by Lisa Jackson
“Coco, the granddaughter said.” But he remembered the damned dog from the last time he’d been here years ago. Then, though, the dog had been younger and not traumatized. In fact, it had been feisty and yappy and a real pain in the butt. Now he almost felt sorry for the white mutt. “I’ll drop it off at her house. She was asking about it.”
“Her,” Janet said. “Coco’s a female.”
“Why do you think the dog was locked up? Did it get in the way?”
“Maybe she was locked in there by accident. Sometimes my cat will curl up in a closet or in a room where I’ve closed the door, and I won’t find him for hours.”
“This is a dog. And I remember it…her. She wasn’t exactly timid or quiet.” He glanced into the little black button eyes.
“I’ll put her in your car, and you can take her to Cissy Holt’s place. I saw a carrier in the bedroom.”
“We’re not done processing in there,” Jefferson said as she measured a piece of cracked, bloody tile directly under the balcony. “Just give us a second before you start taking things out.”
“I think I should stay,” Jack said, just as Cissy was thinking he should be leaving.
Damn him, Jack could be so muleheaded. Still, she thought she’d heard him wrong. “Don’t use this as an excuse.”
He handed B.J. to her. “If you want, I’ll camp out on the couch.”
“Don’t you get the concept of ‘separated’?” Cissy demanded in frustration. “Didn’t you hear what I was just saying? And, wait a minute.” She paused for effect as Beej squirmed in her arms. “Didn’t you say you got served today?”
“Don’t fight me,” Jack said softly, dangerously. “I’d just feel better about it,” he said, so close to her she could smell the clean scent of his aftershave, see the striations of darker blue in his irises. In her arms, her traitor of a son had the nerve to rain one of his incredible baby smiles on both of them. As if all were right in the world, as if his loving great-grandmother were alive and his parents were living some fairy tale.
“No,” she whispered, though her heart was tearing.
Jack leaned even closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Your psycho mother is on the run, Ciss. Remember her? How relentless and cruel she can be? God knows where she’ll turn up or what she’ll do. And your grandmother died tonight, possibly the result of someone helping her along to the hereafter.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that things have taken a turn for the weirder, and I don’t like it. I’m staying.” To prove his point, he walked into the living room, sidestepped an array of B.J.’s toys, and flopped himself down on the leather couch they’d picked out together less than two years earlier.
Her stupid heart squeezed, but she ignored it, just held onto her son a little more tightly. “Jack, you can’t stay here.”
“What’re you going to do? Call the police?”
“They’re probably already camped outside again, waiting for Marla.” God, he was stubborn. “I don’t want you here.”
“It’s only for a night.”
“No, Jack. Not one night, not one hour.” She shifted Beej from one hip to the other.
“Damn it, Cissy.”
“I know. I’m pigheaded. So are you, actually. We should have been perfect for each other.” She was steamed now, all the rage she’d felt after witnessing Jack step out of Larissa’s apartment boiling up again.
She remembered the scene in vivid technicolor. Jack had still been tucking his shirt into his pants, his tie was missing, his hair wet and a mess, as if he’d just towel-dried it after a shower. Larissa was in the doorway in a bathrobe and, it seemed, nothing much else. Cissy’s heart had dropped to her knees as she’d sat in her car, half a block up the street, sunglasses covering her eyes.
Though they hadn’t kissed, Jack had flashed a smile at Larissa as he’d left and sketched her a wave before tripping down the stairs to his Jeep, parked right in the parking lot of the apartment building. Larissa, watching him go, had stepped barefoot onto the outside balcony, leaned over the top railing, and blown him a kiss as he’d fired up his Jeep. Her just-washed hair had caught in the sunlight, her cleavage playing peek-a-boo with the lapels of her robe, a breast slipping free before she laughingly clutched the lapels together again.
All for Jack’s benefit.
Even now, just thinking about it, Cissy felt wounded and mad all over again. Her jaw tensed.
As if reading her thoughts, Jack stopped arguing. He reached forward and ruffled Beej’s blond curls. Tiredly, he asked, “You sure that’s the way you want it?”
She inched her chin up a fraction. “Absolutely.”
“Then…if you’re sure you and Beej will be okay here alone…”
“We’ll be fine,” she assured him as if she meant it, as if it didn’t hurt her to face him, as if she weren’t already grieving for her grandmother, as if she weren’t really worried about her mother’s escape from prison. “If I get lucky, I might even end up with two detectives staked outside.”
He frowned and looked about to argue, then changed his mind. “Okay, well, then I guess I’ll go.” He collected his son in a bear hug then set him down. “Good-bye, big guy,” he said to Beej, his tender tone squeezing Cissy’s heart.
Steeling herself, she walked to the front door and held it open. Jack’s lips twisted. He glanced up at Cissy, and the look he sent her stopped the air in her lungs. Dark. Hot. Angry. And sexy as hell. The temperature in the house seemed to inch up a few degrees. But then that’s the way it had always been between them, every emotion intense.
“You win, Ciss. Sorry about Gran.” As he passed, he swiped a chaste kiss across her cheek, and she nearly changed her mind. Her pulse jumped, and she felt heat come to her cheeks. Don’t do it, Cissy. Don’t let him get to you. You’ll only regret it.
She didn’t so much as look at him. Let him think her a heartless bitch; it didn’t much matter anymore.
As Jack walked outside and a gust of moist air swept in, she heard the furnace wheeze and rumble, trying to come on again, before going silent once more.
In her arms, B.J. twisted and wriggled. “Dad-dee!” he cried suddenly, as if finally understanding that his favorite person on the planet was leaving. “Dad-dee!”
Yeah, Cissy thought, kicking the door shut and feeling miserable inside—all in all it had been one helluva day.
Chapter 5
Jack mentally kicked himself up one side and down the other as he walked to his Jeep. He’d blown it with Cissy, no doubt about it, and she was making life hell for him. He decided he deserved it. Not that he’d slept with Larissa. But he’d come damned close. Too close. “Stupid,” he muttered, unlocking the Jeep and sliding behind the wheel. He backed out of the driveway and started heading toward his apartment, but he didn’t like the feeling that he was abandoning her.
Driving around the block, Jack found an empty space on the street, just so she wouldn’t have a fit about his car being in the drive. Then, using the seat-adjustment lever, he pushed the seat of his Jeep back as far as it would go. He figured if the cops could stake the place out, so could he. He always kept a sleeping bag in the back, and he had a couple of bottles of water in the console, so he was good for hours.
He had an apartment, of course, one he’d rented just this month when Cissy had given him the boot, but he hated it. Cold. Lifeless. Sterile. Even with rental furniture, a fake plant, and a plasma TV that stretched across one wall, the place wasn’t home. It was ironic, really, because he’d always considered himself a bachelor for life. Then he’d met Cissy, and everything had changed. His whole damned attitude on the institution. He’d seen enough bad marriages in his lifetime, witnessed firsthand the battlefield wedded “bliss” could be from his parents, then watched as several of his more idealistic friends had taken the plunge into matrimonial waters, only to have nearly drowned.
Still, his relationship with Cissy, as fast and hot as it had been, had changed his mind
about settling down. When he’d married her, he’d gladly given up the bachelor basics of recliner, remote control, microwave, and minifridge. And he hadn’t missed them.
But he was a realist.
Cissy was still mad.
Really mad.
It would take a lot of smooth talking, crow swallowing, redundant apologizing, and dozens of good deeds before she’d ever trust him again. He wasn’t even sure it was possible. The truth from Larissa’s pouty and lying lips wouldn’t hurt either, but so far, Larissa refused to tell Cissy what really happened. There was a part of her that reveled in his predicament, as she insisted that if Cissy were a truly trusting wife, she would never doubt Jack. Larissa wasn’t even going to acknowledge or honor the argument. Cissy had been her friend too, as they all worked together at the magazine, and Larissa proclaimed loud and long that it was up to Cissy to trust them both.
Which was bullshit, and they all knew it. Hurt feelings didn’t work that way, didn’t answer to what should be in a perfect world.
Now, even if Larissa did come around, it was already too late. Cissy had made up her mind, and she’d seen Larissa’s silence as testament to the fact that Larissa and Jack had slept together. Even if Larissa were to come clean—which was a big if—Cissy wouldn’t believe her and would, no doubt, come to the conclusion that Jack had put Larissa up to it.
So they were at an impasse.
Damn, what a mess.
Your own fault, Holt. You blew it.
Now he stared out at the street where rain was washing down the hillside, past the rooftops of the Victorian houses to the city below. Thousands of lights winked in the night, warm windows glowing in the high-rise apartment buildings, hotels, and office buildings of the financial district.
Back at their house, a light went on in the baby’s room, and Jack visualized Cissy going through the evening routine of bathing the baby, dressing him in pj’s, then sitting in the big overstuffed chair to read him a story before laying him in his crib. Gazing up at the window, Jack felt a loneliness he’d never experienced in his life. He cracked open a bottle of water, wished it were a beer, then noticed another car pull into a spot in front of the house.
Great.
He had company.
The cops were back.
He remembered seeing the classic Caddy parked at Eugenia’s house. Paterno’s old car. He watched as Paterno climbed out of the driver’s side then opened the car’s rear door. The detective retrieved a plastic carrier of some kind from the backseat, then headed for the house.
A pet crate?
Jack heard another approaching engine. As Paterno started for the door, a news van turned the corner and pulled up on the far side of the street, its nose blocking Cissy’s driveway.
Great.
Jack screwed the cap back on his water bottle and left it on the passenger seat.
An Asian woman in an orange parka with the station’s letters—KTAM—emblazoned over a pocket practically flew out of the van and popped open a fat umbrella. The reporter, glossy layered hair gleaming, zeroed in on Paterno and headed his way, cutting across the grass as if she hoped to reach him before he got to the front porch.
This didn’t look good.
Jack reached for the Jeep’s door handle.
“Detective,” the reporter called as she closed the distance. “Detective Paterno! Could I have a word with you?” A cameraman was following close behind, his mammoth camera propped on his shoulder as he ran after her. “We’ve met before. I’m Lani Saito with KTAM.”
Paterno turned just as Jack slid out of his rig.
“Can you tell me about Marla Cahill’s escape?”
Paterno stopped short as she blocked his way. Tersely, he answered, “I’m sure the prison authorities and state police have issued a statement.”
She wasn’t budging. “But you were the detective who arrested her, and now, just a few hours ago, her mother-in-law died from a fall. Was foul play involved in Eugenia Cahill’s death?”
“We don’t know.”
As he was behind the detective, Jack couldn’t see Paterno’s reaction, but there was no mistaking the irritation in his voice. “We’re still investigating.” He turned toward the house, and inside the pet carrier a dog started yapping.
“Detective, what’s in the carrier?” But the howling that came out of the plastic crate answered the question. “You’re delivering a dog?”
“It was missing.” He turned back toward the house.
“Whose dog?”
Paterno didn’t honor the question with so much as a turn of his head, but Lani, spying Jack, switched her attention to him. He suspected she knew who he was; he’d done a lot of promoting when he was getting the magazine off the ground and showed up at a lot of civic and charitable functions.
“Jack Holt?” she said, and he noticed the sharpened interest in her dark eyes. The wheels were turning in her mind. He didn’t wait for her to put two and two together. Jogging around her, he caught up with Paterno at the front door. “Don’t ring the bell,” he said as Paterno was just lifting his hand. Now Coco was having a fit, barking crazily, baying and whining in her little-dog voice. “Cissy just put the baby to bed. Let’s not wake him. Here.” He slid his key into the lock, and the door swung open. “I’ll get her,” he said, ushering the cop inside and pulling the door shut.
“Jack?” Cissy called from the top of the stairs. “I thought you understood—”
“We’ve got company, Ciss,” he said as Paterno set the crate on the floor.
“What? Who?” He heard her soft, familiar footsteps on the stairs as he opened the cage’s mesh door.
With an excited yip, a scrap of scruffy white fur bolted from inside the carrier and barked excitedly at Cissy’s feet as she reached the main floor. “Oh.” She had already pulled her hair into a ponytail, and the sleeves of her T-shirt had been pushed up her forearms, slightly wet, evidence of B.J.’s quick bath. She looked from Jack to the detective as she bent down to pick up the frantic, ecstatic dog, who was yipping and jumping up at her.
“I probably should have called,” Paterno said. “We found her”—he pointed at Coco—“locked in a cupboard in the library.”
“What?” she repeated.
“Would your grandmother ever put the dog in the—”
“Cupboard? No! Never!” Holding the wriggling terrier, Cissy was rewarded with a pink tongue that licked her all over her face. She couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah, I’m glad to see you too,” she said dryly to the dog, then actually chuckled at Coco’s enthusiasm. Looking at Paterno, she said, “My grandmother adored Coco, and I’m not kidding you, she would have died before she would have locked…” She blinked and shook her head. “Sorry. It’s…still processing…. The thing is, Gran would have never locked Coco in anything, including that,” she said, hitching her chin toward the crate. “I mean, this dog, from the time she was a puppy, sat on Gran’s lap while she watched television or knitted or read. My grandmother was meticulous to a fault. She absolutely detested dirt of any kind, but she didn’t care a whit about the dog hair when it came from this one.” Cissy rubbed Coco behind her ears, and the dog grunted happily, beady black eyes still glaring distrustfully at Jack and Paterno. “Thanks for bringing her by.” She shot a look at her husband as if to say, So what are you doing here?
Paterno reached into his pocket and pulled out a little spiral-bound notepad. “Since I’m here already, would you mind if I ask you a few more questions? Some clarification on a few things.”
Cissy wanted to tell him to wait till morning. It was on the tip of her tongue, but what good would it do, really? Put off the inevitable for one more night? She inclined her head and asked, “When I pick up my car tomorrow, can I go inside Gran’s house?”
“I think it’ll be okay.”
“Then go ahead with your questions,” Cissy said as she carried the dog into the living room. “I don’t know what more I can tell you,” she said and motioned to the couch f
rom which Jack so recently had been evicted. “Please, sit down.”
“Thanks. What I need from you are the names of your grandmother’s friends and associates, their phone numbers, or addresses, if you have them. I have the ones that were on your cell phone. I was also hoping you could tell me a little bit about your grandmother, her routine.” He dropped onto the couch while Jack walked to the fireplace and lit the gas jets, gold flames instantly flaring over ceramic logs.
“Deborah, Gran’s companion, could tell you better than I can about what she did every day. Give me just a minute to take care of the dog, and I’ll be right back.” To Coco, she said, “I’ll bet you’re thirsty and maybe hungry too, huh?” She and the dog disappeared into the kitchen, and a few seconds later the sounds of banging cupboard doors and water running were accompanied by a series of sharp, staccato yips. Soon, Cissy, barefoot, returned, while the dog, presumably, was digging into whatever it was she found to feed it.
Jack watched as his wife retrieved her laptop from an upper shelf of the built-in bookcase near the fireplace, a “baby-proof” spot well out of the reach of B.J.’s curious fingers, then clicked it on. “It’ll be just a minute,” she said as she sat on a side chair while Jack braced himself against the mantel. As the computer began its clicking and humming to life, Cissy pushed her wet sleeves down to her wrists and answered the questions she could about Eugenia, telling the detective as much about her grandmother’s days as she knew.
“She’s on the board of Cahill House, which is what would once have been called a ‘home for unwed mothers.’ In fact, I think that’s exactly what it was called once. Now everything’s more straightforward, isn’t strangled by all the secrecy and shame, thank God. Cahill House is now a place for pregnant teens or twenty-somethings who don’t have support from their families. They can stay there, go to school, and get counseling while they’re awaiting the birth of their child.” She managed a smile. “It’s one of the truly philanthropic things my family’s done. And Cahill House has always been one of Gran’s pet projects, along with being on the board at the hospital.”
