by Lisa Jackson
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 w
as 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 car
ry 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.