Page 123 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“I think so.” Tilda Owens nodded.

“And you went to the police with that information?”

“I talked to the landlord.”

The camera returned to the newswoman. “And that’s what led to this search. One of Treasure Homes’ employees apparently discovered a body and informed the authorities….” Again the camera panned the average-looking house. “This is Lani Saito reporting for KTAM.” The reporter signed off, and Jack used the remote to mute the television.

“So it’s true.” Cissy couldn’t believe it. Her mother was dead. Shaking her head and biting her lower lip, she stared at the silent television, where an ad for a new sports drink flashed across the screen.

It was hard to imagine that her mother was actually gone and her son was in the hands of a murderess, a cruel, heartless killer. Why had the woman taken Beej? Why had her boy been with the nanny at her apartment? Who was the woman who had called? The voice on the phone had been hard to hear, but Cissy was sure it had been female.

“The feds recorded the call on tape,” Jack said, glancing out the window to their van, parked on the street.

Cissy closed her eyes. Over and over again, she replayed the short, heart-stopping conversation in her head and came to the same pathetic, sick conclusion. She cleared her throat and stared at Jack. “We’re not going to get a ransom call.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because this is personal, Jack. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but this woman hates me. I felt it, heard it, in her voice.” She steeled herself against the awful, mind-numbing truth. “And I know for a fact that she’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants. She’ll hurt B.J. because it’s the best way to get back at me.”

The Cadillac’s wheels were humming over the Bay Bridge when Quinn called Paterno on his cell. “Paterno,” he answered, switching lanes as he reached the western edge of the bay, where the rain and wind seemed more intense.

“Okay, I’ve got information on Elyse Hammersly. She’s sixty-four, nearly retired from a phone company in Portland, and has lived in Gresham, Oregon, for the last thirty-five years. She’s never owned a home in California, and the last time she visited was in 1987, when a nephew got married, and that was San Diego. She and her husband drove through San Francisco, spent a night at the St. Francis, and continued to Southern California. On the way back, they stayed in Sonoma, did the wine country thing. Someone’s obviously got hold of her ID, enough to access her credit rating.”

Crap! He’d expected no better but had hoped the information he’d obtained at Treasure Homes Realty would lead them to the killer. “You check for any other Elyse Hammerslys in the area?” he asked, noting the swells of water just off the bridge, white caps rising furiously on the dark, choppy surface.

“Yep. Nada. Same with the DMV. If she’s got a car, and we know she does, it’s not registered under Hammersly. I checked all Hammerslys. Again, I’m drawing blanks.”

“You tell the feds?”

“Oh, yeah. You’ll be hearing from them.”

He eased off the bridge and worked his way to Market Street. “Look, I’m going to inform Cissy Holt that we found Marla. I’ll show her the copy of Elyse’s fake Oregon driver’s license. If we can’t find anyone who recognizes her, then we’ll have to put it out to the media. In the meantime, show it to Perez and O’Riley. They staked out the Holt house. Maybe they saw her. She has to have been around.”

“Will do.”

Paterno clicked off and eased the Caddy through the dark night. The storm was picking up steam, blowing in from the Pacific, wind whipping through the streets, rain slanting from the black sky, the kind of night Paterno’s grandmother had always said “Wasn’t fit for man nor beast.”

The wipers struggled to keep up with the rain’s assault, and the glare of oncoming headlights made him squint as he turned onto the road near Alamo Square. Jack Holt’s Jeep sat in the driveway of their house, the lights visible behind drawn blinds and curtains. An FBI van was parked up the street. Inconspicuous? Yeah, right.

Paterno eased into a parking spot along the curb, cut the engine, and tucked the copy of the lease agreement inside his overcoat. Turning his collar against the rain, he half-ran across the street and leaned on the bell when he reached the front door. Hell, what a night.

Before he’d straightened again, the door swung open, the damned yapping dog went off, and Jack Holt motioned for him to come inside, shushing the little beast as he said, “We heard about Marla. It’s all over the news.” Holt gave him a hard look. “You could have called.”

“I wanted to come by in person.”

“Took long enough.”

Cissy was in the living room, seated on the hearth in front of the fire, looking as if she’d lost more weight, which was a shame. This ordeal was taking its toll on her.

“So it’s true,” she said, climbing to her feet and rubbing her arms as if she was cold from the inside out. “My mother’s dead.”

“We think so, yes. She had no ID on her, of course, and we didn’t find any of her prison clothes, nothing to indicate that the body was hers.”

“You couldn’t tell?” Cissy asked uncomfortably.

“It had been a while since she died.”

She went white as a sheet and swallowed hard, as if trying to keep whatever was in her stomach down.

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