by Lisa Jackson
“All have the last name of Cahill?”
“No, wait.” He walked to the night table and picked up the card his cousin had left. “Cherise’s last name is Favier.” He spelled it and added the home phone number. “Her husband is Donald; he’s with the Holy Trinity of God church in Sausalito.” Frowning, Nick rattled off the number of the church.
Walt grunted, indicating that he’d gotten the information. “What about your mother?” he asked. “Eugenia? What should I do about her?”
Nick didn’t miss a beat. “Check her out, too.”
Chapter Eight
Tony Paterno stared at the computer screen where images of Pam Delacroix looked back at him, photos taken for her driver’s license, passport, and a couple of more glamorous head shots she’d used for her business cards when she’d worked at a real estate company in Sausalito. Pam wasn’t a dead ringer for Marla Cahill, but they certainly resembled each other. He’d seen the photos before, of course, but the longer this case dragged on, the more the two women seemed to resemble each other.
So what did that mean? That they were related? That the woman behind the wheel wasn’t Marla and the real Mrs. Cahill had already been cremated? But why? And if so, there had to have been a real fuck-up at the scene. It was impossible. And yet . . . Drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, he glanced at the other images of Pam Delacroix, not nearly so flattering, pictures taken at the scene of the accident. Lying face up on an embankment, her body was little more than a bloody heap, her neck broken, her face nearly scraped free of skin, her broken arms flung wide on the forest floor. Other pictures showed the wreckage of the Mercedes, windows shattered, metal twisted, leather upholstery ripped and covered in blood. Impact had blown the tires, shattered the glass, twisted the shell of the car and sprung the spare clean out of the trunk. It was a sheer stroke of luck that Marla Cahill had survived.
If she really was Marla.
Was the resemblance a fluke? Another coincidence? Could she be faking her amnesia? He snapped his gum and scratched at his jaw, his fingers scraping over a day’s worth of stubble. Charles Biggs was dead—pushed into the grave by someone who’d slipped into the hospital, disguised himself and suffocated the poor bastard. Pam Delacroix or some other woman who looked a helluva lot like Marla Cahill had also been sent to her maker. The “accident” was looking more like a setup. But how? Why? Who was behind it? Who was the intended victim?
He thought hard. Motive. That’s what he needed. Who wanted one or more of the three people involved in the wreckage dead?
“Son of a bitch.” He pushed a button on the keyboard and leaned back in his chair as the printer whirred to life. There was something about the accident involving Marla Cahill that had never felt right, but he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. He’d inherited the case. As both victims who had survived the crash had been life-flighted back to the city, SFPD was handling the investigation on this end, helping out the California Highway Patrol who were first to arrive on the scene and in whose jurisdiction the accident had occurred.
No crime had been proven. No drugs, no alcohol in her system. There was no reason to believe that she’d been driving in a negligent manner as there were no witnesses.
But one woman had been killed outright and Charles Biggs, the only witness, had been murdered.
He twisted in his chair and picked up reports on all the people related to Marla Amhurst Cahill. What a bunch of bluebloods. Marla came from a wealthy family in Marin County. Her father, Conrad James Amhurst, was living in an expensive care center with a view of the marina at Tiburon. If Paterno’s information was correct, the old man had one foot in the grave already. Pancreatic cancer. Conrad Anhurst would be lucky if he lived another three months.
From all reports the old man had been a womanizing bastard in his youth, his wife, Victoria, Marla’s mother, a cold fish. She’d died a few years back, complications after cosmetic surgery—a liposuction that had gone bad. Paterno snorted but kept scanning the files. Their only son, Rory, had been injured as a toddler and had ended up in an institution. That left Marla as the wealthy old man’s only heir. And she couldn’t remember anything. Or so she claimed. Paterno’s fingers tapped out a nervous tattoo on the arm of his chair. Maybe she was lying. But what the hell for?
He pulverized his gum as his eyes narrowed on page after page of reports.
The Cahills didn’t exactly epitomize the Ozzie and Harriet image of the American family. Nope, they seemed a little more like something straight out of Dynasty. Eugenia was the matriarch—prim, proper with all the warmth of a smiling snake. As phony as the proverbial three-dollar bill.
Alexander, the eldest son and Marla’s husband, was, from the outside, every woman’s dream husband. Handsome and fit, educated at Stanford and Harvard, he’d practiced law some years before stepping into his ailing father’s shoes and assuming command of Cahill Limited, an international corporation. When the old man had kicked off, Alex had inherited everything.
But Paterno didn’t trust him. Rich, arrogant and sarcastic, Alex Cahill seemed to think he was above the law. Paterno had dealt with him before; didn’t like the supercilious son of a bitch.
Alexander’s brother, Nicholas, seemed to be the black sheep. While Alex had excelled in school and garnered athletic and scholastic awards, Nick had gotten himself into trouble with the law, deep enough that the old man had to bail him out more than once. None of the charges, everything from stealing cars to possession of alcohol to vandalism—had ever stuck. The charges had always been dropped. Probably because Daddy had paid off everyone involved, not that it said as much in the report.
Nick had finished high school and left home at eighteen, worked as a trucker, on an oil rig, even tried his hand at ranching in Montana where he’d later been a fishing guide. He’d owned his own fishing boat, ran a company that made truck parts, built up a small fortune and began buying and selling small businesses in the Seattle area. Somehow, he’d become a corporate troubleshooter, then quit abruptly about five years ago and settled down, presumably with enough cash, in some rinky-dink town in Oregon. Devil’s Cove, for crying out loud. Somehow it fit.
Now he was back.
Because of the accident? Or, as he’d said, to help his brother with the company? What, Paterno wondered, could possibly be wrong within the lavish and hallowed halls of Cahill Limited?
Paterno leaned forward and spat his gum into a wastebasket. He tossed the report on Nick aside.
Then there were a couple of disgruntled cousins who felt that they’d been cut out of the family wealth. Montgomery Cahill and his sister, Cherise Cahill Martin Bell Favier, had been fairly vocal about being mistreated at the hands of their father and uncle. “Monty” had landed in juvenile hall a couple of times as a kid. Apparently his father, Fenton, hadn’t had quite the same amount of influence with judges and cops that Uncle Samuel had. Or maybe he wanted to let the kid take the fall for his own crimes.
There was also the chance that Fenton just hadn’t given a shit. That wasn’t uncommon. Paterno had only to think of his own father to know how it felt to be overlooked or ignored. He reached for his coffee cup, took a swig and felt the burn of acid crawl up his throat.
What was the deal with Marla Cahill and Pam Delacroix? Pam’s ex-husband was screaming for justice, but Paterno suspected the guy smelled money.
And why had Marla Cahill, rich to the bone, been friends with a woman who didn’t seem to fit into her social circle. He scoured the information on Pam again. She was supposed to have belonged to the same tennis club as the Cahills, but Paterno found no proof of it. But she was unpredictable. Had a law degree that she didn’t use, though at one time she’d been a family practice attorney. When the marriage had fallen apart, she hadn’t gone back to practicing law and instead started selling real estate in Sausalito.
Why?
Plucking the pages from his color printer he stared at the images of Pam Delacroix . . . or was she Marla Cahill? Had there been a
misidentification? Could the police at the scene have screwed up so badly? The woman’s ID had been on her, her body identified by her ex-husband.
And then there was the matter of Marla Cahill, who’d been wearing a hospital ID bracelet at the time of the accident. Now, even if she was amnesic, wouldn’t her husband or mother-in-law know she wasn’t who she said she was? She couldn’t be bluffing the whole damned world, could she? There were physical traits and mannerisms, voice patterns . . . unless everyone was in on it.
A conspiracy.
Jesus, he was starting to think like Oliver Stone.
Paterno snorted at the turn of his thoughts. No reason to speculate. It was time to reevaluate the facts. He’d start with blood types.
Little James let out a cry and Marla, having overslept again, sprang from the bed. She was in the nursery in seconds, picking him up and holding him close. “It’s all right,” she said automatically as she cuddled him for a few seconds before changing him. She drank in the sweet baby smell of him as she snapped up his pajamas and watched his little legs kick. He fastened blue eyes on her and her heart soared. “You’re cute as a devil and you know it, don’t you?”
His little fists moved jerkily and he cooed.
“Oh, yeah, James, you’re gonna be a heartbreaker.” She finished changing him just as Fiona appeared with a bottle. “I’ll do it,” Marla insisted and as the nanny straightened the room, Marla sat in the rocker and, humming softly, fed the baby. He drank greedily, pausing only to stare up at her once in a while. “I know, I know, you’re looking at me and hoping you’re adopted, aren’t you?” She winked at him and when he’d finally had his fill, she set the nearly-empty bottle down, hoisted his body to her shoulder to burp him.
“He’s a good baby, he is,” Fiona said as she folded a blanket over the end of his crib. “I’ve been with others who ain’t as sweet as yer little James.” She hesitated. “Now, Cissy, I imagine she was a fussy baby.”
I wish I could remember.
“A headstrong girl she is,” Fiona added, “going to get herself into trouble.” She picked up the bottle and frowned slightly, as if she realized she’d stepped over a line. “Not that it’s any of my business. Now, I’ll take this little guy down to his playpen,” she said and Marla didn’t protest.
She felt better than she had in days, her head clearer, her body stronger. She knew instinctively that she would bond with the baby, but she had some major damage to repair with her daughter, who still stared at her as if Marla had stepped right off a space ship from Mars.
She took the time to shower and change, then decided to check the computer again, to read each name on the Rolodex. But she couldn’t.
Alex’s room was locked. Just as it had been the last time she’d tried to open the door. Was he trying to keep intruders out? Or did he have secrets he couldn’t afford to let anyone, most of all his wife, see?
The sense of well-being she’d felt while holding her newborn disappeared.
She opened the door to Cissy’s room. It was empty, the lights turned out, tidier than she’d ever seen it. No doubt while her daughter was at school, the maid had picked up after her. Marla felt a prick of guilt. As a mother, she should have been up earlier, greeted Cissy, checked her homework, asked if she needed clean clothes for physical education, found out what her after-school schedule was then seen her off to school, just as she should have fed and changed her baby before his morning nap.
Except you have servants for all those tasks.
Still, she was bothered. Joanna’s visit replayed in her mind . . . You had more male attention than you could handle as it was . . . none of us had ever heard you ever mention Pam . . . What happened to your ring?
Marla paused at the landing and looked over the railing to the foyer two flights below. Faintly she heard the sound of conversation and rattling pans from the kitchen and the ticking of the clock downstairs. Other than that the house was still, no click of Eugenia’s heels on the hardwood, no barks from that suspicious little dog, no strains of classical music wafting from hidden speakers.
Aside from the servants and baby she was alone. She walked the short distance down the hall to the office and tried to open the door. It was locked tight. Without a key no one could gain access to Alex’s bedroom, exercise room or the office. He’d locked everyone out.
But why? What was he afraid of? That someone on the staff would riffle through his things? Or was he hiding something? But how could the maid clean up after him if he kept his room off-limits? Was he hiding something from the staff? Or from his mother? Or from her?
Marla rested her hand on the doorknob, tried to turn it again and failed. She even pressed her shoulder into the old panels, grasping at straws that the old lock might give way, but the door didn’t budge.
The door is locked because of you, Marla, and you know it. He didn’t like you snooping in his desk. He doesn’t trust you. You’ve sensed it. She headed back to her room and eyed her bed, the one she slept in apart from Alex. Somehow this is all because of Nick and what you feel about him. Her throat tightened and though she wanted to deny what she felt, she caught a tiny glimpse of the woman she’d once been.
What had Joanna said? You were always . . . well, you know, men noticed you.
Joanna had said a lot of disturbing things. Where was the damned ring Joanna had mentioned? The gift from her father. At the thought of Conrad Amhurst she felt a dark weight in her heart, a pain she didn’t understand. She couldn’t remember the man and yet she was certain their relationship was far from loving, maybe even estranged.
So why wear the ring?
More important, where was it? In her room? In Pam’s wrecked Mercedes? Locked in some safe? There was only one way to find out: find the damned thing. She started with her bathroom and the jewelry box on the counter. No ring. She checked the nightstands, then searched through every drawer in her bureau. Nothing. “Think, Marla, think,” she muttered under her breath and walked into the closet, hoping to spy another cache for her favorite pieces of jewelry, but found nothing.
Maybe Alex had it removed when she’d gone to the hospital.
But he didn’t ask that your wedding ring be taken off, now, did he?
She swept her gaze over the contents of the closet once more and stopped short when she spied the case for her tennis racquet. Maybe inside. She unzipped the leather case, looked through the one flat pocket and found no ring, nothing but a credit card receipt from a store downtown.
She stuffed the receipt in her pocket, then pulled out the racquet and held it in her hand, hefted its weight, lifted it up and down, testing its feel.
You’ve got a serve that scared the devil out of me.
“Okay, ace, let’s see it,” she said to herself.
Pretending to toss a ball in the air with her left hand, she drew back her right. In a split second she swung the racquet up high over her shoulder, then slammed it down. Hard. The racquet whooshed and felt awkward as hell. The grip was too large, the weight uncomfortable. Had she really won tournaments? She tried to concentrate, but failed miserably. Again.
“Big surprise,” she mocked. The closet was suddenly too tight, filled with clothes and memories that didn’t seem to belong to her. She had to escape, to get out of this unfamiliar house with all its dark secrets and locked doors. She needed to breathe again. To find herself. Snagging a peacoat from a hanger, she hurried down the back stairs and through a mud room to a covered porch. Another few steps and she followed a garden path that wound through the grounds. A thin mist shrouded ancient rhododendrons, ferns and azaleas while tall fir trees rose ever upward to disappear into the fog and this patch of land, on the top of a city hill, seemed oddly isolated.
Burying her fists in the deep pockets, Marla walked along a brick path slick with rain and littered with fir needles. Her breath fogged and she shivered as she passed a series of tiered ponds. Beneath half a dozen lily pads, spotted koi swam lazily.
She was nearly certain she’d ne
ver gazed at the pools before.
Nearly.
Frustrated, she glanced upward to the highest peaks of the house where the lights glowed in the windows. Moisture gathered on her cheeks and she caught a glimpse of movement, a dark shadow in an upstairs window. Was that her room? But she’d just come down from there . . . she recognized the print of the drapes . . . but who would be in her bedroom? No one was at home except the servants.
That was it. Whoever was in her room was probably just cleaning up, the maid going about her daily rounds and besides, who cared? It wasn’t as if she was hiding anything. And yet . . . Marla glanced up at the window again and the figure was gone.
Angry with her overactive imagination she yanked her hood over her head and she edged around a garden spot where roses had been pruned, all hint of blossoms long disappeared, only short thorny stalks remaining.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She felt as if she was being watched. Turning, she looked up at the house again. There he was. The dark figure. He was lurking in another room . . . on the other side of the suite . . . Alex’s? But Alex’s room had been locked. She’d tested the door herself. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. Surely it was only a servant, one with a master key, and yet she had the uneasy feeling that she was being silently observed . . . guarded. A raindrop fell from the edge of her hood and she blinked. In that second the image was gone—no sinister figure lurking in the darkened room. No eerie threat.
You’re jumping at shadows, she told herself, but felt her skin crawl with goose bumps as she walked through an arbor and spied a swing set that was beginning to rust. Had she ever pushed Cissy on one of the swings? Ever caught her daughter as Cissy had laughed and slid to the bottom of the short slide?