Paterno tented his hands under his chin. “Why would anyone jump in front of a car like that?”
“To make sure she saw him long enough to duck out of the way. It gives him more distance, right? Because the glass is so reflective. Otherwise he’d have to wait until she caught him in her beams. This gives him a couple more seconds and every second would have counted. He knew that she’d slam on her brakes and swerve to avoid him. The road was wet, she’d probably crank hard on the wheel, slam on her brakes, try to avoid hitting whatever was in the middle of the road, then smash into the guardrail,” Janet said, thinking aloud, speaking faster and faster as she visualized the scene in her mind. “The guardrail was weak there, where she went through, remember, as if the metal had been welded? But the Highway Department had no records of any repair work.”
“So you’re thinking the weld was made to weaken the rail rather than patch it up or strengthen it.”
“Precisely!” She thumped her fingers on the corner of his desk and grinned widely.
“I think we’d better slow down a minute here,” Paterno said, refusing to be caught up in her enthusiasm. There were too many other possibilities to consider. “Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions? Who would want Marla Cahill dead? And why not kill her outright—push her down a flight of stairs, or slit her throat? Why all this trouble? Just to make it look like an accident? I’m not buying it. The plan’s too risky. It would be too easy to get the wrong car.”
“Like the semi driven by Biggs.”
“Unless we’ve got all this wrong and Biggs was the intended victim,” Paterno thought aloud. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to see that he never woke up, while Marla Cahill went home to her private estate. Maybe Biggs was the target all along.”
“Except that he’s clean as a whistle, remember? The Boy Scout.”
“Unlike anyone related to the Cahill family.” Paterno gnawed on his stale gum. Shit, this case was driving him nuts. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what Mrs. Cahill has to say.”
In Nick’s opinion, Conrad Amhurst may as well have been dead. Lying flat on his back, tubes running in and out of his body, a morphine patch keeping his pain at bay, the old man rolled one eye toward the doorway of his private room as Marla tapped on the doorjamb. “Dad?” she said, approaching the bed while Nick lagged behind. He didn’t want to mess up the reunion, if that’s what the hell it was, and this place, for all its modern conveniences and view of the bay, made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like rest homes any better than he did hospitals.
A leather recliner occupied one corner of the private room, a door opened to a bath with one of those showers that were flush with the floor so that a wheelchair could be rolled under the spray, and the wheelchair itself was pushed into a corner. The room had industrial grade carpet, cheery wall paper and a view of Sausalito across this stretch of the Bay. But it still felt and smelled like an institution. Hot. Stuffy. And the man on the bed was as near death’s door as any mortal could be.
Marla touched the back of one of Conrad’s bony hands. “It’s Marla.”
Conrad lolled his head to one side and stared up at her through pain clouded eyes. “Marla?” he repeated, confusion evident in his features. Once a robust man who had carried himself with pride, he’d been ravaged by age and disease, reduced to a skeleton. His skin was pale and spotted, his gray hair so thin his scalp was visible, but deep in the sunken holes that held his eyes, there was a flare of distrust. “No.” He jerked his hand from hers, reached to the bedside table and fumbled for his glasses. With some effort he managed to slide them up his nose, to stare at her through owlish lenses.
“Yes, yes, I know I look different, but it’s because I’ve been in an accident . . .” she hurried to explain, “but I’m okay now.”
His lips pulled into a scowl as he stared at her.
“I cut my hair, but—”
“You’re not Marla.” Conrad’s gaze moved beyond her to land on Nick. In a flash of lucidity he added, “And you’re not my son-in-law.” Suspicious eyes glared up through his thick lenses. “Marla . . . She . . . was here the other day. With her husband.”
“No, Dad, I wasn’t here. I can’t speak for Alex, but—”
“She was here, damn it. You weren’t,” he said thickly, his voice gruff and furious, his face turning red. “An imposter, that’s what you are. You’re both imposters.” He motioned toward the window ledge where pictures of Marla, Alex and Cissy were propped. Next to the portraits was a framed snapshot of James at birth. “That’s Marla and her family.”
“Yes, Dad, I know, I just came with Nick because he could drive me and—”
“And you thought because I’m about to meet my maker you could come in here and pull the wool over my eyes.” The look he sent her was filled with contempt and a shiver raced down her spine because she sensed he’d studied her with the same disdain in the past. “You never understood, did you?” he rasped, his old voice fading. “You’re not my daughter.”
“But—” she said, then stopped short, her skin paling, her lips trembling. For a second she clutched the rails of the hospital bed. Her eyes rounded as if she’d had an epiphany. “Oh, God—”
“Get out of here, Kylie,” Conrad whispered once again, the malice in his eyes magnified by his glasses. Pure, raw hatred flared his nostrils. “And don’t ever come back. You’re never getting a dime from me, do you understand?” With all the effort he could muster he flung a hand toward the railing and fumbled for a swtich. “Get out. Now!”
She backed up a step.
Footsteps hurried down the hallway and Marla turned as a big-bosomed nurse with a dour expression bustled through the doorway. “Mr. Amhurst called the nurse’s station,” she explained as she reached Conra
d’s bedside. “Is there something you wanted, Mr. Amhurst?”
“Yes,” Conrad hissed so hard, spittle sprayed from his thin, pale lips. “Get these people out of here and never let them back in!”
“But she’s your daughter,” the nurse said gently, trying to mollify her patient.
“Bah! She’s not mine. No matter what that whore of a mother of hers says.”
“Mr. Amhurst!” The nurse feigned shock, though, the way Nick figured it, she was probably used to the old man’s foul language and tirades. The nurse sent Marla a look that quietly told her Conrad Amhurst wasn’t completely in his right mind.