, where Cissy, numb, was still sitting, clinging to Beej. “That was Paterno,” Jack said, frowning. “He was calling to tell us about Cherise and warn us to watch our backs.”
“He thinks we’re in danger too.”
“He thinks anyone remotely related to your mother could be a target.”
It wasn’t a surprise, but it deepened the chill in Cissy’s soul.
Checking his watch, Jack said, “I’ll go and pack my things. It’ll take a while, but I’ll be back. Until then, lock every door and don’t let anyone in but me.”
“You’re really worried?”
“Maybe you should come with me.”
“No…we’re okay. Beej and I’ll be fine,” she said. “We’ve got Coco to protect us.”
Jack snorted. “Now I know we’re in trouble. You’re sure you’ll be okay without me?”
“Just…hurry…”
Marla was being a pill.
Again.
Elyse was tumbling down fast from the high of killing Cherise, her good mood having been evaporated by the fact that her lover had stood her up. Well, not completely. He’d called her and explained that he’d have to “take a rain check” and see her “another time.”
As if he were planning to break up with her.
Elyse had been furious, ranting and raving. The son of a bitch was playing her, and she knew it. Why couldn’t he see that he loved her? Her! No one else. Not his damned wife. She’d been near tears, and the horrible thoughts that she usually kept at bay, the taunts that she was never good enough, had rolled through her mind.
You’re not good enough for him.
No one’s ever loved you.
Why would you think he would fall for you?
He’s using you, Elyse, just as everyone in your life has!
Sometime after two AM she’d calmed enough to watch a boring movie in the big, empty bed, finally falling asleep. She’d awakened at the usual time, her head thundering, her spirits quashed.
She’d had a few moments of triumph, however, when she caught bits of the news and realized that Cherise’s death was making a splash. Her lover had called too, and apologized, promising to meet her soon; if not tonight, then as soon as he could get away.
Which was far from perfect, she thought, looking around the basement room, trying to cajole Marla out of another bout of depression. God, the woman was impossible! Her lover would come around. She was sure of it. For now, she had to deal with Marla. Elyse had even gone so far as to give the bitch a manicure, painting her nails a deep shade of red that bordered on purple, and when Marla had been cross about the color not being right for her, Elyse had resisted the urge to poke the manicure scissors through Marla’s eyes and blind her. “I think you’re wrong, it’s perfect. Goes with your hair.”
“I don’t know….” Marla was unconvinced.
“It’s just soooo you!” Oh, gag, she hated kissing Marla’s ass, but she reminded herself it wasn’t forever. She just had to keep the older woman mollified a little while longer.
“Would you do my toes too?”
“Can’t you do them yourself?”
Marla sighed, and Elyse acquiesced though she hated the thought of touching anyone’s feet. Talk about gross! But she’d do anything—any-damned-thing—to keep Marla from blowing all her plans. So far Marla was hanging in there, keeping out of sight. If painting her nasty toes would keep her satisfied, then so be it.
“I’m glad you took care of Cherise,” Marla finally admitted as she sat in her chair and gazed down at her glossy toenails. The television was on again, this time turned to a reality show where the contestants vied against each other in some kind of celebrity fitness competition.
“One step closer,” Elyse agreed. “Closer to D-day.”
“D-day?” Marla repeated, barely interested as her attention was again caught by the television screen, where a particularly heavyset man was attempting to carry his partner across a fake river before the other “couple” could get to the other side. It was kind of like that game one played as a kid in a swimming pool, where one smaller person sat on the shoulders of a stronger, bigger person and tried to knock a like competitor into the water. The two scrappier, tinier people would go at it tooth and nail while their bigger partners just tried to stay upright.
Except the competitors on television were battling for fifty thousand dollars and the opportunity to go “on to the next level.” It was amazing Marla watched such crap, but maybe it was because her time watching television in prison had been monitored. Who knew? And as long as it kept her out of trouble, who cared?
“What are you talking about, D-day?” she asked, turning her gaze back to Elyse.
“That time when everything we’ve worked for comes to a head,” Elyse said evasively. “Look, I’ve got to run…but I’ll be back.”
“Soon, I hope,” Marla said as a commercial for a new diet soda blazed on the screen.
“Hang in. It’s almost over,” Elyse said. “I promise.” She left Marla in her room and walked up the stairs. The place was beginning to smell musty again, and she was irritated with Marla for being such a slob. What was with her? Where was her spunk? She didn’t seem to possess the same fire. It was as if she’d completely lost her nerve. Luckily, Elyse had balls enough for the both of them.
“Goddamned princess,” she muttered under her breath as she locked the house and found her way to the car. She was starting to get nervous about it and thought it might be time to ditch it completely and get another vehicle or switch out the plates again.
Though her pulse was pounding and she wanted to get as far away from the bitch as possible, she was careful as she drove, not attracting any unwanted attention.
She wondered when her lover would show. Surely he wouldn’t stand her up again. She felt a little sliver of worry about it and didn’t like the turn of her thoughts.
Patience, she reminded herself, was a virtue.
It just seemed virtues were often vastly overrated.
Bayside Hospital
San Francisco, California
Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
I can hear them talking—the doctors, nurses, and others, people I cannot see, as I can’t open my damned eyes. How long have I lain here? Five minutes? Five days? For the love of God, can’t they, with all their expensive equipment, realize that I’m not as near death as they think? I just need a little more time.
I hear them talking about me, discussing me as if I’m just another case, not a living, breathing woman. Sometimes they argue—oh, please, let the believers hold sway!
It’s my life that’s in the balance.
One deep voice is holding out for my life, insisting that they give me a little more time to recover, to show some sign that I’m improving.
Jack?
Is Jack my champion? The one with all the faith?
No…not Jack, but a doctor, the one who insists that I’ll respond soon. His name is Reece; the nurses speak to him with deference, and, when he’s not in the room, talk about how “hot” he is, how good looking. This man, this Dr. Reece, could be my savior, my only chance for survival.
Dr. Reece, please, please don’t listen to them! Trust in me. In my life.
He’s speaking now, but his arguments are fading; the other voices, that of a woman doctor named Dr. Lee and a nurse, are persuading him that I’m a lost cause.
No, oh, please, no…
I can do nothing but wait anxiously, praying they will not end my life, but eventually even my one last hope is convinced. Dr. Reece finally listens to reason, to medical charts, to data and computers. He touches my arm, and I try vainly to respond.
Don’t do this!
Don’t give up on me!
But it’s too late.
He agrees with the others: there is no hope. I won’t come out of this coma. The specialists think I’ll never awaken.
For the millionth time, I strain to move my hand, to flutter my eyelids, to force some kind of wheezing noise through my vocal cords, but nothing happens; there is only stillness and the ever-present atmosphere of resignation.
This is all so wrong!
“There’s nothing more we can do,” Dr. Lee says.
No! Oh no! Please don’t let me die…. I can hear you…. Don’t give up on me.
Call my family. Call Jack…. I’m sorry for all the mistakes I made, I’m sorry if I let anyone down, I’m sorry if I hurt anyone, but please, I’m too young to die. If I could change anything I would, but I can’t.
Now all I can do is remember….