Chapter 13
Paterno walked along the waterfront. It was the weekend, Sunday, two days after Eugenia’s funeral. He was trying to follow everyone’s advice that he should take some time off, if for nothing more than to clear his head. But he couldn’t. The case ate at him.
He took a deep breath and watched seagulls swoop over the green water, calling and wheeling, looking for scraps of food left on the docks. The air was brisk, smelling of brine, a cold breeze blowing in from the Pacific Ocean, slapping at his face and billowing his windbreaker. He stopped into a coffee shop, where he grabbed a cup of black coffee and an oatmeal muffin because it sounded like it had a chance of having some nutritional benefits; not that he cared, but his doctor was on his case.
He should go fishing. Or golfing. Or sailing. Or friggin’ stay home and try to find a game on TV. But he’d decided on this walk on the piers, and now, dodging other pedestrians, joggers, strollers, and skateboards, he was still thinking about the case.
Always the damned case.
He eyed the sailboats cutting across the murky water, but he was still sifting through the evidence. Phone records for Rory Amhurst’s room at the care center and Eugenia Cahill’s house gave up no clues. All tire and foot impressions and fingerprints came back as belonging to members of the staff at Harborside, or the Cahill family members and staff at Eugenia’s house on Mt. Sutro. There had been no evidence collected that pointed to a specific killer, and as the hours and days passed, Paterno knew the cases were getting colder and colder. He’d gone over the last days of Eugenia Cahill’s life, talking to the people who saw her last, tracing the footsteps of her final hours, but no one had seen or heard anything that had offered a lead to the killer.
He walked to the railing of the dock and stared down into the ocean, spying his own watery reflection. He knew in his gut that Marla Cahill was behind this, but he couldn’t prove it, nor could a statewide manhunt locate the slippery bitch.
Where had she gone?
Who was harboring her?
Why, in all of the dozens of calls from people who had thought they’d seen her, had not one solid lead evolved?
And Mary Smith—who the hell was she? The name was a phony, of course, as was her affiliation with a church, but why hadn’t anyone seen her? The composite sketch made by the police artist, and another one generated by a computer, had been broadcast over the news, and, as in the case of Marla, nothing solid had appeared.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled and noticed a seagull hovering nearby, eyeing the remainder of his breakfast. Dropping it into the water, he said, “Knock yourself out.” The bird swooped down and gobbled up the soggy piece of muffin, and two other seagulls squawked and tried to steal it away. “I hear it lowers your cholesterol,” he said to the birds, then finished the last of his coffee and tossed the empty cup into a trash bin.
So what did he have to go on to find Marla, to solve the murders?
“Very little and not much,” he said to no one as he hiked back to his car. He was tense. Agitated. Knew that if they didn’t find Marla soon, there would be more deaths. He’d tried to call Cissy Cahill on her cell phone and warn her, but he’d only been able to leave messages. Maybe she was dodging him. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to see that she didn’t trust him.
Not that he blamed her.
It seemed as if he’d been dogging the Cahill family for years, though there had been nearly a decade between the first case and this one. The decade when Marla Cahill had been safely behind bars. Now that peace had ended, and the murderess was on the loose again. She’d been involved either directly or indirectly in the deaths of three people ten years ago, and now she was adding to the total, though once again, he thought, she was most likely behind the scenes. Someone else was doing her dirty work. Just like before.
But who?
He’d been in contact with Benowitz, but the state police weren’t having any luck with nabbing Marla Cahill, and the feds were frustrated as well.
Welcome to my world.
He found his keys in his pocket and was about to unlock the doors to his Caddy when he saw the scratch, a long, ugly mar that went down the driver’s side. “Shit.” He looked around, hoping to spy the culprit who had keyed his car, but he saw no one running, no one watching, no one hiding in the other vehicles parked here. “Son of a bitch.” Anger pounded at his temples, and his fists balled impotently. “Son of a goddamn bitch.”
He took another look around, zeroed in on a couple of kids walking and laughing and talking on the waterfront, two boys with iPods and baggy shorts, Oakland Raiders jackets and self-important saunters. They looked about fourteen—one Hispanic, the other white—but they didn’t so much as glance over their shoulders as they bought tickets to visit Alcatraz.
Whoever had scratched the hell out of his car had gotten away with it, and it pissed the hell out of him.
“Take it easy. Clear your head. Get a little exercise.” He mimicked his own advice as he backed out of the parking space. “What a load of crap.”
He drove straight to the station, his mood foul. There was work to catch up on. He had more on his plate than the recent murders of Eugenia Cahill and Rory Amhurst. A Jane Doe had been found in the bay yesterday. And there was a pretty cut-and-dried case of domestic violence, the beaten wife still holding her husband’s .38 in her shaking hands as he lay dead on the floor, the baseball bat he’d swung at her still in his hand. These were people who had once pledged to love each other for better or worse. Worse had definitely won out. Jesus, the world was a sick place.
He parked in the station’s lot and cast another angry look at his car. It would cost him a fortune to have it repainted.
So get yourself one of those hybrids. Retire the old Caddy. Be kind to the environment. Save yourself some gas dollars.
“Humph.” Jaw set, he turned away and walked into the station house, which was a little quieter than during the week. He got a lot more work done, plowing steadily through paperwork. There were always a few detectives doing the same, or working weekend cases. Murderers, unfortunately, didn’t work nine to five. Even so, Paterno was more at home during the week, when everyone was on duty. The station house was alive then, crackling with an energy that he found stimulating.
Today, he caught up on his paperwork, made a few phone calls, and went over his list of suspects, some of whom, with alibis, had been crossed off.
Cissy Cahill’s name was still there, big as life, a woman who had just inherited a fortune, more money than Paterno could save in his lifetime. And yet he didn’t believe she was involved…it just didn’t fit. He couldn’t picture the young mother as a murderess, nor did she seem particularly fond of her mother, so she wasn’t about to try and please Marla by knocking off her enemies.
Is that what this was about?
Marla Cahill’s enemies?
So far the two victims had been her relatives, her brother by blood, her mother-in-law by marriage.
He drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the pictures of the two victims, alive and then dead. He picked up the composite of Mary Smith. “Who the hell are you?” he wondered out loud as he heard footsteps behind him.
“Your partner,” Janet Quinn said, thinking he was talking to her. She was carrying a backpack over one shoulder and a water bottle by its neck in her other hand.
“I thought you were taking the weekend off, going to Reno.” He dropped the composite onto the clutter of open files, empty cups, and scratched notes.
“Plans fell through,” she admitted, and he wondered about her private life. Quinn was one of the most closemouthed people he knew. He had no idea what she did on her off hours. “You?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I saw your car.” She was shaking her head. “Ouch.”
“It’s a pisser,” he said, angry again.
“Any idea who did it?” She dropped the backpack onto the chair he usually reserved for suspects or witnesses.
“Some brainless, dickless asshole.” He snorted and picked up a pen, clicking it in frustration. “Could be someone I sent away, could be random. I’m going to check if there are any security cameras in the area, but I figure my chances of finding the guy are nil.”
“So what have you got?” She nodded toward the Cahill file, open on his desk.
“Nothin’. You?”
“Same as you.” She rested a hip on the corner of his desk and uncapped her bottle. “I’m still going over the things we found in Eugenia’s safe. Stock certificates, cash, jewelry, the will, and a few other personal items.”
“Such as?”
“A family history, I guess you’d call it. Or maybe Eugenia’s memoirs. She was pretty meticulous. As if she was going to write a book someday.” She took a long swallow of her water, then recapped the bottle.
“Anything good?”
“Nothing that means anything. At least not that I can sort out. There are pictures too. Some look about a hundred years old. I’m trying to do a little who’s who and figure out all the major players.”
“Interesting?”
“Not so far, but I’m not quite through it yet.”
“Good luck,” he said.
“What about tips? Anyone seen our Mary Smith?”
“Nah. Nor Marla.” Marla Cahill’s photo had been circulating through the media ever since her escape. Now the police had released the artist’s sketch, and all the tips that had come in had turned out to be either mistakes or freakoids who wanted to be a part of the investigation. They were looking for their fifteen minutes of fame any way they could get it. Well, not on his watch.
“Maybe something will turn up.”
He leaned back in his chair as she grabbed the strap of her backpack and walked to her desk. As she dropped into her chair, her cell phone spewed out some tune from the eighties. God, he hated those special ringtones. Waste of time and money. He cracked his neck, winced, and picked up the sketch of Mary Smith again.
Who are you?
On Monday morning, Cissy decided to leave the house and finish her article at the coffee shop. She hadn’t been back to Joltz since she’d seen the weird man in black, but she told herself that her encounter with the creep was just an anomaly, a product of timing and over-heightened senses.
Things were crazed right now, that was all. As she scraped her hair away from her face and snapped it into an untidy knot at the back of her head, she told herself to buck up and get on with her life.
Sooner or later she’d have to deal with the lawyers and her grandmother’s house, but today she was going to work for a couple of hours, jog if the weather permitted, then spend the rest of her day with Beej while going through the cards and flowers and donations to Cahill House that had been sent after Gran’s death.
Tanya, still eyeing Coco dubiously, had arrived and promised to take B.J. to the park if the sun dared peek through the clouds. Cissy’s resolve to replace the young woman had wavered since Tanya had helped out so much at the funeral.
Looking at the weather, Cissy figured Tanya was off the hook for the park. The sky was gun-metal gray. No rain was falling yet, but with the approaching thick clouds, it was only a matter of time.
Traffic was thick, and Cissy had to circle the neighborhood a couple of times before she found a parking spot two blocks down the hill from Joltz. Hauling her laptop with her, she hiked to the coffee shop, telling herself the exercise was just what she needed to get her blood pumping and her mind clear.
Though she knew she was being stupid, she couldn’t help but keep an eye out for the man in black with the creepy smile. Isolated incident or not, the confrontation still bothered her.
“Get over it,” she told herself as she ordered a mocha from Rachelle, thanked her and Diedre again for helping out with the post-funeral gathering, then settled into her favorite table in the corner. There was a lull in the activity at the popular shop. Most of the pre-work crowd had already been in, then out, and it would be a few more hours before the lunch crowd gathered. Right now only a few patrons were sitting at the tables or at the counter. Some were reading a paper, some were talking, while others just sipped their hot beverages as they gazed out the window on the cold, gray day.
One woman who always came in and ordered a frozen coffee-and-cream blend was at the counter. She made small talk and placed a dollar in the tip jar while Diedre arranged croissants and scones in the glass case. A man Cissy didn’t recognize was seated near the window. His black beret was cocked upon a head that had been shaved bald, and he was working feverishly on a Sudoku puzzle with a tiny pencil usually used for marking golf scorecards.
Not much happening. Nothing out of the ordinary.
No man in a dark trench coat and with a cold grin.
Of course Selma showed up. Either she lived in the area or was following Cissy, because every time Cissy spent any time at the coffee shop and deli, Selma arrived as if on schedule.
She seemed to always be here.
As Cissy surreptitiously watched, Selma, the slim, reddish-haired funeral crasher, ordered her usual latte, then stopped by Cissy’s table and asked about Marla. Cissy murmured a noncommittal response, then Selma drifted to her favorite chair, where she sipped her drink and read a paperback thriller. Or peeked over the top at Cissy and the other patrons, almost as if she were gathering data, like some kind of Gen-X spy.
Oh, stop it! Cissy took a big swallow of her mocha, fired up her laptop, then spread her handwritten notes on the small table. Resting the heel of one of her running shoes on the empty chair on the opposite side of the table, she began pulling her story together.
At first it was slow. She was distracted by people coming into the shop. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to concentrate, that all of the stress of the last couple of weeks would jam up her creative juices. But after a few failed attempts, surprisingly, the story that had been gelling for nearly a month in the back of her subconscious began to take shape. She wrote text from her notes, double-checked quotes, and moved paragraphs around. She remembered liking the black woman running for mayor, and as she reread her notes, brought out most of the candidate’s ideas.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, her mocha grew cold, and she smiled to herself at a particularly clever turn of phrase.
“Cissy?”
She nearly jumped, knocking over her drink then grabbing it before it tumbled to the floor. She glanced up to find her neighbor Sara standing by the table.
“Sara.” Cissy’s voice lacked enthusiasm.
Sara scraped a nearby chair toward the table. “Working?” she asked, then winced. “Sorry. Dumb question. Can you take a break?”
“I’ve been on a break all month,” Cissy said.
“I know, I know. I won’t keep you, but I had to track you down. I tried your cell, couldn’t get through, and called the house. Tanya told me where you were, and please,” she held up a hand, “don’t get mad at her; I had to pry the information from her.”
Oh, sure.
“Don’t you answer your cell phone? Or are you screening me out?”
“No, sorry, it’s lost. Got misplaced the day of the funeral, and I can’t find it because I turned it off for the service and never turned it back on.”
“That’s what ‘vibrate’ is for.”
“Yeah, I know. I was just so scattered. Anyway, if I don’t find it soon, I’ll have to get a new one.”
“I’d die without mine.”
Cissy didn’t doubt it. “So what was it you wanted?” she asked, but knew. In her heart of hearts, Cissy understood that Sara had tracked her down because of Gran’s house. She wanted to list it.
“I thought we should talk about your grandmother’s house,” she said, leaning back in her chair, and for the first time Cissy noticed that rain had begun to pepper the street and drip from the awnings.
“Sara—”
“Look, I’m serious. I have clients flying in from Philadelphia, and they want something with a view, something old, something authentic San Francisco, and something with room for live-in servants and an elevator. Am I describing Eugenia’s house or what?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.
“I can’t sell it. I don’t own it. It’s part of Gran’s estate, and that might not be settled for a long time. The attorneys are working on it, but really, Sara, there’s nothing I can do.”
“I’ve talked with the attorneys,” she admitted just as the coffee grinder roared through a pound of fragrant beans.
“You what?” Cissy couldn’t believe her ears. “You went behind my back? After I told you that I didn’t want to sell it? Wait a sec—how do you even know which legal firm I’m dealing with?”
Sara gave that little girl smile and lifted a shoulder to acknowledge that she’d been naughty. “I saw their names when I looked at the house,” she said. “Right there on Eugenia’s writing desk.”
“So you called them?”
“I just left my name and phone number and the name of the company I work for. I said I’d love to represent the estate in selling the place. Was that so awful?”
Cissy was dumbfounded. “You should have talked to me.”
“I did. You showed me the house.”
“You begged to see it.”
“Okay, okay, I confess. I wanted to see it, yes.” She leaned closer and grabbed Cissy’s arm. “And I love the place. Love it. That house is one of the premier properties in the city. And get this, my clients, the ones flying in from Philly? They’re not only able to afford the house, well, just about any house in the city for that matter, but he’s a doctor, and his new job is at the medical school, which butts right up to your property. Look, I’ve got the plan.” She opened a sleek leather briefcase, pulled out legal documents and pictures of the house, digital images she’d taken the day after Gran had died. Gratefully, there were none of the blood-stained foyer.
“I can’t believe you did this. I told you then, and I’m telling you now, I’m not selling,” she said firmly. To her embarrassment, several people glanced in her direction. Cissy shrank away from the stares and snapped her computer closed. She wasn’t going to have this discussion here.
“Cissy, I’m sorry,” Sara said, and she actually looked mortified. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you’d be pleased…. Oh hell. I really am sorry. Hey,” she turned to Rachelle and waved at her. “Another drink, what is it you’re having, Cissy? Latte?”
“No.”
“Chai tea?”
“Mocha, but I don’t need another one.”
“Sure you do. Let me do this,” Sara barreled on. “Please. I’m going now. Go back to work.” She wiggled her fingers at the laptop. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m sorry,” she said again. “Really.” She pushed her chair back and, with a seemingly genuinely rueful expression, slid a few bills from her wallet and handed them to Rachelle. “Keep the change,” she said, hiking the collar of her coat around her neck and shouldering open the door. A gust of rain-washed air swept inside, along with two blond teenage girls, who, for some reason, weren’t in school. Noses red, they approached the counter and Diedre.
Cissy had lost the mood and her inspiration. The story was about finished. She could put the final touches on it tonight, after B.J. went to sleep, but she was finished for the time being.
“She’s a pain,” Rachelle said as she handed Cissy the new mocha.
“Amen,” Diedre said.
Rachelle picked up a few dishes and swabbed the table where the guy in the beret had been sitting just as a brown-haired girl bustled in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, peeling off her coat to reveal a Joltz apron over her slacks and a long-sleeved T-shirt.
“The cavalry has arrived!” Rachelle teased.
“If I’m the cavalry, do I have to do dishes?” the girl asked.
“What else?”
Cissy left, hiking the two blocks back to her car in the rain. She’d left her umbrella in the backseat of the car, so by the time she’d unlocked the door of her Acura, she was soaked to the skin. Only her laptop in its leather case had thwarted the elements. So much for jogging later or taking B.J. out in his stroller. She glanced at the dark sky and frowned.
Though she hadn’t planned it, she drove around the block and headed up the hill, turning on her headlights and wipers. It was late afternoon, and already, because of the cloud cover, the day was dark as dusk, the rain cold as winter.
It had been a week since she’d visited Gran’s house, and she thought it was about time to face her demons, maybe look at the place with new eyes…as Sara had.
Using her remote, she opened the gate, nosing the Acura into the parking area in front of the garage. Ducking her head against the chilly rain, Cissy ran up the walk to the front porch and let herself inside with her key.
No one was here. As she walked through the gloomy rooms snapping lights on and off, she could tell that Rosa and Paloma were keeping the place up: the floors and woodwork gleamed; the smell of pine and lemon was heavy in the air. Nothing was out of place, but the house seemed old and creaky, a cavernous tomb.
She mounted the stairs to the floor where she’d spent most of her waking hours, checking out the library and the family room, each seeming cold and dark without Gran’s vitality and strong personality. Snapping off lights, she climbed up another flight to the bedroom suites on the third floor. Almost feeling as if she were treading on the grave of her parents’ marriage, she opened the door to their suite and stepped inside. They’d each had a separate room linked by this shared sitting area complete with a fireplace and a private verandah, like their own private apartment within the massive old house.
Cissy felt a chill that cut deep to her soul.
Looking out the glass doors to the private garden, she realized how dark the day had become. Night was falling fast. She touched the back of her mother’s favorite Queen Anne chair and trembled inside.
It seemed like eons ago when they’d all lived here. She felt a pang of nostalgia, of regret, though she didn’t know why. Cissy had never thought of her family as loving, far from it. But it was her family. Or had been.
She left her parents’ living quarters and made her way around the staircase to her room. As she walked into the cozy space where she’d spent so many hours as a teenager, she felt a stab of loneliness for what now seemed a simpler life.
Before your mother turned into a psycho.
Refusing to dwell on Marla, she turned back to the hallway and started for the guest room.
Crrreeeeaaaak!
The sound swept up the dark staircase.
Cissy froze.
What was that? A door opening? Or something else?
What?
No one was here. She’d checked.
Goose bumps raised on her skin.
She waited, counting her heartbeats, then told herself it was nothing. Her mind playing tricks on her. She hadn’t heard anything. Still…maybe Rosa or Paloma or Lars had returned. They all had keys. For that matter, so did Elsa and Deborah and God only knew who else. Gran had gardeners and repairmen over all the time.
“Hello?” she called down the staircase to the second floor, where she’d left a single light burning in the library. “Anyone there?” Eerily, her own voice seemed to echo slightly, a hollow sound reverberating against the walls. “Hello?”
She waited.
All was quiet.
Your imagination, she told herself sternly.
Starting for the stairs, she heard a footfall, the quiet scrape of leather against hardwood.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Fear shot through her.
Someone was definitely in the house.
“Hey!” she called again, telling herself it had to be someone who worked here. Someone she knew. Someone with a key.
Why? Did you lock the door behind you?
Did you wait until the gate swung shut behind your car?
And why the hell aren’t they responding?
Cissy’s insides turned to water. “Who’s there?” she called. Please let it be one of the staff….
Again there was silence.
Deafening, paralyzing silence.
And darkness…. Why hadn’t she left on most of the lights? The house was so damned gloomy and still.
God Almighty, was she going crazy?
She knew she heard something.
Someone.
Swallowing her fear, she stepped back into the bedroom that had once been hers, the room her grandmother had never redecorated. As rain pelted the window, she looked around for a weapon, anything to ward off an attacker.
Who, Cissy? Who would be assaulting you? That’s nuts!
Or was it? Someone had killed Rory, hadn’t they? Someone had murdered Gran in this very house. Someone who hadn’t broken in.
She thought about using the phone…. She didn’t have her cell, but there was a landline.
And call whom?
The police?
And tell them you heard a noise?
Come on, Cissy.
Or would you call Jack?
Tell him you’re really scared, that you got freaked when you heard a noise while snooping around in your grandmother’s house?
He’d want to know why you came up here alone in the first place.
For God’s sake, deal with it.
Insides shaking, she quietly opened the closet door and found her old riding crop, a weapon she’d never used on the horse, but which might come in handy now. Feeling foolish, she carried the whip with her to the hallway.
Was it darker still?
She reached for a light switch, and the sconces surrounding the staircase offered a soft, warm glow. That was better. Maybe there was no one—
Clunk!
What?
Her heart nearly stopped as she recognized the sound of the elevator as it groaned into gear and started to whine as it rose upward.
Oh Jesus!
She nearly screamed.
She didn’t wait for it to reach the third floor, but scrambled for the stairs. Her feet nearly tripped over each other as she flew down, pausing briefly at the second floor landing.
What if the elevator stopped here?
Who said whoever was inside was getting out on the third floor?
Oh God, who was it? The killer?
Cissy, don’t freak out. Maybe the elevator’s malfunctioning.
LIKE HELL!
The house was so cold, so suddenly cold.
She paused long enough to hear the elevator car clunk to a stop on the second floor, the very level on which she was standing, the area where her grandmother was pushed over the railing to her death. Frozen, the stupid whip squeezed in her fingers, she felt another cold rush of air sweep up the stairs.
The elevator doors whispered open.
Fear clutched her heart.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She stared into the elevator.
The car was empty.
No one stepped out.
All she saw in the dim light of an old bulb was her own terrified expression caught in the mirror mounted on the back wall of the ancient car.
Every hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Someone had sent that car upward. It didn’t just rise on its own. A finger had pressed the button of the panel, choosing the second floor as its destination…almost as if whoever had done it had known she was here.
The car doors closed, and Cissy was left on the landing, her nerves stretched to the breaking point.
Someone was definitely in the house.
Someone who didn’t want to be known.
Someone who knew she was here and was hellbent on scaring the wits out of her. Well, it was working.
She swallowed hard, panic shooting through her as she stared at the closed doors of the elevator. If no one was in the elevator, then…She looked down the darkened staircase to the floor below.
A scream died on her lips.
In the open doorway, backlit by the barest of afternoon light, was the silhouette of a woman, a shadowy figure of a woman in a long coat with an upturned collar.
Cissy grabbed the handrail.
The woman’s features weren’t clear, but her hair was a deep red…. Oh dear Lord.
Cissy’s throat turned to sand.
The riding crop slid from her hands to tumble down the stairs.
“Mom?” she whispered, her heart in her throat, her brain screaming denials. “Mom? Is that you?”