by Brenda Joyce
“Are we going to talk now?” she asked finally.
He turned, and she saw his face. It was grim, and there was no mistaking his anger.
Claire stiffened.
“We can talk now,” he said. “But I’d like to see the Courbet.”
She stared. An idea struck her. “Is that why you were wandering around my house the night of the party? Are you also a collector, like my father?”
“Yes and no,” he said, coming toward her. Claire forgot to move away. “The Courbet belongs to the Elgin family,” he said. “It was the centerpiece of their collection, and it disappeared sometime during the latter years of the war. Lady Elgin reported it missing or stolen after the war.”
“It’s in the master bedroom,” Claire whispered. Had her father bought a stolen painting? “Is Elgin dead also?”
“No. He is very much alive,” Ian said, moving past her without looking at her. “In fact, he’s our killer.”
Claire ran after Ian. To go upstairs, she had to cross the living area. She refused to glance at it or the terrace. She found Ian in the master bedroom, standing in front of the Courbet, staring grimly at it. Claire suddenly realized that the painting should be moved, perhaps back to her father’s. “I demand an explanation,” she cried.
“That’s a problem,” he said, not looking at her. He was studying the painting, and suddenly, he shivered.
“What is it?” Claire asked quickly.
He shrugged, still studying the masterpiece. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I just had the weirdest feeling. . . .” He stopped himself. Still, he did not glance at her. “I’d hoped to have a chance to see this someday. I don’t think this painting was stolen. I think that when Elgin disappeared, he must have taken this painting with him.”
“You were interviewing my father. Did my father buy this painting from Elgin? And who is Elgin? And will you look at me, damn it!” She grabbed his arm. “Is my father in danger, too?”
He looked at her. “You are a double-edged sword, Claire. I do not want you involved. You don’t need to know any of this. You already know too much for your own good.”
She reeled as if struck. “You’re kidding, right? You are kidding?”
“I am dead serious,” he said grimly.
“My husband was murdered right outside and just below where we are now standing. He was in some kind of trouble. I think you know what kind. Now maybe my father knows the killer, too. And you expect me to just walk away, pretending that everything’s hunky-dory, while this killer runs around scot-free?”
“Yeah, I do. Hunky-dory?” He smiled.
She felt her fists ball up. If he laughed at her again, she would flatten his nose, and to hell with the gun he carried. “I seem to be regressing to some adolescent stage of behavior and language usage,” she snapped. “But you cannot keep me in the dark.”
“Actually, I can. This is an official homicide investigation. You are not a cop.”
“Neither are you!” she shouted.
“I am not a policeman, and no, I don’t work for any government agency. The center is privately funded. But I do work closely with the police and other government agencies, including foreign ones, whenever the need arises,” he said. “Like now.”
Claire was very angry. “I want my photo back. And the fax.”
He made a sound. “That’s juvenile.”
“As I said, I seem to be regressing.” She held out her hand.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“I mean it, Marshall. I know you want that photo. I bet you don’t have a photo of Elgin, even if he’s only twenty in it. I bet you want to dash over to a computer and do some imaging and aging. That’s my property in your hand, and I want some goddamned answers. Do we have a deal or not?”
He said, his mouth curling a bit, “Talk that way at your fund-raiser next month, and you won’t raise a dime, much less that million you’re fishing for.”
“How the hell do you know so much about me?” she asked with fear.
He handed her the photo and the fax. “No, Claire, we do not have a deal.” And he walked out of the room.
Claire was still, but only for an instant. Then she ran after him. “Ian, please. Please” she cried. She heard the desperation in her tone and knew she was begging, but she did not care.
He halted in his tracks. “Shit,” he said.
Claire allowed the tears to fall. It was the oldest trick in the book, but her tears were real—David was dead, and she was alone and terrified.
“Claire, cut it out,” he said, turning helplessly.
She shook her head. “I can’t,” she lied. Actually, the brief need to cry had ended. Her tears were drying up as fast as they had flowed.
Ian sighed. “You don’t want to hear any of this,” he said. “Trust me, Claire.”
Alarms went off, right there inside of her head. “David told me he was in big trouble,” she said. “What kind of trouble could it have been?”
“The killing kind,” he said.
“Ian?” The tears shimmered in her vision again. “Please. He was my husband. We were together for almost fifteen years.”
His jaw tightened visibly. “He may have been blackmailing Elgin, Claire. And to make matters even worse, he witnessed George Suttil’s murder.”
Had David been out of his mind? No wonder he was dead. Claire was stunned.
“Claire? Driver’s back. I’ll drop you at the gallery so you can pick up your car.”
Claire hardly heard Ian, who stood in the driveway sipping from a Styrofoam container of coffee. She was reeling. If only David hadn’t done something so stupid—and illegal. She remained on the steps in front of her house. What should she do now?
Find Elgin. Bring him to justice.
“Claire? C’mon. I have a flight to catch.”
That got her attention. She came down the steps. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I have a flight to catch,” he said. He looked closely at her. “Are you all right?”
“Am I all right?” she echoed in some disbelief. “You drop that bombshell on me and ask me if I am okay? No, I’m not okay. Is my father in danger?”
Ian hesitated, then said, “No.”
Claire was incredulous. “You’re lying to me!”
“Why won’t you leave this alone?” he exploded. “God damn it, if only I had gone to the gallery a bit earlier, we wouldn’t even be standing here hashing this out.”
She was alarmed now, and filled with caution. She couldn’t trust this man because he was a stranger—a stranger with a temper who carried a gun and was so damned evasive. “How do you know that Elgin is the killer? And not someone else?”
He turned a hard gaze full-force upon her. “Get in the car, Claire. I have a plane to catch. I am not about to miss it because of you.”
Claire didn’t like his tone. It was threatening. She got into the car.
This time Ian jumped into the front seat, beside the driver. Clearly, he wished to avoid close contact with her. That was fine with Claire as well. He handed her a container of coffee. Claire took it but made no move to drink it as they headed down the hill, merging into the traffic on Leavenworth Street.
Shit, she thought. He was refusing to tell her anything, and he had lied—her father might be in danger. Why was he flying out of town so fast? Did that mean that Elgin—if he was the killer—was no longer in town? Claire hoped that was the case. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m making a brief stop to speak with Murphy, and then it’s back to the hotel to pack and check out.”
“No, I mean where are you flying to?”
He didn’t turn to look at her. “You are awfully nosy. I liked the dolled-up, glam-queen version of Claire Hayden better.”
“She’s gone.”
Now he twisted to look at her. “Take off those sunglasses,” he said.
“Like hell I will,” she said, having just put them back on.
; He reached out and removed them.
Claire bit back a protest—and this one might have been a real curse.
His face softened. “Look, Claire, right now everything’s okay, and you don’t have to worry.”
She saw that he was concerned. “But I am worried. This is not a case of ignorance being bliss.”
“Can’t you see that I’m an old-fashioned kinda guy, and I am trying, in my own way, foolish as it may be, to protect you?”
Claire stared into his eyes, which happened to be green. “That’s a nice way to be,” she heard herself say. “That is, if you are telling me the truth.”
“I also happen to be a basically honest guy, too. Which is why I hunt down people like Elgin.”
Claire smiled a little, and it was genuine. “Is that a Brooklyn accent?”
“Queens,” he said with a small, answering smile. “Friends?”
She hesitated. She did not dare trust him yet. “Friends.”
He stuck out his hand. She took it. The shake was brief but firm. Claire realized his touch flustered her. Unfortunately, she still found him highly attractive.
Then, “Can I borrow the photograph and fax, please?”
Her mind sped. If he was tight with the police, she could be forced to hand over the items anyway. “Sure. What are friends for?” She smiled her perfect socialite smile at him.
“I hate it when you do that,” he said.
She ignored the remark and handed him the photograph and fax.
“Thank you, Claire,” he said. Then he hesitated. “Look,” he said. “I want you to lay low for a while.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
He avoided her gaze. “Because there’s a slight chance, a very slight chance, that you may be in danger, too.”
Claire wished Ian a good trip, then waved after him as the sedan crept away. Then she leaped into her Land Rover, which, miraculously, had a ticket but had not yet been towed, and she sped out of Maiden Lane in the opposite direction. By the time she reached the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, four and a half minutes had elapsed. She had run three red lights, and she doubted he would appear for a half an hour, if not more.
Her heart felt as if it had become permanently lodged in her throat. She was in danger? Could this be happening?
Claire had the valet park her car and watched to make sure it was whisked away into the underground garage, because if it remained in front of the hotel, she had not a doubt Ian would notice it. She was going to con her way into his room so she could find the answers he refused to give her. Determination fueled her now. She ran into the lobby. Having connections paid off. She had used the Mandarin Oriental Hotel for a fall gala for San Fran Save a few months ago, and had attended many events there over the years. Claire knew several of the concierges, as well as the events manager and the general manager. One of the concierges was only too happy to help her out, and she learned that Ian’s room was 514.
Good God, she thought, going over to the marble bank of elevators. Had she just bribed the concierge? It was unbelievable.
She could not be pleased. What kind of danger could she possibly be in? And more important, why?
On the fifth floor, Claire found his room and went through the process of pretending to discover that she did not have a key. A hotel maid with a housekeeping cart approached. “I will call security,” she said in a heavily accented voice.
“I am going to divorce the bastard,” Claire cried, beginning to weep. “He left me stranded—stranded—at the Embarcadero, and I have no money, no change, he has the bank card, he is such a shit! And he has the keys! I am divorcing him, I have had it, screw men!” She wept. It was amazing what fear could do. She had never been a good actress before.
Someone banged on a wall or door and shouted, “Be quiet!”
“I divorced my husband, and I am very happy, you will be happy, too,” the maid said, shaking her head. “Here, honey, go in.” She unlocked the door for Claire and smiled. “Just don’t tell anybody, I break the rules.”
“You are so kind,” Claire said, giving her ten dollars.
The maid stuffed it in her apron, and Claire decided she had better ease up on the bribes or payoffs or whatever they were. She was on a budget now.
And then she was inside Ian Marshall’s room, and she double-locked the door. Now he would not be able to get in, not even with his electronic key.
Claire collapsed against the door. And then she smiled, at once incredulous and disbelieving. God, she had done it. She had broken and entered into a hotel room. It was as if she had become someone else.
She looked around.
The room was state-of-the-art and modern. There was a king-size bed, two stark white stone bed tables, interesting iron wall sconces, and a desk. There was also an entertainment center, which probably housed a minibar. A laptop was on the desk.
Claire sat down at the desk. As she booted up, she looked down at Ian’s briefcase.
Claire didn’t hesitate. She bent and opened it. Inside were various folders and pads. She took everything out and began skimming over his notes. The problem was, they were illegible to her eye.
She flipped pages, then frowned, because the one name that did leap out at her was Robert Ducasse.
Robert Ducasse was her uncle, who had died in 1944, just before D-day. He had been a hero of the French Resistance.
Claire did not like finding his name on Ian’s legal pad. She stared at it. Why was there a question mark next to his name?
Windows ME came up. Relieved, Claire put down the pads by her feet. She hesitated, deciding to check his agenda first. She opened up his Task Scheduler and, with a click, found the second week of April, the week of David’s death.
“Hayden” was entered for April 12, as was the note “Party, 7 P.M.” Her home address was there, and her home telephone number. Inhaling, Claire scrolled back to April 10, the day George Suttill had been murdered. His name was listed under the date.
Claire didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she opened up his address book, and sure enough, David was listed under Hayden—all of his numbers, and his work address as well as that of their home. There was a notation that read “Wife—Claire.”
Claire stared at the page. Why was she so uneasy?
She turned to D. Instantly, she found her father’s name, address, and numbers, as well as those of the Dukes. What were the Dukes doing in Ian’s address book?
Claire’s fear increased.
Claire closed the scheduler and opened up the Documents folder. She saw a file named Elgin and clicked on it, her pulse racing with excitement. She quickly read that Lionel Elgin had been born in 1922 at Elgin Hall, his family home just outside of London. Claire stopped, stunned. They were after an Englishman?
She exhaled loudly and continued to read. He had come from an old and wealthy family. His father, Randolph Elgin, had been a baron; his mother had died when he was a young boy. He had attended Eton and was in his first year at Oxford when the war began. He inherited his father’s title and estates when his father disappeared in August 1940. By then, Lionel was a lieutenant in the air force.
Something sounded behind Claire, but she did not quite hear it. Elgin was an Englishman, not a German, and if he had been born in 1922, he was only seventeen when the war began in 1939.
Elgin was an Englishman—and William Duke was in Ian Marshall’s address book.
Claire’s heart felt as if it had dropped from her body and right through the floor. Like a damned World War II rocket.
How old was William Duke? Good God, he was in his eighties. He was older than Elgin, who was in his late seventies.
Something jiggled behind her. Claire froze. Ian had opened the door, and now he was trying to open it fully, but the safety latch wouldn’t allow him to open it more than an inch or two.
Claire was afraid to breathe, to move.
A silence fell. He had stopped trying to pull open the door.
Shit and damn and double d
amn, Claire thought, panicked.
Slowly, she turned and looked at the door, now slightly ajar. She saw nothing, and too late, she recalled that he had a gun.
And then it struck her that he might think someone else was in his room—someone like Elgin.
“Ian, it’s only me!” she cried, jumping to her feet.
His eye appeared in the crack between the door and the wall, and with it, the nose of his black gun. “God damn it,” he said, very low and succinctly. “Open the door, Claire. Now.”
Claire wet her lips. Of course she had to let him in.
“Open the door, Claire. Before I shoot the latch off.”
“You wouldn’t”
“I would. I have a silencer. Open the door.”
Claire opened the door.
Ian came in. She looked at his gun as he closed the door, her heart exploding in her chest with fear and dire predictions. The gun did not have a silencer attached to it. He had lied—again.
Not a good sign, she thought.
He shut and double-locked the door behind her. “What the hell are you doing?”
Claire shrugged helplessly. She was trying to figure out how many seconds it would take her to unlock the door and flee.
He scanned the room and cursed. “You just don’t give up, do you, Claire?”
Tears of fright almost came. She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”
“Under other circumstances, I would admire your gumption. But right now, I’m pissed.”
“Sorry,” she whispered meekly.
He put his gun down on the desk by the laptop. He studied the screen, then glanced at the notes at his feet. He looked up—at her. “So now you know.”
She swallowed, but she was short of saliva. “I know Elgin is English. I know that you have William Duke’s name in your address book.” And he’s English, too, she wanted to add, but wisely, she did not.
He sighed.
Then she heard herself say, “William is one of the nicest and kindest men I know. I’ve known him my entire life. He is not a killer. He is not Elgin.”