by Lisa Jackson
Sybil made a mental note to fire Carrie’s sorry ass immediately following Mrs. Owens’s visit.
“Hello, there,” Sybil said to the eighty-something woman. “Come right in.” She gave Carrie the evil eye, and the girl just gazed at her blankly before heading back to her desk.
Sybil closed the door behind them and wondered if she would make it through another day without a cigarette. She’d quit a month earlier. Thirty-one damn days.
With an effort, she dragged her mind back to the problem at hand and, smoothing the skirt of her cream designer suit, pasted on a friendly smile. Mrs. Owens couldn’t be more than five feet tall, probably weighed less than a hundred pounds, but it was clear she was a force to be reckoned with as she tapped her cane along the carpet and worked her way toward Sybil’s work space.
“I’m glad to finally meet-choo,” she stated primly.
Was there a note of censure in her voice? Sybil inwardly sighed. They’d spoken on the phone two, maybe three times, but this was the first time the woman had actually made her way to the office.
“You can use my chair,” Sybil told her, as it was the only one around. She rarely invited clients to her desk, preferring to meet with them at a restaurant or at the hotel lobby down the street with its niches and alcoves and historical feel. Clients liked the smell of money, and so did Sybil.
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. Don’t really trust chairs with wheels.”
Suit yourself, you old harpy.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Owens?” Sybil asked politely.
“It’s Tilda. My friends call me Tildy. And you know how you can help me. I’ve told you enough times.”
All Sybil had heard was a long and loud rant about Tildy’s neighbor, the one who rented the little Berkeley house through Sybil’s company. For the measly commission Sybil had scored from the deal, it was a total disaster. Tildy was making her life a living hell.
“I told you she looked familiar, coming and going like all get out.” Tildy sniffed. “It’s that woman. The one on the news.”
“Which one?”
“The one that escaped from prison, y’know? Marla whatever her name is. I saw her going in and out of the house you rent, I did!” She tapped her cane hard on the floor, pushing its tip into the carpet with disdain. “And she nearly killed my cat! Poor old Mr. Timms! That woman doesn’t look where she’s going!”
Sybil drifted, wondering if the Lundeens were really going to be able to find new financing. That house they wanted was close to a million, and the down payment was going to kill them if their current lender backed out, which it looked like they were. Shit. What did she have to do to make a sale go through?
“You’re not listening!”
“I heard every word. Is your cat okay?”
“Traumatized, that’s what he is.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
“Call it in! Tell the police we got ’er!”
“Mrs. Owens—”
“Tildy.”
“Yes, Tildy…The woman who rented the house across the street is named Elyse…Hammonds, no, Elyse Hammersly. I checked her out. I’ve met her, and she is not Marla Cahill. She lived in Oregon, a suburb of Portland.”
“Huh. Well, she comes and goes at all hours of the day and night…sometimes doesn’t show up for days. And last night she was hauling somethin’. Looked like a kid to me, all bundled up in a big coat. The woman’s a menace. Nearly killed Mr. Timms.”
“Was the cat on Ms. Hammersly’s property?”
“He wanders.” The old woman shrugged her shoulders.
“But he’s not dead?” Sybil tried to be patient. She straightened the papers on her desk.
Tildy nodded emphatically, her permed hair scarcely moving, her chin stubborn. “Not yet! I’m telling you, that woman is a maniac!”
“She works odd hours, I think, but I’ll talk to her about the cat. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to keep Mr. Tom in the house.”
“It’s Mr. Timms.” Tildy squinted behind glasses that enlarged her eyes. “You just try to keep a cat in the house, miss. He’s been able to go outside since he was a kitten, and he’s not gonna stop now.”
“Sounds like the street’s dangerous.”
“Only since you rented to that maniac! She’s the reason Mr. Timms is short a few lives.”
“I’ll talk to Elyse,” Sybil heard herself promising.
“Good. Do that! Somethin’s not right over there.”
Sybil thought she could use a cigarette…maybe a couple. Tildy was a nuisance, and probably unbalanced to boot. Sybil’s aunt had started showing signs of dementia when she hit her eighties. It was bound to happen. “Do you watch the house all the time?” Sybil asked curiously.
“I keep up with the comings and goings in the neighborhood.” Tildy nodded.
“I’m sure everything’s all right.”
“If it was all right, I wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to come down here.”
“I appreciate your telling me.”
“You’re just fobbing me off, aren’t you?” the old lady accused.
“No, of course not.”
“Well, what’re you gonna do? Anything? Maybe I should call the police.”
“No, no, no. I’ll go over there and check with Elyse myself.”
“I’ll be watchin’ for ya.”
I’ll bet you will, Sybil thought. “I’ll be by this afternoon. I’ve got a couple meetings, and then I’ll swing over your way.”
Sybil held the door while Tildy stubbed her way back out. She passed through reception and glanced back, seeming aware that Sybil might be humoring her. But Sybil knew she would never hear the end of this until she took care of things, and she was never going to get rid of Mrs. Owens unless she showed her she was acting on her information.
Like she had time to run out to Berkeley. Oh, sure.
“I’ll be lookin’,” she said again, then toddled through the door.
“What a sweetheart,” Carrie said, meaning it.
“You’re fired,” Sybil responded, reaching inside her purse for her spare, unopened pack of cigarettes, fingering it like a good-luck talisman.
“What have you got?” Paterno asked as Janet Quinn ducked her head into his office.
“Not much. Tanya Watson worked mostly as a babysitter or nanny. She was taking care of a couple of kids who belonged to a woman named Geena Barrymore, a single mother who dated Jonathan Holt for a time.”
“Nothing between Holt and Tanya?”
“Doesn’t appear to be. Geena’s moved on to a new guy too. Quite a while ago.”
“You think there’s any connection between any of ’em and Holt’s grandson?”
She lifted her palms.
Paterno sighed. “I called Jonathan Holt this morning. He’s with his other son, J.J., at Jack and Cissy’s. The feds were there, setting up. Holt didn’t have much to say about Tanya other than he barely knew her.”
“What do you think?” Quinn asked.
“He sounded pretty shaken up about both Tanya’s death and his grandson’s kidnapping.” Paterno inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I’m worried about what’s going on in Marla’s mind. I want to know what she wants.”
“Maybe she’ll keep the little boy safe,” Quinn said.
Paterno didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t like the response he would make.
It was after three by the time Sybil was on her way to the bungalow that was causing Tildy such a problem. Why, why couldn’t neighbors just mind their own business?
Sybil smoothed her hair over one ear and grabbed her cell phone. She was going to have to get Bluetooth. Something. Driving was such a bitch as it was.
She dialed Maureen Lundeen. How was that for a name? Using her own version of the sweety-sweety voice, she enthusiastically left a message, hoping everything was perking along toward closing. If Maureen needed anything—anything at all—just pick up the phone. Sybil would be hap
py to help with the lenders, if she could. She was at her beck and call.
As soon as she hung up, Sybil made retching noises. Good God. Sometimes she looked at the faces on the real-estate page, agents who’d hit the million-dollar mark in sales a thousand times over. They all smiled like they couldn’t stop. How did they get their names out there? Why did people choose them to be their agent?
“I wish Marla Cahill had rented it!” she declared. “Then I’d be on the news. Then I’d get some publicity!”
She pushed her toe to the accelerator, frustrated. By the time she was finally pulling onto the residential street that led to the rental, she was hot, tired, and thirsty. The green salad she’d slammed down at lunch had been wilted and swimming in acidic fat-free dressing. She’d eaten it anyway, though she’d really wanted a bacon cheeseburger. But God. Real-estate agents around here were like pencils with boobs. She had to watch every calorie, and she was relentless about it. One of these days she was going to get a break. And she was going to seize that opportunity for all it was worth.
She pulled into the drive of the house and climbed from the car, searching through her keys. If she’d forgotten to bring them and had to drive all the way back…but no, her fingers closed over the bungalow’s key ring.
She glanced over her shoulder to Tildy’s house. The place looked deserted. Sybil waved anyway, just in case, and was rewarded with a twitch of the blinds. Well, okay, Tildy was on patrol.
Sybil almost felt sorry for Elyse.
She knocked on the door and waited. Long minutes passed, and Sybil looked anxiously toward the sky. The clouds were gray, their bottoms darker, as if they were just holding in the rain, waiting to let loose with a maelstrom. Peachy.
She knocked again, but when no one answered, she slid her key in the lock and twisted open the door.
She was hit by the smell. Rotten. Putrid. Like a wet, unpleasant slap to the face.
“Oh…God…”
Almost afraid to tiptoe inside, Sybil held the front door open for some fresher air and scanned the rooms. Not a lot of furniture.
What? Did something die in here?
Maybe Mr. Timms hadn’t been so lucky after all.
Sybil pulled the lapel of her suit jacket over her mouth and coughed a couple of times. “Ms. Hammersly?” she called. “Are you here? Elyse?”
Moving carefully down the hallway, Sybil felt a shiver chase down her spine. Elyse may have been coming and going for a while, but she clearly hadn’t been here lately. Last night, Tildy had said, but the old bat had to be wrong. No one could stand the smell without finding the rotted little corpse and tossing it out.
She checked through the upstairs rooms but found nothing to account for the odor. Stopping at the top of the stairs that led to the basement, Sybil called again, “Ms. Hammersly? It’s Sybil Tomini from Treasure Homes.”
No answer.
“Screw this,” she muttered, grabbing her cell phone again and calling Rich, one of Treasure Homes’ other partners, a real prick but at least the man possessed a brain.
Creeping down the stairs, Sybil kept one hand firm on the rail, the other pressing her phone to her ear. The basement was unfinished space, she recalled, with a wall that divided off one section that could be made into a bedroom or workspace. There was a narrow doorway to access it.
As she reached the bottom step, the smell reached out to her, nauseating. Horrible.
Sybil coughed some more, just as Rich’s supercilious voice invited her to leave a message. “Rich, it’s Sybil. I’m at one of our rental properties. The Berkeley cottage, and it’s…weird.”
Beep. Rich’s phone suddenly cut her off. Didn’t even ask if she was satisfied with her message.
“Damn it.”
She clicked the phone closed but kept it in her hand as she stepped forward and spied a narrow, nearly secret, doorway to the closed-off area. Holding her breath, Sybil squeezed into the room.
She looked ahead, and all the hair on her body stood on end. In the bluish light of a television, she saw the back of a woman’s head. The woman was watching the news. She sat still as a statue.
“Elyse…?”
She eased around to get a better look at her, her fingers fumbling for the light switch. She snapped on the fluorescents. Illumination flickered uncertainly.
Sybil’s mouth opened in a silent scream.
The woman seated calmly in the chair had been sitting there for some time. She gazed at Sybil serenely out of blank eyeholes. Her face—all her skin—was being systematically eaten by insects and larvae. The dead body was putrefying, melting into the chair.
But it looked as if someone had recently given her a manicure.
Sybil backed away as if burned, her fingers scrabbling on the phone, searching for 9-1-1. Screaming like a banshee, she stumbled up the stairs, through the house, out the front door, and, in full view of Tilda Owens’s house, threw up that damned salad all over her cream designer suit.
Bayside Hospital
San Francisco, CA
Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
I can’t believe that no one has come in to check on me. I only wish I had one more chance to tell Jack that I love him…. But it’s too late…. I know it now. The doctor says it’s time to take me off life support, that it’s best to let me die and harvest my organs.
Oh God, no!
No, no, no!!! I’m alive.
I strain with everything I’m worth. Panic spurts through me. Certainly it registers on those damned monitors, right? Can’t they see my heart rate soaring into the stratosphere? Don’t they know I’m responding?
For the love of God, check me! Shine that bloody light into my eyes and watch me flinch, my pupils react.
Give me time. I’m waking up. You’re giving up too quickly.
I struggle to move, to show them I’m alive, but nothing happens.
Stop this madness. Think of me.
Through all my fear, I hear the doctor say resignedly, “It’s time. I’ll call the family….”
Chapter 20
Paterno had seen a lot in all of his years on the force.
He’d witnessed man’s inhumanity to man, seen the effects of abuse, addiction, and rage. He’d never been surprised by how sick people could be to each other, but this…what he was viewing now, was something he couldn’t imagine.
He’d gotten the call from a Detective Lee in Berkeley, who had responded to a 9-1-1 emergency call from a frantic landlord who had found a dead body in the basement of one of her rental units. The uniformed cop who had responded had quickly called his homicide department, and the cop there, Detective Lee, had put two and two together and rung up Paterno. Paterno had driven over the bridge at lightning speed, his guts twisting, acid roiling, as he walked through the cordoned-off bungalow. Already the place was swarming with cops and crime-scene investigators, and around the perimeter were news vans and neighbors, people who had been passing by but were now standing outside the roped-off area, hoping to get a glimpse of what was happening.
“Detective Paterno?” a female voice called, and he looked over his shoulder to see Lani Saito, the attractive Asian reporter from KTAM with the glossy black hair who’d confronted him earlier. Her cameraman was with her, training the lens of his shoulder cam at Paterno. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but they’d already set a big lamp near the van to illuminate the area. “Could I have a word with you? Is it true that Marla Cahill is in this house? Is she alive?”
Paterno glared at the woman. How could she get information as fast as he could? “I just got here.”
“This one’s out of your jurisdiction, and since you’re working on murders in which Marla Cahill is a suspect, I’m guessing that’s why you’re here. Is Marla Cahill in the house?”
“I don’t have anything to say right now, Ms. Saito, but I’m sure the Public Information Officer will make a statement later, once we know what’s going on.” He forced a grim smile and managed not to s
nap the woman’s head off. Jesus, what did the press want from him? Turning his back on her and her cameraman, Paterno walked to the perimeter of the crime scene and flashed his badge at a uniformed cop. “Paterno, SFPD, Homicide. Detective Lee called me.”
“She said you’d be here. She’s inside. Probably in the basement. Just put these on.” The uniformed cop handed him a pair of shoe covers.
Paterno slipped the disposable covers over his shoes, then walked up the front steps to the little house that resembled all the other houses on the street. The yard was shaggy with winter, the shrubs needing a trim, the curtains drawn.
Inside, the living room was virtually empty. A couple of folding chairs and a small table sat on a scratched hardwood floor. No other furniture. No beds in the two bedrooms, no towels hanging in the bathroom, the bathtub home to spiders, and the stench permeating through the place was overwhelming. The minute he’d crossed the threshold, he’d been assailed with the scents of solvent, pine and air-fresheners, but beneath it all, overpowering in its intensity, was the unmistakable smell of death.
Carefully he picked his way around the techs who were dusting for prints, scanning for blood, picking up trace evidence and examining every nook and cranny of the little post–World War II cottage. Through a kitchen with a cracked linoleum floor from the fifties, Paterno made his way downstairs to a musty, dank basement that reeked—the scent of rotting flesh nearly choked him. He pressed on.
Evidence of flooding was visible in the cracked cement walls, and he noticed the washer was rusted. Cell phones rang and radios crackled as he made his way to an open doorway, a shelf pushed aside to expose a small room from which the horrible smell was emanating. He locked his jaw so he wouldn’t gag and stepped inside.
He nearly retched anyway.
Sitting in a chair in front of a television with the volume turned low was the decomposing corpse of a woman. Her eyes were missing, and there were gaping holes in her face, exposing blackened muscle and bone. “Jesus,” he whispered, his stomach ready to toss everything inside. The ME was examining her, and a small, fortyish woman was waving the beam of her flashlight over the twin bed pushed into a corner. “I’m looking for Detective Lee.”