Almost Dead (28 page)

“I think it’s too late for that,” Jack said.

“The kidnapper killed Tanya,” J.J. reminded. “He’ll kill again.”

Tears of fear filled Cissy’s eyes.

“Murdering bitch,” Jonathan said angrily.

“We don’t know it’s Marla,” J.J. said.

“We don’t know anything,” Jack reminded. “Let’s not speculate. Let the feds take care of it.”

“I’m surprised at you, Jack,” Jonathan said. “You can’t trust the police with your son’s life!”

“What do you propose I do about them?” Jack responded repressively, gesturing toward the federal agents. His fists clenched. He didn’t want this argument. He sure didn’t want it in front of Cissy.

“Get rid of them!” Jonathan gazed at him as if he’d never seen him before.

At that precise moment, one of the agents separated from his partners and looked into the kitchen. “We’re almost done here, Mr. Holt. Can I have a minute with you?”

Jack talked to the man, and Cissy waited in the kitchen with Jonathan and J.J. She appreciated their desire to help, but she would rather just be alone with Jack.

The agent explained the procedure if and when the kidnapper called. Jack nodded, listening but barely hearing. This was B.J.’s life they were discussing. Anything could go wrong. He wanted to kill whoever had stolen his son. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t, given the chance. But there were rules of engagement. And he damn well wasn’t going to break them. Not yet. Not while the risk was too great. Once B.J. was home. Once he was safe. Then the rules changed.

Returning to the kitchen, Jack said, “For now, we wait.”

“For the ransom call.” Cissy shivered.

Jack nodded, adding grimly, “And for our kidnapper to make a move, or a mistake, or something.”

The downtown office of Treasure Homes Realty was a narrow building hosting a luxurious windowfront reception area with a lovely, wraparound rosewood desk. But that facade was for the client who needed convincing and dazzling. The real work took place behind a solid-core door that led to rabbit-warren work spaces, of which Sybil Tomini’s was one of the largest. She, like the other agents, was part owner in the company, which didn’t amount to diddly-squat when things downturned like they had just recently. Although the downturn hadn’t affected everyone. Nuh-uh. Those sharks at Luxury Unlimited were selling multi-million-dollar palaces like they were tract homes.

Sybil looked at her desk and sighed. It was covered with stacks of papers: loan docs, inspection reports, earnest money agreements. She felt like sweeping it all into the trash. It was amazing how many deals fell through when the interest rate went up a half percent. There had to be an easier way to make a living.

And the rental real-estate business was no picnic, either. She was trying to ease out of that business entirely. There just wasn’t enough money for all the problems rental units created. Whenever someone called in wanting Treasure Homes’ rental department to lease their home, she did her damnedest to convince them to sell.

Her phone buzzed. Sybil waited for the receptionist to announce what she wanted, but no such luck.

“I’m here,” Sybil reminded frostily. What was with these receptionists? This girl’s IQ had to be in negative numbers. She always buzzed and then couldn’t seem to verbalize what she wanted.

“Sybil?”

Oh for God’s sake. “Yes?”

“There’s someone here to see you. A Mrs. Owens?”

Sybil had to fight back a short bark of annoyance. She practically tugged her blunt-cut, straight black hair out of her head.

Mrs. Owens was a perfect example of why the rental market was such a losing racket. The woman was the nosiest old bag you would ever hope to meet. She lived across the street from one of Treasure Homes’ rental tenants and complained and complained about them. Worse, she’d somehow gotten Sybil’s name as the person to call.

“I’ll be right there,” Sybil said, at the same moment the receptionist said, “I’ll send her back.”

No! Sybil did
not
want that big mouth tottering into her work space.

She glanced down at her papers, made a sound of annoyance, then headed for the door just as Carrie, the stupidest receptionist on the planet, threw it open, nearly knocking Sybil in the teeth.

“Come on in, Mrs. Owens,” she invited in a sweety-sweety voice she reserved for the infirm or mentally disabled.

Sybil made a mental note to fire Carrie’s sorry ass immediately following Mrs. Owens’s visit.

“Hello, there,” Sybil said to the eighty-something woman. “Come right in.” She gave Carrie the evil eye, and the girl just gazed at her blankly before heading back to her desk.

Sybil closed the door behind them and wondered if she would make it through another day without a cigarette. She’d quit a month earlier. Thirty-one damn days.

With an effort, she dragged her mind back to the problem at hand and, smoothing the skirt of her cream designer suit, pasted on a friendly smile. Mrs. Owens couldn’t be more than five feet tall, probably weighed less than a hundred pounds, but it was clear she was a force to be reckoned with as she tapped her cane along the carpet and worked her way toward Sybil’s work space.

“I’m glad to finally meet-choo,” she stated primly.

Was there a note of censure in her voice? Sybil inwardly sighed. They’d spoken on the phone two, maybe three times, but this was the first time the woman had actually made her way to the office.

“You can use my chair,” Sybil told her, as it was the only one around. She rarely invited clients to her desk, preferring to meet with them at a restaurant or at the hotel lobby down the street with its niches and alcoves and historical feel. Clients liked the smell of money, and so did Sybil.

“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. Don’t really trust chairs with wheels.”

Suit yourself, you old harpy.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Owens?” Sybil asked politely.

“It’s Tilda. My friends call me Tildy. And you know how you can help me. I’ve told you enough times.”

All Sybil had heard was a long and loud rant about Tildy’s neighbor, the one who rented the little Berkeley house through Sybil’s company. For the measly commission Sybil had scored from the deal, it was a total disaster. Tildy was making her life a living hell.

“I told you she looked familiar, coming and going like all get out.” Tildy sniffed. “It’s that woman. The one on the news.”

“Which one?”

“The one that escaped from prison, y’know? Marla whatever her name is. I saw her going in and out of the house you rent, I did!” She tapped her cane hard on the floor, pushing its tip into the carpet with disdain. “And she nearly killed my cat! Poor old Mr. Timms! That woman doesn’t look where she’s going!”

Sybil drifted, wondering if the Lundeens were really going to be able to find new financing. That house they wanted was close to a million, and the down payment was going to kill them if their current lender backed out, which it looked like they were. Shit. What did she have to do to make a sale go through?

“You’re not listening!”

“I heard every word. Is your cat okay?”

“Traumatized, that’s what he is.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

“Call it in! Tell the police we got ’er!”

“Mrs. Owens—”

“Tildy.”

“Yes, Tildy…The woman who rented the house across the street is named Elyse…Hammonds, no, Elyse Hammersly. I checked her out. I’ve met her, and she is not Marla Cahill. She lived in Oregon, a suburb of Portland.”

“Huh. Well, she comes and goes at all hours of the day and night…sometimes doesn’t show up for days. And last night she was hauling somethin’. Looked like a kid to me, all bundled up in a big coat. The woman’s a menace. Nearly killed Mr. Timms.”

“Was the cat on Ms. Hammersly’s property?”

“He wanders.” The old woman shrugged her shoulders.

“But he’s not dead?” Sybil tried to be patient. She straightened the papers on her desk.

Tildy nodded emphatically, her permed hair scarcely moving, her chin stubborn. “Not yet! I’m telling you, that woman is a maniac!”

“She works odd hours, I think, but I’ll talk to her about the cat. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to keep Mr. Tom in the house.”

“It’s Mr. Timms.” Tildy squinted behind glasses that enlarged her eyes. “You just try to keep a cat in the house, miss. He’s been able to go outside since he was a kitten, and he’s not gonna stop now.”

“Sounds like the street’s dangerous.”

“Only since you rented to that maniac! She’s the reason Mr. Timms is short a few lives.”

“I’ll talk to Elyse,” Sybil heard herself promising.

“Good. Do that! Somethin’s not right over there.”

Sybil thought she could use a cigarette…maybe a couple. Tildy was a nuisance, and probably unbalanced to boot. Sybil’s aunt had started showing signs of dementia when she hit her eighties. It was bound to happen. “Do you watch the house all the time?” Sybil asked curiously.

“I keep up with the comings and goings in the neighborhood.” Tildy nodded.

“I’m sure everything’s all right.”

“If it was all right, I wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to come down here.”

“I appreciate your telling me.”

“You’re just fobbing me off, aren’t you?” the old lady accused.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, what’re you gonna do? Anything? Maybe I
should
call the police.”

“No, no, no. I’ll go over there and check with Elyse myself.”

“I’ll be watchin’ for ya.”

I’ll bet you will, Sybil thought. “I’ll be by this afternoon. I’ve got a couple meetings, and then I’ll swing over your way.”

Sybil held the door while Tildy stubbed her way back out. She passed through reception and glanced back, seeming aware that Sybil might be humoring her. But Sybil knew she would never hear the end of this until she took care of things, and she was never going to get rid of Mrs. Owens unless she showed her she was acting on her information.

Like she had time to run out to Berkeley. Oh, sure.

“I’ll be lookin’,” she said again, then toddled through the door.

“What a sweetheart,” Carrie said, meaning it.

“You’re fired,” Sybil responded, reaching inside her purse for her spare, unopened pack of cigarettes, fingering it like a good-luck talisman.

“What have you got?” Paterno asked as Janet Quinn ducked her head into his office.

“Not much. Tanya Watson worked mostly as a babysitter or nanny. She was taking care of a couple of kids who belonged to a woman named Geena Barrymore, a single mother who dated Jonathan Holt for a time.”

“Nothing between Holt and Tanya?”

“Doesn’t appear to be. Geena’s moved on to a new guy too. Quite a while ago.”

“You think there’s any connection between any of ’em and Holt’s grandson?”

She lifted her palms.

Paterno sighed. “I called Jonathan Holt this morning. He’s with his other son, J.J., at Jack and Cissy’s. The feds were there, setting up. Holt didn’t have much to say about Tanya other than he barely knew her.”

“What do you think?” Quinn asked.

“He sounded pretty shaken up about both Tanya’s death and his grandson’s kidnapping.” Paterno inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I’m worried about what’s going on in Marla’s mind. I want to know what she wants.”

“Maybe she’ll keep the little boy safe,” Quinn said.

Paterno didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t like the response he would make.

It was after three by the time Sybil was on her way to the bungalow that was causing Tildy such a problem. Why, why couldn’t neighbors just mind their own business?

Sybil smoothed her hair over one ear and grabbed her cell phone. She was going to have to get Bluetooth. Something. Driving was such a bitch as it was.

She dialed Maureen Lundeen. How was that for a name? Using her own version of the sweety-sweety voice, she enthusiastically left a message, hoping everything was perking along toward closing. If Maureen needed anything—anything at all—just pick up the phone. Sybil would be happy to help with the lenders, if she could. She was at her beck and call.

As soon as she hung up, Sybil made retching noises. Good God. Sometimes she looked at the faces on the real-estate page, agents who’d hit the million-dollar mark in sales a thousand times over. They all smiled like they couldn’t stop. How did they get their names out there? Why did people choose them to be their agent?

“I wish Marla Cahill had rented it!” she declared. “Then I’d be on the news. Then I’d get some publicity!”

She pushed her toe to the accelerator, frustrated. By the time she was finally pulling onto the residential street that led to the rental, she was hot, tired, and thirsty. The green salad she’d slammed down at lunch had been wilted and swimming in acidic fat-free dressing. She’d eaten it anyway, though she’d really wanted a bacon cheeseburger. But God. Real-estate agents around here were like pencils with boobs. She had to watch every calorie, and she was relentless about it. One of these days she was going to get a break. And she was going to seize that opportunity for all it was worth.

She pulled into the drive of the house and climbed from the car, searching through her keys. If she’d forgotten to bring them and had to drive all the way back…but no, her fingers closed over the bungalow’s key ring.

She glanced over her shoulder to Tildy’s house. The place looked deserted. Sybil waved anyway, just in case, and was rewarded with a twitch of the blinds. Well, okay, Tildy was on patrol.

Sybil almost felt sorry for Elyse.

She knocked on the door and waited. Long minutes passed, and Sybil looked anxiously toward the sky. The clouds were gray, their bottoms darker, as if they were just holding in the rain, waiting to let loose with a maelstrom. Peachy.

She knocked again, but when no one answered, she slid her key in the lock and twisted open the door.

She was hit by the smell. Rotten. Putrid. Like a wet, unpleasant slap to the face.

“Oh…God…”

Almost afraid to tiptoe inside, Sybil held the front door open for some fresher air and scanned the rooms. Not a lot of furniture.

What?
Did something
die
in here?