Split Second f-15

by Catherine Coulter

  She opened the large suitcases that were left. More men’s clothes, mostly vested suits and dress shirts but also a beautiful Burberry coat, gloves, several men’s hats, three pairs of dress shoes. They were well made but hardly up-to-date—like clothes from an old movie set, in fact. She remembered her grandfather wearing clothes like this when she was a young child. Had his clothes been hidden away in these suitcases to make it appear he’d taken them with him?

  She kept looking. The half dozen duffel bags were mostly empty, one holding ancient snorkel equipment, another holding a box of condoms, unopened, and that was interesting.

  She’d finally worked her way back to the steamer trunks. She could hardly stop now—steamer trunks had lots of compartments, lots of little zippered pockets that could hide—what? She wished she had a clue. She’d probably find more safety pins and loose change. Best to begin with the largest trunk against the wall.

  She studied the steamer trunk, a huge light brown leather affair with black leather bands, banged up but still as solid-looking as the day it was rolled aboard its first luxury liner. It was covered with travel stickers from how many years ago? Maybe ninety? The largest was an Art Deco drawing of three huge passenger ships steaming toward you. There was a globe showing the western hemisphere, the proportions way off, for effect, and decals showing a dozen faraway destinations, no doubt status symbols in their day. She lightly laid her hand on a sticker that had PARIS printed on it and let herself be drawn back for a moment. She could easily picture rich Americans who traveled from New York to London or Paris or Cairo on opulent ships before the war, uniformed porters hefting their trunks onto big wheeled trolleys. They evoked an image of full moons shimmering on the bare shoulders of women in satin gowns, of men with pencil mustaches, of attar-of-rose perfume and magnificent jewels. She slowly worked the largest steamer trunk away from the wall. It was very heavy. She managed to tilt a corner of it away from the wall, and used her legs to push it farther askew, enough to open the lid. It smelled musty, old. She unclicked the four sets of latches, but the top wouldn’t open. She dragged the trunk out onto the open floor. Had someone not bothered to unpack, or forgotten to, just had the trunk dragged up here?

  She saw a padlock tucked discreetly beneath a flap of leather at the very center of the trunk. Locked. She shook the padlock, but it was solid, didn’t come free. Lucy looked at it more closely. The padlock certainly didn’t date from the twenties; it was sturdy and pretty modern-looking. No way would she get that sucker open without the key.

  She was suddenly aware that the fluorescent overheads were all the light there was, the windows completely dark. Full-on night had fallen, and she hadn’t noticed. She’d been up here much longer than she’d intended, her allotted twenty minutes long past. As she stared at the dark windows, she was suddenly frightened. But of what exactly? She didn’t understand it, but she was remembering something, something muffled and confused in her mind.

  She saw herself, small, very small, crouched beside an ancient bureau, and there were voices. She couldn’t see who was speaking, but somehow she knew who the voices were—she knew—and her heart was pounding loud and her mouth felt dry and she was afraid, just as she was now.

  Lucy shook her head. What was happening? Her heart was pounding, and that was stupid, she told herself over and over, but it didn’t stop her heart from galloping and her ears from listening to every creak and groan. She felt as if she were in a strange hollow of time where the past had superimposed itself over the present and brought her fear with it. She shook her head again. It’s simply dark, stupid. You are being ridiculous, remembering something out of context from when you were a really little girl. Get hold of yourself.

  She kicked the steamer trunk, which did precisely nothing at all, and that pissed her off because she was afraid simply because it was dark outside, and yes, there were these odd memories, no, not memories, something inexplicable that her brain had suddenly dredged up to scare the crap out of her. She pulled her SIG from the clip on her jeans, and just as she’d opened the lock on the attic door, she struck the padlock, once, twice. The third time, she really whacked it. The padlock flew apart.

  She heard something, a small scratching sound, and turned into Lot’s wife. Silence. She’d simply heard the house settle, maybe a mouse in the wall.

  Stop being a wuss; open the blasted trunk. There aren’t any bogeymen to leap out and cut off your head. Besides, you’d shoot them. You’re frightened of a memory, but that was then, and everything here is now.

  She looked away from the dark windows and the shadowed corners of the attic, drew a deep breath, and pushed the steamer trunk’s lid back. It hit with a sharp clunk against the trunk behind it.

  An old musty smell welled out to hit her in the face. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was thick enough with a smell she recognized, something dead, and she sneezed as she lurched back. She sneezed again, wiped her nose, and leaned forward over the trunk, her hand over her nose. A thick white towel was spread over the top, and on top of the towel were at least a dozen room deodorizers, solid, giving off nothing now. She felt her heart began to hammer hard again.

  Stop it; get it together. You’re an investigator—investigate. But why the deodorizers?

  She shoved the hard deodorant cakes away and lifted the edge of the white towel. Something caught on it, then broke free with a loud crack. She stared down at a hand, but there wasn’t any flesh on it. It was a skeleton’s hand, still attached, except the one finger that had snapped off when the towel caught it. She scuttled madly back on her hands, and barely managed to swallow the scream poised to burst from her throat. She sucked in her breath, swallowed a couple of times, trying to control her sudden terror.

  You’re FBI; you’ve seen bodies. Stop it.

  She reached down, ripped the towel away, and looked at the skeleton that filled up the trunk. She couldn’t recognize him, not anymore—

  Lucy got to her feet, picked up her SIG, which was ridiculous, and forced herself to stand over the open trunk. She stared down at the skeleton of a man dressed in casual clothes nearly rotted through. She looked at the skull, at the empty eyeball sockets, at the rictus of shock on the skeleton’s wide-open mouth.

  The skeleton didn’t date back to the twenties.

  The skeleton dated back exactly twenty-two years.

  Lucy backed away from the trunk as she pulled her cell from her shirt pocket and punched in Savich’s number.

  One ring, two, then, “Savich.”

  “Dillon, it’s me, Lucy. I found a skeleton in a steamer trunk.”

  There was a beat of silence, then, “Where?”

  “In my grandmother’s attic.”

  “You okay?”

  “No, but I’m able to function.”

  “Good. I want you to go downstairs immediately. I’m going to call a homicide detective I know in the Chevy Chase Police Department. I’ll meet him and his people there at your grandmother’s house. Go slug down a shot of brandy, Lucy. Everything will be all right.”

  “Well, actually, it won’t be all right, Dillon. You see, I know it’s my grandfather. Since I know his wife murdered him, we don’t really need the police, do we?”

  She could feel his surprise, though he tried not to let it sound in his voice. He calmly repeated, “Go downstairs. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

  Without thought, Lucy called Coop, said only, “Coop, please come right now to my grandmother’s house. I need you.”

  “I’m close. I’ll be there in a minute, Lucy.”

  Lucy didn’t look back at the trunk; she simply hightailed it down the attic steps, flipped off the lights, closed the door, and stood there a moment in the carpeted corridor, still holding the knob, waiting for her heart to begin to slow. Of course it was her grandfather. Of course he hadn’t gone walkabout as everyone had claimed. Nope, he’d been murdered by his own wife, just as her father had shouted before he’d died, his body laid to rest in a steamer trunk and covered w
ith a white towel and cake deodorizers to mask the smell. Of course they’d locked the attic door. Of course they’d made the attic off limits to her. Of course.

  A white towel—that was obscene. Her grandmother and her father hadn’t buried him, they’d carried him up here to the attic. Is that why she’d been so afraid? Had some part of her known her grandfather was in one of those steamer trunks?

  She leaned against the corridor wall and forced herself to breathe slowly, to shut the horror out, until her heartbeat slowed. She would deal with this; she really had no choice.

  There were so many ways to identify the body, it wouldn’t be hard. The suitcases filled with men’s clothes would help. She’d known way down deep where fear and knowledge mingled that the clothes had to be her grandfather’s, but the logical grounded part of her brain hadn’t wanted to accept it yet, not until she’d opened the steamer trunk.

  Step away from it. And so she did. She watched herself get her breathing to slow, to banish the fright and panic back up to the attic and the steamer trunk, her grandfather’s body inside. It took a long time, but when her fear was gone, she was left with pain, and with anger. Her grandfather. He’d been in that steamer trunk for all the years she’d lived here, moldering, his flesh rotting away, leaving only that skeleton. There’d never been any justice for him, and no matter her anger now, there wouldn’t ever be any, because her grandmother was dead. Her father had been part of it, and he was dead, too, and he’d kept the secret until the very end.

  She was still breathing hard when she reached the front door. She couldn’t stay inside the house any longer. No brandy for her; the mere thought of it made her want to throw up.

  She saw Coop’s Gloria pull into the driveway on screeching tires.

  CHAPTER 25

  Coop slammed out of Gloria and ran to her. He took one look at her white face and without hesitation pulled her against him. “It will be all right. I spoke to Savich, and he told me you’d found your grandfather’s skeleton, that you’d said your grandmother had murdered him. He and Detective Horne will be here soon. I’m so sorry, Lucy, so very sorry.” They stood beneath the porch light, silent, Coop simply holding her. She didn’t cry. All her tears were frozen deep inside her.

  He said against her hair, “You don’t have to tell me what happened—we can wait until everyone arrives. Breathe deeply; that’s right. Get yourself together. I’m here now, and we’ll deal with this. Are you cold?”

  She shook her head against his neck. “My dad helped her, Coop. After she murdered her husband, they carried him up to the attic and put him in a steamer trunk. My dad lived in this house twelve years, knowing his father was lying with a white towel spread over him in a trunk in the attic. And they spread lots of cake deodorizers on top to keep the smell down. How could he bear it? Do you know they locked the attic? I was never allowed to go up there. Come to think of it, I can’t ever remember wanting to.”

  “I know, Lucy, I know. We’ll get this all figured out. You’ll see. Do you want to go inside? You’re freezing.”

  “No, no, please, I don’t want to, not yet, not until I have to.”

  Coop shrugged out of his shearling coat and wrapped it around her.

  She hugged the big coat close. She was freezing. “I keep thinking that knowing all those years his own father was in the attic, murdered by his own mother—it must have driven my dad mad. But he protected her, kept quiet until the end. Do you think keeping this ghastly secret all these years, knowing what he’d done, feeling the guilt, the stress, the need to protect his mother—do you think it made him die too soon?” She didn’t wait for him to say anything, which was good, since he had no idea what to say. “But why did he keep the body there after my grandmother died? Why didn’t he move it, give his own father his own private burial?”

  “We’ll figure it all out, Lucy. Now, here’s a cavalcade of cars coming, Savich’s Porsche leading them in. Can you deal with this now?”

  She raised her face. “Of course.”

  Detective Horne was new to the job, but he knew what to do. He was pleased Special Agent Savich didn’t grind him under—indeed, deferred to him. He introduced himself to Lucy Carlyle and Cooper McKnight. He asked a female officer to stay with Lucy while the rest of them trooped up to the attic. When Lucy shook her head and got to her feet, Detective Horne pointed a cop finger at her. “Stay.”

  Ten minutes later, Coop walked back into the library to see Lucy standing by a big burgundy leather easy chair, her hands clenched at her sides, the female officer in the kitchen, making coffee. She still had his shearling coat wrapped around her. He walked to her, took her hands. “We’ve seen everything. It will be all right, Lucy. We’ll figure all this out.”

  “What’s to figure?”

  “Sorry, dumb question. Do you want me to call your aunt and uncle? Anyone else?”

  She thought of Uncle Alan, Aunt Jennifer, Court, and Miranda. She thought of her closest friends, all of them hanging back for the past week because she’d asked them to. No, she couldn’t call them; they’d been overburdened already, what with seeing her through her father’s funeral. She shook her head. “No, I’ll call my uncle in the morning. You want some coffee, Coop?” Uncle Alan, did you know what happened?

  He shook his head. “Lucy? Ah, crap, come here,” and again he pulled her and his shearling coat against him.

  He saw tears snake down her cheeks. She wasn’t making a sound. He flicked them away with his fingers. “I’m very sorry, Lucy. Listen, did you find or remove any ID from the body to prove it was your grandfather?”

  “No.”

  He said against her hair, “Savich has asked the autopsy be performed at Quantico. Detective Horne called his lieutenant, and she agreed but said they’d be sending along one of their medical examiners. The attic is a crime scene, of course, and the forensic team will be up there a good couple of days. There was dried blood on his shirt, over his chest, so we’re probably talking a gun or a knife. That’s all I can tell you right now. We won’t know any more until the autopsy.”

  “It was a knife. Maybe it’s still in one of those steamer trunks I didn’t open.”

  How could she be so sure it was a knife? Coop would get to that in a minute. She was speaking calmly, logically, and that was a relief.

  “You know, Coop, there’s no reason to expend all this manpower. It’s my grandfather. I know his wife murdered him. It’s over, case solved and closed.”

  He said, “I know, but there’s a protocol that has to be followed, you know that. And you’ll explain everything to us in a little while. It would be good to find the knife. I saw those suitcases full of men’s clothing. We might find ID there.”

  Lucy felt herself finally getting back in control. “Coop, I want to go back outside now.”

  They walked side by side out of the house to stand on the top porch steps, watching two techs bring out a green body bag for her grandfather’s remains. She said, “I can give them a swab from my cheek to check DNA, if they need it.”

  “They will,” Coop said.

  It was a dark night, only a sliver of moon and a long blaze of stars shining through the lowlying clouds. They heard techs talking by the van, heard voices from inside the house.

  Lucy said, “Maybe it was too painful for Dad to think about touching his father’s body again, stealing away with it. I can understand that, sure I can. Can you imagine, Coop, trying desperately to continue your routine, treating your little daughter—namely, me—calmly and naturally? And his own mother, being civil to her, not wanting to kill her for what she’d done. It always seemed to me he loved her, treated her courteously. But how could he? Did he ever find out why she killed him?”

  He hugged her and his shearling coat, and realized he was getting a bit cold himself.

  Savich came up, lightly placed his hand on her shoulder. “You’re coming home with me, Lucy.”

  She turned to smile at her boss. “No, I want to stay here. I’ll be fine; don’t wor
ry about me. I’ll admit I was pretty freaked out—”

  Detective Horne said from behind her, “I know, I know, you’re FBI, you’re tough, and you’re nearly back to chewing nails again, right?”

  Lucy was wrung out, but she managed a small smile. “Thank you for letting me stay in the loop, Detective.”

  Detective Horne hadn’t intended she be anywhere near the loop, but since she was in Savich’s unit, and his lieutenant really admired Savich, he said easily, “Not a problem.”

  Coop said to her, “This is why you moved back here after your father’s funeral, isn’t it, Lucy? And why you were so mysterious about it? You wanted to find your grandfather?”

  “No, it never occurred to me I’d find him. I was looking for something, anything, that would tell me why my grandmother murdered him in the first place.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe she stuffed him in a trunk in the attic.”