Until You (A Romantic Suspense Novel - Author's Cut Edition)

by Sandra Marton

  Thurston pushed a slender file folder across the blotter. Conor picked it up and flipped it open. Inside was a summary of the background checks that had been done on Hoyt and Eva Winthrop. He skimmed the notes on Hoyt but there was nothing there he didn't already know. The man was Old Money, through and through.

  The stuff on Eva was only a little more interesting. She'd been born in Argentina, where she'd met and married a young Marine named James Beckman who'd been assigned to the American Embassy. When his tour of duty ended, Beckman took Eva home with him to the States. He'd died in a car crash shortly after their daughter, Miranda, was born. Eva had gone on to cleverly parlay a door-to-door cosmetics business into a multi-million dollar company.

  Conor closed the file folder and dropped it on the desk.

  "Interesting," he said politely.

  Harry looked up from the note. "So is this." He folded the note, tucked it back inside its envelope and pushed it across the desk. "Conclusions?"

  "Could be anything," Conor said, without acknowledging that the note was sitting in front of him.

  "A shopping list? A birthday message for Grandma?"

  "Come on, Harry, you know what I mean."

  Thurston smiled. "Humor me."

  "Well, it could be from a crank, just looking to keep the President's newest appointee on his toes."

  "By goosing the appointee's spouse?"

  "Ask Sybil to clue you in on the subject of sexual equity sometime," Conor said with a wry smile.

  "What else?"

  "Could be it's from a run-of-the-mill crackpot, somebody who spotted Eva Winthrop's name someplace and wants to shake her up a little."

  "Why?"

  "How should I know?" Conor leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and crossed his legs. "She runs a cosmetic company, remember? Maybe it's from a dissatisfied customer."

  "Would you care to figure the odds on a customer sending Eva Winthrop a quote from Santayana because she doesn't like the color of the lipstick she just bought?"

  Conor's eyes narrowed. "I didn't know you were a student of philosophy, Harry."

  Thurston chuckled. "Hoyt and I finally connected by phone this morning. He told me what the note said, told me what you'd said, and that he was impressed with how you'd handled things."

  "Yeah, well, that's only because I lied through my... " Conor broke off but it was too late. Harry was looking at him with his eyebrows raised.

  "Lied through your teeth? When you told my old friend the note was meaningless?"

  "You wanted me to reassure him, right? Well, I reassured him."

  "But you don't think the note is just from some nut case."

  Conor shoved back his chair and got to his feet.

  "Look, let's stop playing games. Hoyt Winthrop's up for a presidential appointment. His wife got a note from a person or persons unknown. It's not a note that says 'Have a nice day,' or even 'Watch yourself or I'll blow you away,' which would at least make some sense, it's a note that's pretty much open to interpretation, all of which adds up to mean—as you and I both know—that somebody should probably check things out."

  "Somebody?"

  "Somebody," Conor repeated coolly. "Meanwhile, I'm glad to hear that Winthrop was pleased with my visit. You be sure and ask him to write a note of recommendation for my file. Now, if you don't mind, I've got work to do."

  "Conor, let's not play games." Thurston plucked the note from his desk and stood up. "This thing has a bad smell and you know it."

  "Maybe. On the other hand, it could be just what I said, a crank note with no more meaning than a crank phone call."

  Thurston's brows lifted. "Did they get a phone call, too?"

  "No! Dammit, Harry, I'm just making a point. The note might be something to worry about or it might not. Hand it over to the FBI and let them check it out."

  "Is that your best advice?"

  "It's my only advice."

  "I'm surprised. I never realized you were so fond of the establishment."

  "It's their job," Conor said, refusing to be baited, "not ours."

  "I agree."

  "Good. End of story. When you've got something for me to start on, give me a ring."

  "The President doesn't want anybody's dirty laundry showing when he makes this appointment."

  "Right." Conor strolled to the door. "And I'm sure the FBI will do a bang-up job of seeing it doesn't."

  "And Hoyt would be devastated if something went wrong."

  "Uh-huh. My heart goes out to him."

  "Remember the last time the Oval Office put its stamp of approval on an appointee?"

  "Of course I remember. They almost got ridden out of town on a rail."

  "So did the poor bastard who was up for the appointment, and all because there was a screw-up in the investigation."

  "So, let the White House tell whoever handles this to make sure they don't screw up this time."

  "Conor, come on." Thurston offered his most engaging smile as he walked towards Conor, the note held out in his hand. "How often can you do a favor for the President's men and for a friend, all at the same time?"

  Conor looked at the note, then stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.

  "To tell you the truth," he said, "I've never much wanted to do a favor for the President's men. As for doing one for a friend... Winthrop's your buddy, not mine."

  "I meant, do it for me," Thurston said, with a wounded look. "What will it take? A day of your time? Two, maybe? Check things out, write me a one page report—"

  "I'm not writing anything. I've been around long enough to know that the minute you put pen to paper in this funhouse, you sign on for trouble, especially when what you're doing is supposed to be somebody else's job."

  "All right, don't do this on an official basis. We'll keep the Committee out of it."

  "Must I spell it out, Harry? I don't want any part of this."

  "Any part of what? What's the matter with you this morning? You're making a hundred times more out of this than it's worth."

  A muscle twitched in Conor's jaw. He wanted to tell Thurston that he was wrong, that he wasn't making more of this than it was worth—but how could he, when it was the truth? Whatever the note meant, whoever had sent it, checking it out wouldn't be difficult. A couple of days work at the most and he'd have everything he needed to know. The FBI had already done a job on the Winthrops; he'd have all that info at his disposal, which would surely make things simpler.

  As for this not being the Committee's business... hell, as far as this town knew, nothing but sweet, simple commerce was the Committee's business. No more than a dozen people with the right kind of top-level clearance knew the truth.

  Thurston, sensing Conor's mood change, moved in for the kill.

  "Conor, my boy, be reasonable. I've done you favors, haven't I? Remember that time you wanted to put in another year in Vienna and the brass had already figured you for a stint in Moscow?"

  "You calling in old favors?"

  "I'm simply pointing out that we're compatriots who go back a long way. Besides, this is a simple deal. There's no problem, is there?"

  The portrait. That was the problem. The portrait in the Winthrop mansion. Conor didn't want to see it again, that hint of darkness in those wide green eyes, the isolation of that figure that hovered on the brink of womanhood.

  "Is there?" Thurston repeated, with polite interest.

  Conor cursed under his breath, snatched the note from Thurston's outstretched hand and shoved it into his pocket.

  "You owe me one," he growled, and he strode from the office.

  * * *

  The lab was the first logical stop.

  A woman in a white coat looked at the note, sniffed it, looked at it again before putting it under a microscope. She told Conor that the paper was a fine quality linen, a European brand, according to the watermark, but she added that you could buy the stuff in at least a couple of dozen stores on the East Coast and probably almost as many on the West.
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  The ink was standard, black and waterproof, that could be found virtually anywhere between here and Beijing, unusual only in that it hadn't come from a ball point pen. As for fingerprints... Conor hadn't figured on getting any help there and he didn't. There were his own prints, and Thurston's, though both men had been careful to handle both the envelope and the note inside by its edges. And there were Hoyt Winthrop's and others he'd bet were Eva's. The handwriting was right-handed.

  "Could be a man's," the tech said in a bored voice, "or a woman's. Could be European or American. Could be by somebody who's anyplace from thirty to, say, sixty."

  "That certainly narrows things down," Conor said pleasantly, and he pocketed the note and made his way to the third floor library. He found the volume of Santayana easily enough, found the specific line used in the note, too. Unfortunately, reading it in context made no more sense than reading it out of context.

  In midafternoon, he telephoned the Winthrop mansion. To his surprise, Eva answered the phone herself. Conor asked if he could see her for half an hour or so. He had expected her to ask him the reason but she didn't.

  "When?"

  He glanced at his watch. "How about this evening? I can catch a flight at six and be in Manhattan by eight."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible. My husband and I are having dinner with the mayor tonight."

  Conor smiled. He suspected he was supposed to be impressed.

  "Tomorrow morning, then. You name the time."

  "Tomorrow's no good either," Eva said. "I have business meetings all day. Actually, this isn't a very good week, Mr. O'Neil. My schedule is quite full."

  "What time is your dinner appointment, Mrs. Winthrop?"

  "I'm meeting my husband downtown at quarter of eight. We're due at Gracie Mansion a few minutes later. So you see, unfortunately, I just won't be able to—"

  "I'll see you at six, then."

  "Six? But I thought you were in Washington."

  Conor looked at his watch again. "Six," he said, and hung up the phone. He had to hurry if he wanted to make the airport in time.

  * * *

  The same butler let him in.

  "Mrs. Winthrop is expecting you," he said, in a tone that made it clear he didn't approve.

  Conor grinned. "Ah, the things one must tolerate in this life, hmm, Charles?" He took off his Burberry, dropped it into the same chair as yesterday, deliberately avoided even a glance at the painting and followed the man's stiff back to the library.

  Eva Winthrop was seated before the fireplace. She was wearing an off-white dress dotted with tiny gold sequins that reflected the flames from the hearth. Her dark hair was drawn back from her face in the kind of severe style only a woman with bones like hers could hope to pull off.

  She rose when Conor entered the room and held out her hand.

  "Mr. O'Neil," she said politely, "how nice to see you again." She shot a quick but meaningful glance at the clock. He knew she'd done it to remind him that her time was limited. "May I offer you some coffee?"

  "No, thank you. I had coffee on the plane." He smiled. "Actually, I think it was more like a straight cup of caffeine."

  Eva smiled back at him, though the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "That will be all then, Charles." She waited until the butler had shut the door and then she looked at Conor. "Well, Mr. O'Neil, what can I do for you?"

  Did she want to get straight to the point? Or did she hope to get rid of him quickly? Either way, for all her sophisticated aplomb, he could see the tension in her hazel eyes and suddenly he thought of the green eyes of her daughter, of the haunted look in them.

  Conor frowned and cleared his throat.

  "I thought you'd like to know that we've done some preliminary work on that note."

  "And?"

  "And, we haven't come up with anything."

  Eva nodded, her expression impassive. "I see."

  "The other day, I asked if you could think of anyone who might send you a message like that."

  "Yes. And I told you I couldn't. If you came all this distance to ask me the same question again, Mr. O'Neil—"

  "Do you have any enemies, Mrs. Winthrop?"

  "Enemies?"

  Did her tone suddenly reflect the same tension Conor saw in her eyes?

  "No," she said quickly. Too quickly, Conor thought. "Why would I have enemies?"

  "Well, you're CEO of Papillon Cosmetics."

  Eva smiled for the first time. "Yes. And its founder and president."

  "Surely, you've made enemies on the way up."

  "I suppose I have, but if you're going to ask me if somebody I fired or somebody I bought out could have sent me that note, I'd have to tell you it's impossible." She smiled again. "None of them is literate enough to quote a philosopher."

  Conor laughed. "Sometimes, people can surprise you."

  "People never surprise me," she said flatly. She looked pointedly at the clock, then turned and made her way to the door of the library. "Now, if that's all, Mr. O'Neil, I'm afraid I really must—"

  "What about your daughter, Mrs. Winthrop?"

  Eva swung towards him, but not before he saw her shoulders stiffen.

  "What about her?"

  "I understand that she lives in Europe."

  "Yes."

  "In France."

  "Yes."

  "And that she has, for several years."

  "Yes," Eva said again.

  Did she think this was going to be a game of Twenty Questions? The woman's tone was as unyielding as her posture.

  "Are you suggesting that my daughter had something to do with that note?"

  Conor shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not suggesting anything, Mrs. Winthrop, not yet, anyway. I'm just trying to get a handle on things."

  "Of course." Eva cleared her throat, glanced at her watch, then took her hand from the doorknob. "I'm going to be late for my dinner engagement."

  "Just a few more minutes and I'll be out of your way, I promise."

  She nodded. "Well, then, perhaps I'll only miss the cocktail hour and not dinner." She smiled stiffly and Conor caught a whiff of her perfume as she made her way past him to a wet bar on the far side of the room. "Won't you join me in a drink, Mr. O'Neil?"

  His first instinct was to decline her offer. He never drank when he was on the job and even though he wasn't on the job, not officially, this visit wasn't a social one. Besides, his particular passion was for ale, something he'd long ago figured was about the only thing he'd inherited from his old man, and he was pretty damn certain the Winthrops weren't given to stocking ale in the refrigerator. But Eva was looking at him as if her life hung on his answer and he realized suddenly that she wasn't just being polite. She needed that drink.

  "Thank you," he said, "a drink would be perfect."

  She let out an audible breath. "What would you like?"

  Conor hesitated. If he couldn't get ale, he'd settle for Irish whiskey, straight up. But Irish whiskey, no matter how fine the label, was hardly what Eva Winthrop would be pouring for herself.

  "Whatever you're having."

  She nodded, dumped ice into two glasses, then poured a generous amount of vodka into each. She handed him a glass, drank down half of her own, and looked at him.

  "Miranda lives in Paris," she said. "She's a model, sought after by all the couturiers and by the top fashion magazines."

  "You must be very proud of her," Conor said politely.

  The ice cubes in Eva's glass clinked together as she raised the glass to her lips.

  "Any mother is pleased by her child's success."

  "Of course," he said, even more politely, but what he thought was that Eva might just as easily been talking about the daughter of an acquaintance. "When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Mrs. Winthrop?"

  "I fail to see the relevancy of—" Eva took a deep breath. "On her birthday, I think."

  "And that was...?"

  "Last March."

  Conor struggled to keep his surprise fr
om showing. He wasn't particularly proud of his own record for keeping in touch with his old man but ten months without so much as a phone call seemed a bit excessive.

  "We are not close, Miranda and I," Eva said stiffly.

  The understatement of the year, Conor thought. He smiled politely.

  "And when did you last see her?"

  "Eight years ago this past April."

  "I see," he said, struggling to keep his face a mask.

  "You don't see, but that's quite all right. It would be difficult to explain—and I've no intention of doing so." She turned and looked him squarely in the eye. "My relationship with my daughter is a private matter."

  "Nothing is a private matter," Conor said bluntly, "not when your husband is a presidential appointee."

  Eva looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned away, picked up the bottle of Absolut and refilled her glass.

  "You're right, of course. And if I'm honest, I suppose I must admit that the note might very well be connected to my daughter."

  "Connected? In what way? Perhaps you'd better tell me what you know, Mrs. Winthrop."

  Eva hesitated. Then she sighed, sat down in a silk-covered armchair and motioned Conor into the matching chair opposite hers.

  "Yes, I might as well. You can find out easily enough." She put down her glass, crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knees. The action brought her forward in the chair so that she seemed to be leaning towards him. "This isn't easy for me, Mr. O'Neil."

  "I'm sure it isn't," Conor said in a soothing tone.

  "Eight years ago, Miranda was in her junior year at a boarding school in Connecticut. Miss Cooper's. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

  "I went to high school in Manhattan," he said with a smile meant to put Eva at ease, "and not a trendy part, either. "I'm afraid we didn't play any football games at Miss Cooper's."

  She smiled. "No, I suppose not. Well, Miss Cooper's was—is—a fine school. Very Old World, if you know what I mean. There were curfews, you had to study so many hours an evening, you were restricted to your room after nine. The girls were expected to live by certain standards."

  Rules, Conor thought, not standards. But he'd grown up under rules himself and he'd have bet his last dollar that the rules laid down by Detective-Sergeant John O'Neil, NYPD, had been a hell of a lot tougher than the ones at a high-priced girls' school.