Almost Dead

by Lisa Jackson

  “We’ll check. Thanks.”

  “Can we leave now?”

  “Not just yet, but soon. Promise,” he said solemnly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, then we can wrap this up, and if I have more questions, I’ll call or stop by, or, if it’s easier, you can come to the station.”

  “I really don’t have anything more to say, and I really need to get my son home.”

  “I know. I’ll make it quick.” Paterno stepped outside and turned his attention to someone who had appeared from the crime-scene-unit’s vehicle. Together they walked briskly back up the brick walk that now was cluttered with cops and emergency workers. No way was she going to take a ride from the detective. They could just find a way to unblock the damned driveway. For now, though, it looked like she was stuck. Which really sucked. “Okay, buddy,” she said to B.J. “Nothin’ else I can do. Looks like it’s you and me. How about we eat in the car?”

  “I drive.”

  “Mmm. Later.”

  He started to wail as she shifted him from her lap, but she ignored the coming tantrum, strapped him into the passenger seat, grabbed some extra napkins from the glove box, and opened the pizza box.

  She pulled out a small piece and handed it to him. His cries quickly subsided. Yesterday, she would have worried about her leather seats. Tonight, she realized it wasn’t a big deal. Any slopped-over tomato sauce or strings of mozzarella cheese could be wiped up. Her grandmother would never be able to complain about stains ever again.

  As B.J. pulled off a piece of pepperoni, examining it closely before stuffing it into his mouth, Cissy stared out the rain-splattered windshield and up at the old house. Its shingle and brick walls rose four stories above the basement garage, which was flanked by rhododendrons, azaleas, and ferns, all currently collecting rain and shivering in the wind. The windows on the first two floors glowed—warm patches of light that belied the horror inside. She lifted her gaze upward to the third floor and the dormer of her old room, the place where she’d spent most of her miserable teenage years.

  At that time she’d hated living in the city, had preferred the ranch. All that had changed, of course.

  Maybe Cissy should have moved back here as her grandmother had suggested when she’d kicked Jack out of the house, but she hadn’t wanted to give up her independence. And besides, this huge, rambling house didn’t hold all that great of memories for her.

  Now Gran was dead.

  Her throat tightened painfully. Her whole life seemed to be falling apart. Her mother was an escapee, her grandmother dead, her husband…Oh, she didn’t even want to go there. She glanced at her child, happily chewing on a piece of pepperoni as she broke off a bit of cheesy crust. She offered it to B.J., and he took it eagerly, crushing it in his tiny fist.

  So lost in thought was she that she didn’t see a shadow pass by the car, didn’t realize someone was staring through the window of the driver’s door until there was a quick rap of knuckles on the glass. She jumped, turned quickly, nearly sending the rest of the pizza into the steering wheel only to find Jack Holt peering inside.

  “Geez!” she said, her heart knocking, then, under her breath, added, “Well, B.J., look who arrived.” She couldn’t believe it. “Daddy’s here.”

  Chapter 3

  The last thing Cissy needed right now, the very last, was to deal with her soon-to-be ex. Reluctantly, she rolled down the window. Along with a gust of rain-washed air, she caught a hint of his aftershave and a whole lot of unwanted memories. As upset as she was, she still noticed the hint of beard shadow covering his strong jaw and the laserlike intensity of his blue eyes.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Stupid question. “Do I look okay?” She was shaking her head and trying not to cry. “No, I’m not. I’m not okay at all.” She wouldn’t break down, would not in front of him. “It’s Gran. She’s…she’s…Jack, she’s dead.” Her voice cracked over the last word, and she mentally kicked herself.

  “Ciss,” he said quietly, and it got to her so much she had to look away.

  “Dad-dee!” B.J.’s little arms shot straight up as if he could will his father to reach through the window and grab him. Marinara sauce streaked his face, the console, and the seat.

  “How are ya, big guy?” Jack asked as B.J. waved his arms frantically in the air. “Here…” He walked quickly around the car, opened the passenger door, and, ignoring the grease and marinara sauce covering his son, unbuckled the seat belt and slid into the passenger seat. “You’re a mess,” he said, holding the boy, and Beej, the traitor, laughed and showed off all thirteen of his teeth.

  “Dad-dee!” B.J. said again, his face shining with delight.

  Cissy’s headache thundered.

  “I’m sorry about Eugenia.” Jack touched her on the shoulder, and she tensed.

  He seemed sincere, but then he’d always been able to play the part of the attentive boyfriend, romantic fiancé, or loving husband if he wanted to.

  She wasn’t buying his act. She knew him too well and how pathetically easily he charmed her. Even now, when she was grieving and guilt-riddled, she felt that ridiculous male-female connection that had always been a part of their relationship. Damn him with his open-collared shirt, thick, mussed hair, and dimples that creased when he smiled. The trouble was Jack Holt was too damned good-looking for his own good. For her own good. She should have known better than to ever get involved with him. From the first time she’d set eyes upon him at that benefit party for Cahill House, a home for unwed mothers established by her family years before, she’d been intrigued. And doomed. She’d sensed he’d been the only man with a touch of irreverence in the whole damned ballroom, the only person, other than herself, who had found the stuffy affair boring.

  Even after Jack’s father introduced them, Cissy had avoided Jack. She was just putting in her time at the affair. However, he soon figured out that she too wasn’t “into” it and kept trying to strike up a conversation with her. At first cool, she’d eventually had to laugh at his wry, self-deprecating humor. She’d even ended up flirting with him, and, of course, he’d responded. They’d escaped that damned party to start what should have been a short fling and ended up in Las Vegas a few months later with a quickie marriage and promises of love ever after.

  What a joke!

  A mistake of immense proportions.

  Except for B.J.

  Their son was the only part of their ill-fated marriage that was worth the heartache. As lousy a husband as Jack was, he did seem to adore his kid. The feeling was obviously mutual, and the one thing she hated about the separation and impending divorce was that B.J. wouldn’t grow up under the same roof as his father.

  “What happened?” Jack asked, his brows slammed together, his blondish hair artificially darkened with rain.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think Gran fell down the stairs. She could have tripped or had a stroke, I guess. The thing is, she always took the elevator. I never saw her on the stairs. She didn’t even consider it. So how…?” Sighing, she leaned back against the seat and fought an overpowering sense of guilt. “I was late. Our furnace was acting up all day, and I couldn’t get a repairman out cuz it’s the weekend. Then B.J., contrary to how he’s acting now, was fussy as all get-out. Nothing made him happy. Nothing…well, except obviously you, now.”

  Jack flashed her a grin.

  “So I waited for the pizza-delivery guy to come, then drove over an hour or so later than usual, and…and…” In her mind’s eye she saw her grandmother’s tiny, broken body sprawled upon the tile floor, the pooled blood beneath her short hair. Cissy’s stomach churned. “And by the time I got here, I found her on the floor of the foyer. I knew she was dead, but I called 9-1-1 and…” She clenched her teeth. “I think that if I’d gotten here earlier, when I was supposed to…maybe things would have happened differently. Maybe she’d still be alive.”

  “Don’t go there, Ciss. It’s not your fault. You know that.”

  She nodded sho
rtly, fighting emotion.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time when he touched the back of her neck, she didn’t shrink away.

  She would like, for just a few minutes, to not reopen her eyes, to push the pain aside and let someone, even Jack, comfort her. Just until she could pull herself together.

  “Can I get you out of here?”

  “Blocked in.” Blinking rapidly and running a finger under her eyes, she shot a look through the foggy back window. The crime-scene van, Paterno’s car, a fire truck, and several police cars, their lights still strobing the night, were parked behind her, clogging the driveway and the street. More people had crowded around the gates—two neighbors whom she recognized, a jogger, and someone walking his dog—all congregating under the spreading bare branches of the ancient oak tree across the street. All their faces appeared ghostly in the watery blue illumination of the flickering streetlight that her grandmother had always complained about.

  “My car’s out front,” Jack said. He smiled faintly at her in the darkness. “We can escape.”

  Like Marla, she thought but didn’t say it.

  “I think Paterno wants to talk to me again.”

  “The homicide dick? The one who put your mom away?”

  “One and the same.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed as the windows of the car continued to fog. “But I thought he left town. What the hell is he doing here? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “I don’t know.” The headache Cissy had been fighting all day intensified, pounding at the base of her skull again. Lately, Jack had that effect on her.

  “But homicide? As in murder? Jesus, what is this?” His jaw turned hard as stone.

  “I said ‘I don’t know.’” She lifted a shoulder, realized he was still touching her, and looked pointedly at his hand.

  Jack got the hint and pulled it back to wrap around B.J., who was still happily munching on his squeezed piece of pizza. Plopped as he was on his father’s lap, the kid was happy, really happy, for the first time all day. Great. Cissy didn’t want to think about the future and what that might spell.

  “I’ll get you out of here.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He shot her a glance that begged to differ, and she realized she looked a mess, mascara running from her eyes, hair matted from the rain, grief probably etched all over her face.

  “This’ll only take a second.” He started to get out of the car.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, but resisted the urge to grab his arm. “How’d you get here so quickly?”

  “I was looking for you. I called several times, but you didn’t answer. I knew you came here on Sunday nights, so I thought I’d surprise you.” For the first time since he’d shown up, there was a bite to his words, something more than just casual conversation.

  “What was so all-fired important that you would interrupt my dinner with Gran?”

  “Not interrupt,” he corrected. “Join.”

  “Join?” She gave him a cool look.

  His jaw clenched a little harder, and his intense eyes seemed to drill a hole right through her. “Because I was served today.”

  Her stomach lurched. Of course. “The divorce papers.”

  “Yeah. The divorce papers,” he said with more than a bit of acrimony. He shoved his damp hair out of his eyes, and a muscle began to work in the side of his jaw, just like it always did when he was angry.

  She winced. “And you thought discussing it in front of Eugenia would be a good idea?”

  “I don’t think anything about it is a good idea,” he said and reached for the handle of the door again. “I’ll talk to Paterno and see if I can get you out of here.”

  “Jack, don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Too late,” he muttered and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him and jogging up the path to the front door. She watched him through the windshield. He shouldn’t get involved. She shouldn’t have let him, and she should not be noticing the way his khakis hugged his butt as he ran. Damn it all, she’d always found him attractive, even now, when her grandmother was lying dead in the foyer. Sniffing loudly, she confided in her son, “Your mom’s a basket case.” She reached over and touched his nose. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? It’s our little secret.”

  “Secret.” He nodded, then looked through the window. “Where Dad-dee go?”

  “On an errand; he’ll be right back.”

  “Right back.”

  “Um-hmm.” She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror and cringed. The woman staring back at her was a mess. Layered, streaked hair flattened by the rain, the whites of her eyes bloodshot, her nose red, and, along with the streaking mascara, her makeup a mess, lip gloss long gone, skin splotchy from crying, and a damned zit or two. Crap. She looked like hell.

  And Gran’s dead.

  A lump filled her throat.

  She just wanted to go home. And not with either Paterno, and his damned questions and suspicious eyes, or Jack, who had a way of worming himself deep into her heart. “Help me,” she muttered, leaning back against the seat and trying not to be irritated that Jack, true to his nature, had decided he had the right to talk to the police as if he were still a member of her family. Couldn’t he just go away? She’d already suffered one shock tonight and was still dealing with the thought that her grandmother was dead.

  Dead!

  Her eyes burned again.

  So what was Jack doing here, acting as if he were some kind of knight in shining armor, showing up as if he cared one little whit about their family? What a joke! She would love nothing more than to believe for one little second that he actually loved her and that she could draw from his strength. That, of course, was an idle and supremely ridiculous thought.

  Jack Holt was a lot of things, a tower of strength not being one. She didn’t dare make the mistake of trying to lean on him again. Cissy sniffed loudly then caught B.J. staring at her, his little face puckering. She forced back her tears. “Hey, little man, gonna eat that?” she asked, opening his fingers and retrieving the squashed piece of pizza. He shook his head, and she scraped the remains of cheese and marinara sauce from his plump fingers. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get outta here.”

  “Go home!” Beej said as she wiped sauce from his cheeks, leaving a reddish stain around his mouth.

  “You bet, big guy. As soon as we can.” She turned on the engine, forcing a little heat into the car. “As soon as we can.”

  “The husband. At two o’clock,” Quinn warned, barely moving her lips. She and Paterno were in the foyer of the massive old house, both squatting next to Eugenia’s body. But Quinn had looked up and out the open front door.

  Paterno also recognized Jack Holt, editor and owner of City Wise, a slick rag about San Francisco, bearing down on him.

  Just what they needed. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Who knows? The wife probably called him.”

  “I’ll cut him off at the pass.” Straightening, his bad knee popping a bit, Paterno ambled to the door to block the entrance to the house. “Sorry, potential crime scene.”

  “I get it. I’m Jack Holt, Cissy Cahill’s husband.”

  “Detective Paterno.” They’d never met before, but Paterno had seen Holt’s picture often enough, either smiling from the glossy pages of his magazine or in the local newspaper, his raffish image caught at whatever charity event was in the papers.

  Jack Holt, somewhere around thirty-five, was definitely high profile, part of the see-and-be-seen crowd. Whether in a tuxedo or casual golfing clothes, the guy was just too slick for Paterno’s taste. Now, though, he was just a worried family member running through the rain, determination and sadness etched into the sharp-bladed planes of his face.

  Holt swept in a sharp breath. Looking past Paterno, he obviously caught a glimpse of the dead woman. Momentarily, his expression jolted with pain.

  “What can I do for you?” Paterno asked.
<
br />   Holt forced his gaze back to the detective. “I want to take my wife and kid home. My car’s on the street. Not blocked in like hers. I can bring her back here later, maybe tomorrow, to pick up the Acura when you’re finished.”

  Fair enough. “Shouldn’t be a problem, but I still may want to ask her some questions.”

  Holt’s lips flattened. “I don’t know what more you want from her. Cissy brought our son for one of their weekly dinners with her grandmother.” Peering around Paterno to the crumpled body on the floor, Holt winced a bit, and Paterno wondered if maybe there was more to the man than he’d first thought. “Cissy was running late and found Eugenia at the bottom of the stairs. Then she called 9-1-1. End of story.”

  Paterno didn’t like the younger man’s tone. Felt his patience slipping. “I’m just asking questions. Trying to get to the bottom of this. I’m sure your wife understands that we want to find out what happened to Mrs. Cahill. And to do that, I’ll probably be talking with both you and your wife again.” He stepped onto the porch. “So why don’t you tell me where you were tonight? You got here pretty damned quick.”

  Because I was on my way over here already. To see Cissy… Every muscle in Holt’s body tensed. “Wait a minute,” he said, eyes narrowing as the wheels turned in his mind. The temperature on the porch seemed to fall another five degrees as rain gurgled in the eaves and trickled through the downspouts. “Eugenia fell. Tripped and lost her balance and ended up at the bottom of the stairs.” He glanced inside again, apparently mentally calculating the distance between the old lady’s body and the foot of the stairs. “You’re not thinking any foul play was involved?” But as he posed the question, he gave Paterno a penetrating look.

  “We’re just figuring that out now.”

  “You’re with homicide,” Holt pointed out flatly.

  “We haven’t ruled out any possibilities yet. As I said, we’re working on it.” Paterno wasn’t giving up anything for the time being. At first glance it looked like the old woman tripped and fell, tumbled down the curved steps and broke her neck, but, these days, who knew? Eugenia Cahill was a wealthy woman. The Cahills had weathered a number of financial ups and downs, but it was no secret their fortunes were solid and currently on a steep rise. But the family had suffered their share of nutcases too. Marla Amhurst Cahill a case in point. It seemed like too much of a coincidence for Eugenia to wind up at the bottom of the staircase less than seventy-two hours from the time Marla, her murderous daughter-in-law, had escaped from prison.