If She Only Knew (46 page)

Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: If She Only Knew

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“Speeds everything up you mean. And you should be glad. He changed his will once, didn't he, cut Marla out, then had second thoughts in order to get him a grandson? Why wouldn't he again? This way the kid inherits.”

“He couldn't have changed it again, you moron! He wasn't in his right mind.”

“Says who?” he threw back, seeing red at the insult.

“Look, if anyone suspectsâ”

“No one does. The way it stands now, the kid inherits, you get the bucks and you pay me.
Pronto.
” His eyes narrowed as he smelled the other guy trying to squirm out of their agreement.

“There's still the problem of Marla.”

“I'll take care of it.”

“Now wait a minute. I'm not sureâ”

“She'll be dead by nightfall.”

“No, it's too risky. Not on the same day her father dies.”

“Don't worry about it. It'll look like an accident. That's what you wanted. Right? This was your fuckin' idea.”

“No. Now listen. Wait a few days, okay. Until things calm down. And don't call me back on this cell. Do you hear me? I hired you to do a job and you'll be paid, but I'm still calling the shots.”

“Like hell.”

“I'm warning youâ”

He laughed and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Relax,
amigo,
this is your lucky day.” Then he hung up and started for his Jeep. His blood was on fire as he lit up. Killing Conrad Amhurst had been too easy and just a means to an end.

It was Marla he wanted. But then it always had been.

“. . . and so I pretended to be asleep and when he came in I tried to fake him out, act like I didn't know what was going on, that I hadn't been in his office,” Marla said as she sat on the couch in the sitting room. Nick had lit the fire and stood with his back to the flames, his empty coffee cup in his hands, his eyes drilling into hers. They'd drained the coffeepot as the house began to stir. The cook was already rattling around in the kitchen and soon Cissy would wake for school. “I found several things in his desk. There was a gun. I took it and hid it under the mattress in my room. Then . . . then there was a Rolodex card with Kylie Paris's address and phone number. I've got it as well. And a statement from a hospital for Marla Cahill's hysterectomy. Full hysterectomy,” she said, a million thoughts running through her mind as the caffeine jolted her bloodstream. “It was dated three years ago.”

Nick regarded her with wary eyes. “So either you're not Marla or the baby isn't yours.”

“James is mine,” she stated without a waver of hesitation. No matter what else happened, she
knew unerringly
that she'd given birth to her baby. She took a sip from her tepid coffee, draining the cup before adding, “And somehow Dr. Robertson is in on this. He didn't want me to see Marla's medical records, though the operation was done in Los Angeles at a private hospital, not at Bayview. But there must be some note, or cross reference. For whatever reason he wouldn't let me have even a passing glance at the folder.”

“Get the address to Kylie's apartment and we'll go there,” Nick said as he rubbed the stubble darkening his jaw and Marla remembered the feel of its scratchy texture against her own skin less than a half hour before.

“What about the gun?” She shivered as she thought of the cold, deadly weapon.

“Keep it hidden for now. Out of Alex's hands. Will the maid find it?”

“I don't think so, not even if she changes the sheets.”

“Good.” He started for the foyer.

“I won't leave without the baby, Nick. I can't take a chance that Alex will somehow try to kidnap his own son.”

“From his house?”

“Anywhere.” Marla was adamant. Firm. Above all else she'd protect her child. “And we have to see that Cissy's safe, too.”

“From Alex?”

“And whoever else.” Her stomach curdled when she thought of the man who was supposed to be her husband. Nick had already explained about the dwindling finances of Cahill Limited, Pam Delacroix's intention of writing a book, and Julie Delacroix Johnson's involvement with Alex. Marla had learned how Alex had let Donald Favier take the blame for the scandal, then paid everyone to keep their mouths shut. He could even be behind Charles Biggs' death and the attempts on her life.

She had every reason to feel fear. For herself. For her son. For Nick. “You don't know the hatred on his face. The way he threatened me.”

“Then we'll take James with us,” Nick agreed.

“And we'll wait until Cissy's at school. I think she'll be safe there,” Marla said, thinking ahead. “For some reason I don't think she's a part of this. Whatever it is, it has to do with the baby. And me.”

Nick's eyes locked with hers. “Because of the will.”

“What?” She didn't like where his thoughts were leading.

“The baby is at the center of all this because he's going to inherit the bulk of Conrad Amhurst's estate,” Nick said, and she felt the knell of doom peal in her heart.

“This is worse than I thought.” She set her empty cup on the table. “If you're right, then James is safe until DadâConrad dies. And after that . . .”

“He's as expendable as you are,” Nick said, finishing her grisly thought.

“Let's get him up.” She shot to her feet. She had to get out of this house. Now! She couldn't stand another minute in this elegant death trap. “We'll take Cissy with us and drop her off at school and we'll find a safe place to keep James until we can sort all this out.”

“We can go to Oregon. I have a place there.”

“Would it be safe?”

“Probably not,” he admitted, frowning as somewhere on a floor above, footsteps could be heard. “I do have a watch dog of sorts, but I doubt if Tough Guy would deter too many people.”

To Marla it sounded like heaven. Peaceful. Safe. At least within this horrid, complicated and terrifying nightmare, she'd found Nick. If nothing else, she knew what it was like to love someone. To care. “Someday,” she said hoarsely, “I'd like to see it.”

“Someday you will,” he promised, but she didn't know if she could believe him.

Before she could answer, the phone rang sharply.

“Now what?” His expression sober, Nick checked his watch, strode into the foyer, and grabbed the receiver before the telephone jangled again. “Hello?” A pause. The lines around his mouth deepened. “Marla Cahill? Right here.”

Marla's heart dropped.

“Just a minute.” Nick carried the receiver into the sitting room and handed it to her. His eyes locked with hers. “It's the nursing home in Tiburon.”

Her father. Doom settled in her heart. “This is Marla Cahill,” she said, though she wasn't certain.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cahill,” a strong, female voice greeted. “This is Kara Dunwoody, the administrator at Rolling Hills Care Center in Tiburon. I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your father passed away this morning . . .”

“You wanted a break in the Pamela Delacroix case?” Janet Quinn asked as she dropped into the chair opposite Paterno's desk. She was carrying her oversized briefcase and set it on the floor beside her.

“At least one. Two or three would be better.” He reached into the drawer, discovered he was out of gum, and leaned back in his chair. “What've you got?”

Janet grinned. “We found Marla Cahill's purse. With the impact of the accident, it had been thrown about fifty feet and slid down an embankment. We would never have located it if she hadn't been so insistent that it was missing.” Janet's eyes were bright behind her glasses, as if she was privy to an important secret. Paterno had seen the look before and recognized it. She was holding something back. Something important.

“And?” he prodded.

“And we found her wallet . . . well, actually more than her wallet. But there's an interesting little twist here. The credit cards, driver's license, and checkbook weren't issued to Marla Cahill. All of them, every piece of ID was in the name of Kylie Paris. She lives here in the city.” Janet reached down, snapped her briefcase open and withdrew a small handbag, wrapped in plastic and tagged, then pulled out a larger plastic bag filled with other items, all tagged as well. Through the plastic, Paterno viewed the driver's license. “Notice anything?” Janet asked.

“Only that Marla Cahill and Kylie Paris could be twins.” He stared at the image.

“Believe me, they're not.”

“And I thought the resemblance between Marla Cahill and Pam Delacroix was close. It is nothing compared to this.”

“Think what it could be, if, after she was in the car wreck, the surgeons altered her face a bit. You know, people would expect that after the accident and the plastic surgery, Marla Cahill just might look a little different from the way she did before Pam's Mercedes did a nose dive off the highway.”

“Who is this woman?” Paterno asked, waving Kylie Paris's ID at the other detective.

Janet was only too happy to answer; she'd been waiting for that question. “According to state records, Kylie Paris was born a couple of years after Marla Cahill, to a woman named Dolly Paris, who, at one time, worked as a waitress at a men's club where Conrad Amhurst played cards and golf. She wasn't married at the time, had no permanent boyfriend, but managed to get pregnant. There were some rumors that the kid was fathered by a member of the club, but no father was listed on the birth certificate and Dolly died nearly five years ago. Heart disease. Kylie grew up with a series of . . . almost stepdads, for lack of a better term. Smart kid, did well in school, got herself some scholarships and worked her way through college. After graduation she talked her way into a job at an investment firm downtown. Very ambitious girl. Even had another offer at a competing firm.”

“Had?”

“Yep. She quit. About a year and a half ago. Just out of the blue. Didn't give much of a reason, but it was out of character as she was determined to claw her way up the corporate ladder, no glass ceiling for this girl. She wanted the good life and how. But then, one day, just up and gives it up.” Janet's eyes gleamed. “None of her friends have heard from her since. She just seemed to drop off the face of the earth.”

“She died?”

“Nope. Don't think so. Otherwise the rent on her apartment and her utilities would be delinquent.”

“And they're not?” Paterno said, his mind racing. Who the hell was this womanâthis potential half sister to Marla Cahill. What was the connection?

“Paid every month to the leasing company.”

“Really?” he asked, feeling that tingle of exhilaration, that spurt of adrenalin that he always sensed when a case was about to be solved. “Why did she quit her job?”

“This is where it gets good. I think she quit to have a babyâa baby she didn't want anyone to know about. Marla Cahill's baby.”

“Whoa. Wait a minuteâ”

“Marla Amhurst Cahill was sterile. It turns out that she had a hysterectomy a few years back, one her father didn't know about. It was all hush-hush, the hospital records where Dr. Robertson works sketchy, but I dug up an old insurance claim and bingoâthere it was. A full hysterectomy. There is no way Marla Cahill is James Cahill's mother. So when her old man, Conrad, nutcase that he is, changes his will, cutting her out unless she comes up with a male heir, she manages to come up with one.

“A
Cahill
heir, not an Amhurst.”

“The old man had always wanted a son. Even though he treated Marla like a damned princess, he wanted a boy.”

“He had one,” Paterno reminded her.

“Yes, but Rory was in an institution, would probably never father any children.”

“So his daughter concocted a scam to give him a grandson?” Paterno was still skeptical. “Talked this half sister or whoever she was into having a kid for her . . . into stepping into her goddamned shoes?”

“That's the way I figure it. It was a good thing Kylie Paris was avaricious and would do just about anything for a buck, had the same blood type, O negative, and managed to produce a boy.”

“That's beyond lucky if you ask me.”

“They are half sistersâsame blood type as their father. That's where the negative comes in. It's a lot less common than positive.”

Paterno's eyes narrowed. “What if the husband didn't go along?”

“Have you ever seen a Cahill turn down money?”

He snorted. “Just the black sheep.”

“Nicholas Cahill's different.”

That much was true.