I'd Kill For That

by Marcia Talley

  Toni climbed onto the deck. Shading her eyes from the morning sun, she squinted at the chopper hovering directly overhead. She could clearly make out Henry Drysdale in control of the joystick.

  Damn it, she thought, what the hell is he looking for?

  The helicopter lurched to the right, the motor sputtering. Toni tried to make out who was sitting in the passenger seat next to Henry. Before she could get a fix on the facial features, the giant gray machine heaved back on its other side, away from her and her prized possession.

  Toni wondered if Henry was having trouble with the controls. He can’t want to be thrashing around like that. If he didn’t watch out, he’d crash-land the damn thing in the shallow water of the marina basin.

  Toni checked her watch. Although she had forty-five minutes before Jason was due to arrive, she ducked back inside to freshen her makeup.

  Fifteen minutes later there was a knock upstairs on the cabin door.

  One more check in the bathroom mirror. Toni looked at herself proudly. So many of the young mothers her age had lost their body tone; the youthful luster was gone from their hair. “Either this boy has finally learned something about being punctual,” she said, admiring what she saw, “or he’s still excited about the prospect of being with me.”

  She stopped to turn on the tape recorder, then bounced up the companionway to greet Jason Salinger. The helicopter still bobbed in the sky above the boat. She worried that it would interfere with the tape she was hoping to make of their conversation. All of their conversation. She was beginning to hope that the blasted thing would break away from its wildly rotating blades and drop into the water. What would be the difference if one or two more Gryphon Gaters bit the dust?

  Toni Sinclair twisted the handle of the door and stepped back in surprise. “Why, Senator Carbury, whatever brings you out here to my little boat?”

  6

  “TIME OFF, HELL,” LELAND FORD grumbled, but not as though it was really a complaint. “See anything?”

  Diane Robards kept the binoculars trained on the Sans Sin for a moment longer, then swore under her breath. From their position one street back from the marina, and sheltered by a small stand of trees where they’d been able to park their cars without being noticed, the angle wasn’t the best. But given a choice between having the surveillance noted and not having the best possible view, Diane chose the latter. There were just too damned many watching eyes in this place—and way too much attention being paid to the activities of cops. “No, not since the senator went on board,” she replied at last.

  Ford was silent for a moment, then said, “You know what she thought.”

  “It was fairly obvious,” Diane responded dryly, unwilling to betray her own feelings about … possibilities. Knowing there was a spark was one thing, doing something about it in the middle of a murder investigation was something else entirely. “Tell me something. Do the residents of Gryphon Gate think about anything but sex?”

  “Not so you’d notice.” Ford sent her a faint grin when she turned her head to look at him. “Activity-wise, I mean. Oh, there’s golf and there’s bridge—but sex does seem to be the, er, driving interest.”

  Ignoring the bad pun, Diane turned her attention away from the rent-a-cop who was earning her growing respect and gazed upward to watch the helicopter still buzzing around above the marina.

  “Henry Drysdale,” Ford commented.

  “Yeah. But who’s that with him?”

  “Got me.”

  Diane trained the binoculars upward, trying to catch a glimpse of Drysdale’s passenger, even as she thought about the man beside her. Ford had reacted beautifully when Toni Sinclair had intercepted them coming off the Satterfields’ boat, fidgeting with just the right amount of embarrassment like a man caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He accepted the part she offered and ran with it.

  Pity he was only a glorified security guard. He’d make a damned good homicide detective, unless she missed her guess.

  Briefly, Diane wondered if Ford would see it that way. If she was any judge at all, he had the instincts of a real cop—which was why she’d involved him in her little extracurricular activities today—but he had expressed no interest in actually becoming one. Not, at least, to her. He was alert and engaged in what they were doing, but she had to wonder if he was helping her out because of his interest in the investigation or in her.

  Not that Diane was at all vain, it was just that it had happened to her before. She had great instincts about crime and about who she could trust, but lousy ones when it came to relationships other than the professional ones. Reasonably attractive, single, career-minded professional women, she’d discovered, were quite a turn-on to a lot of guys, especially those not interested in strings or promises. Plus, she apparently gave off signals that invited ambitious men to at least try to use her to boost themselves higher up the food chain. Especially younger men.

  So, was that what was in Leland Ford’s mind? Was he at least considering the possibilities of upward mobility, and did she look like his best opportunity to gain a toehold inside the department? It never hurt, after all, to have a rabbi inside, a mentor willing to help an up-and-comer rise through the ranks.

  Or was he what he seemed, a smart guy whose rather mundane and predictable job had taken an abrupt and unexpected turn into something very unusual and a lot more important?

  “Can I see those a minute?” Ford asked. “Maybe I can recognize whoever that is riding around with Drysdale.”

  Diane handed over the binoculars. “The way Drysdale’s flying, he has to be looking for something. Or someone. And he doesn’t give a shit who might figure that out.”

  “Maybe he got the same tip you did,” Ford commented, the binoculars trained on the buzzing helicopter.

  Diane looked down into the marina at the Sans Sin, still recognizable even at this distance and without binoculars. She frowned. “He does seem to keep hovering around the area near Toni Sinclair’s boat, doesn’t he? I’m thinking he doesn’t know the senator went on board; otherwise he’d clear out fast. Even a small-potatoes politician like the mayor of Gryphon Gate knows enough to keep his nose out of a senator’s private business.”

  “Does a police captain know enough?” Ford asked mildly, lowering the binoculars long enough to send her a quick glance.

  Diane waited until he returned his searching gaze to the helicopter, then said calmly, “Risk goes with the territory.”

  “So you always follow up on anonymous tips?”

  “In a case like this? Bet your ass I do. The relationships in a place like this are so tangled an outsider will never make sense of them. But what usually happens is that there’s at least one person more pissed off than the others who wants to point fingers. Lots of secrets come tumbling out into the open. Some of it’ll be pure spite, of course, but there’s always useful stuff as well.”

  “We didn’t find anything on the Satterfields’ boat,” Ford pointed out.

  Diane brooded for a silent moment, then said, “I don’t think that’s what the tip was all about. I think the Satterfields’ boat was just a handy place to direct us so we could be close enough to see Toni Sinclair arrive.”

  “Meeting the senator on the sly?”

  “Well, he is married, so it could hurt him if an affair became public knowledge. That’s assuming it’s an affair, of course, and not some kind of business meeting. If it is an affair, it could also spell trouble for Toni Sinclair. Even though she’s a widow, she has a daughter and might not want the kid to know her mom is sleeping with a married man. Besides which, if her name gets blackened, she won’t be quite so effective a spokesperson for the other animal rights activists.”

  “Okay. But that begs the question—who knew Toni Sinclair would be showing up just then? I don’t think we’re talking about regular meetings on a predictable schedule here, because Mrs. Sinclair is usually doing her animal rights thing during the day while her daughter is at school. Either that or shopping.”<
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  “Ever hear any rumors about her and the senator?”

  “Not a whisper.”

  “About her and anybody else?”

  “Nope. Devoted wife, by all accounts, and devoted widow since Lincoln Sinclair died in that bizarre accident.”

  Diane frowned slightly, recalling the details of that definitely bizarre accident, then shook her head to remind herself to concentrate on the here and now. Not every accidental death was a murder—even the bizarre ones.

  “So, who knew about today’s meeting?” she mused.

  “And what does any of that have to do with the murders of Sigmond Vormeister and Colonel McClintock?”

  “Hell if I know.” Diane grinned. “Yet. Half the fun and most of the frustration of the job is sorting through details trying to figure out which ones mean something.”

  Ford smiled in return and handed the binoculars back to her. “Well, here’s another detail you can sort. The passenger in that chopper with Mayor Drysdale?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Unless I’m much mistaken, it’s Roman Gervase.”

  “Oh, Christ. The one who thinks he’s a werewolf?”

  “How’d you hear about that?” Then, remembering, Ford nodded. “Oh, yeah. His howling last night. Drysdale told you it was Gervase, right?”

  “Yeah. So I gather they’re buddies?”

  Deadpan, Ford replied, “Not when there’s a full moon.”

  Diane eyed him. “Please don’t try to tell me this guy’s anything but a joke.” The respect Ford had earned from her so far was in danger of vanishing.

  He grinned, then sobered. “Do I believe he turns into a hairy wolf when the moon is full? No. Do I believe he’s a seriously disturbed man who believes he changes when the moon is full? Yes. We carry a blanket in the patrol car for just those occasions when we have to run him down in the woods, naked and snarling.”

  “Snarling?”

  “Swear to God. As far as I know, he’s never hurt anyone or anything. As far as I know, most of Gryphon Gate—those who know at all, I mean—treat Gervase’s nighttime wanderings as nothing more than the weirder-than-usual eccentricities of an unusually wealthy and brilliant man. You know what they say about genius and madness being a little too close for comfort? That’s Roman Gervase.”

  “I got that he was some kind of descendant of European royalty.”

  “Yeah, he’s that too. Lived the whole almost-titled-aristocrat lifestyle in Europe for most of his life. Boarding schools, racing cars, jets, yachts, parties where most of the guests were celebrities of one kind or another. Gervase fit right in. But then his life changed. He moved over here, invested his trust fund into a business that took off like you wouldn’t believe, married a beautiful and—rumor has it—chronically unfaithful woman, and then wrecked his little red sports car. Head injury. So there’s a physical cause, or trigger, according to what I’ve heard; but he’s seeing a shrink, too. Anyway, it was after the accident that he started tearing off his clothes and running through the woods howling three nights a month.”

  “Three?”

  “Night before the full moon, night of, and night after. So, at least he’s consistent in his brain-jarred delusions. During the day and every night except those three he seems fairly normal, at least for Gryphon Gate. Plays bridge regularly. I think I’ve even seen him on the golf course a few times. Goes to the parties, boozes it up just like everybody else. But get the guy started on his business, and you realize about three sentences into the conversation that his I.Q. is off the scale and he might as well be speaking to you in Latin.”

  Diane considered that for several moments, gazing absently down at the marina. “What kind of genius is he?”

  “Well, see, that’s the interesting thing about him being up in that chopper with Mayor Drysdale. Roman Gervase is a techno genius, and his very successful company specializes in electronic surveillance.”

  * * *

  Renée Lynch, like most of the other Gryphon Gate residents, believed in keeping in shape. She worked out regularly, but her lifelong interest in horses and frequent rides along the trails Gryphon Gate provided had given her the strongest legs and best ass of any woman in the community. If she did say so herself.

  After having Sammie, she had regained her figure in only a few weeks, simply because she was a determined woman and had been determined to do just that. All it took was the willingness to work hard, something she’d always been able to do. So, making the rounds of all the machines in the lavishly appointed exercise room of the indecently huge French Renaissance chalet every morning was a routine Renée had made a sacrosanct part of her life. These daily afternoon rides, with Sammie safe at home with her nanny, were Renée’s rewards for how hard she worked at staying in shape. How hard she worked, period.

  Methodical and far more coolheaded than most people guessed, Renée was pleased with her deluxe lifestyle and entirely willing to do whatever was necessary in order to maintain it. Even if that meant turning a blind eye to her husband’s … extracurricular activities.

  Her own father had been just the same, banging the maid in the pantry without making much effort to stifle his groans, and expecting her mother to put up with it.

  Well, Renée was strong like her mother had been. She could put up with Jerry’s philandering. At least for now. Because she knew why he was doing it. Not because Anka was a leggy brunette with big boobs and plenty of enthusiasm—although those were undoubtedly contributing factors in his choice of playmate—but because Jerry’s financial risk taking had finally landed him in deep, deep shit.

  Riding easily along a familiar trail on that Friday afternoon, Renée handled her thoroughbred with skill and reflected absently that men would get into a lot less trouble if they’d just learn that stupidity couldn’t be cured by sex—no matter how good it was. Lots of things could be cured by good sex, of course, but not stupidity.

  Still, she had faith in her husband’s abilities financially. He would figure out a way to recoup his losses and rebuild his portfolio, and if it took banging the maid to get his creative juices flowing, then so be it.

  And if her faith in Jerry happened to be misplaced, well, she had a plan to deal with that eventuality. She always had a plan.

  Renée glanced at her watch then tightened her calves slightly to urge the gelding to pick up his pace a bit.

  Ten minutes later, she reached a nicely shady, secluded spot on the trail and stopped, dismounting and tying the chestnut’s reins to a handy tree. Accustomed, the horse merely relaxed and rested one rear hoof, swishing his tail idly. She patted his flank, then moved away a few yards to lean against the rustic three-rail fence bordering this area of the riding trails.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Not five minutes later a man rode an elderly bay mare up the trail from the opposite direction. Even with his mount’s lazy, smooth gait, it was obvious the man was not a rider by the way he perched uncertainly and stiffly on the saddle. He was a very … neutral man. His hair was an indeterminate brown, his features were regular without in any way being remarkable, his build was average. He wore the upscale Gryphon Gate riding attire for men, jodhpurs with riding boots and a polo shirt, obviously borrowed, since the outfit didn’t look conspicuously new.

  “You’re late,” Renée said when he reached her. She was determined to get and keep the upper hand at this meeting.

  Martin Herbert swung awkwardly down from his patient mount and then led her over to tether her near Renée’s horse. Every movement emphasized his unfamiliarity with horses, so much so that it amused her.

  “You don’t have to worry about Lady. She’s the gentlest horse this side of the kiddie rides at the fair.”

  “I don’t ride much,” Herbert said unnecessarily.

  “No kidding. This probably would have been your last choice for a meeting place. But I ride these trails every day, and I know nobody else comes this way on Friday afternoons.”

  “I didn’t object,” he reminded her.
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br />   “You couldn’t object if I suggested a meeting in the lobby at the country club,” Renée mocked.

  Gritting his teeth visibly, Herbert said, “Look, Mrs. Lynch, I don’t know why you believe your husband is under surveillance, but—”

  “I don’t believe he’s under surveillance, Mr. Herbert, I know he is.” Renée reached into the pocket of her well-cut riding jacket and produced a small device which, to the untutored eye, looked like nothing so much as a tangle of fine wires and bits of computer innards. She tossed it to Herbert. “Look familiar?”

  A muscle writhed along his jawline. “Mrs. Lynch—”

  “I found it in his study at home, beautifully concealed behind a shelf of books Jerry wouldn’t touch with someone else’s hands. Books for show. I doubt he’d even recognize the titles. Unless it has DOW or NASDAQ across it, or wears a thirty-eight-D cup, Jerry couldn’t care less.”

  “Mrs. Lynch, I’m just a resident of Gryphon Gate like you are. I’m a consultant and work out of my home, so—”

  “Bullshit,” she said sweetly. “There’s a tap on our phone. And I have it from a real expert that the little gizmo I just gave you—plus the others hidden in the house, of course—are state-of-the-art and government issue.”

  Herbert was silent, but obviously both surprised and uneasy.

  “FBI? CIA? Or is it the SEC keeping tabs on my husband?”

  Carefully, Herbert said, “The SEC is hardly empowered to conduct electronic surveillance, Mrs. Lynch.”

  Renée smiled. “The CIA isn’t supposed to conduct domestic investigations either, but we both know that’s just the company line. Still, I’m betting it’s the FBI running the show. My only question now is—why? What did my husband do to alert the feds, and why isn’t his ass in jail already?”

  * * *

  Capt. Diane Robards hung up the phone then shook her head at Leland Ford’s inquiring look. “Autopsy results aren’t ready yet. I ordered tox screens and the whole nine yards, and the M.E. was backed up anyway, so it’ll take a while.”