Night Whispers

by Judith McNaught

  “Why?” Paul asked, unwillingly touched by the fierce pride, the ferocious dignity emanating from her.

  “Because I got better that very night. And do you know why I made such a miraculous recovery?”

  “No, why?”

  “I made that miraculous recovery because I refused to do anything that would ever, ever force us to accept one cent from that creep.”

  “I see.”

  “Then you’ll also see why I wouldn’t touch his money now, when I’m neither sick nor hungry. In fact, the only thing I’d turn down faster than his money at this moment is his invitation to spend time with him in Palm Beach so that he can soothe his conscience.” She turned back to the counter and reached into a cabinet for two coffee mugs.

  “What would it take to make you change your mind about visiting him?”

  “A miracle.”

  Paul remained silent, waiting for her curiosity to rise to the surface once her animosity ebbed. He thought it would take her several minutes to make the emotional transition, but in that he had also underestimated her. “Did Carter Reynolds send you here to try to change my mind?” she demanded. “Are you here officially for the FBI, or is it possible that you’re doing a little moonlighting for him on your vacation?”

  Her suggestion was completely off-base, but it told Paul she had a clever imagination and the ability to make quantum leaps in logic on her own. Unfortunately, he did not regard either of those qualities as an advantage to him in the particular role he had in mind for her.

  “The bureau is interested in some of Reynolds’s business activities and in some of his business partners,” he replied, ignoring her accusation. “Recently we uncovered information that indicates he’s involved in certain criminal activities, but we don’t have enough evidence yet to prove that he’s directly or even knowingly involved.”

  Despite her genuine indifference to her father, Paul noticed that she went very still at the realization that he was probably a criminal. Instead of feeling some understandable gratification at the news, as he’d hoped and expected she would, she evidently didn’t want to believe that of him. She got past it within moments, however, and sent him a quick, apologetic smile; then she poured coffee into the mugs and carried the tray over to the table.

  “What kind of activities do you think he’s involved in?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” she said as she slid into a chair across from him. “You can’t think I’m involved in whatever he’s doing,” she added with such sincerity in her voice that Paul smiled against his will.

  “We don’t think that. You were of no interest to us until a few weeks ago. We have an informant close to him in San Francisco who tipped us off about you and about his intention to contact you. Unfortunately, as of yesterday, that informant is no longer accessible to us.”

  “Why not?”

  “He died.”

  “Of natural causes?” Sloan persisted, unconsciously reverting to the detective she was trained to be.

  Richardson’s almost imperceptible hesitation told her the answer even before he spoke. “No.”

  While Sloan was still reeling from that, Richardson continued. “We’ve had him under surveillance, but we haven’t been able to get enough evidence to persuade a judge to authorize a wiretap. Reynolds maintains an impressive suite of offices in San Francisco, but he transacts the business we’re interested in elsewhere, possibly at home. He’s cautious and he’s clever. He’s leaving for Palm Beach and we’d like to have someone in place close to him while he’s there.”

  “Me,” Sloan concluded with a sinking feeling.

  “Not you. Me. Tomorrow, I’d like you to have a sudden change of heart and call Reynolds. Tell him you’ve decided you would like an opportunity to get to know him, and that you’ll join him in Palm Beach.”

  “What good will that do you?”

  He gave her an innocent look that wasn’t innocent at all. “Naturally, you’ll want to bring a friend along so you won’t feel all alone and self-conscious in your new surroundings, someone you can while away the time with when you aren’t spending it with your newfound father.”

  Appalled by what he was suggesting, Sloan leaned limply against the back of her chair and stared at him. “That friend would be you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” she repeated dazedly.

  “If Reynolds objects to your bringing this friend along, tell him that we were planning to spend your two-week vacation together and that you won’t change your vacation plans unless I can come along. He’ll give in. He has a thirty-room house in Palm Beach, so an extra guest won’t matter. Besides, he’s not in any position to impose limitations on you right now.”

  An overpowering weariness settled over Sloan. “I’ll have to think this over for a while.”

  “You can give me your answer tomorrow,” he stipulated; then he glanced at his watch, took a few swallows of his scalding coffee, and stood up, reaching for his jacket. “I have to get back to the hotel for a phone call. I’ll come back here in the morning. You’re off tomorrow, so that will give us time to work out a story that will satisfy everyone here and everyone in Palm Beach. You will not be able to disclose the truth to anyone, Sloan. That specifically includes Sara Gibbon, Roy Ingersoll, and Jessup.”

  Sloan found it a little odd and unsettling that he “specifically” included those people, but when he added, “That also includes your mother,” she felt a little better.

  “I can’t overemphasize the need for absolute secrecy,” he continued as they walked through the living room. “No one is to be considered trustworthy here, or when we get to Palm Beach. There is more at risk than you know.”

  “I haven’t agreed to go to Palm Beach with you yet,” Sloan reminded him very firmly at the front door. “Also, it isn’t a good idea to meet here tomorrow. Sara will be bursting with questions about you, and my mom is going to try to talk me into going to Palm Beach, even though I left a message on her answering machine saying that I absolutely wouldn’t go. Both of them will probably appear here first thing in the morning.”

  “In that case, where can we meet?”

  “How about the same place that we met tonight—at the dunes?”

  Instead of replying, Paul shrugged into his jacket and studied the young woman waiting for his answer. In the last hour, she’d dealt calmly and efficiently with a man she believed to be an armed attacker, and with only moments to make the adjustment, she’d adapted to the need to pass her attacker off as her friend. A few minutes ago, he’d watched her adjust to the fact that her socialite father could actually be a criminal. Despite her small frame and delicate appearance, she was physically fit and mentally agile. Even so, he could see that the day had taken its toll on her. She looked tense and exhausted, and he felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt for having doused her vitality and warmth. He made an effort to lighten her mood a little. “When you see me at the dunes, could you be a little gentler with me this time?” he asked dryly.

  “Are you going to attack me again?” she countered, managing a smile.

  “I didn’t attack you; I tripped.”

  “I like my version better,” she jauntily informed him, and Paul laughed despite his worries.

  • • •

  As he crossed her front yard, however, his amusement gave way to concern over the problems she was likely to cause him in Palm Beach. Originally, he’d rejected the idea of using her in such a complex undercover scheme. He’d seen enough inept, inexperienced, and corrupt small-town cops to have developed an instinctive mistrust of them all, and the fact that this particular small-town cop had turned out to be a remarkably savvy, squeaky-clean young idealist who looked like a wholesome college cheerleader wasn’t totally reassuring to him either.

  He wasn’t the least bit worried that she’d refuse to go to Palm Beach with him. Based on everything he’d read about Sloan Reynolds in her F
BI file as well as his own personal observations, he was certain she would go to Palm Beach. The same stubborn integrity that had made her choose peanut butter as an eight-year-old, rather than contacting her father for money, would now force her to swallow her pride, reverse the upright, moral stance of a lifetime, and go to him in Palm Beach.

  10

  The Ocean View Motel did not actually offer a view of the ocean except to the seagulls roosting on its roof, but it did have a swimming pool, a lounge that was open until two A.M., and cable television. All those facilities were in use at one A.M., when Paul pulled up in front of the main entrance.

  The television set in the lobby was tuned to CNN, the sound drowned out by the jukebox in the lounge, where a half dozen people were drinking at the bar and ignoring the dance floor. He walked out a rear door and skirted around the swimming pool, where some teenage boys were playing water volleyball and keeping up a steady stream of friendly macho obscenities.

  The telephone in his room was ringing when he let himself inside. Out of habit, not necessity, he let the phone continue to ring while he double-locked the door, checked it, and pulled the draperies over the windows; then he walked over to the bed and answered the phone. The voice on the cellular phone belonged to an agent whom Paul had known for years, one who’d been in Bell Harbor for the last two days helping Paul check out Sloan Reynolds. “Well?” the other agent demanded eagerly. “I saw you with her on the beach at a party. Is she going to cooperate?”

  “She’ll cooperate,” Paul said. Cradling the phone on his shoulder, he leaned over and flipped on the air-conditioner to high, and the smell of cold, moldy air hit him in the face.

  “I thought you weren’t going to make contact with her until tomorrow morning.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “When?”

  “It might have been when she came up behind me and knocked me on my ass. No, I think it was right after that, when she was holding a nine millimeter Glock on me.”

  His friend let out a guffaw. “She made you? You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not, and if you harbor any hope of my continued friendship, you won’t bring it up again.” Despite the gruffness of his tone, Paul couldn’t help smiling at the remarkable indignities that had been inflicted on him tonight by a naïve, inexperienced female cop who weighed less than one hundred ten pounds.

  “I heard three shots tonight. With all her marksmanship medals from the police academy, I’m surprised she didn’t at least nick you.”

  “She wasn’t firing at me. She’d cornered what she believed to be an armed assailant on a crowded beach, and she knew her pals were less than three hundred yards away. Rather than taking the risk of disarming me single-handedly, which could have ultimately jeopardized the safety of innocent bystanders, she fired into the air and signaled for help. It was a good call on her part. Prudent, expedient, and imaginative.”

  He paused to prop a pillow against the headboard and stretch out on the bed before he continued. “By the time her backup arrived a few minutes later, she’d discovered who I am, grasped what I needed her to do, and she assumed the role she needed to play and pulled it off. All things considered,” he finished, “she showed remarkable skill and adaptability.”

  “She sounds like she’s perfect for your job then.”

  Leaning his head back, Paul closed his eyes and battled with his private misgivings. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Are you still worried that once she’s in Reynolds’s Palm Beach palace, surrounded by all his wealth and rich friends, she’ll be tempted to switch sides on you?”

  “After talking to her tonight, I’d say that’s extremely unlikely.”

  “Then what’s the problem? By your own admission she’s smart, she’s adaptable, and she’s also a better shot than you are.” When his friend didn’t rise to that bait, he added cheerfully, “I don’t think we should hold it against her that she also happens to have great legs and a beautiful face.” In the telling silence that followed, the humor vanished from his voice. “Paul, we’ve ascertained that she’s not corrupt, you don’t think she’s corruptible, and now you’ve discovered she’s clever. What the hell is bothering you, anyway?”

  “What bothers me is that she’s a Girl Scout. It’s fairly obvious she became a cop because she wants to help people. She rescues kites from trees and searches for mongrels in the street; then she stays on duty so she can comfort an old Hispanic woman whose house is burning to the ground. Given a choice between living on peanut butter when she was a kid, or asking her father for money, she chose the peanut butter. She’s an idealist to the core, and that is what bothers me about her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you know what an idealist is?”

  “Yes, but I’d like to hear your definition, because until ten seconds ago I thought idealism was a rare virtue.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s not an asset to me in a situation like this. Idealists have a peculiar habit of deciding for themselves what’s right and wrong; they listen to their own voices; then they act on their own judgment. Unless idealism has been tempered, it bows to no authority but its own. Idealists are loose cannons in any situation, but in a sensitive operation like this one, a naive idealist like Sloan Reynolds could become a nuclear warhead.”

  “I gather from that enlightening flight into philosophy that you’re afraid she won’t let you tell her what to think?”

  “Exactly.”

  • • •

  Sara said good night to Jonathan as soon as she reached her front door; then she took a hot shower, trying to steam away the chill of Jess’s taunts. Somehow, the verbal combat had broken out between them soon after they’d first met, and she’d fallen into the habit of defending herself with periodic counterattacks. But tonight, he’d gone too far. He’d turned brutal. Worse, there’d been an element of truth in his words, which hurt her even more.

  She was toweling her hair dry when her doorbell rang. Puzzled and cautious, she wrapped herself in a long robe, went into the living room, and peeked between the draperies before she went to the door. A Bell Harbor police cruiser was parked at the curb in front of her house. Pete must have decided to continue his party here, she thought with a weary smile, and the others would soon be arriving.

  She opened the front door, and her smile abruptly faded. Jess Jessup was standing on her porch, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his hands through it—or, more likely, some eager woman on the beach had rumpled his hair after Sara left. Judging by the grim expression on his face, the lady’s attentions must have been unsatisfactory. Injecting as much ice into her voice as she could, Sara said scornfully, “If you’re not here on official police business, go away and don’t ever come back here again. For Sloan’s sake, I’ll be polite to you if she’s with you, but if she’s not, you stay away from me!” She wanted to say more, and worse, but she suddenly felt like crying, which made her feel stupid and even angrier.

  His brows snapped together as she finished her tirade. “I came here to apologize for the things I said tonight,” he said, sounding angry, not apologetic.

  “Fine,” Sara said coldly. “You’ve done it. It doesn’t change my mind.” She started to shove the door closed, but he blocked it with his foot.

  “Now what?” she demanded.

  “I just realized I didn’t come here to apologize.” Before she could react, he caught her shoulders and pulled her toward him. “Get your hands off me—” she stormed; then his mouth swooped down and captured hers in a hard kiss that was easy to resist—until it softened. Shock and anger and an awful twinge of pleasure made her pulse race, but she stayed perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of struggling or cooperating.

  As soon as he released her, Sara stepped back, her right hand groping for the doorknob. “Is assault a turn-on for those bimbos you date?” she demanded, and before he could reply, Sara gave the door a mighty shove that sent it slamming in his face.

  Para
lyzed, Sara stayed where she was until she heard his car start; then she slowly turned and leaned limply against the front door. Dry-eyed, she stared at the carefully chosen accessories she’d bought for her living room—a beautiful porcelain vase, an antique footstool, a small Louis XIV table. They were cherished items, of fine quality—beautiful symbols of the beautiful life she planned for herself and the children she would someday have.

  11

  It was dusk when Carter Reynolds hung up the telephone in his office at home and swiveled around in his chair, gazing out the large circular window behind him. The San Francisco skyline stretched out before him, shrouded in fog—mysterious, exciting. In two weeks, he had to exchange all this for the monotonous blue skies of Palm Beach in March, a pilgrimage that his family had taken for generations, a tradition that his grandmother would not allow him to forsake.

  In recent years, he’d come to regard the biannual trips to Palm Beach as increasingly irksome, unavoidable intrusions on his life, but after this last phone call, the trip was suddenly ripe with life-altering possibilities. For nearly an hour, he remained where he was, contemplating a complex variety of scenarios; then he swiveled around and pressed a button on the telephone that activated the house intercom. “Where is Mrs. Reynolds?” he asked the servant who answered.

  “I believe she’s resting in her room before dinner, sir.”

  “And my daughter?”

  “I believe she is with Mrs. Reynolds, reading to her, sir.”