Now he was back.
Because of the accident? Or, as he’d said, to help his brother with the company? What, Paterno wondered, could possibly be wrong within the lavish and hallowed halls of Cahill Limited?
Paterno leaned forward and spat his gum into a wastebasket. He tossed the report on Nick aside.
Then there were a couple of disgruntled cousins who felt that they’d been cut out of the family wealth. Montgomery Cahill and his sister, Cherise Cahill Martin Bell Favier, had been fairly vocal about being mistreated at the hands of their father and uncle. “Monty” had landed in juvenile hall a couple of times as a kid. Apparently his father, Fenton, hadn’t had quite the same amount of influence with judges and cops that Uncle Samuel had. Or maybe he wanted to let the kid take the fall for his own crimes.
There was also the chance that Fenton just hadn’t given a shit. That wasn’t uncommon. Paterno had only to think of his own father to know how it felt to be overlooked or ignored. He reached for his coffee cup, took a swig and felt the burn of acid crawl up his throat.
What was the deal with Marla Cahill and Pam Delacroix? Pam’s ex-husband was screaming for justice, but Paterno suspected the guy smelled money.
And why had Marla Cahill, rich to the bone, been friends with a woman who didn’t seem to fit into her social circle. He scoured the information on Pam again. She was supposed to have belonged to the same tennis club as the Cahills, but Paterno found no proof of it. But she was unpredictable. Had a law degree that she didn’t use, though at one time she’d been a family practice attorney. When the marriage had fallen apart, she hadn’t gone back to practicing law and instead started selling real estate in Sausalito.
Why?
Plucking the pages from his color printer he stared at the images of Pam Delacroix . . . or was she Marla Cahill? Had there been a
misidentification? Could the police at the scene have screwed up so badly? The woman’s ID had been on her, her body identified by her ex-husband.
And then there was the matter of Marla Cahill, who’d been wearing a hospital ID bracelet at the time of the accident. Now, even if she was amnesic, wouldn’t her husband or mother-in-law know she wasn’t who she said she was? She couldn’t be bluffing the whole damned world, could she? There were physical traits and mannerisms, voice patterns . . . unless everyone was in on it.
A conspiracy.
Jesus, he was starting to think like Oliver Stone.
Paterno snorted at the turn of his thoughts. No reason to speculate. It was time to reevaluate the facts. He’d start with blood types.
Little James let out a cry and Marla, having overslept again, sprang from the bed. She was in the nursery in seconds, picking him up and holding him close. “It’s all right,” she said automatically as she cuddled him for a few seconds before changing him. She drank in the sweet baby smell of him as she snapped up his pajamas and watched his little legs kick. He fastened blue eyes on her and her heart soared. “You’re cute as a devil and you know it, don’t you?”
His little fists moved jerkily and he cooed.
“Oh, yeah, James, you’re gonna be a heartbreaker.” She finished changing him just as Fiona appeared with a bottle. “I’ll do it,” Marla insisted and as the nanny straightened the room, Marla sat in the rocker and, humming softly, fed the baby. He drank greedily, pausing only to stare up at her once in a while. “I know, I know, you’re looking at me and hoping you’re adopted, aren’t you?” She winked at him and when he’d finally had his fill, she set the nearly-empty bottle down, hoisted his body to her shoulder to burp him.
“He’s a good baby, he is,” Fiona said as she folded a blanket over the end of his crib. “I’ve been with others who ain’t as sweet as yer little James.” She hesitated. “Now, Cissy, I imagine she was a fussy baby.”
I wish I could remember.
“A headstrong girl she is,” Fiona added, “going to get herself into trouble.” She picked up the bottle and frowned slightly, as if she realized she’d stepped over a line. “Not that it’s any of my business. Now, I’ll take this little guy down to his playpen,” she said and Marla didn’t protest.
She felt better than she had in days, her head clearer, her body stronger. She knew instinctively that she would bond with the baby, but she had some major damage to repair with her daughter, who still stared at her as if Marla had stepped right off a space ship from Mars.
She took the time to shower and change, then decided to check the computer again, to read each name on the Rolodex. But she couldn’t.
Alex’s room was locked. Just as it had been the last time she’d tried to open the door. Was he trying to keep intruders out? Or did he have secrets he couldn’t afford to let anyone, most of all his wife, see?
The sense of well-being she’d felt while holding her newborn disappeared.
She opened the door to Cissy’s room. It was empty, the lights turned out, tidier than she’d ever seen it. No doubt while her daughter was at school, the maid had picked up after her. Marla felt a prick of guilt. As a mother, she should have been up earlier, greeted Cissy, checked her homework, asked if she needed clean clothes for physical education, found out what her after-school schedule was then seen her off to school, just as she should have fed and changed her baby before his morning nap.
Except you have servants for all those tasks.
Still, she was bothered. Joanna’s visit replayed in her mind . . . You had more male attention than you could handle as it was . . . none of us had ever heard you ever mention Pam . . . What happened to your ring?
Marla paused at the landing and looked over the railing to the foyer two flights below. Faintly she heard the sound of conversation and rattling pans from the kitchen and the ticking of the clock downstairs. Other than that the house was still, no click of Eugenia’s heels on the hardwood, no barks from that suspicious little dog, no strains of classical music wafting from hidden speakers.
Aside from the servants and baby she was alone. She walked the short distance down the hall to the office and tried to open the door. It was locked tight. Without a key no one could gain access to Alex’s bedroom, exercise room or the office. He’d locked everyone out.
But why? What was he afraid of? That someone on the staff would riffle through his things? Or was he hiding something? But how could the maid clean up after him if he kept his room off-limits? Was he hiding something from the staff? Or from his mother? Or from her?