“Isn't that heartwarming?” he mocked.
“It is, if you think of it.”
“Hell, Cherise, I think you're wasting your breath.” He dropped the card onto the nightstand near the phone. “I'm a sinner from way back. Remember?”
“A lost lamb . . .”
“Or a damned wolf in sheep's clothing.”
“You can't convince me not to pray for you, Nicholas.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
“You're impossible.”
“I try.”
“I know.” She started for the door and Nick followed her in his stocking feet. “So . . .” she said, holding her umbrella in a death grip. “Next time I'll try harder to convince Montgomery to come with me.”
“Do that. I haven't seen him since I was a kid.”
“He's still the same,” she said, her eyes darkening a bit. “Still playing the part of the bad boy. Still fighting his demons.”
“I guess he hasn't found the Lord yet,” Nick said, remembering Monty's fondness for fast women, fast cars and a variety of pharmaceuticals.
“I'm working on him. Donald is, too.”
Bully for Donald,
Nick thought.
Cherise changed the subject. “It'll be good to see Marla again. It's been too long. She and Alex were having some rough times, you know. They'd split up a couple of times.”
“Is that so?” This was news to Nick.
“I think so. Once or twice maybe . . . but I shouldn't gossip. It's their business, but I do pray for them.”
“I'll bet.”
“I'd just like to reconnect with Marla. She must feel awful. I heard on the radio that the truck driver died, too.”
Nick nodded. Alex had called him with the news. “I didn't know that Alex and Donald were close,” he said.
She didn't meet his eyes. Swallowed hard. “They're not. But . . . well, Donald did some work at Cahill House, was even on the board of directors for a while. And he was the pastor at Bayside at one time. He's wonderful, Nick, a true Christian. Always volunteering where there's a need, you know,” she said quickly, then, as if she was suddenly anxious to leave, reached for the knob of the door. “Just see if I can visit her, okay?” She hesitated, then added, “It's been good to see you, Nick. Really.” Biting her lip as if she was afraid she'd blurt out something she shouldn't, Cherise touched a hand to his cheek. “Take care.” And then she was gone, out the door and down the hall, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
Nick finished his beer in one final gulp, then tossed the can into the wastebasket wondering what the hell Cherise really wanted. He just couldn't buy into the sitting at Marla's bedside and reading the Bible bit. No way.
He slid his wallet from his pocket and found a beat-up business card from his days of playing God with corporations. Turning it over he read several numbers scrawled on the back and, hoping that Walt hadn't moved, Nick reached for the phone and punched the old number.
A gravelly voice picked up on the third ring. “Haaga here.”
“Walt, it's Nick. Nick Cahill.”
“Well, I'll be buggered, what the hell are you doin' callin' me after all these years?” Walt asked from his apartment in Seattle.
“I need some help. Want you to do some digging for me.” Nick heard the click of a lighter on the other end of the phone, testament to Walt's three-pack-a-day habit.
“I thought you gave up the business,” Walt said.
“I have for the most part.” He gave Walt a quick rundown on just how he'd happened to land in San Francisco.
Walt barked out a laugh that ended in a coughing fit. “So it's true. Blood
is
thicker than water.”
“Thicker than a lot of things in my case. Look, what I want is as much information as you can get on the accident, on Pamela Delacroix and I don't know anything about her except that she's got a daughter down at UC Santa Cruz. The kid could even have a different last name for all I know.”
“Y'know a social security number, or driver's license or husband's name. Even a friggin' address would help.”
“That's why I pay you.”
Walt sniggered.
“Okay, so get as much info as you can and fax it to me or send it through e-mail. I'll link up my laptop here. Scan me photos if you can find them.”
“Is that all?” Walt asked, not bothering to mask his sarcasm.
“Not quite.” Nick was on a roll now, and he felt the same surge of adrenalin in his bloodstream as he had years ago when he'd made a healthy living as a consultant to companies in trouble. “I'll fax you a list of the employees of the company tomorrow along with some family friends that I want checked out.” Nick stretched the cord of the phone to the window and peered through the curtains. He saw Cherise on the corner, glancing at her watch and holding her umbrella against the rain . . . or was it Cherise? She'd left his room over ten minutes earlier and the black jeans, boots and leather jacket were common garb here in the city. On top of that, it was darkâcity dark, the lamplight weak and ethereal. She glanced back at the hotel just as an SUV pulled up to the curb and she shook out the umbrella. Her blond hair with those glittery clips caught in the illumination from the streetlights as she disappeared into the rig. She was still closing the door when the impatient driver gunned the engine, running an amber light, water spraying from his wide tires. “Check on all the members of my family,” Nick instructed Walt. “Alex and Marla, and my cousins, Cherise and Montgomeryâhe goes by Monty sometimes.”
“All have the last name of Cahill?”
“No, wait.” He walked to the night table and picked up the card his cousin had left. “Cherise's last name is Favier.” He spelled it and added the home phone number. “Her husband is Donald; he's with the Holy Trinity of God church in Sausalito.” Frowning, Nick rattled off the number of the church.
Walt grunted, indicating that he'd gotten the information. “What about your mother?” he asked. “Eugenia? What should I do about her?”
Nick didn't miss a beat. “Check her out, too.”
Chapter Eight
Tony Paterno stared at the computer screen where images of Pam Delacroix looked back at him, photos taken for her driver's license, passport, and a couple of more glamorous head shots she'd used for her business cards when she'd worked at a real estate company in Sausalito. Pam wasn't a dead ringer for Marla Cahill, but they certainly resembled each other. He'd seen the photos before, of course, but the longer this case dragged on, the more the two women seemed to resemble each other.
So what did that mean? That they were related? That the woman behind the wheel wasn't Marla and the real Mrs. Cahill had already been cremated? But why? And if so, there had to have been a real fuck-up at the scene. It was impossible. And yet . . . Drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, he glanced at the other images of Pam Delacroix, not nearly so flattering, pictures taken at the scene of the accident. Lying face up on an embankment, her body was little more than a bloody heap, her neck broken, her face nearly scraped free of skin, her broken arms flung wide on the forest floor. Other pictures showed the wreckage of the Mercedes, windows shattered, metal twisted, leather upholstery ripped and covered in blood. Impact had blown the tires, shattered the glass, twisted the shell of the car and sprung the spare clean out of the trunk. It was a sheer stroke of luck that Marla Cahill had survived.
If she really was Marla.
Was the resemblance a fluke? Another coincidence? Could she be faking her amnesia? He snapped his gum and scratched at his jaw, his fingers scraping over a day's worth of stubble. Charles Biggs was deadâpushed into the grave by someone who'd slipped into the hospital, disguised himself and suffocated the poor bastard. Pam Delacroix or some other woman who looked a helluva lot like Marla Cahill had also been sent to her maker. The “accident” was looking more like a setup. But how? Why? Who was behind it? Who was the intended victim?
He thought hard. Motive. That's what he needed. Who wanted one or more of the three people involved in the wreckage dead?
“Son of a bitch.” He pushed a button on the keyboard and leaned back in his chair as the printer whirred to life. There was something about the accident involving Marla Cahill that had never felt right, but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it. He'd inherited the case. As both victims who had survived the crash had been life-flighted back to the city, SFPD was handling the investigation on this end, helping out the California Highway Patrol who were first to arrive on the scene and in whose jurisdiction the accident had occurred.
No crime had been proven. No drugs, no alcohol in her system. There was no reason to believe that she'd been driving in a negligent manner as there were no witnesses.
But one woman had been killed outright and Charles Biggs, the only witness, had been murdered.
He twisted in his chair and picked up reports on all the people related to Marla Amhurst Cahill. What a bunch of bluebloods. Marla came from a wealthy family in Marin County. Her father, Conrad James Amhurst, was living in an expensive care center with a view of the marina at Tiburon. If Paterno's information was correct, the old man had one foot in the grave already. Pancreatic cancer. Conrad Anhurst would be lucky if he lived another three months.
From all reports the old man had been a womanizing bastard in his youth, his wife, Victoria, Marla's mother, a cold fish. She'd died a few years back, complications after cosmetic surgeryâa liposuction that had gone bad. Paterno snorted but kept scanning the files. Their only son, Rory, had been injured as a toddler and had ended up in an institution. That left Marla as the wealthy old man's only heir. And she couldn't remember anything. Or so she claimed. Paterno's fingers tapped out a nervous tattoo on the arm of his chair. Maybe she was lying. But what the hell for?
He pulverized his gum as his eyes narrowed on page after page of reports.
The Cahills didn't exactly epitomize the
Ozzie and Harriet
image of the American family. Nope, they seemed a little more like something straight out of
Dynasty.
Eugenia was the matriarchâprim, proper with all the warmth of a smiling snake. As phony as the proverbial three-dollar bill.
Alexander, the eldest son and Marla's husband, was, from the outside, every woman's dream husband. Handsome and fit, educated at Stanford and Harvard, he'd practiced law some years before stepping into his ailing father's shoes and assuming command of Cahill Limited, an international corporation. When the old man had kicked off, Alex had inherited everything.
But Paterno didn't trust him. Rich, arrogant and sarcastic, Alex Cahill seemed to think he was above the law. Paterno had dealt with him before; didn't like the supercilious son of a bitch.
Alexander's brother, Nicholas, seemed to be the black sheep. While Alex had excelled in school and garnered athletic and scholastic awards, Nick had gotten himself into trouble with the law, deep enough that the old man had to bail him out more than once. None of the charges, everything from stealing cars to possession of alcohol to vandalismâhad ever stuck. The charges had always been dropped. Probably because Daddy had paid off everyone involved, not that it said as much in the report.
Nick had finished high school and left home at eighteen, worked as a trucker, on an oil rig, even tried his hand at ranching in Montana where he'd later been a fishing guide. He'd owned his own fishing boat, ran a company that made truck parts, built up a small fortune and began buying and selling small businesses in the Seattle area. Somehow, he'd become a corporate troubleshooter, then quit abruptly about five years ago and settled down, presumably with enough cash, in some rinky-dink town in Oregon. Devil's Cove, for crying out loud. Somehow it fit.
Now he was back.
Because of the accident? Or, as he'd said, to help his brother with the company? What, Paterno wondered, could possibly be wrong within the lavish and hallowed halls of Cahill Limited?
Paterno leaned forward and spat his gum into a wastebasket. He tossed the report on Nick aside.
Then there were a couple of disgruntled cousins who felt that they'd been cut out of the family wealth. Montgomery Cahill and his sister, Cherise Cahill Martin Bell Favier, had been fairly vocal about being mistreated at the hands of their father and uncle. “Monty” had landed in juvenile hall a couple of times as a kid. Apparently his father, Fenton, hadn't had quite the same amount of influence with judges and cops that Uncle Samuel had. Or maybe he wanted to let the kid take the fall for his own crimes.
There was also the chance that Fenton just hadn't given a shit. That wasn't uncommon. Paterno had only to think of his own father to know how it felt to be overlooked or ignored. He reached for his coffee cup, took a swig and felt the burn of acid crawl up his throat.
What was the deal with Marla Cahill and Pam Delacroix? Pam's ex-husband was screaming for justice, but Paterno suspected the guy smelled money.
And why had Marla Cahill, rich to the bone, been friends with a woman who didn't seem to fit into her social circle. He scoured the information on Pam again. She was supposed to have belonged to the same tennis club as the Cahills, but Paterno found no proof of it. But she was unpredictable. Had a law degree that she didn't use, though at one time she'd been a family practice attorney. When the marriage had fallen apart, she hadn't gone back to practicing law and instead started selling real estate in Sausalito.
Why?
Plucking the pages from his color printer he stared at the images of Pam Delacroix . . . or was she Marla Cahill? Had there been a misidentification? Could the police at the scene have screwed up so badly? The woman's ID had been on her, her body identified by her ex-husband.
And then there was the matter of Marla Cahill, who'd been wearing a hospital ID bracelet at the time of the accident. Now, even if she was amnesic, wouldn't her husband or mother-in-law know she wasn't who she said she was? She couldn't be bluffing the whole damned world, could she? There were physical traits and mannerisms, voice patterns . . . unless everyone was in on it.
A conspiracy.
Jesus, he was starting to think like Oliver Stone.
Paterno snorted at the turn of his thoughts. No reason to speculate. It was time to reevaluate the facts. He'd start with blood types.
Little James let out a cry and Marla, having overslept again, sprang from the bed. She was in the nursery in seconds, picking him up and holding him close. “It's all right,” she said automatically as she cuddled him for a few seconds before changing him. She drank in the sweet baby smell of him as she snapped up his pajamas and watched his little legs kick. He fastened blue eyes on her and her heart soared. “You're cute as a devil and you know it, don't you?”
His little fists moved jerkily and he cooed.
“Oh, yeah, James, you're gonna be a heartbreaker.” She finished changing him just as Fiona appeared with a bottle. “I'll do it,” Marla insisted and as the nanny straightened the room, Marla sat in the rocker and, humming softly, fed the baby. He drank greedily, pausing only to stare up at her once in a while. “I know, I know, you're looking at me and hoping you're adopted, aren't you?” She winked at him and when he'd finally had his fill, she set the nearly-empty bottle down, hoisted his body to her shoulder to burp him.
“He's a good baby, he is,” Fiona said as she folded a blanket over the end of his crib. “I've been with others who ain't as sweet as yer little James.” She hesitated. “Now, Cissy, I imagine she was a fussy baby.”
I wish I could remember.
“A headstrong girl she is,” Fiona added, “going to get herself into trouble.” She picked up the bottle and frowned slightly, as if she realized she'd stepped over a line. “Not that it's any of my business. Now, I'll take this little guy down to his playpen,” she said and Marla didn't protest.
She felt better than she had in days, her head clearer, her body stronger. She knew instinctively that she would bond with the baby, but she had some major damage to repair with her daughter, who still stared at her as if Marla had stepped right off a space ship from Mars.
She took the time to shower and change, then decided to check the computer again, to read each name on the Rolodex. But she couldn't.
Alex's room was locked. Just as it had been the last time she'd tried to open the door. Was he trying to keep intruders out? Or did he have secrets he couldn't afford to let anyone, most of all his wife, see?
The sense of well-being she'd felt while holding her newborn disappeared.
She opened the door to Cissy's room. It was empty, the lights turned out, tidier than she'd ever seen it. No doubt while her daughter was at school, the maid had picked up after her. Marla felt a prick of guilt. As a mother, she should have been up earlier, greeted Cissy, checked her homework, asked if she needed clean clothes for physical education, found out what her after-school schedule was then seen her off to school, just as she should have fed and changed her baby before his morning nap.
Except you have servants for all those tasks.
Still, she was bothered. Joanna's visit replayed in her mind . . .
You had more male attention than you could handle as it was . . . none of us had ever heard you ever mention Pam . . . What happened to your ring?
Marla paused at the landing and looked over the railing to the foyer two flights below. Faintly she heard the sound of conversation and rattling pans from the kitchen and the ticking of the clock downstairs. Other than that the house was still, no click of Eugenia's heels on the hardwood, no barks from that suspicious little dog, no strains of classical music wafting from hidden speakers.
Aside from the servants and baby she was alone. She walked the short distance down the hall to the office and tried to open the door. It was locked tight. Without a key no one could gain access to Alex's bedroom, exercise room or the office. He'd locked everyone out.
But why? What was he afraid of? That someone on the staff would riffle through his things? Or was he hiding something? But how could the maid clean up after him if he kept his room off-limits? Was he hiding something from the staff? Or from his mother? Or from her?
Marla rested her hand on the doorknob, tried to turn it again and failed. She even pressed her shoulder into the old panels, grasping at straws that the old lock might give way, but the door didn't budge.
The door is locked because of you, Marla, and you know it. He didn't like you snooping in his desk. He doesn't trust you. You've sensed it.
She headed back to her room and eyed her bed, the one she slept in apart from Alex.
Somehow this is all because of Nick and what you feel about him.
Her throat tightened and though she wanted to deny what she felt, she caught a tiny glimpse of the woman she'd once been.
What had Joanna said?
You were always . . . well, you know, men noticed you.
Joanna had said a lot of disturbing things. Where was the damned ring Joanna had mentioned? The gift from her father. At the thought of Conrad Amhurst she felt a dark weight in her heart, a pain she didn't understand. She couldn't remember the man and yet she was certain their relationship was far from loving, maybe even estranged.