Driving around the block, Jack found an empty space on the street, just so she wouldn’t have a fit about his car being in the drive. Then, using the seat-adjustment lever, he pushed the seat of his Jeep back as far as it would go. He figured if the cops could stake the place out, so could he. He always kept a sleeping bag in the back, and he had a couple of bottles of water in the console, so he was good for hours.
He had an apartment, of course, one he’d rented just this month when Cissy had given him the boot, but he hated it. Cold. Lifeless. Sterile. Even with rental furniture, a fake plant, and a plasma TV that stretched across one wall, the place wasn’t home. It was ironic, really, because he’d always considered himself a bachelor for life. Then he’d met Cissy, and everything had changed. His whole damned attitude on the institution. He’d seen enough bad marriages in his lifetime, witnessed firsthand the battlefield wedded “bliss” could be from his parents, then watched as several of his more idealistic friends had taken the plunge into matrimonial waters, only to have nearly drowned.
Still, his relationship with Cissy, as fast and hot as it had been, had changed his mind about settling down. When he’d married her, he’d gladly given up the bachelor basics of recliner, remote control, microwave, and minifridge. And he hadn’t missed them.
But he was a realist.
Cissy was still mad.
Really mad.
It would take a lot of smooth talking, crow swallowing, redundant apologizing, and dozens of good deeds before she’d ever trust him again. He wasn’t even sure it was possible. The truth from Larissa’s pouty and lying lips wouldn’t hurt either, but so far, Larissa refused to tell Cissy what really happened. There was a part of her that reveled in his predicament, as she insisted that if Cissy were a truly trusting wife, she would never doubt Jack. Larissa wasn’t even going to acknowledge or honor the argument. Cissy had been her friend too, as they all worked together at the magazine, and Larissa proclaimed loud and long that it was up to Cissy to trust them both.
Which was bullshit, and they all knew it. Hurt feelings didn’t work that way, didn’t answer to what should be in a perfect world.
Now, even if Larissa did come around, it was already too late. Cissy had made up her mind, and she’d seen Larissa’s silence as testament to the fact that Larissa and Jack had slept together. Even if Larissa were to come clean—which was a big if—Cissy wouldn’t believe her and would, no doubt, come to the conclusion that Jack had put Larissa up to it.
So they were at an impasse.
Damn, what a mess.
Your own fault, Holt. You blew it.
Now he stared out at the street where rain was washing down the hillside, past the rooftops of the Victorian houses to the city below. Thousands of lights winked in the night, warm windows glowing in the high-rise apartment buildings, hotels, and office buildings of the financial district.
Back at their house, a light went on in the baby’s room, and Jack visualized Cissy going through the evening routine of bathing the baby, dressing him in pj’s, then sitting in the big overstuffed chair to read him a story before laying him in his crib. Gazing up at the window, Jack felt a loneliness he’d never experienced in his life. He cracked open a bottle of water, wished it were a beer, then noticed another car pull into a spot in front of the house.
Great.
He had company.
The cops were back.
He remembered seeing the classic Caddy parked at Eugenia’s house. Paterno’s old car. He watched as Paterno climbed out of the driver’s side then opened the car’s rear door. The detective retrieved a plastic carrier of some kind from the backseat, then headed for the house.
A pet crate?
Jack heard another approaching engine. As Paterno started for the door, a news van turned the corner and pulled up on the far side of the street, its nose blocking Cissy’s driveway.
Great.
Jack screwed the cap back on his water bottle and left it on the passenger seat.
An Asian woman in an orange parka with the station’s letters—KTAM—emblazoned over a pocket practically flew out of the van and popped open a fat umbrella. The reporter, glossy layered hair gleaming, zeroed in on Paterno and headed his way, cutting across the grass as if she hoped to reach him before he got to the front porch.
This didn’t look good.
Jack reached for the Jeep’s door handle.
“Detective,” the reporter called as she closed the distance. “Detective Paterno! Could I have a word with you?” A cameraman was following close behind, his mammoth camera propped on his shoulder as he ran after her. “We’ve met before. I’m Lani Saito with KTAM.”
Paterno turned just as Jack slid out of his rig.
“Can you tell me about Marla Cahill’s escape?”
Paterno stopped short as she blocked his way. Tersely, he answered, “I’m sure the prison authorities and state police have issued a statement.”
She wasn’t budging. “But you were the detective who arrested her, and now, just a few hours ago, her mother-in-law died from a fall. Was foul play involved in Eugenia Cahill’s death?”
“We don’t know.”
As he was behind the detective, Jack couldn’t see Paterno’s reaction, but there was no mistaking the irritation in his voice. “We’re still investigating.” He turned toward the house, and inside the pet carrier a dog started yapping.
“Detective, what’s in the carrier?” But the howling that came out of the plastic crate answered the question. “You’re delivering a dog?”
“It was missing.” He turned back toward the house.
“Whose dog?”
Paterno didn’t honor the question with so much as a turn of his head, but Lani, spying Jack, switched her attention to him. He suspected she knew who he was; he’d done a lot of promoting when he was getting the magazine off the ground and showed up at a lot of civic and charitable functions.
“Jack Holt?” she said, and he noticed the sharpened interest in her dark eyes. The wheels were turning in her mind. He didn’t wait for her to put two and two together. Jogging around her, he caught up with Paterno at the front door. “Don’t ring the bell,” he said as Paterno was just lifting his hand. Now Coco was having a fit, barking crazily, baying and whining in her little-dog voice. “Cissy just put the baby to bed. Let’s not wake him. Here.” He slid his key into the lock, and the door swung open. “I’ll get her,” he said, ushering the cop inside and pulling the door shut.
“Jack?” Cissy called from the top of the stairs. “I thought you understood—”
“We’ve got company, Ciss,” he said as Paterno set the crate on the floor.
“What? Who?” He heard her soft, familiar footsteps on the stairs as he opened the cage’s mesh door.
With an excited yip, a scrap of scruffy white
