Split Second f-15

by Catherine Coulter

  Lucy put her face in her hands and cried, not for herself but for her father.

  Coop laid his hand on her shoulder until she quieted. He said matter-of-factly, “Maybe that’s why you stayed with your grandmother; your father was taking care of both of you.”

  Lucy raised her face to his. “Do you know, now that I remember back, my dad never left me alone with my grandmother. I remember now that when she read with me sitting next to her, Dad was always nearby.”

  Savich said, “At last you know. Now you have to let it go.”

  Dr. Hicks patted her arm. “You will be all right, Lucy Carlyle. You’re a survivor, and you see things and people clearly. Yes, you will be fine.”

  Lucy gave him a twisted smile. “Me, see people clearly? I don’t think so, sir. I really don’t think so.”

  Dr. Hicks lightly squeezed her hand. “You will come to see I am right. Now, why don’t you let Agent Savich and Agent McKnight buy you a pizza in the boardroom, let your mind settle a bit?”

  “It’s been a long time since I was in the academy.” But as she spoke, the words died in her throat. “How can things be all right?”

  “I forbid you to worry about it right now, Lucy. It’s too much to take in. That’s what these two gentlemen are for. Let them stew and fret. Not you, all right?”

  Lucy nodded finally, but Coop knew she couldn’t help but stew about it.

  Lucy turned to Savich. “Dillon, do you think they’ve completed the autopsy?”

  “Let’s see.” When Savich slipped his cell back into his pocket a few seconds later, he said, “Dr. Judd will call you himself when they’re finished, Lucy.”

  “She—she really stabbed him. It’s still so difficult to imagine. And they were fighting over a ring? How could a ring be so important?”

  “We may never know that, Lucy,” Savich said. “You know that.”

  She nodded.

  Coop raised her to her feet. “Let’s go have that pizza.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Wall Street, New York City

  Enrico’s Bar

  Monday night

  “‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s right there.’”

  “I really like that song.” Genevieve Connelly toasted Thomas, the young man she’d just met. He grinned at her; then, hearing some applause, he turned on his bar stool and bowed from the waist.

  Genny took another sip of her mojito. “I don’t even know where Tipperary is.” She sounded too sharp, simply too sober, and took another drink. She wanted to get drunk, had to get drunk, even though it was Monday night, and a work night. She saw herself hugging the toilet bowl, but it didn’t matter. She was too angry, too depressed, to worry about it. She took another drink and smiled at Thomas when he told the bartender, Big Ed, to serve her up another mojito. Before long, she knew Thomas was from Montreal, worked sixty hours a week as a waiter at the Fifth Wheel in the East 80s, and wrote poetry at night, a twenty-first-century e. e. cummings in the making, he told her, and he seemed perfectly serious.

  She found herself telling him she’d very nearly been engaged, but that wasn’t going to happen now, because Lenny was a jerk with an addiction she hadn’t even known about. Yeah, a jerk who was in Atlantic City gambling right now.

  Genny wanted to work up a mad, but the mojitos were making her mellow instead. “I trucked over to Morrie’s after work to meet Lenny for dinner, only he never showed. I finally called his mother, and do you know what she said?” And Genny, an accomplished mimic, recited in a soft, sad voice, with a hint of a whine, ‘Since he stole four hundred dollars out of my purse, dear, I’ll bet he’s in Atlantic City again. I guess he hasn’t told you about his little problem?’

  “His little problem? I mean, which one? He was a thief and a gambler, right? Well, I couldn’t take it in, and so I hung up. I don’t think she ever liked me much, and now it doesn’t matter, does it? She calls it a little problem?”

  “My brother gambles,” Thomas said. “Our parents finally kicked him out.”

  “He never told me,” Genny said, and stared into the mirror behind the bar, watching herself drink the rest of her third mojito. “Time to powder my nose, Thomas,” she said, and headed off to the women’s room.

  Five minutes later, when she slid back onto her stool, her lipstick new and shiny, her hair freshly combed, Thomas said, “Okay, Genny, you know I’m a poet who’s wasting his youth flinging high-priced spaghetti to yuppies on the Upper East Side. What do you do?”

  She was staring at herself again in the mirror, but this time she saw only a distorted outline of her face. She raised her fingers to touch her cheek, to make sure it was really there. “What I do is financial analysis,” she said. “I review companies’ sales trends and projections, stuff so boring I bet I could out-scuttle a gerbil on a treadmill.” She looked around. “I don’t see anybody I know tonight, though Enrico’s is a favorite booze trough for the financial crowd I’m in.” He handed her another drink, and she took a gulp, hiccupped, and giggled. “Would you look at me—all pissy-faced, and I don’t give a crap. The jerk—he wanted to gamble so much he totally forgot me.”

  Thomas eyed her, then broke into song again. “Do you know this one? ‘From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli—’”

  Everyone joined in with him this time; even Big Ed sang along with them while he sparkled up a glass.

  “I met Mr. Montezuma once, but I did lose ten pounds doing it.” She didn’t realize Thomas was more or less holding her up on her bar stool. He laughed. “You know, sweetie, it’s late, and I’m thinking it’s time for you to meet your date with destiny.”

  “What destiny?”

  “Popping down a half dozen aspirin kind of destiny, but don’t worry, I’ll see you get home and leave you alone to enjoy your hangover all by yourself.”

  “With my luck, it’s going to be bad.” She realized she was slurring her words a bit. She sloshed around the mojito left in the glass, thought about a stranger walking her home—he seemed like a real sweetheart, but still, she’d met him only tonight. Genny pulled together arguments as clearly as she could, both pros and cons, and finally nodded. “Yeah, I guess I’d better hang it up.” She gave him a sloppy hug. “Thanks for making me feel better, Thomas.”

  He patted her shoulder. “Anytime, babe.”

  There was applause for Thomas on their way out the door. He grinned, gave a little wave, and steered her outside. Once on the sidewalk, a cold wind whipped against her face and made her eyes tear up. That’s all she needed was to cry, only these tears were just from the biting wind, thank heaven. She looked around for a taxi, slurred a couple of curses because there was nary a soul to be seen; everything was dead and empty and cold. Well, that was Wall Street at night, after all the hotshots left for the Upper East Side, or Connecticut, or the Hudson Valley, after the chicks flew the work coop. And Lenny was in Atlantic City, kissing dice and rolling them.

  The jerk.

  She stuck her hand through Thomas’s arm and squeezed. He was a skinny dude, didn’t have much muscle. “I’ve got a condo on Pine Street, only three blocks over.”

  A woman came dashing out of Enrico’s, her long blond hair blowing wildly around her head, waving her hands at them. “Wait up!”

  The blonde grabbed Genny’s arm and tried to jerk her away from Thomas. “Are you all right?”

  “Me? All right? Of course I’m all right; I’m with Thomas. What do you want?”

  “You won’t be all right very soon now. I saw this creep slip something in your drink when you went to the restroom. I’ll bet it’s that rape drug, Rohypnol.”

  “What’s Rohypnol?”

  “You know, roofies, that date-rape drug. You’ve heard of roofies, haven’t you?” The woman didn’t take her eyes off Thomas.

  “He gave me a roofie?”

  “Yep, slipped it right into your mojito. I’ll bet you’re feeling pretty woozy about now, right?”

  More betrayal. She couldn�
��t take it. Genny erupted, whirled on Thomas, shoved him hard in the chest with the heels of her palms. He wheeled his arms to keep his balance. “You jerk!”

  “Wait a minute!”

  She slammed her foot in his stomach, and he fell onto his side and rolled off the curb to land on his back, trying to suck in air.

  Genny stared down at her supposed friend and wanted to cry. She’d believed him—so cute, a really nice guy, and his singing voice was incredible. He’d listened, actually listened. “I’m sorry you did that, Thomas.”

  “I didn’t!” he yelled at the blonde. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m Monica, you lowlife, and I saw you do it! You’re Genny, right? When I saw you come outside with him, I couldn’t stand by, knowing he was going to do something bad to you.”

  Thomas was holding his stomach. “Genny, I swear I didn’t put anything in your drink. I didn’t. Why would I?”

  Monica dove her hand into a huge black purse and pulled out her cell phone. “You lying pig. I’m going to get the cops here to take your sorry butt to jail.”

  Genny grabbed Monica’s hand but missed because she was so drunk. Or was it the roofie? “No, don’t call the cops, I only want to get out of here.”

  She looked at Thomas, on his knees now. “You did drug me,” she said to him. “I feel really dizzy and sick, so you must have.” She felt a bolt of rage and tried to kick him as he was getting to his feet, but she missed.

  “Forget about him, Genny. Let’s get out of here. If you’re not better by the time we get to your place, I’ll call the cops. Believe me, everyone got a good look at him, and he’ll go to jail for it.” She whirled around to Thomas, now leaning against a light post. “Don’t you try to follow us, you got me, you creep?”

  “Let’s just go,” Genny said as bile rose up into her throat. Oh, no, please, she didn’t want to get sick.

  There wasn’t a taxi in sight. “Well, we’re not far from your place, right, Genny?”

  Genny couldn’t answer, she was too busy simply keeping herself upright, putting one foot in front of the other.

  It took a long time to get to her building on Pine Street, since every single step was a trial and error, but finally, with Monica supporting her, she managed to get her key into the outside lock.

  It was past midnight. No one was around at that hour, certainly not the doorman, Sidney, who liked to snooze the night away in the storage room behind the counter.

  Monica helped her onto the elevator. Genny studied the board, finally punched the button for the fourth floor. When the elevator doors opened, Genny was wheezing, barely able to walk. “I’m not going to make it.”

  “Sure you will. Hang in there, Genny, you’re doing fine. Don’t worry, I’m here.”

  Monica took the key out of Genny’s hand when they reached her door at the end of the corridor, opened the door, and eased her inside.

  “Yes, Genny, you made it. I’m proud of you. Now let’s get you inside, and everything will be all right, I promise.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Tuesday morning

  When her cell blasted out the horse-race trumpet call, Lucy’s hand jerked, sloshing her coffee over the side of her Betty Boop mug.

  “Hello, Lucy Carlyle here.”

  “Agent Carlyle, this is Dr. Amos Judd. I completed the autopsy on your grandfather’s remains. Agent Savich asked me to call you directly.”

  She swallowed. “Yes, Dr. Judd, thank you. What can you tell me?” Remains—that’s what her grandfather was now.

  “I found scoring on two of the back ribs, consistent with a large smooth blade, such as a butcher knife, that penetrated the chest. There was also sharp scoring of a thoracic vertebra, indicating the thrust was deep, the blade headed straight for the heart. He died quickly, Agent Carlyle.”

  Lucy thanked Dr. Judd, punched off her cell, and poured more coffee into her mug. She didn’t drink, just cupped the mug in her hands to warm them.

  Her cell rang again.

  It was their longtime family lawyer, Mr. Bernard Claymore.

  His old voice sounded surprisingly strong and firm. He asked how she was doing, then immediately said, “I called, Lucy, to tell you I need to see you immediately. Your grandfather left me an envelope twenty-two years ago, told me to give it to you only after your own father died. This, unfortunately, happened much too soon. Come by and I will give it to you.”

  She stared at her cell phone. An envelope from her grandfather? Her heart began to pound. Answers, she thought, perhaps at last she would have answers.

  An hour later, she walked out of Mr. Claymore’s elegant suite of offices in the Claymore Building on M Street, an envelope clutched in her hand. Mr. Claymore told her he had no idea what was in the envelope; he’d simply kept it in his safe for the past twenty-two years. He assured her he had, indeed, followed her grandfather’s instructions to the letter.

  Another thirty-five minutes, and she was maneuvering her Range Rover into a space that was really too small for her baby, but she was used to that, and she was good. She settled in with a few precious inches to spare. Her cell rang again, and she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, sighed, and picked up. “Carlyle.”

  “Hi, Carlyle. It’s McKnight.” A brief pause, then, “Is something wrong?”

  Why did everyone assume something was wrong? Surely she sounded fine and normal, thank you very much. Well, being hypnotized, remembering things that curled her toes whenever she thought too closely about it, that had been bizarre. She could picture Coop in her mind, an intense look on his lean face, focusing all his intelligence on the tone of her voice. This guy wasn’t a dog, no doubt in her mind now. She knew to her bones that once Coop found someone, made a commitment, he’d stick. She smiled at that thought. Focus away, boyo, there’s nothing for you to hear. “Not a thing, Coop, not a single thing’s wrong. I’ve—well, I’ve got some stuff I have to do this morning. You know, concerning my grandfather. I’ll be in about noon, okay?”

  “Tell you what, why don’t I meet you, help you take care of this stuff? Then you and I can talk a little about how you’re really doing.”

  Yeah, right. Still, what could she say? Coop didn’t have to know what was in the safe-deposit box; it wasn’t his business. She could be silent as the Sphinx if she wanted to. She felt filled with energy, excited about what she would find in that box. But it was more than that. She felt revved, ready to take on the world, even Kirsten Bolger. “Sure, Coop, that’ll be fine. I’m, ah, in front of the First National Bank here in Chevy Chase.”

  “Wait for me.”

  Lucy punched off her cell, sighed again, and closed her hands tightly around the steering wheel. Should she wait, or go into the bank? She saw there was a Starbucks across the street with not much of a line.

  When Coop arrived in his blue Corvette, people rubbernecking to get a better look, she smiled. She stepped out of her Range Rover as he navigated his splendid machine into a parking space nearly as small as hers.

  She knew he was studying her face through his dark sunglasses as he walked toward her with that lazy walk of his. He was in his prized shearling coat, since it was chilly today. She gave him a big grin and handed him a covered cup of coffee—black, the way he liked it. She saluted him. “Thanks for coming to me, Coop.”

  He slipped his sunglasses in his coat pocket. “Yeah, well, it’s my pleasure, Agent Carlyle. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have seen you today. Sherlock and I are flying up to New York City in a couple of hours. There was another Black Beret killing up there last night, and we have a good witness—a guy who talked to her.”

  “Savich didn’t call me. Why aren’t I going?”

  “Savich wants you here with him after what happened. Don’t look blank, Lucy, you know exactly what I mean. You found your grandfather in a steamer trunk, and got yourself hypnotized. Dr. Hicks’s orders, Savich said. He’ll probably call you.” He took a sip of the sinful coffee,
gave a little shudder. “This perks my chest hair right up.”

  “I was just thinking that.”

  He eyed her. “I might need some clarification. You were thinking exactly that?”

  She laughed. “I’m here to look in a safe-deposit box that belonged to my grandfather, Coop.”

  “Really? You’re going in to see what’s in the box? Right now?”

  “You got it.”

  She was excited, nervous, he read it clearly on her face, and there was something else in her eyes as well. Was it fear? Fear of finding something else that would wreck her world, something about why her grandfather’s body was in that steamer trunk?

  She tried to leave him in the main lobby inside the bank, but he stuck with her. He said nothing at all when the bank employee looked up the box number on the computer and told her there was a note that she could be coming, even though this was the very first visit to this particular safe-deposit box in twenty-two years, and wasn’t that a kick?

  Yeah, Coop thought, a real kick, but then again, her grandfather had been dead for twenty-two years. He had a good dozen questions ready to trip off his tongue, but Lucy was doing her best to pretend he wasn’t there. She followed the woman to the elevators, and disappeared.

  Who had kept the box open, he wondered, standing against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest, and why hadn’t she come to the bank before and opened the box rather than waiting until today? Had she just found out about it?

  Coop waited for twenty minutes, until she walked out of the elevator, carrying only her purse. But her purse was huge. He found himself wondering how much bloody weight women could actually carry until their backs gave out.

  “So, what was in the box?”

  She pressed her purse against her chest. He was on full alert.