The subject seemed closed and Nick had done his duty, so he slid lower on his spine and observed his brother. “I drove out to the scene of the accident,” Nick admitted.
Alex didn't show much reaction. “And what did you find out?”
“Not much. But I can't figure out why both vehicles broke through guardrails in opposing directions. The truck, well, that's nearly understandable, just from the sheer weight and speed of the rig. It was, after all, going downhill, but the Mercedes . . . how did it manage to tear through that kind of steel?”
“Good question.”
“I saw the car,” Nick admitted. “Found a policeman who was more than happy to let me take a look in the yard where it's being held.” His lips rolled in on themselves as he remembered the crushed metal, blood-stained seats and shattered glass. “It's a wonder anyone survived.”
“Marla's always been tough. You know that.”
The muscles in the back of Nick's neck tensed. “Tough is one thing.” He stared straight at his brother. “Seeing the car made me almost believe that she had a guardian angel watching over her.”
“Almost?”
“I have a problem with organized religion.”
“I remember.”
“But no one should have survived that wreck.”
One side of Alex's mouth lifted. “Well, Marla's always been lucky, hasn't she?”
Nick didn't answer, didn't want to go there. “Why do you think Marla panicked and lost control of the car?”
“Hell if I know. She was always a decent driver. Never even a traffic ticket. I guess only she can answer that one . . . if she gets her memory back.”
“You mean when,” Nick corrected.
“Do I?” Alex smiled to a pretty waitress with a knockout figure and big brown eyes.
She hardly looked old enough to be serving drinks. Dressed in a short skirt, white blouse and red bow tie, she picked up his empty glass, deposited another full one and left Nick a beer that he wasn't quite ready for. But he didn't complain. Figured he'd find a way to down it.
“I'm not sure if she'll ever remember anything,” Alex said. He met the questions in Nick's eyes and sighed. “Sure, I play the game and tell her she will. Of course I do and Phil Robertson, her doc, he seems convinced that her memory will return, but right now, it doesn't seem like it.” He took a long sip from his new drink and settled back against the tufted seat. “It's just hard to predict.”
Grudgingly, Nick had to agree.
“And maybe I'm just sick of all this shit.”
“Maybe.” Nick sipped from the long-necked bottle and wondered about the accident. Pam Delacroix had died instantly, Biggs had never regained consciousness. Marla remembered nothing, surviving in her own personal netherworld. “You never met Pam?”
“Nope.” Alex reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and said, “I need a smoke. Wanna join me outside?”
“Sure.” They finished their drinks, and Alex insisted on paying by offering the waitress his credit card. After signing the receipt, and shrugging into his overcoat, he and Nick walked outside to an alley where several men were gathered, smoking, laughing, laying down odds on the 49ers' chances for a playoff berth, barely glancing in Alex and Nick's direction. Alex lit up and blew smoke from the corner of his mouth and Nick zipped his jacket against the chill that was San Francisco in mid-November. “All I know about Pam is what Marla told me, that she and Marla met at the club a few years back, though I never heard about it at the time.” He shrugged. “But that could be expected.” He looked up to the sky. “There have been times in our marriage that we didn't talk a lot. We've separated a couple of times . . . oh, nothing official, but the marriage, well, it's had a few bumps in the road.” He turned thoughtful, inhaled deeply on his smoke and Nick didn't comment, didn't want to tackle the dangerous subject of his brother's marriage. “As for Pam, I'm not really sure. I assume that they played tennis together, and maybe bridge . . . but, come to think of it, I never heard her say she was going out to meet her. Other names I heardâJoanna and Nancy, I think. But not Pam.”
“But you must've heard something since.”
“From the insurance company and a lawyer for Pam's estate. I sent flowers to the funeral, of course, donated to some charity in Pam's name, but haven't had much contact. She was divorced, and had gotten her real estate license I think, but she just dabbled at that. I think she lived off her ex. He's some hotshot computer engineer who made it big in Silicon Valley. They had one kid, a daughter, and she was down at UC Santa Cruz.” He drew hard on his cigarette as the men clustered near the doorway laughed nearly in unison, as if someone had cracked a particularly hilarious joke. Traffic whizzed by. High in the heavens the moon was partially hidden by wispy, slow-moving clouds.
“So what was Marla doing that night?”
“That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Shit, I wish I had an answer to it. But the truth is I have no idea why Marla and Pam took a notion to go down there. For Christ's sake, James was only a few days old and Marla just gets a wild hare and takes off down Highway 17 in the middle of the night? It was nuts.”
“Maybe she'll tell us when she gets her memory back.”
“Maybe.” Flicking ashes onto the pock-marked street, Alex gazed up the hill, past the Victorian buildings of Haight Street toward the Cahill house, the place they had once, as children, thought of as home. As far as Nick was concerned, Alex could have the mansion and all the problems that came with it.
Alex tossed his cigarette into the gutter, where it died quickly. A bicyclist darted in and out of the traffic and cars rushed through the narrow streets. “I wish I had met Pam,” Alex said. “Then maybe I could have made some sense of this. It looks like her family is suing usâtheir lawyer's already calledâbut I contend that everything should be handled through the insurance company. Christ, what a mess.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded toward the street where he'd parked his car. “Just one of many, I'm afraid.” He flashed a mirthless smile at his brother. “And speaking of which, I have a few files in my briefcaseâkind of an overview of the company,” he said, obviously anxious to change the subject. “I thought you might like to review them before you came down to the office.”
“Probably a good idea,” Nick allowed as Alex used his keyless lock that opened the driver's door of the Jag. He snapped open his briefcase and withdrew a small, slim case which he handed to Nick.
“If you have any questions you can call me at the office, but I'd rather we didn't discuss details in front of Mother or Marla or anyone at the house.” In the lamplight, Alex looked older than he had, his features more drawn. “I won't kid you, Nick. The company's got problems. Big ones. Mother knows there are some difficulties of course, but it would be best if we left it at that.”
“What about Marla?”
“Let's keep her out of it. She's got enough to deal with.”
No shit,
he thought, but said nothing and gave a curt nod of agreement.
“Good. I appreciate it.” Alex's face was grim. For the first time Nick realized that Cahill International might be in serious trouble, that Alex, as CEO was taking the heat. There was even a chance that he'd somehow screwed up, that the company was struggling because of his decisions. Alex clapped him on the back, his hand smacking against the damp leather of Nick's jacket. “Thanks,” he said, and for the first time in his life, he sounded as if he meant it.
Nick felt the Cahill noose tighten another notch. As he watched his brother slide into the Jaguar, punch it and roar up the hill, he only hoped that he hadn't just agreed to become the fall guy.
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 looksâshort 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 nightâor 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 gameâa 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.