Almost Dead. Lisa Jackson
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inside. Aside from her baby, she didn’t really care about anything.
Fortunately, B.J. was thrilled with his position and was “driving” the car, both his little hands on the steering wheel.
Sitting with his feet straddling the dented pizza box, Paterno retrieved a pen and small notebook from his coat pocket. “You were bringing dinner to your grandmother?”
She nodded. “I usually visit her on Sundays, because she’s alone. I always come with something to eat, something fun, I think, fix it for her, then we watch some television show, you know, Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune with Coco and—” She stopped short, her head snapping up. “Where’s the dog?”
“What?”
“Gran’s usually alone except for Coco. Her little white mutt of some kind that she absolutely adores. I didn’t see the dog in the house, and that’s really weird. Grandma takes that dog everywhere. They’re practically inseparable.” She scanned the grounds as if the dog had somehow slipped through the door.
“We’ll find it,” Paterno said, but made a note in his little pad. He touched her on the arm. “You were saying…You watch television….”
“Tonight we were going to have pizza because I was running late….” Cissy looked down at the crushed white box and couldn’t believe that less than half an hour ago she’d been worried about explaining why she didn’t have time to cook something her grandmother liked better than takeout from Dino’s. Now she was stuck in a car with a cop she didn’t trust, her grandmother dead. She cleared her throat, tried to think straight. “Anyway, it’s usually just the three of us. Me, Grandma, and Beej. Deborah, the woman who is basically her companion and, um, you know, isn’t really a ‘caregiver.’” Cissy made air quotes with her fingers. “Gran would never put up with that, but she’s got the companion. Deborah has Sundays and Mondays off, and the day maid, Paloma, leaves around five, I think. Elsa, the cook, she only works, oh geez, Monday through Friday unless Gran was having company…and…and, oh, Lars, the chauffeur, works until, I don’t know…Five? Six? Something like that, unless Grandma needs him, and then they work something out.” She was trying to keep it all straight, though she knew she was rambling. “So then we watch some inane show and…and…oh damn.” She started crying again, then, disgusted with herself, angrily scraped the tears away.
“Mommy?” B.J. asked, twisting his head backward to look at her.
She managed a smile. “Mommy’s okay.” An out-and out lie. “Can we go now?” she asked the detective just as a vehicle for the crime-scene team rolled to a stop and added another roadblock to the driveway. Worse yet, she saw through the open gates that some of the neighbors had stepped onto the street, clustering together under the spreading branches of a large oak tree. Cissy groaned, then groaned again as a news van roared up the hillside and double-parked a few houses down. “This just gets better and better.”
“I can drive you home. Unfortunately it’ll be a little while. It would help if you could give me a list of the people who work here. Names and addresses.”
“I don’t have them on me, but Gran did. I’ve got a couple phone numbers on my cell. For Deborah and Lars. I don’t have the rest, but I do have some of her friends at home on my computer.”
“I’ll need what you’ve got.”
She found her phone in her purse, scrolled down her contact list, then rattled off the phone numbers that she had. “Deborah Kropft, here it is.” She told him the number. “And Lars Swanson; I know I have his because sometimes he drives Beej and me.” Again she gave him a number. “Paloma’s last name is Perez, and I…I think she lives in Oakland. Her husband is Estevan. There’s another maid, Rosa, who has worked for Gran on and off for years. Her last name is Santiago. I’m not sure where she lives, but Gran has records in the library, I think. By the phone. A card file, not on a computer…. She rarely used her PC….” Oh Lord, she was rambling again.
“We’ll check. Thanks.”
“Can we leave now?”
“Not just yet, but soon. Promise,” he said solemnly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, then we can wrap this up, and if I have more questions, I’ll call or stop by, or, if it’s easier, you can come to the station.”
“I really don’t have anything more to say, and I really need to get my son home.”
“I know. I’ll make it quick.” Paterno stepped outside and turned his attention to someone who had appeared from the crime-scene-unit’s vehicle. Together they walked briskly back up the brick walk that now was cluttered with cops and emergency workers. No way was she going to take a ride from the detective. They could just find a way to unblock the damned driveway. For now, though, it looked like she was stuck. Which really sucked. “Okay, buddy,” she said to B.J. “Nothin’ else I can do. Looks like it’s you and me. How about we eat in the car?”
“I drive.”
“Mmm. Later.”
He started to wail as she shifted him from her lap, but she ignored the coming tantrum, strapped him into the passenger seat, grabbed some extra napkins from the glove box, and opened the pizza box.
She pulled out a small piece and handed it to him. His cries quickly subsided. Yesterday, she would have worried about her leather seats. Tonight, she realized it wasn’t a big deal. Any slopped-over tomato sauce or strings of mozzarella cheese could be wiped up. Her grandmother would never be able to complain about stains ever again.
As B.J. pulled off a piece of pepperoni, examining it closely before stuffing it into his mouth, Cissy stared out the rain-splattered windshield and up at the old house. Its shingle and brick walls rose four stories above the basement garage, which was flanked by rhododendrons, azaleas, and ferns, all currently collecting rain and shivering in the wind. The windows on the first two floors glowed—warm patches of light that belied the horror inside. She lifted her gaze upward to the third floor and the dormer of her old room, the place where she’d spent most of her miserable teenage years.
At that time she’d hated living in the city, had preferred the ranch. All that had changed, of course.
Maybe Cissy should have moved back here as her grandmother had suggested when she’d kicked Jack out of the house, but she hadn’t wanted to give up her independence. And besides, this huge, rambling house didn’t hold all that great of memories for her.
Now Gran was dead.
Her throat tightened painfully. Her whole life seemed to be falling apart. Her mother was an escapee, her grandmother dead, her husband…Oh, she didn’t even want to go there. She glanced at her child, happily chewing on a piece of pepperoni as she broke off a bit of cheesy crust. She offered it to B.J., and he took it eagerly, crushing it in his tiny fist.
So lost in thought was she that she didn’t see a shadow pass by the car, didn’t realize someone was staring through the window of the driver’s door until there was a quick rap of knuckles on the glass. She jumped, turned quickly, nearly sending the rest of the pizza into the steering wheel only to find Jack Holt peering inside.
“Geez!” she said, her heart knocking, then, under her breath, added, “Well, B.J., look who arrived.” She couldn’t believe it. “Daddy’s here.”
Chapter 3
The last thing Cissy needed right now, the very last, was to deal with her soon-to-be ex. Reluctantly, she rolled down the window. Along with a gust of rain-washed air, she caught a hint of his aftershave and a whole lot of unwanted memories. As upset as she was, she still noticed the hint of beard shadow covering his strong jaw and the laserlike intensity of his blue eyes.
“You okay?” he asked.
Stupid question. “Do I look okay?” She was shaking her head and trying not to cry. “No, I’m not. I’m not okay at all.” She wouldn’t break down, would not in front of him. “It’s Gran. She’s…she’s…Jack,