Page 83 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“Cissy Holt’s friend?” He remembered seeing her at the funeral. Young and hip. Pretty. Good body.

“One and the same. And it gets more and more interesting. Heather, when she’s not an elementary school teacher, volunteers at the church. She’s some kind of computer whiz or something. Anyway, she and the reverend, they were a little more than business associates, or preacher and parishioner. They were pretty cozy. Had connecting rooms at the hotel in Sacramento.”

“Figures,” Paterno said. “I never trusted the guy.” He slid Quinn a glance. “You remember, he was in trouble before. Can’t seem to keep his zipper up.”

“It goes further than that,” Quinn said, cutting through traffic toward the Golden Gate Bridge. On the north end of the span lay the community of Sausalito and Marin County. “Heather was a college friend of Cissy Cahill.”

“I know. So how does that all work together?”

She shook her head and reached into the console for her sunglasses.

“Optimist,” Paterno said as she slipped the shades onto her face and eased toward the incredible rust-colored bridge with its spiraling towers and wide span. There was more traffic flowing into the city than flowing out, but the lanes were still clogged. Paterno barely noticed the view as they spanned the neck of water connecting San Francisco Bay with the Pacific Ocean. Two hundred feet below, green water sparkled in the wintry sunlight, a few sailboats and islands visible, but Paterno was trying to piece together the puzzle that was the Cahill murders. He reached in his pocket, withdrew a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, and offered a stick to Quinn.

She shook her head and kept talking, giving out what little information they had on the case. Already Favier, who’d been called hours earlier, as soon as the first detectives had gone to the house and seen the dead woman, was at the Sausalito Police Station being interviewed. Heather Van Arsdale, who had taken “personal days” from her teaching job, was in a separate interrogation room, but so far their stories matched.

“Why would anyone kill Cherise?” He unwrapped the gum, folded the stick, and shoved it into his mouth.

“Don’t know. It doesn’t look like robbery was a motive. Cherise had some pretty high-wattage rocks on her fingers and in her jewelry case. Computer, stereo, iPods, televisions—all untouched.”

Paterno didn’t like it.

“The Sausalito police have been canvassing the area near the church and Favier home. A few neighbors remember hearing a ‘pop’ last night, around eight, about the time, according to the ME, that Cherise died. One neighbor, Mrs. Bangs, reported that she’d been out walking her dog about that time. While the dog was taking a leak, she saw a woman coming out of the Favier house through the front door. The woman climbed into a silver car and drove away.”

“That’s it? Just a silver car? No license, make, or model?”

“Silver car. Sedan. Probably. That’s it.”

“What about a description of the person leaving the crime scene?”

“A woman. Average. Nothing special. Probably white and not fat. Maybe dark hair.”

“Some eyewitness.”

“She was busy with her dog.”

“Great,” Paterno groused.

“It’s something.”

“And gets Favier off the hook.”

“Does it?” Quinn asked. “If the blessed reverend wanted out of his marriage without going through a divorce, he could have hired a hit. It would have been perfect timing, as we’re all looking for a way to connect the murders. That’s why we were called in.”

“We’ll see,” Paterno said, chewing the gum and thinking the jury was still out on that one…way out.

“The Sausalito detectives are talking to the witness, offering up a photo lineup of various people, including Marla, to see if she zeroes in on her.”

“What are the chances?” Paterno muttered.

“As I said, it’s something. We’re closer than we were yesterday.”

“Yeah, and another person is dead.”

Could Marla Cahill, Cherise’s cousin by marriage, be involved in this too? The woman seen driving away from the crime scene? Paterno was willing to stake his badge on it.

On the far side of the bridge, Quinn drove through the quaint hillside village. Once known for fishing, it had become trendy with its Victorian cottages perched on slopes offering breathtaking views of the city and bay. Artists and craftsmen and people who wanted to live a quieter lifestyle, yet be minutes from the city, had driven real-estate prices through the roof.

Yeah, the Reverend Donald, reinventing himself after a career-ending tackle had forced him from the NFL, had carved himself out a nice little spot in one of the wealthiest communities in Northern California. A coincidence? Paterno didn’t think so.

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