by Lisa Jackson
“That’s me.” She offered her gloved hand. “Susannah Lee. I go by Suze.”
“Anthony Paterno.”
“I figured.” Seemingly unfazed by the grisly sight or the horrible smell, Lee said, “We think this is Marla Cahill, though it’s hard to tell in her current condition. But race, height, size are consistent. This place was rented a few weeks before Marla escaped, right after the holidays. Look at it. Is it weird or what? The bed’s been made and used, there’s evidence of the body being in the sheets, body fluids, insect larvae and eggs, that sort of thing. So someone moved her. And someone did her hair, check it out.” Lee shined her flashlight over the dead strands of the corpse’s hair. Combed and styled. “Look at her fingers.” She shined the light on the rotting fingers, and, sure enough, the nails were polished. “Toes too.” She focused the beam on the toes peeking out of sandals. “Someone’s been here. Recently. Look in the wastebasket. Food from a local burger shop. What’s left of the burger hasn’t been here as long as the dead body.”
Paterno glanced around the room. There were pictures on the wall, photos of Marla Cahill as a girl, and a comb and brush next to a silver baby cup…the cup that Cissy reported missing from her house.
Detective Lee was right. The person rotting in front of some game show was Marla Cahill, and, from the looks of her, she’d been dead for quite a while, probably killed soon after her escape.
“Cause of death?”
“Beneath the perfectly coifed hair…” she said, then shone the light on the back of Marla’s head to reveal a bullet hole. “Looks like she was executed.”
“Here?”
“We don’t know that yet. Still looking for blood splatter. Whoever killed her went to a great deal of trouble to make her comfortable. A bed with sheets and an expensive coverlet, homey pictures, a television? What kind of nut job are you tracking, Detective?”
“Good question.” He glanced at Lee. “Who found the body?”
“Sybil Tomini. She’s with Treasure Homes. Her firm rented the bungalow to a woman by the name of Elyse Hammersly.”
“Marla didn’t rent it?”
“Don’t think so. Ms. Tomini’s in my squad car. I thought you might want to ask her a few questions. I’ve taken her statement, so once you’ve talked to her, she’s free to go. She’s been making noise about that for nearly an hour. And there’s one other thing: we found this.” She held up a scrap of blue material.
“What is it?”
“Looks like part of a piece of clothing, possibly ripped off when someone passed by.” She held the flashlight’s beam on the plastic bag. “But the weave’s loose, and the material’s fuzzy. Maybe part of a blanket. A baby blanket?”
“Jesus,” Paterno whispered. He thought of the Holts, dealing with the FBI, who had set up shop in their living room, worrying themselves sick about their kid.
“I’ll have the lab analyze it, and then you might want to take it to the Holts. See if they recognize it.”
His jaw tightened at the prospect. “No one found a baby here,” he said, though he was certain he would have been informed immediately if B.J. Holt or his body had been located.
She shook her head. “No baby. No body. Even this”—Detective Lee held up the scrap of material—“might prove not to belong to the kid.” She met Paterno’s gaze, and they had an understanding. They both felt B.J. Holt had been here with his decomposing grandmother.
Lee glanced at an officer near the door. “Would you show Detective Paterno to my car and Ms. Tomini?”
The young uniform nodded. “You got it.”
“I’ll send you my report,” Detective Lee said, turning back to the bed as Paterno and the Berkeley cop walked through this tomb of a basement to climb the rickety stairs once more.
Outside, night had fallen. Paterno breathed deep of the rain-washed air, but the rank stench of death lingered in his nostrils, and he knew it would take days, and more than a few hot, steamy showers, before the odor would leave. It clung. For days. What the hell was going on?
It looked as if Marla’s accomplice had murdered her. A friend? Deadly enemy?
Or both?
Did the killing make any sense?
Why risk springing her from prison if the intent was to kill her? What had been the motive? Had Marla’s death been an accident?
A fight?
Premeditated?
A bullet to the back of the head screamed intent to kill.
But there was more to it than murder. Why not dump the body in the woods outside the city or the bay or anywhere and get the hell away? Why go to all the trouble of renting a house, hiding the corpse, and, for God’s sake, dressing it and combing its damned hair? And what about bringing a baby here?
What kind of sicko would do that?
And why?
Sickos don’t need reasons.
Marla had been dead for weeks from the looks of her. Why expose a child to the horror of a decaying body? The kid’s own grandmother, for God’s sake.
Maybe that’s the point. Get the baby. But then why kill Eugenia, Rory, and Cherise? Why not Cissy?
Who was this person?
He shoved his hair from his eyes and noticed an old woman standing in the window of the house across the street. She was staring at the place while holding a big cat with a long tail.
Scratching his jaw, Paterno followed the cop across a patch of lawn and thought about the murder weapon. A gun. He figured the slug retrieved from Marla’s rotting body would match the bullets found in Cherise Favier and Tanya Watson, all victims of the same demented killer. All from a .38, but not matching any other bullets found in any other crimes in the Bay Area.
Until now.
Paterno had little doubt what ballistics would turn up.
“This is Detective Lee’s vehicle,” the policeman said, but there was no one inside. Instead, a woman with blunt-cut, sleek dark hair, her cream suit stained orange and smelling like vomit, leaned against the hood, sucking vigorously on a cigarette as if the nicotine could obliterate the nightmare she’d so recently witnessed. The officer introduced them. “Ms. Tomini, this is Detective Paterno.”
“About time!” Sybil took a long drag. “Did you see that…that thing inside the house?” Smoke streamed from her nostrils. “Awful…just awful. Can I go now?”
“In a few minutes. I just want to ask a few questions.”
“I’ve answered dozens of them already. All I know is that the neighbor, Mrs. Owens, Tilda Owens, she’s a widow and lives right across the street…” Sybil waved her cigarette toward the house with the older woman and the cat. “She complained to me about my tenant nearly running over her cat, so I decided to talk to Elyse.”
“Elyse?” he repeated.
“Yes, Elyse Hammersly. She’s my tenant, has been since the first of the year.”
“You’ve met her? Talked with her?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s not the woman downstairs.”
“That dead thing? No…oh, no, I’m sure not.” But she didn’t sound convinced. She took another drag of smoke and glanced down at her soiled suit, wincing a bit. “I mean, it’s hard to tell.” Shuddering, she shook her head, disbelieving that the moldering corpse could be anyone she’d actually seen or talked to.
“You’ve seen pictures of Marla Cahill, the escapee. Was she the woman who rented this place?”
“No. I rented it before she escaped, I’m sure. And I’ve met Elyse, and she’s not Marla Cahill.”
“I’d like to see the lease. You have a copy?”
“At the office, yes.”
“Do you take any references or ID before you lease your property?”
“Of course.” Sybil bristled.
“Can I see the records?”
“No problem. Again, they’re at the office.”
“I’ll drive you there, and, when we’re done, I’ll bring you back here.”
“I could just drive myself.”
“Just in case Detective
Lee or the FBI have any further questions.”
“The FBI?” she repeated and sucked on her cigarette until the ash reached the filter tip. “Oh, dear God.”
Paterno’s thoughts exactly.
“I need to see you,” Elyse said into the phone. On the other end, her lover was balking.
“I can’t. People will get suspicious. I’m being watched, you know.”
“We need to talk.” She was desperate, her heart pounding as she drove across the Golden Gate Bridge. Traffic was thick, people pouring out of the city in rush hour, and she could barely think. Her head pounded, and she told herself she just needed to get home, to see him again, to…to…
The car in front of her slammed on his brakes, and she did the same, nearly plowing into the trunk of the red Pontiac. Her tires skidded on the wet pavement. “You cretin!” she yelled, though she could only see the back of his head as the wipers slapped away the rain. The driver was a teenager on a cell phone, and of course he couldn’t hear her. The thrum of huge speakers and rap music pulsed through the night. And still he was on his cell.
“What?” her lover said breathlessly as if he’d been climbing stairs or running.
“Just meet me. Tonight.”
“I’m telling you it’s impossible.”
“You show,” she insisted as the stupid baby started crying again. The damned kid was driving her crazy. “I need some help, damn it, and we’re in this together. It was your idea.”
“Not all of it.”
“You were the one who said we could do this, now for God’s sake be a man.” She was irritated, biting the inside of her cheek nervously, her fingers so tight around the steering wheel they felt fused to the plastic and metal.
“You’re taking too many chances.”
“I don’t have a choice!”
“We need to cool it for a while.”
“Cool it?” she said, her voice increasing in pitch, rising to a near screech. “Are you crazy? We can’t cool it now.”
“You’re the one acting crazy!”
“Because I’m the one who’s taking all the damned risks. If you knew what I put up with, dealing with that bitch! Just get your ass to the house,” she insisted as her Taurus inched over the bridge.
“For Christ’s sake, get a grip.”
“I can’t!” she yelled and heard the anger, the panic, in her own voice. She caught her reflection in the mirror and was surprised to see that her hair was frazzled and unkempt, her makeup running, her eyes staring as if she were freaked. Holy God, what was wrong with her? Nothing. Not a damned thing. It was everyone else. Yes, she was a little wired and nervous, but who wouldn’t be? She was just under a tremendous amount of pressure, and he, the wimp, wasn’t helping. Where was the strong, intelligent, sexy man she’d fallen for? “Listen, lover boy,” she snarled sarcastically. “You damned well better meet me, or you’ll never see the boy again. End of story.” She clicked off, swore at the driver in front of her, and, when the phone rang and she saw it was Jack calling her back, she ignored it. Let him stew in his own juices.
Bastard!
So Cissy had changed her mind about the divorce.
So what?
That didn’t change anything!
Paterno’s cell phone jangled as he backed the Caddy into a tight parking space in front of the realty company. Sybil Tomini, sitting in the passenger seat, braced herself, as if she expected him to scrape the grill of a Range Rover with his back bumper. He jammed the big car into park and answered the phone. He hadn’t been taking any calls for the past couple of hours, had half a dozen to return, but caller ID told him that Quinn was on the other end of the line.
“Paterno,” he said as Sybil Tomini hugged herself on the other side of the wide seat. Into the receiver he said, “Just a sec, Janet.” To the realtor, he held up a finger. “I’ll be right in.”
Sybil, already reaching into her purse for her pack of cigarettes and lighter, nodded. “I’ll find the file.” She climbed out of the car and lit up before she closed the door.
“I’m back,” he said to Quinn as raindrops began to shiver from the dark sky.
“I got your message earlier,” Quinn said. “You found Marla Cahill, and she’s dead?”
“Has been for a while. Couldn’t have been the doer in the murders. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back to the station.” He cut the engine and the lights. “We’re looking for Mary Smith now.”
“I’ve got something from that nurse in Idaho, the one who was working at Cahill House during the time Marla Amhurst had her baby.”
Paterno grunted for her to continue.
“The nurse is a little foggy and really didn’t want to talk to me. She’s retired now, her husband fishes all day, and she doesn’t want any trouble, but she said Marla had a baby girl who would be around twenty-six or twenty-seven now, which coincides with the dates in Eugenia’s diary.”
“Have you got a name?”
“Not for the child, but the adoptive parents were from Oakland—Ron and Christine Engles. I’m checking now to find out if they still live in the area.”
“While you’re at it, find out anything you can about Elyse Hammersly. Do a statewide search for priors. See if she was incarcerated with Marla Cahill, anything. She rented the house where we found Marla’s body in Berkeley. I’ll know more in a few minutes. I’m at the realty company now. I’ll fill you in when I get back to the station.”
Paterno dashed through the rain and headed into the front office. A door in the back wall was ajar, so he walked through. Sybil was at one of several utilitarian workstations, digging through a drawer. “I have keys to the file cabinets in the storeroom. I’ll be right back.” She headed toward a metal door past the other workstations.
Paterno waited, and Sybil returned with a folder. “I know I have this information on the computer too,” she said, calmer now that they were away from the bungalow where she’d found the corpse. “But there’s an agreement she signed…and I always take a copy of the renter’s ID. Also, we require proof of employment and a credit history. Let’s see…” Her fingers flipped through several folders before extracting one. “Here you go.”
With a feeling of getting closer to his goal, Paterno began reviewing the documents.
“They might have found Marla,” Jack said breathlessly as he rushed through the door. He’d been out jogging, working out some of his aggression while Cissy had been inside. His running gear was wet, his hair plastered to his head, his face tense, his expression dark.
Coco, from her little bed near the fire, lifted her head, letting out a disgruntled “woof” before returning to sleep.
Cissy’s heart skipped a beat. Hope shot through her, but it was followed quickly by fear. “What about B.J.?”
“No. Don’t think so. I just got a text message from a friend who’d seen it on the news. I’ve got a call in to Paterno.” Jack was sweating profusely, his face red, his hair wet, his cell phone in one hand, his iPod in the pocket of his sweats. He walked to the television and flipped through the news channels.
Nothing about Marla. At least not yet.
“Wouldn’t someone have told us? The FBI?” she asked as agents had been with them on and off since the kidnapping. Their phone lines tapped in case the kidnappers decided to call, all their mail searched for a note, the house under twenty-four-hour surveillance. So much for keeping them out of it.
“Not until they were certain, but you’d better brace yourself.”
“Brace myself?” she said, images of B.J.’s tiny unmoving body filling her head. “Oh God, Beej—”
“I’m talking about Marla. It’s possible that your mother might be dead.”
A chill swept up her spine. “What do you mean?” Marla? Dead? A multitude of emotions rocketed through her. She loved her mother; hated her. The woman was loathsome, a horrible creature, and yet she had, in her distant way, raised Cissy, been there for her. Marla’s was the face she remembered as a child, the person who had
taught her to tie her shoes, who had enrolled her in private school, who had shown her how to French braid her hair, and so much more. Marla, in her own way, had consoled Cissy when she’d scraped her knee or had her heart broken, and yet, over the years, there had been a rift between them, one that had started with Cissy’s teenage years and had never been bridged in the years since. But she’d always thought there would be time to make amends, if she ever wanted it…. Oh God…Dead? That seemed impossible. “Where’s our baby?”
“I don’t know.” Jack’s face was carved with worry, deep grooves around his eyes and mouth. Neither he nor Cissy had caught any sleep, and Cissy felt like the hours had dragged into a lifetime. She didn’t know what she would have done without Jack, without him to lean on, confide in, cry with.
Outside, along with the FBI vehicles, was a news van, seemingly permanently camped out on the street. Most of Cissy’s friends had called. Gwen and Tracy had stopped by; even Heather had phoned, clearly feeling sheepish about the way her affair with Donald had splashed across the news. Cissy was too worried about B.J. to even think about that issue. It was Heather’s problem.
And Sara had brought over a pan of lasagna. “It’s from Dino’s,” she’d admitted, fighting tears. “It was all I could think of to do.” Jack’s family had been in and out, and they’d received calls from the people she’d worked with at City Wise and also most of Gran’s employees. Deborah had been devastated, wailing into the phone. Elsa and Lars had stopped by in person, Elsa delivering pies and a casserole while fighting tears. She said Rosa and Paloma were devastated as well, and Rosa was lighting candles at her church. Everyone was offering support, and yet most of the time Cissy wanted to be alone. She’d spent hours sitting in B.J.’s room, holding either his favorite stuffed animal or Coco and rocking in the chair they’d bought when he was born.
Now she was angry. Tired of waiting. Exhausted from the lack of sleep and frustrated by the lack of information. Where the hell was her little boy?
While Jack was in the shower, she called Paterno again and left a voice message. Damn it, where was the man? Where was her child? The house was getting to her; the doing nothing was driving her mad. She felt the need to pound her fist through a wall or scream or do any bloody thing to find B.J.