Almost Dead

by Lisa Jackson

  Jannelle’s brow furrowed as she glanced around the house through her glasses. “Talk about smudged.” She yanked off the shades and polished them with the hem of her sweater. “I haven’t talked to Dad today, but I imagine he’s got one helluva hangover. He’s probably still sleeping it off.” She slid the glasses on again, and once more swung her head, testing the clarity of the lenses. “By the time J.J. and I poured him into his condo, he was feeling no pain.” Her eyebrows shot up over the rims of her designer sunglasses. “I mean no pain.”

  Jack offered, “I’ll call him later.”

  “Do that.”

  As Coco patrolled the kitchen, B.J. picked up several Cheerios, put one in his mouth, and, grinning, tossed several over the side of the tray.

  “No,” Cissy admonished.

  “No!” He pounded on the tray. “No!”

  Beneath the highchair, Coco was ready, sniffing and eating whatever little tidbit fell to the floor.

  “How about J.J.? Did he get home okay?” Jack asked.

  Jannelle lifted a shoulder. “How should I know? He kept yammering about all the ‘hotties’ who he’d met here. I thought he might show up again, you know, and start asking for phone numbers and e-mail addresses.” She made a face. “I don’t really think he understood the gravity of the situation. I dropped him off at Dad’s since his car was there, and I assumed he went home, but then again, I don’t know, and it’s really none of my business.” She was already heading for the door. “I’ll see you around. Keep me posted, will ya? Once you decide whether you’re going to stay married or not?”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Jack said dryly, following her barefoot to the vestibule. “Well…right after Cissy and me. I think we should get the info first.”

  “Funny man,” she said.

  He held the door for her, and once she was over the threshold, swung it shut. “She didn’t even say ‘hi’ to Beej,” he observed.

  “I noticed.”

  “Maybe she’s jealous, you know. Thirty-eight and never been married.”

  “Thirty-eight isn’t exactly ancient.”

  “Maybe she feels like she’s running out of options. If she wants kids, she’s got to find a guy, get to know him, decide he’s the one, get married, and then plan a kid that may or may not happen right away. That takes time.”

  “She could have a baby next year if she wanted to, Jack. She doesn’t need to do the whole dating-courting-marriage thing. I just think she doesn’t like or want kids. And that’s okay.”

  “Maybe.” Jack forced his hands into the front pockets of his pants as he walked to the French doors and stared at the yard. “Sometimes I think my family is more dysfunctional than yours.”

  She had to laugh. “Is that possible?”

  “Let’s face it, Cissy, between us, we have our share of nutcases and lunatics.”

  “It’s possible the Cahills don’t have the corner on neuroses and psychoses, but you Holts can’t hold a candle to us.” She thought of her psycho mother running from the law, and Cherise and her brother, Monty, another criminal. She slid a glance at her son, who was contemplating shoving a Cheerio up his nose. “Oh, Beej,” she said, distracting him before he actually pushed the bit of cereal up his nostril. “You are the cutest, smartest boy I know, but genetically, you’ve got some major strikes against you.”

  “Amen,” Jack agreed and glanced up at Cissy. She started to say something about him leaving, but he read the message in her eyes.

  “I’ll get my things.”

  Her heart tore a little, but she didn’t fight it when, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to the funeral, he hugged his boy, then dropped a kiss on her forehead.

  “Dad-dee!” Beej yelled from his high chair. “Dad-dee stay!”

  “I’ll be back,” Jack promised, then closed the door behind him.

  “Nooooo!” the boy wailed, beginning to sob. Cissy quickly unstrapped him from the high chair. He kicked and cried and wrestled, then wept as if his little heart would break.

  Cissy felt terrible. How could she do this to her child?

  How could she do it to herself?

  Forgive him, Cissy. Give Jack a second chance.

  “And then what?” she wondered aloud, but there was no answer.

  Chapter 13

  Paterno walked along the waterfront. It was the weekend, Sunday, two days after Eugenia’s funeral. He was trying to follow everyone’s advice that he should take some time off, if for nothing more than to clear his head. But he couldn’t. The case ate at him.

  He took a deep breath and watched seagulls swoop over the green water, calling and wheeling, looking for scraps of food left on the docks. The air was brisk, smelling of brine, a cold breeze blowing in from the Pacific Ocean, slapping at his face and billowing his windbreaker. He stopped into a coffee shop, where he grabbed a cup of black coffee and an oatmeal muffin because it sounded like it had a chance of having some nutritional benefits; not that he cared, but his doctor was on his case.

  He should go fishing. Or golfing. Or sailing. Or friggin’ stay home and try to find a game on TV. But he’d decided on this walk on the piers, and now, dodging other pedestrians, joggers, strollers, and skateboards, he was still thinking about the case.

  Always the damned case.

  He eyed the sailboats cutting across the murky water, but he was still sifting through the evidence. Phone records for Rory Amhurst’s room at the care center and Eugenia Cahill’s house gave up no clues. All tire and foot impressions and fingerprints came back as belonging to members of the staff at Harborside, or the Cahill family members and staff at Eugenia’s house on Mt. Sutro. There had been no evidence collected that pointed to a specific killer, and as the hours and days passed, Paterno knew the cases were getting colder and colder. He’d gone over the last days of Eugenia Cahill’s life, talking to the people who saw her last, tracing the footsteps of her final hours, but no one had seen or heard anything that had offered a lead to the killer.

  He walked to the railing of the dock and stared down into the ocean, spying his own watery reflection. He knew in his gut that Marla Cahill was behind this, but he couldn’t prove it, nor could a statewide manhunt locate the slippery bitch.

  Where had she gone?

  Who was harboring her?

  Why, in all of the dozens of calls from people who had thought they’d seen her, had not one solid lead evolved?

  And Mary Smith—who the hell was she? The name was a phony, of course, as was her affiliation with a church, but why hadn’t anyone seen her? The composite sketch made by the police artist, and another one generated by a computer, had been broadcast over the news, and, as in the case of Marla, nothing solid had appeared.

  “Son of a bitch,” he growled and noticed a seagull hovering nearby, eyeing the remainder of his breakfast. Dropping it into the water, he said, “Knock yourself out.” The bird swooped down and gobbled up the soggy piece of muffin, and two other seagulls squawked and tried to steal it away. “I hear it lowers your cholesterol,” he said to the birds, then finished the last of his coffee and tossed the empty cup into a trash bin.

  So what did he have to go on to find Marla, to solve the murders?

  “Very little and not much,” he said to no one as he hiked back to his car. He was tense. Agitated. Knew that if they didn’t find Marla soon, there would be more deaths. He’d tried to call Cissy Cahill on her cell phone and warn her, but he’d only been able to leave messages. Maybe she was dodging him. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to see that she didn’t trust him.

  Not that he blamed her.

  It seemed as if he’d been dogging the Cahill family for years, though there had been nearly a decade between the first case and this one. The decade when Marla Cahill had been safely behind bars. Now that peace had ended, and the murderess was on the loose again. She’d been involved either directly or indirectly in the deaths of three people ten years ago, and now she was adding to the total, though once again,
he thought, she was most likely behind the scenes. Someone else was doing her dirty work. Just like before.

  But who?

  He’d been in contact with Benowitz, but the state police weren’t having any luck with nabbing Marla Cahill, and the feds were frustrated as well.

  Welcome to my world.

  He found his keys in his pocket and was about to unlock the doors to his Caddy when he saw the scratch, a long, ugly mar that went down the driver’s side. “Shit.” He looked around, hoping to spy the culprit who had keyed his car, but he saw no one running, no one watching, no one hiding in the other vehicles parked here. “Son of a bitch.” Anger pounded at his temples, and his fists balled impotently. “Son of a goddamn bitch.”

  He took another look around, zeroed in on a couple of kids walking and laughing and talking on the waterfront, two boys with iPods and baggy shorts, Oakland Raiders jackets and self-important saunters. They looked about fourteen—one Hispanic, the other white—but they didn’t so much as glance over their shoulders as they bought tickets to visit Alcatraz.

  Whoever had scratched the hell out of his car had gotten away with it, and it pissed the hell out of him.

  “Take it easy. Clear your head. Get a little exercise.” He mimicked his own advice as he backed out of the parking space. “What a load of crap.”

  He drove straight to the station, his mood foul. There was work to catch up on. He had more on his plate than the recent murders of Eugenia Cahill and Rory Amhurst. A Jane Doe had been found in the bay yesterday. And there was a pretty cut-and-dried case of domestic violence, the beaten wife still holding her husband’s .38 in her shaking hands as he lay dead on the floor, the baseball bat he’d swung at her still in his hand. These were people who had once pledged to love each other for better or worse. Worse had definitely won out. Jesus, the world was a sick place.

  He parked in the station’s lot and cast another angry look at his car. It would cost him a fortune to have it repainted.

  So get yourself one of those hybrids. Retire the old Caddy. Be kind to the environment. Save yourself some gas dollars.

  “Humph.” Jaw set, he turned away and walked into the station house, which was a little quieter than during the week. He got a lot more work done, plowing steadily through paperwork. There were always a few detectives doing the same, or working weekend cases. Murderers, unfortunately, didn’t work nine to five. Even so, Paterno was more at home during the week, when everyone was on duty. The station house was alive then, crackling with an energy that he found stimulating.

  Today, he caught up on his paperwork, made a few phone calls, and went over his list of suspects, some of whom, with alibis, had been crossed off.

  Cissy Cahill’s name was still there, big as life, a woman who had just inherited a fortune, more money than Paterno could save in his lifetime. And yet he didn’t believe she was involved…it just didn’t fit. He couldn’t picture the young mother as a murderess, nor did she seem particularly fond of her mother, so she wasn’t about to try and please Marla by knocking off her enemies.

  Is that what this was about?

  Marla Cahill’s enemies?

  So far the two victims had been her relatives, her brother by blood, her mother-in-law by marriage.

  He drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the pictures of the two victims, alive and then dead. He picked up the composite of Mary Smith. “Who the hell are you?” he wondered out loud as he heard footsteps behind him.

  “Your partner,” Janet Quinn said, thinking he was talking to her. She was carrying a backpack over one shoulder and a water bottle by its neck in her other hand.

  “I thought you were taking the weekend off, going to Reno.” He dropped the composite onto the clutter of open files, empty cups, and scratched notes.

  “Plans fell through,” she admitted, and he wondered about her private life. Quinn was one of the most closemouthed people he knew. He had no idea what she did on her off hours. “You?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “I saw your car.” She was shaking her head. “Ouch.”

  “It’s a pisser,” he said, angry again.

  “Any idea who did it?” She dropped the backpack onto the chair he usually reserved for suspects or witnesses.

  “Some brainless, dickless asshole.” He snorted and picked up a pen, clicking it in frustration. “Could be someone I sent away, could be random. I’m going to check if there are any security cameras in the area, but I figure my chances of finding the guy are nil.”

  “So what have you got?” She nodded toward the Cahill file, open on his desk.

  “Nothin’. You?”

  “Same as you.” She rested a hip on the corner of his desk and uncapped her bottle. “I’m still going over the things we found in Eugenia’s safe. Stock certificates, cash, jewelry, the will, and a few other personal items.”

  “Such as?”

  “A family history, I guess you’d call it. Or maybe Eugenia’s memoirs. She was pretty meticulous. As if she was going to write a book someday.” She took a long swallow of her water, then recapped the bottle.

  “Anything good?”

  “Nothing that means anything. At least not that I can sort out. There are pictures too. Some look about a hundred years old. I’m trying to do a little who’s who and figure out all the major players.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Not so far, but I’m not quite through it yet.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “What about tips? Anyone seen our Mary Smith?”

  “Nah. Nor Marla.” Marla Cahill’s photo had been circulating through the media ever since her escape. Now the police had released the artist’s sketch, and all the tips that had come in had turned out to be either mistakes or freakoids who wanted to be a part of the investigation. They were looking for their fifteen minutes of fame any way they could get it. Well, not on his watch.

  “Maybe something will turn up.”

  He leaned back in his chair as she grabbed the strap of her backpack and walked to her desk. As she dropped into her chair, her cell phone spewed out some tune from the eighties. God, he hated those special ringtones. Waste of time and money. He cracked his neck, winced, and picked up the sketch of Mary Smith again.

  Who are you?

  On Monday morning, Cissy decided to leave the house and finish her article at the coffee shop. She hadn’t been back to Joltz since she’d seen the weird man in black, but she told herself that her encounter with the creep was just an anomaly, a product of timing and over-heightened senses.

  Things were crazed right now, that was all. As she scraped her hair away from her face and snapped it into an untidy knot at the back of her head, she told herself to buck up and get on with her life.

  Sooner or later she’d have to deal with the lawyers and her grandmother’s house, but today she was going to work for a couple of hours, jog if the weather permitted, then spend the rest of her day with Beej while going through the cards and flowers and donations to Cahill House that had been sent after Gran’s death.

  Tanya, still eyeing Coco dubiously, had arrived and promised to take B.J. to the park if the sun dared peek through the clouds. Cissy’s resolve to replace the young woman had wavered since Tanya had helped out so much at the funeral.

  Looking at the weather, Cissy figured Tanya was off the hook for the park. The sky was gun-metal gray. No rain was falling yet, but with the approaching thick clouds, it was only a matter of time.

  Traffic was thick, and Cissy had to circle the neighborhood a couple of times before she found a parking spot two blocks down the hill from Joltz. Hauling her laptop with her, she hiked to the coffee shop, telling herself the exercise was just what she needed to get her blood pumping and her mind clear.

  Though she knew she was being stupid, she couldn’t help but keep an eye out for the man in black with the creepy smile. Isolated incident or not, the confrontation still bothered her.

  “Get over it,” she told herself a
s she ordered a mocha from Rachelle, thanked her and Diedre again for helping out with the post-funeral gathering, then settled into her favorite table in the corner. There was a lull in the activity at the popular shop. Most of the pre-work crowd had already been in, then out, and it would be a few more hours before the lunch crowd gathered. Right now only a few patrons were sitting at the tables or at the counter. Some were reading a paper, some were talking, while others just sipped their hot beverages as they gazed out the window on the cold, gray day.

  One woman who always came in and ordered a frozen coffee-and-cream blend was at the counter. She made small talk and placed a dollar in the tip jar while Diedre arranged croissants and scones in the glass case. A man Cissy didn’t recognize was seated near the window. His black beret was cocked upon a head that had been shaved bald, and he was working feverishly on a Sudoku puzzle with a tiny pencil usually used for marking golf scorecards.

  Not much happening. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  No man in a dark trench coat and with a cold grin.

  Of course Selma showed up. Either she lived in the area or was following Cissy, because every time Cissy spent any time at the coffee shop and deli, Selma arrived as if on schedule.

  She seemed to always be here.

  As Cissy surreptitiously watched, Selma, the slim, reddish-haired funeral crasher, ordered her usual latte, then stopped by Cissy’s table and asked about Marla. Cissy murmured a noncommittal response, then Selma drifted to her favorite chair, where she sipped her drink and read a paperback thriller. Or peeked over the top at Cissy and the other patrons, almost as if she were gathering data, like some kind of Gen-X spy.

  Oh, stop it! Cissy took a big swallow of her mocha, fired up her laptop, then spread her handwritten notes on the small table. Resting the heel of one of her running shoes on the empty chair on the opposite side of the table, she began pulling her story together.

  At first it was slow. She was distracted by people coming into the shop. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to concentrate, that all of the stress of the last couple of weeks would jam up her creative juices. But after a few failed attempts, surprisingly, the story that had been gelling for nearly a month in the back of her subconscious began to take shape. She wrote text from her notes, double-checked quotes, and moved paragraphs around. She remembered liking the black woman running for mayor, and as she reread her notes, brought out most of the candidate’s ideas.