Page 45 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

The gate swung open, and Paterno eased the big car’s nose outside. Then, carefully, he rolled across the sidewalk, waited for the light a block down the street to change, and wended into the ever-heavy traffic of this section of the city.

It took him nearly half an hour to reach Bayside, and he had a helluva time finding a parking space, but eventually he was walking through the hallway and into the ER, where he caught up with Quinn and the emergency-room doctor, who explained about anaphylactic shock. Again he heard how it would take some time for the blood work to come back, and, as he looked down at the peaceful face of Rory Amhurst, the dead green eyes, still-thick brown hair, heavy beard shadow, and skull that wasn’t quite evenly shaped, Paterno felt rage. Deep-seated and hot. Marla was behind this, he knew it, and her brother would still be alive today if she hadn’t escaped. The system had failed Rory. Big time.

“Send everything you get on this guy to us,” he instructed the ER doc, who looked as if he wasn’t yet thirty. “Then we’ll want a full autopsy.”

“I already called the ME’s office,” Quinn said.

“Good. Let’s go to the care facility. I’ll drive.”

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Harborside Assisted Living Center, which wasn’t near any harbor, but, Paterno supposed, you might get a glimpse of the bay from the roof, if you looked down a street, through a series of buildings. But then again, maybe not.

Rory Amhurst’s room was small, roped off by crime-scene tape, and Paterno had to weave through residents with wheelchairs, scooters, or walkers as he made his way down the hallway.

“This has never happened before, not at Harborside,” the director of the facility, Anne Baldwin, insisted as she walked with him. Paterno tried to ignore the smell of the institution—cleaning solvent, urine, and the remnants of some meat that had been served for dinner. Mixed in with the depressing odors was the feeling of overall malaise and sadness, despite the cheery, yellow-painted walls and the smiles of the staff.

Anne was thin and direct. Her blond hair was frizzy, her glasses as skinny as she was, and she wore a prim pink sweater and pressed black slacks. “I just can’t imagine who would want to hurt Rory. He was such a sweet man, a favorite with the caretakers and staff.”

Paterno held his tongue about Marla. “I heard he had a visitor last night.”

“Mary Smith, yes. She’s from a local church and visits fairly often.”

“When did the visits start?” he asked, since Marla had been on the loose less than a week.

“A month, maybe six weeks ago.”

That stopped him short, and he looked directly at her. “You’re sure?”

She nodded so fast, he thought her glasses might fall off. “It was in December, the holiday season…sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas.” Her forehead puckered above the bridge of her long, straight nose. “I remember she commented on the decorations the first time I met her. Said she liked our light display.”

So Mary Smith was not Marla Cahill, as Marla had still been locked up at that time. “Can you describe her for us?”

“Oh, yes. She was, oh, five six or seven, I think, heavy, in her late fifties, probably. She wore big glasses, the kind that turn dark with the sun.”

“Hair color?”

“Dishwater blond, going gray. Cut short.”

“Does the facility here have any cameras?”

She shook her head. “No. We don’t believe in invading the residents’ privacy.”

“But in the parking lot, right? Or the grounds?”

She was shaking her head some more. “Really, Detective, you have to believe me, we just don’t have any need of them. There is no crime here—” She heard herself and sighed. “Well, I guess that’s all changed now, hasn’t it?”

“Maybe someone had a cell phone, the kind that takes pictures? Or a camera?” Quinn asked.

Anne let out a short, amused laugh. “The residents aren’t exactly high-tech, and the staff, I don’t think so. But I’ll ask, send a memo.”

“Would you mind talking to a police artist?”

“Not at all. If it will help, of course!”

They’d reached Rory’s room, and one look inside was enough to silence Paterno for long moments. A single dresser with a television on top, a twin bed, wheelchair, night table, and movable bed table were the extent of Rory Amhurst’s furnishings. There wasn’t even a personal picture on the wall, almost as if the man had no family or friends.

So much for being an Amhurst.

Crime techs were already dusting for prints, collecting evidence, and taking pictures of the place, but Paterno was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that they’d come up with diddly-squat. “I’d like to see his records.”

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