Nick reached into his duffel and found his cell phone, then he headed down the back stairs and through a door off the kitchen. Taking a brick path leading through the trees, he made his way past the arbor and swing set, deeper into the estate to a sanctuary where he'd come often as a kid, a thicket of firs along the back fence, the place he'd climbed over whenever he was hell-bent on escaping the demands of being Samuel Cahill's son.
God, he'd hated the old man, despised how he'd ruled the family with an iron fist that was sure to bend the laws and break his wife's spirit. “Bastard,” Nick growled, flipping open the cell phone and retrieving his one message. It was from Walt Haaga, who only stated that he'd landed in San Francisco this afternoon. Nick called the Red Victorian, and asked to be connected to the room under his name.
“Yep,” Walt answered on the second ring.
“It's Nick.”
“About time I heard from you,” the PI said. “I checked in at the hotel this afternoon and since then I've been busy.”
“You've found out something?”
“Quite a bit. Why don't you meet me at the bar around the cornerâwhat's it called?”
“Ivan's.” Nick checked his watch. “I'll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
He made it in ten. By the time Walt sauntered in, Nick had already taken a seat in a booth near the back of the pub and ordered a couple of beers. A few regulars were hanging out at the bar and a middle-aged couple was eating fish and chips in a corner booth. The floor was covered with peanut shells, compliments of the earlier after-work crowd, and a couple of pool tables, now empty, stood in the back.
Walt slid onto the bench on the other side of the table. A short, compact man, he wore a trimmed beard that was more the result of being too busy to shave than from any sense of fashion. He was going bald, but didn't seem to mind, and his skin was tanned, from the hours he spent outside working on his sailboat. “It's been a while, Cahill,” he said as he picked up the beer that was sweating on the table, waiting for him. He tapped his long-necked bottle to Nick's.
“A couple of years,” Nick allowed.
“And now you're in San Francisco.”
“Temporarily.”
Walt snorted. “If you say so.”
“I do. So, what've ya got?”
“Interesting stuff.” Walt took a long drink from his bottle. “Let's start with your cousin.”
“Cherise?”
“No, her brother. Montgomery.” Walt scratched his beard and eyed the bowl of shelled peanuts on the table. “Now that one, he's a piece of work.”
“What about him?” Nick asked, his muscles instantly tightening. In all the time he'd been in San Francisco, he hadn't once seen Cherise's brother.
“Your basic lowlife. Never worked a day in his life, that I can see. Tried the military but that didn't take. Sponged off his old man until he died, then a string of women, including his sister. One of his ex-girlfriends filed assault charges against him, but it never went to court. Either she changed her mind or was paid off. I haven't figured out which yet.”
Nick frowned. “Swell guy.”
“Yep. He's been in several scrapes with the lawâdrunk and disorderly, that kind of thing. Got himself into a barroom brawl one night about ten years ago. He and the other guy started taking punches and it turned pretty ugly. They ended up pounding the shit out of each other. Monty ended up with three cracked ribs, a rearranged nose and new dental work.” Walt paused for effect, took another pull on his Coors. “The real kicker is this: At one time good old Monty was seeing Marla.”
All of the muscles in Nick's shoulders bunched. His fingers tightened around his bottle. Something inside him snapped. “Seeing her? As in . . . ?”
“As in doing the horizontal bop.”
Walt must've seen the disbelief in Nick's expression. “It was kept quiet, of course, but Marla, she's not one to put a lot of stock in her wedding vows. She and Alex, they've split up a couple of times. They both were involved with other people, but they always end up reconciling. Who the hell knows why? I figure either the money is keeping 'em together or they're one of those couples who can't live with each other any more than they can live without. So . . . one of those times they were split Marla and Montgomery got it on.”
Nick's stomach turned sour at the thought. “I don't know what Marla would see in Montgomery,” he growled, resisting the urge to reach across the table, bunch the front of Walt's shirt in his fist and call him a liar. But in all the years Nick had known Walt Haaga, the PI had always told the truth.
“He's got looks, supposedly, though that beating took its toll. When Fenton was alive, Montgomery spread money around like it was water. That's changed now, of course, but when he was seeing Marla, his side of the family still had their share of the family fortune.” Walt took a long pull from his beer and motioned to a waitress for another. “To her credit, the fling didn't last long, a month or two at most. Then she and Alex reconciled. Again.”
Fury, dark and dangerous, shot through Nick's bloodstream and jealousy, an emotion he hadn't dealt with in years, surfaced. “Who else?” he asked, hating the fact that he had to know.
“Who else what?”
“Who else was Marla's lover?” he asked.
The waitress deposited another round of beers on the table and Walt, watching her saunter back to the bar, said, “I don't have a lot of names, but Marla wasn't as discreet as she could have been. She was involved with a married guy she met at that tennis club she goes to and then there were rumors that she was seeing her daughter's riding instructor. Seems as if your sister-in-law is a hot pants.”
Nick's fist balled and he thought of how Marla had responded to him last night. He'd blamed it on the damned chemistry between them; now he wasn't so sure.
“Where's Montgomery living?” he asked, figuring he should have a talk with his cousin.
“Right now he's got a place in Oakland. There have been times when he's been down and out, had to mooch off his sister, but right now he seems flush, able to afford a nice place of his own. Snazzy apartment with a weight room, clubhouse, pool, the whole nine yards.”
“What's he doing to support himself?”
“That, I haven't been able to determine. No visible means,” he said as two men in their twenties ambled in, ordered “a couple of brewskies” and took positions around one of the pool tables.
“What about the Reverend?”
Walt plucked a peanut from the bowl on the table, cracked it and said, “Another charmer. Ex-football player who found God.”
“I know. I had the pleasure of meeting him today.”
Walt popped the peanut into his mouth. “He got himself into some hot water last year at Cahill House. Involved with one of the girls . . . but it's a little nebulous,” Walt admitted. “The girl made some noise to her mother who just happens to be . . .”
“Pam Delacroix,” Nick said. “I heard about it today from the detective in charge of the case. The police are looking for her.”
Managing a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin, Walt said, “They're a step behind me.” He cracked open another peanut shell.
“You found her?”
“Yep.” Pleased with himself he tossed the nut into the air and caught it in his mouth.
“How?”
“I'm brilliant. And I have a great Internet source.” He washed the nut down with a swig of beer. “She lives in Santa Rosa. I thought I'd go pay her a visit tonight. Want to come along?”
“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Nick said.
“Thought you'd want to be there. You know, this is starting to get interesting.”
“Or dangerous,” Nick thought out loud, trying to tamp down the jealousy that had consumed him from the minute Walt had brought up Montgomery. “There are a couple of things we need to check out,” he said to Walt. “Marla and I went to see her father today and the old man, who's pretty much out of it, was convinced that she was an imposter, that the real Marla had been there just the other day and this woman was named Kylie. He rambled on about her being some whore's daughter and I figure there was a time when a woman tried to shake him down, claimed her daughter was his.”
Walt's eyes narrowed. “I'll start with birth records. Don't suppose you have a last name?”
“That would be too easy.” Nick finished his beer. “And it might be nothing. The old man's about to kick off. And is on a lot of pain medication. I'll be surprised if he lasts a week.”
Walt nodded. “So what's our game plan?”
“Let's start with Alex. I want you to follow my brother. See where he goes. He claims he's in meetings but doesn't come home until after midnight.”
“Sounds like a girlfriend.”
“Could be. He and his wife don't sleep in the same room. He keeps his door locked.”
Walt let out a quiet whistle. “Some marriage,” he observed, taking a swallow. “A woman with a string of lovers and a husband who locks his doors and keeps strange hours. Have you ever asked him about his late night activities?”
“A couple of times. He's pretty vague.”
“So you think he's hiding something?”
“I
know
he is. I just want to find out what.”
Walt wiped a hand over his mouth. “I'd be glad to do the honors. Anything else?”
“Isn't that enough?”
“More than.”
“I think it's time I paid a visit to Cousin Monty. You've got his address?”
“Yep. We can go there after we meet with Julie Johnson. But we'd better be careful,” Walt advised, finishing his drink and slamming the bottle onto the scarred table top. “The guy's dangerous.”
Nick dropped some bills onto the table. “No problem.” His grin was pure evil. “So am I.”
Chapter Seventeen
“What's in it for me?” Julie Delacroix Johnson asked as she sat in a tufted chair in her apartment in Santa Rosa. Dressed in a miniskirt and tight black sweater, she crossed one leg over the other and swung her foot nervously, her slip-on shoe in danger of falling off her toes. She'd allowed Nick and Walt into her home, but she was wary. Her husband, Robert, who looked all of eighteen, regarded the other men with wary dark eyes, pulled out a kitchen chair, swung it around and straddled it. His arms were folded over the back, biceps bulging as he cradled a beer between his hands. Trying to look tough. To Nick's way of thinking it wasn't working. The kid was a punk. And he was hiding something.
Walt had taken a seat on a velvet couch that looked new, sharing the tan cushions with a black cat that lifted its head disdainfully before scuttling off and hiding under a table that held a vase of silk flowers. Music was blaring from big speakers, the bass so loud that the floor shook. “If I tell you all about Mom, what do I get out of it?” Julie asked.
“Peace of mind,” Nick said.
“She's talkin' cash here,” the husband cut in, clarifying the situation. “Cold hard cash.”
“And I'm talkin' freedom.” Nick stood at the doorway. He wasn't going to be pushed around by some punk kid with a thin goatee and a know-it-all smirk. “She won't have to do any jail time for aiding and abetting a crime.”
“She didn't do nothin' illegal,” the punk said, his chest swelling as he jabbed a finger in the air over the back of the chair.
“If she has any information about a crime, then she could be charged,” Nick said coolly. “If not aiding and abetting, then withholding information, or something. Believe me, the cops won't dick around. Charles Biggs was murdered and probably Pam Delacroix was, too.” Nick turned his eyes back to the sultry girl. “I'd think you'd want to nail her killer.”
“It was an accident,” she said, her voice uncertain, her round eyes suspicious.
“I don't think so. Neither do the police. So don't try to shake me down. I'm not in the mood.”
“Why not, dude?” the husband asked. “You said you're a Cahill, right. They got plenty of money.”
“That's my brother,” Nick explained. “Alex.
He's
the
dude
with the bucks.” Sick of the situation he went to the stereo and snapped off the amp.
“Hey!” Robert protested.
“You can turn it back on after we leave.”
“Shit.”
Julie's face turned the color of chalk.
Walt picked up on it. “Do you know Alex Cahill?” he asked. “Did you meet him somewhere?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
Nick wasn't buying it. “All I have to do is ask my brother.”
“He won't say nothin'. She don't know him!” Robert insisted.
“Okay, okay, but you know Donald Favier, right? The Reverend.”
Julie's mascara-rimmed eyes slid away. She licked her lips nervously and looked as if she wanted to disappear. “I went to church there at Holy Trinity a couple of times. With my mom.”
“And you ended up at Cahill House where he was the pastor.”
She swallowed hard and blushed. Some of her hard-edged crust melted away and she looked like the kid she was. “Yeah. I was pregnant.”
“Were you the father?” Nick asked Robert.
“Yeah, so what of it?” the boy shot back. “Jules, we don't got to say nothin' to these losers.”
“What happened to the baby?” Nick asked.
Julie's eyes closed for a second and she looked as if she might be woozy, but she managed to lift her chin. “I had an abortion.”
“Your idea?” Again Nick asked Robert.
He shrugged. “It was Julie's problemâer, decision. I went along with it. Whatever she wanted.”
“So what about the charges against the Reverend? Did he touch you inappropriately while he was counseling you?” Nick asked gently, and Julie's eyes turned red, as if she were fighting tears. She bit at her thumbnail. “Julie?”
“He . . . he was nice to me,” she said, and a tear drizzled down the side of her nose. She worked feverishly at the nail.
“Did he talk you into the abortion?”
She swallowed hard. Shook her head. “That . . . that was my idea. He wanted me to have the baby and give it up for adoption. I just couldn't do that. I couldn't stand knowing that someone else was raising my kid . . . I should have kept it, but . . . I just . . . didn't . . .” Tears were running down her face and Nick had to force himself to stay where he was.
“Heyâyou don't have to answer none of these questions, Jules,” her husband said. He swung out of his chair to stand next to her, placed a big hand on her shoulder. “You guys can just leave, okay? You're upsettin' her.”
“No . . . it's okay. They're right. I need to talk to the police,” she whispered.
“No way. Jules, remember, we've got a sweet deal goin'. We don't want to fuck with it.”
“But I don't want to go to jail.”
“You won't, babe. They're just blowin' smoke up your ass,” he said, edgy, and Nick wondered if he was on crank. All hyped up. A meth addict?
“Try us,” Walt said. “What kind of a deal do you have? Who'd you make it with?”
“She's not sayin'.”
“She can talk for herself.” Nick looked straight at the girl. “You don't need this kind of trouble. And think about your mom.”
Julie swallowed hard, picked at some lint on the arm of her chair. “I don't know.”
“Jules, please, this is a real good deal, don't blow it.” Robert's hand rubbed her shoulder and if his look could kill, Walt and Nick should be six feet under and pushing up daisies.
Sniffing loudly Julie fought a losing battle with tears. Mascara ran down her cheeks. She slapped the tears angrily away. “I . . . I have to say something,” she said. “It's eating me up inside.”
“Oh, shit, no.” Robert shook his head, squeezed her shoulder. “Think what this means to us, baby. This is our ticketâ”
“Your ticket? What the hell did you do?” she demanded.
“Hey, whoa.” He backed up a step and hooked a thumb at Nick. “These pricks are just messin' with yer mind, baby.”
“Careful, punk, or we'll mess with something else,” Nick warned, then turned back to the girl. “What is it, Julie?”
“My mom . . . I talked with her about a week before she died,” she said, and Robert, in a dramatic show of exasperation meant to shut her up, rolled his eyes and muttering loudly, stormed into the kitchen where he kicked the cupboards so loudly, Julie jumped and the cat scrambled toward the bedroom for a better hiding spot. “Stop it, Robert!” she screamed. “Just stop it.”
“Oh, yeah, I'll stop it, all right. Sure.” Robert shot out of the kitchen, keys in hand. “I'm outta here. If you want to kill a good deal, fine, but count me out.” He blew out the door in a cloud of self-righteous fury. His shoulder connected with Nick's as he shoved the door open and it was all Nick could do not to grab him by the scruff of his hot neck and knock some sense into him. Instead he let the kid pass and the door slammed shut behind him with a bang. A second later the sound of a motorcycle engine revving cut through the night. Tires screamed and the bike, gears grinding, shrieked out of the lot.
“Good riddance,” Julie muttered, folding her arms over her chest. “I don't know why the hell I married him.” Then, as if she realized she had an audience who'd overheard her unhappiness, she leaned back in the chair and began rocking. Her lip trembled and she stuck it out in anger. “Ungrateful prick.”
“What about your mother,” Nick said, trying to get Julie's mind back on track. “Do you know where she was going that night?”
“I think so. She called. Needed a place to hang out for a while, a place no one would find her, and there was an apartment down at school that my friends had rented, but they were gonna be out of town for the weekend. I fixed it so Mom could stay there.”
“Why did she want a place to hide?”
“It was something to do with a book she was writing. A book about adoption and parents' rights or something. She was kinda into all that at one time. She called and said she needed a place pronto, that she had something to do first but then needed a place to crash. It was all real frantic. She said she had a friend who needed help because she wanted to leave her husband but he wouldn't let her have custody of her baby. IâI didn't know that it was Marla Cahill. I mean, I wouldn't have . . . oh, shit, it doesn't matter. Mom told me she was gonna do some research and work with the woman, try to help her find a way to keep the kid and instead of a retainer, she got the woman's story for her book.”
Marla. Marla had planned to take Alex's kids away from him.
“She was gonna use my story, too, as part of the plot, but I wasn't cool with it. Even though it was part fiction, I thought people would find out. I didn't want my friends to know about the baby . . .” she shrugged. “Anyway it's not gonna happen now.” More tears rained from her eyes. “Why . . . why do you think someone killed her? That woman that was driving, did she do it on purpose? Dad wants to sue her. She . . . she's Alexander's wife, isn't she?”
“We think someone caused the accident, made the driver swerve,” Walt said, and Nick noted the girl referred to Alex familiarly. What the hell was this all about?
“Who made her swerve?”
“We don't know,” Nick admitted, though the suspect list was narrowing and his brother was being elevated to the top. That thought made his blood congeal. Even now Marla could be with Alex.
“So what was the âsweet deal' Robert was talking about?” Walt persisted.
“Oh, God . . .” she hesitated. Worked at her thumbnail until there wasn't much left. “It's weird now, when I figured out that everybody's related. I . . . I kinda got involved with an older man when I was at Cahill House. He, um, he liked me. Robert and I were broken up over the baby and this man . . . he was nice. Treated me good. Mom found out and nearly had a stroke. She contacted some lawyer she knew and started ranting and raving that she was going to sue whoever it was. All she knew was that he was older and married but she was ready to string him up by his balls.”
“So when did she find out the guy was the preacher?” Walt asked.
Julie opened her mouth, started to say something, but snapped her teeth together and folded her lips together.
Walt said, “You don't remember?”
She blinked hard.
“Julie?” Nick prodded.
“He wasn't the guy who came on to me,” she whispered, casting her eyes to the floor.
“Wait a minute.” Walt rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you and heâ”
She shook her head. “Everyone did. That's what everyone's supposed to think. That's the deal Robert was talking about.” She looked earnestly at Nick and her little face, streaked with black, crumpled. “It wasn't like everyone thought. He was just being nice and, well, Alex . . .” she whispered, her lips trembling.
“My brother?”
“Yes! He worked out a deal with me and Reverend Favier so that it seemed like he was the one, so that my Mom wouldn't insist that I press charges.”
“Why would Donald Favier let his name be smeared?” Nick asked. “It could have cost him his congregation. I'm surprised they didn't string him up at the church and throw him out.”
“It's
his
church. There's no other one like it,” Julie said. “It's not like a franchise for McDonald's, it's not part of a bigger deal. There's no archbishop or pope or supreme poohbah or anything.”
“Still, his reputation took a major hit,” Nick said. “Why would he take the fall?”
Julie's lips twisted into a cynical smile that was far older than her years. “Well, duh, why do you think?” she asked, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “For the same reason I did. For the money.”
The house was dark. Quiet. The only sound Marla heard came from outside her window, the rush of wind through the branches of the fir trees in the backyard.
It's now or never,
she thought, throwing back the covers of her bed and grabbing her robe. As she tossed the robe over her pajamas she heard the soft chink of keysâEugenia's keysâin her pocket. And now it was time to use them. She had forced herself to stay awake until she was certain her mother-in-law, the servants and Cissy had gone to their rooms. Nick had disappeared earlier and Alex hadn't returned from wherever it was he went after dinner. At least she hadn't heard him come home.