Page 37 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

“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.

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