Page 68 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

So what did he have to go on to find Marla, to solve the murders?

“Very little and not much,” he said to no one as he hiked back to his car. He was tense. Agitated. Knew that if they didn’t find Marla soon, there would be more deaths. He’d tried to call Cissy Cahill on her cell phone and warn her, but he’d only been able to leave messages. Maybe she was dodging him. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to see that she didn’t trust him.

Not that he blamed her.

It seemed as if he’d been dogging the Cahill family for years, though there had been nearly a decade between the first case and this one. The decade when Marla Cahill had been safely behind bars. Now that peace had ended, and the murderess was on the loose again. She’d been involved either directly or indirectly in the deaths of three people ten years ago, and now she was adding to the total, though once again,

he thought, she was most likely behind the scenes. Someone else was doing her dirty work. Just like before.

But who?

He’d been in contact with Benowitz, but the state police weren’t having any luck with nabbing Marla Cahill, and the feds were frustrated as well.

Welcome to my world.

He found his keys in his pocket and was about to unlock the doors to his Caddy when he saw the scratch, a long, ugly mar that went down the driver’s side. “Shit.” He looked around, hoping to spy the culprit who had keyed his car, but he saw no one running, no one watching, no one hiding in the other vehicles parked here. “Son of a bitch.” Anger pounded at his temples, and his fists balled impotently. “Son of a goddamn bitch.”

He took another look around, zeroed in on a couple of kids walking and laughing and talking on the waterfront, two boys with iPods and baggy shorts, Oakland Raiders jackets and self-important saunters. They looked about fourteen—one Hispanic, the other white—but they didn’t so much as glance over their shoulders as they bought tickets to visit Alcatraz.

Whoever had scratched the hell out of his car had gotten away with it, and it pissed the hell out of him.

“Take it easy. Clear your head. Get a little exercise.” He mimicked his own advice as he backed out of the parking space. “What a load of crap.”

He drove straight to the station, his mood foul. There was work to catch up on. He had more on his plate than the recent murders of Eugenia Cahill and Rory Amhurst. A Jane Doe had been found in the bay yesterday. And there was a pretty cut-and-dried case of domestic violence, the beaten wife still holding her husband’s .38 in her shaking hands as he lay dead on the floor, the baseball bat he’d swung at her still in his hand. These were people who had once pledged to love each other for better or worse. Worse had definitely won out. Jesus, the world was a sick place.

He parked in the station’s lot and cast another angry look at his car. It would cost him a fortune to have it repainted.

So get yourself one of those hybrids. Retire the old Caddy. Be kind to the environment. Save yourself some gas dollars.

“Humph.” Jaw set, he turned away and walked into the station house, which was a little quieter than during the week. He got a lot more work done, plowing steadily through paperwork. There were always a few detectives doing the same, or working weekend cases. Murderers, unfortunately, didn’t work nine to five. Even so, Paterno was more at home during the week, when everyone was on duty. The station house was alive then, crackling with an energy that he found stimulating.

Today, he caught up on his paperwork, made a few phone calls, and went over his list of suspects, some of whom, with alibis, had been crossed off.

Cissy Cahill’s name was still there, big as life, a woman who had just inherited a fortune, more money than Paterno could save in his lifetime. And yet he didn’t believe she was involved…it just didn’t fit. He couldn’t picture the young mother as a murderess, nor did she seem particularly fond of her mother, so she wasn’t about to try and please Marla by knocking off her enemies.

Is that what this was about?

Marla Cahill’s enemies?

So far the two victims had been her relatives, her brother by blood, her mother-in-law by marriage.

He drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the pictures of the two victims, alive and then dead. He picked up the composite of Mary Smith. “Who the hell are you?” he wondered out loud as he heard footsteps behind him.

“Your partner,” Janet Quinn said, thinking he was talking to her. She was carrying a backpack over one shoulder and a water bottle by its neck in her other hand.

“I thought you were taking the weekend off, going to Reno.” He dropped the composite onto the clutter of open files, empty cups, and scratched notes.

“Plans fell through,” she admitted, and he wondered about her private life. Quinn was one of the most closemouthed people he knew. He had no idea what she did on her off hours. “You?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I saw your car.” She was shaking her head. “Ouch.”

“It’s a pisser,” he said, angry again.

“Any idea who did it?” She dropped the backpack onto the chair he usually reserved for suspects or witnesses.

“Some brainless, dickless asshole.” He snorted and picked up a pen, clicking it in frustration. “Could be someone I sent away, could be random. I’m going to check if there are any security cameras in the area, but I figure my chances of finding the guy are nil.”

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