hallways that he knew from previous visits led to the kitchen, dining area, and elevator. If he remembered correctly, this floor was strictly for entertaining; the second was the real living quarters, and included Eugenia’s room; the third was bedrooms; and the fourth had once belonged to live-in servants. Beneath it all was the garage. The house was worth millions, and he wondered who would end up with it now that Eugenia was dead. He walked to the sitting room off the foyer, glanced around. “Anyone see a dog?”
“What? A dog?” Jefferson asked.
“A little white dog. It was the victim’s. According to her granddaughter, Eugenia never went anywhere without the damned thing.” He remembered the little white mutt, a terrier mix of some kind. The dog had been a pain in the ass the last time he’d visited here, and he figured it hadn’t improved with age. What was amazing was that the scrappy thing was still alive.
Or had been.
Jefferson walked up the stairs to the landing. “No dog, white or otherwise.”
“Let me know if you come across it.”
Jefferson flashed him a smile, showing off slightly flared teeth against her mocha-colored complexion. “Does it bite?”
“Probably,” Paterno said. “It’s a Cahill.”
She snorted, already back at the railing above and studying the balusters positioned directly over the body. Meanwhile, the techs had spread out, dusting for prints, collecting debris, and continually snapping pictures in their painstaking search for evidence.
Quinn joined Paterno. “I’ll start with the phone records, the computer, and her date book. They’re all up in the library.”
“She’s got a computer?” Paterno asked.
Quinn nodded.
“The granddaughter said she didn’t like them.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“See if you can find any legal records,” he added. “Insurance policies and a will.” Frowning, he stared at the interior of this immense house with its original art and expensive, if worn, furnishings. “A place like this might have a wall safe.”
“Already checking,” Quinn assured him as she headed up the stairs to the library.
Paterno glanced down at the victim again, a last look before she would be zipped into a body bag and placed on a stretcher. His gut clenched as he stared at the dead woman’s tiny body, dressed in its expensive pants, suit jacket, blouse, and scarf. As if she’d planned to play bridge or have tea with her friends. Her hair was messed and bloody now, but he guessed it had been recently done—smooth apricot curls were still teased and sprayed into position.
Damn it all.
He had a bad feeling about this.
Real bad.
At least the beer was cold, Cissy thought, though considering the outside temperature, she and Jack should have been sipping hot chocolate laced with whiskey or Bailey’s, the kind of drinks they’d loved on the few trips they’d taken, skiing at Tahoe and Heavenly Valley. Back in the days when everything had felt magical. She recalled coming into the lodge exhilarated from the ski runs, snow melting in Jack’s hair, his face red with cold. Clunking in ski boots, they had ordered drinks, then sat outside to stare at the clear, incredibly blue waters of the lake, and later, after soaking in a hot tub outside, they’d spent hours in their room making love.
A lifetime ago.
Cissy took a swallow from her bottle and pushed those particular thoughts back into the locked closet where they belonged. No sense getting maudlin or nostalgic. So she had loved Jack with all of her heart; so it didn’t work out. No big deal. It happened all the time.
But you never thought it would happen to you, did you?
Cissy had believed that when she married, it would be for life, to a man who loved her unconditionally. She craved love like an addict—an emotional need any two-bit shrink would say lay in the debris of her broken childhood. And they would be right. Cissy had never experienced that kind of love, not from her
“What? A dog?” Jefferson asked.
“A little white dog. It was the victim’s. According to her granddaughter, Eugenia never went anywhere without the damned thing.” He remembered the little white mutt, a terrier mix of some kind. The dog had been a pain in the ass the last time he’d visited here, and he figured it hadn’t improved with age. What was amazing was that the scrappy thing was still alive.
Or had been.
Jefferson walked up the stairs to the landing. “No dog, white or otherwise.”
“Let me know if you come across it.”
Jefferson flashed him a smile, showing off slightly flared teeth against her mocha-colored complexion. “Does it bite?”
“Probably,” Paterno said. “It’s a Cahill.”
She snorted, already back at the railing above and studying the balusters positioned directly over the body. Meanwhile, the techs had spread out, dusting for prints, collecting debris, and continually snapping pictures in their painstaking search for evidence.
Quinn joined Paterno. “I’ll start with the phone records, the computer, and her date book. They’re all up in the library.”
“She’s got a computer?” Paterno asked.
Quinn nodded.
“The granddaughter said she didn’t like them.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“See if you can find any legal records,” he added. “Insurance policies and a will.” Frowning, he stared at the interior of this immense house with its original art and expensive, if worn, furnishings. “A place like this might have a wall safe.”
“Already checking,” Quinn assured him as she headed up the stairs to the library.
Paterno glanced down at the victim again, a last look before she would be zipped into a body bag and placed on a stretcher. His gut clenched as he stared at the dead woman’s tiny body, dressed in its expensive pants, suit jacket, blouse, and scarf. As if she’d planned to play bridge or have tea with her friends. Her hair was messed and bloody now, but he guessed it had been recently done—smooth apricot curls were still teased and sprayed into position.
Damn it all.
He had a bad feeling about this.
Real bad.
At least the beer was cold, Cissy thought, though considering the outside temperature, she and Jack should have been sipping hot chocolate laced with whiskey or Bailey’s, the kind of drinks they’d loved on the few trips they’d taken, skiing at Tahoe and Heavenly Valley. Back in the days when everything had felt magical. She recalled coming into the lodge exhilarated from the ski runs, snow melting in Jack’s hair, his face red with cold. Clunking in ski boots, they had ordered drinks, then sat outside to stare at the clear, incredibly blue waters of the lake, and later, after soaking in a hot tub outside, they’d spent hours in their room making love.
A lifetime ago.
Cissy took a swallow from her bottle and pushed those particular thoughts back into the locked closet where they belonged. No sense getting maudlin or nostalgic. So she had loved Jack with all of her heart; so it didn’t work out. No big deal. It happened all the time.
But you never thought it would happen to you, did you?
Cissy had believed that when she married, it would be for life, to a man who loved her unconditionally. She craved love like an addict—an emotional need any two-bit shrink would say lay in the debris of her broken childhood. And they would be right. Cissy had never experienced that kind of love, not from her
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