Dying to Please Read online

  When she went back to the living room, she noticed that her curtains were open. She jerked them together, her heart pounding. Was he out there? Was he watching?

  CHAPTER 8

  NOTHING ELSE HAPPENED. THERE WERE NO PHONE CALLS, no more gifts, and if anyone had followed her, she hadn't spotted him. Once she thought someone might be following her, but if he was, he wasn't very good at it, and a white Jaguar wasn't the best car for following anyone, anyway; it was too noticeable. Before long the white Jaguar wasn't anywhere in sight in her rearview mirror, swallowed up by the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Probably it was someone who also lived in Mountain Brook, who just happened to be driving the same route for a while.

  She heard from her mom, and Noel had called, so he was okay for the time being. Daniel still hadn't checked in since he left, but they would have heard if anything had happened to him, so everything was fine on the home front. Jennifer was thinking about having another child, her third, but her husband, Farrell, wasn't enthusiastic; he was perfectly happy with their two sons. Knowing Jennifer, Sarah made a mental bet she'd have another nephew—or a niece—within the year.

  Just talking to her mom had made her feel better. Everything was normal at home, and that was what she needed to know. Everything seemed to be normal here, too, except for the existence of that pendant; whenever she looked at it, she was reminded that something wasn't right, that there was someone out there who thought it was okay to send an expensive gift to a woman he didn't know.

  On her half-day off, on Saturday this particular week, she had her hair trimmed, got a manicure, then went to a movie. All the while she studied the people and traffic around her, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. The same face didn't turn up at two different locations, no one followed her. She thought it was too soon to relax, but she did feel marginally better when she returned home.

  Wednesday, her next off day, was much the same. No one followed her as she went to her karate class or kick-boxing workout. She spent a long time at the pistol range, just because it made her feel better, then went shopping at the Summit; that also made her feel better. There was just something about a new outfit that was good for the soul.

  She browsed the bookstore for an hour, ate supper in one of the restaurants, then went to another movie. She liked movies and saw a new one at least every couple of weeks, but in the back of her mind she knew she was making it easy for anyone to approach her if he wanted. If he was still out there, she wanted to know who he was, what he looked like. She couldn't go through life worried that every man she saw might be him; she wanted a face on him, so he wasn't just a vague, threatening shape in her mind. Let him sit down next to her; let him approach her.

  But she sat alone in the darkened theater, and no one spoke or even brushed against her when the movie was over and she made her way out of the theater, or even in the parking lot as she walked to her truck.

  Everything looked normal at home when she drove up. The front-porch lights were on, the security lights were on, and she could see a light in the Judge's upstairs bedroom. The digital clock in the dashboard said it was almost ten o'clock, so he was probably getting ready for bed.

  She parked in her usual place under the portico, and let herself in through the back door. After locking it, she began a quick tour of the house, as usual, to make certain everything was locked up. As she went toward the front of the house, she heard the television from the Judge's library, and a glance in that direction showed light spilling into the dim hallway. He must still be up, then.

  The big double front doors weren't locked, which was unusual. She turned the dead bolt, then headed back to check the doors in the sunroom.

  It wasn't like the Judge to leave the lights on upstairs; he automatically turned off the switch every time he left a room, even if he would be returning soon. She paused at the back staircase, a tiny frisson of unease prickling her spine. Maybe he had just gone upstairs for a moment and was coming back down to watch the ten o'clock news. She couldn't hear anything from upstairs, but then she wouldn't with the television in his library on.

  She went to the open door of the library and peeked in. One lamp was on, the way he liked it when he watched television. He sat in his leather recliner, as usual, his head tipped to the side. He must have fallen asleep watching television.

  But why was the upstairs light on?

  Then she noticed the smell. It was difficult to identify, combining what smelled like feces with . . . something else. Her nose wrinkling, all her instincts suddenly on alert—was he ill, had he had a stroke or something?—she stepped farther into the room.

  Seeing him from a different angle, she froze.

  No. Oh, no.

  There were dark spots and splotches sprayed across the room, and even in the dimness she could tell that some of the splotches had matter in them. She swallowed hard, standing still and listening for the intruder. She could hear the clock ticking, hear the thumping of her heartbeat, but there was no one else near . . . unless he was upstairs.

  She wanted to go to the Judge. She wanted to straighten his neck, wipe the blood from his neck where it had trickled down from the small, neat wound in the side of his head. She wanted to cover . . . cover the gaping hole on the other side of his head where his skull was missing. She wanted to weep, to scream, to fly upstairs and search for his killer—a search-and-destroy mission, because no way would she let him live another minute, if she found him.

  She didn't do any of those things. Instead she backed out of the library, careful not to touch anything else in case she smeared a fingerprint, and retraced her steps to the kitchen, where she had left her purse on the island. She had dropped her cell phone in it, not seeing a need to have the phone in her pocket when she was here, at home.

  She'd been wrong.

  She retrieved her pistol, too, and wedged her back into a corner so she couldn't be jumped from behind, in case he was still in the house. Her hands were shaking as she turned on the phone and waited for the service to connect. It seemed like ages, though probably only the normal few seconds passed, before the phone showed it was in service. She punched 911, and waited for the answer.

  “Nine-one-one.”

  She wanted to close her eyes, but she didn't dare. She tried to speak, but no sound came out.

  “Nine-one-one. Hello?”

  She swallowed, and managed a thin sound. “This is . . . this is Twenty-seven-thirteen Briarwood. My employer has been shot. He's dead.”

  Unlike the first time Cahill had been here, the house was blazing with lights. The drive, the street, even the sidewalk was clogged with vehicles, most of them with flashing lights. Crime scene tape kept the neighbors at bay, and this was momentous enough that this time they had forgotten it wasn't genteel to gawk; all the houses on the street were lit, and people gathered beyond the line of tape, whispering to one another. An officer was filming the crowd, because a lot of times a murderer would wait around to watch the show.

  The news vans from the city's television stations were pulling up, and Cahill ducked under the line before anyone could grab him.

  The front door was closed, guarded by a uniformed officer who nodded at him and opened it to let him inside. The crime scene people were already at work, carefully dusting and cataloging and photographing. The EMT personnel were waiting, because there was obviously nothing they could do now. There was no life to be saved, no injuries to be treated, just a body to be transported.

  A murder in Mountain Brook was big news. The last one had been . . . what, five years ago? When the murder victim was a retired federal judge, the news was even bigger. The pressure on this case would be intense.

  “Who called it in?” he asked, though of course he knew.

  “The butler. She's in that room there.” The officer nodded toward a room to the left.

  It was a breakfast room, he guessed it was called, with the kitchen connected to it. She sat at the table, a cup of coffee clasped between her hands. She was