by Lisa Jackson
Chapter Six
“Charles Biggs died.”
The announcement heralded Janet Quinn’s arrival at Paterno’s office. She flopped into a chair wedged between a file cabinet and the window.
“Shit.”
“My sentiments exactly.” She slapped a file down on the edge of Paterno’s already jammed desk. A detective with the department for years, Janet was a tall, no-nonsense woman who endured a constant ribbing for her mannish looks—short cropped brown hair now shot with gray, square jaw, thick eyebrows and pensive blue eyes that she didn’t adorn with anything but a functional pair of glasses. She didn’t gussy herself up and she didn’t give a shit. No doubt she’d heard herself referred to as a bull dyke or the sneered suggestions that she took steroids by those who were jealous. And there were quite a few. She’d climbed the ranks swiftly because she was a helluva detective and she didn’t give up.
“When?”
“Late last night—or early this morning. His heart monitor went off at three forty-seven. Couldn’t be revived. Considering his condition, maybe it’s a blessing.”
“Considering our case, maybe it’s not.”
She lifted a shoulder and leaned against the file cabinet. She wore Dockers, a shirt and Rockport shoes.
“Don’t suppose he said anything before he died.”
“Nope.”
“Death certificate?”
“Not yet.” She shook her head and Paterno tented his hands, looking over the tips of his fingers, thinking. The accident bothered him; it bothered him a lot. Now two people were dead and, he supposed, he could chalk the whole thing up to bad timing, but he didn’t like the feel of it. It didn’t fit.
He saw a gleam in Janet’s eye.
“Something else?”
“Yep. There was a disturbance right after Biggs’ heart monitors went off. Some guy in a stolen lab coat plowed into a nurse on the first floor and took off. She saw his name tag and realized he wasn’t Carlos Santiago, an intern who’d been working swing shift. On the way out, the guy nearly knocked over a woman in a wheelchair being pushed by an aide.”
“Jesus.”
“I already spoke with Santiago,” Janet said. “Sure enough his ID tag is missing.”
“You think he had something to do with Biggs’ death?”
“Could be. I’ve already asked the nurse, Betty Zimmerman, to come in and talk to the composite artist. The aide couldn’t remember much. He was too concerned about his patient and didn’t get a look at the guy. But we’ll see what happens after the nurse talks to the artist. We could have something by the end of the day.”
“Was the guy in Santiago’s coat seen in the burn ward?” Paterno leaned back in his chair, glanced out the window to the morning fog still rolling in off the Bay.
“No. But they were short staffed. One nurse’s car wouldn’t start, another was sick. The rest of the crew was run ragged.”
“What about Santiago?”
“He looks clean. Really pissed that he got dragged into this. I talked to him and I think he’s legit, but he’s testy, and let me know that he wouldn’t let his civil rights be violated, that just because he’s Hispanic, well, you know the drill.”
“But he did cooperate?”
“Yep.” She nodded, her face screwing up.
“Do you think this is all coincidence?” he asked.
She snorted, then sent him a twisted, mirthless smile as she settled back in the plastic chair. “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t.” His mind was turning fast. The feeling that the accident on Highway 17 with Marla Cahill at the wheel was starting to look more and more like a setup. But what? Why? Who? And what would Biggs know about it? The way Paterno figured it, Biggs was just an unlucky player in this game—a guy driving a semi in the wrong place at a very wrong time. He found a pack of Juicy Fruit, offered Janet a stick and when she shook her head, unwrapped a piece and folded it into his mouth. “Got anything else?”
“Yeah, something strange,” she admitted, deep lines etching across her forehead, the way they always did when she was trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. “The lab says that they found three kinds of broken glass at the scene. Windows from the truck and the Mercedes.” She held up two fingers. “And a third.” She wagged her index finger. “Near as they can tell it’s shards from some kind of mirror and not a rearview mirror or a side-view mirror. We checked.”
“They’re different?” Grabbing the paper cup on his desk, he took a sip of now-tepid coffee.
“Yep, it’s the backing . . . this glass was hand-painted with some kind of reflective material.” Leaning forward, she thumped three fingers on the manila folder she’d dumped on his desk. “It’s all inside. In the report.”
He thumbed through. Sure enough. Bits of glass that didn’t fit either make or model of the vehicles in the wreck. “So what’s it mean?”
“I don’t know. It could’ve been on the road before, but it’s a coincidence.”
“Another one,” Paterno said, frowning. “Way too many for my liking.”
“Same here.”
“Any word on why the guardrails gave way?”
“Not yet. The semi just blew through one. Big rig, heavy load, but on the other side, that’s still debatable. There were welding marks, fairly recent, I think, as if the rail was weak and had been repaired, but the highway department can’t locate any work order for the past five years for that stretch of road.”
“So it just gave way.” He bit on the end of his thumb and scowled. The whole damned thing didn’t make any sense. And it just didn’t feel right. Two people were dead and the driver who started the whole mess had conveniently lost her memory. Now there was evidence of another player, someone who could have killed Biggs. Could it be that Charles Biggs was the target, if there was one? Had Paterno been reading this wrong from the onset?
“Do a thorough check on Biggs.”
“Already done. He’s clean as a proverbial whistle. No arrests, one outstanding parking ticket, married for forty years to the same woman, put both his kids through college and aside from owning the independent trucking company that consists of the one truck he drove, he owns a small Christmas tree farm in Oregon and doesn’t even cheat on his taxes. He and the missus have socked away nearly two hundred grand for his retirement and he spent his free time fly-fishing on the Metolius River near Bend and teaching his grandkids how to hunt and fish. No history of drugs or domestic violence or anything. The guy was a real Boy Scout.”
“So we’re back to Marla Cahill and Pam Delacroix.” He finished his coffee, wadded the cup and tossed it into an overflowing basket.
Christ, what a mess.
“Too bad Biggs didn’t wake up,” he grumbled, chewing hard on his wad of gum and feeling his heartburn kick in. “Let me know when the autopsy report comes in. It’s just a damned shame he didn’t tell us what he saw.”
“I guess we’ll have to count on Marla Cahill for that,” Janet said with a cold smile and no trace of humor. “When she gets her memory back.”
“Which might be about a second before hell freezes over.”
Where am I? Marla dragged her eyes open to a strange room and she was disoriented for a second before she remembered that she was home. This was her room. Her bed. Her . . . everything.
How long had she slept? Gray daylight showed through the shades, but Marla had the impression from the fullness of her bladder and her groggy mind, that she’d slept around the clock. Her mouth tasted bad and her hair, what there was left of it, felt lank and dirty. She hadn’t heard Alex come into the suite, hadn’t heard her baby cry, had slept as if she were dead.
In bra and panties, she staggered into the bathroom, used the toilet, splashed water over her face and avoided looking at her pathetic reflection. There were fresh towels on the bar. She stripped, then stepped into a glass shower large enough for two and turned on the spray. Hot water needled into her skin, soaking her
muscles. Gingerly, avoiding touching her stitches, she washed, shampooed and found a safety razor to tackle the hair on her legs and under her arms. Then, still feeling as if her mind was shrouded by cobwebs, she braced herself and cranked the spray to the right. Icy water shot out of the showerhead and she sucked in her breath, leaning against the slick tiles.
Slowly she began to feel human again, stronger than she had since she’d woken from the damned coma. Twisting off the spray, she reached for a towel and in that moment she had a flash of memory, of another time and place.
She’d been at the beach . . . and there had been friends with her . . . or her husband . . . or . . . Cissy? Her daughter . . . no, that wasn’t right . . . but the sun had been shining and she’d come running out of the ocean, her feet nearly burning on the hot sand as she took a towel from . . . from . . . whom? Her head hurt from the effort of concentration. It had been a man . . . Yes, a man. He must’ve been Alex . . . or . . . Nick? Her throat tightened at that particular implication and she rubbed the thick terry cloth over her arms and legs. Maybe it had been someone else. Or maybe it hadn’t happened at all. Propping herself against the tiles with one arm, she shook her head and tried to focus, to call back that fleeting, tantalizing memory, but it had faded as quickly as it had appeared.
Determined to discover more about herself, she stepped out of the shower and faced her reflection. Jesus, she was a mess. The bruises were disappearing, the swelling nearly gone but she didn’t recognize herself. And her hair! What a catastrophe! The blunt cut at her chin on one side of her face would have to be cut short, maybe even spiky, to try to blend with the new fuzz that was just covering her scalp. If nothing else, she and her newborn son would be sporting similar hairdos.
Wasn’t there some famous singer who had shaved her head . . . part of some kind of religious protest or something . . . or was she wrong about that, too? Damn the amnesia! “This is a start,” Marla reminded herself as she squeezed some toothpaste on her finger and ran it over her interlaced teeth. These little bits of memory certainly were precursors to her recovery. “Rome or even San Francisco wasn’t built in a day.” But she couldn’t wait to piece together her history and as she rinsed her mouth, she grew impatient.
On impulse, she searched the medicine cabinet and drawers. She came across two prescription bottles, one for tetracycline with two pills still in the tiny plastic jar, the second empty of premarin. On the second shelf she found a pair of scissors and started snipping her locks. Shorter and shorter, one tuft after another, bits of mahogany-colored hair fell into the sink. When she was finished she didn’t look any worse than when she’d started, so she opened a can of mousse, worked some around her stitches and fluffed up what she could. Salon perfect it wasn’t, but it would grow and fill in, covering the scars. Her hair was the least of her problems. She didn’t bother with any of the makeup she found carefully arranged in the top drawer of the vanity. What was the use? Instead she headed for the closet.
It was immense, a row of perfectly coordinated suits, slacks and jackets. A rainbow of shoes, each pair placed neatly in an individual cubbyhole, filled one wall, another was reserved for evening gowns that sparkled within zippered plastic bags. Tennis outfits and warm-ups owned one corner, while purses lined two shelves. A full-length mirror was fitted next to the door and inside a tall, slender cupboard was an ironing board.
“Wonderful.” So where were the jeans? The old sweats? Her purse? Yes . . . where was her purse with her wallet and checkbook and maybe even an address book, all the things important in her life?
She went through each and every handbag, clutch, tennis bag and suitcase on the two shelves. All empty. Clean. As if they’d been vacuumed, for crying out loud. “Damn.” She threw them back onto the shelves in disgust, then riffled through the drawers of an armoire and found a stiff pair of jeans that were a size too big and a pink sweater that was soft enough to make her believe it had been her favorite.
Or had it?
“Don’t even go there,” she warned herself, slipping on a pair of battered tennis shoes she found in one of the cubbies. She thought of her daughter, her son, her husband and Nick, the man who had been her lover. Her lips folded in on themselves as the questions about her life started coming fast and furiously again, bringing with them the inevitable headache.
Outside the closet in this bedroom that felt so odd, she paused at the bureau and swept her gaze over the pictures arranged in front of a bevel-edged mirror. One snapshot framed in gold caught her eye. There she was, long before the accident. Mahogany hair shining in the sun, a little girl of about three balanced on her hip. The ocean spread out behind her like a shimmering sequined blanket. Marla stood barefoot on a boulder, her head thrown back, her eyes squinting. A rose-colored sundress was caught in that split second of time and billowed up past her knees, showing a length of tanned thigh, while Cissy’s chubby little arms encircled her neck.
Marla picked up the picture, her fingers holding the frame so hard her knuckles showed white. Think, come on, remember! This is you and Cissy and . . . and the person taking the picture, the one whose shadow is partially visible at your feet, must be Alex!
But try as she would, she couldn’t recall the day at the beach. Or any specific day for that matter.
“Give yourself time,” Marla said again, replacing the photo and nearly dropping it as her fingers didn’t move with the dexterity they should. She still felt clumsy and awkward, out of sync. Edgy, she made her way to the nursery. James wasn’t in his crib, but she didn’t panic. The nanny probably had him downstairs, or Eugenia, “Nana,” as she called herself, could be doting on him for she certainly acted as if the boy’s birth was nearly as important as the Second Coming. Or maybe even the First.
Outside the nursery, she heard voices floating up from downstairs, but decided, while she was alone, to do a little exploring—get the feel of the place. Whether it was paranoia or just a need for self-preservation, she wanted to learn as much about herself and her family as possible, and not always by asking questions and getting answers she felt had been premeditated and carefully constructed so as not to upset her. She’d have to straighten that out, and fast. She was home now. Ready to get on with her life, eager to put the past behind.
But you can’t. Not yet. You still have so much to remember and the police to deal with . . . Marla’s thoughts turned dark with regret, but she pushed them from her mind. She would have to call Pam’s daughter and her ex-husband, try to express her grief and regret and she’d have to do it soon. Regardless of the police. Or the attorneys. Or the damned insurance companies that she’d heard Alex whispering about.
She walked through the suite, a sitting area with its own fireplace and verandah, then tried the door to Alex’s room and found it unlocked.
Without thinking twice she stepped inside. The room was as neat as if he expected a military inspection. A king-sized bed, dresser, small couch and armoire hiding a television and stereo system were placed around the room. A bay window offered a view of the grounds, and farther off, the lights of the city. Through a walk-in closet filled with suits and sports clothes hung with precision was an exercise room and the equipment that kept him in shape. Marla ran her fingers over the handle bars of the exercise bike and eyed the treadmill, weight bench and NordicTrack, wondering if she’d ever used any of this stuff. She was in reasonably good shape, but she couldn’t imagine spending hours in this room working up a sweat. No, something told her she’d rather be outside . . . walking, running, playing tennis, riding . . . maybe even rowing.
Through another door she stepped into a private office, paneled in dark wood, accented with brass fixtures. Forest green leather furniture, potted plants, and beveled glass windows mounted high, near the ceiling, offering light but no view.
This, she supposed, was her husband’s sanctuary. It smelled faintly of smoke and his aftershave. Oils of racehorses graced the walls. Horses . . . In her mind’s eye, Marla caught a glimpse of herself riding, t
hrough open fields, her hair streaming behind her. Her lungs had been near bursting, the wind rushing at her face in a torrent, and beneath her, there had been the feel of powerful muscles stretching under her legs . . . bareback? She rode bareback? Like a wild tomboy or American Indian in old movies . . . ? Yes! As if she’d done it a thousand times, she suddenly remembered the chafe of horsehide against her legs. Stunned, she swallowed hard. Her palms were instantly sweaty, her heart racing. She shook her head. How did that imagery fit in with everything else around here? With the pictures of sleek racehorses, thoroughbreds held on reins by liveried handlers or ridden by jockeys in racing silks and jodhpurs along manicured tracks? Nothing wild . . . or reckless or . . . free. All contained. Constrained. By convention and society.
Her knees threatened her and she dropped into Alex’s desk chair to get a grip. “This is good,” she said, but she wasn’t certain she could believe it. The leather chair squeaked and she cringed. It wasn’t that she was trying to do anything behind her husband’s back, she told herself, but she just plain needed answers and she needed them ASAP. Yet she felt a niggling tickle of guilt as she flipped through the open desk calendar, as if she were invading someone else’s private space. “Stupid woman, he’s your husband, for crying out loud. There are no secrets between you.”
But she knew the statement was false. She’d felt the secrets, saw them in his eyes though he tried to hide them. There were lies and deceit and . . . “Stop it!” She was making herself nuts. Certifiably nuts! Stiffening her spine, she riffled through the pages of the calendar, studying the dates, places and names, hoping something, any little haphazard doodle or notation, would jog her memory.
Her accident had occurred nearly eight weeks earlier, so she turned back to the date when her entire life had nearly ended.
That square was blank.
“Damn it,” she muttered, feeling as if yet another obstacle had been thrust onto the road to her recovery. Most of the calendar squares were covered with pen and pencil marks, notations in two different hands—dinner party at the Robertsons, the Friday before, Cissy’s riding lesson on the day after the accident were written in a soft, easy-flowing script. Alex’s business meetings or squash and golf games were slashed in a bolder scrawl.
