The Chase: A Novel (10 page)

Her house looked vacant and lifelessly dull now, Claire thought, as they stepped out of the car. Ian told the driver to go get a cup of coffee.

Claire tensed as the sedan began backing out of her driveway. “Why did you do that?” she cried, turning to face him, aghast.

“Why are you acting as if you’re afraid of me?”

Claire swallowed. “Why do you refuse to answer any of my questions?”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes!”

He stared, his eyes widening fractionally. “Well, that is just great.” He seemed very irritated now. “I sent the driver to get coffee because I am beat and I need some caffeine.”

“Bull.”

He smiled for the first time since she had seen him that day. “You’re cute when you curse.” He started up the walk to the house.

Was she crazy enough to follow him? Claire decided that she was not. She stood where she was, by the drive, like a statue. “That was not a curse, by the way.”

He tested the front door, which was locked. “Coming from you, it most certainly was.”

Claire moved. Acutely interested now, she turned to see what he was doing.

He didn’t look back at her. “I need the keys.”

“I don’t have them,” she lied.

He dipped his hand into an interior pocket and produced something long, like a pick. Claire felt her eyes bulge as he inserted the object into the lock. Was he an accomplished burglar, too, as well as a Nazi hunter? Oh, this was just too much. “Are you picking my lock?”

“Yes, I am.” He sounded infinitely patient. Claire could not help herself, and she walked over to him.

He slid the object from the lock and opened the door. “After you,” he said with a slight gesture.

Claire did not precede him in. “After you,” she said firmly. She had changed her mind. This was just too rich to avoid. However, she would remain on alert, and she would keep her distance, for now.

He stared down at her. “Are you thinking that somehow I’m involved in the murders of David and Suttill?”

“No. What I’m actually thinking is that you killed both men, imitating some ancient espionage-ish form of murder.”

He smiled, then he started to laugh.

“That’s funny?” She was annoyed now.

“Yes, it is. It’s hysterical, actually. Claire, FYI: I’ve never killed anybody. Let’s go inside.”

He had never killed anybody. Claire hoped that was the case. But what would he do if the opposite were true, stand there and confess? “After you,” she said.

He sighed in exasperation and walked inside, going directly down the hall on their left to the office. Claire followed, leaving the front door wide open. Hopefully a cruiser would go by and come to see what was going on.

“So, why did you really send the driver away?” she asked nervously. She hated the house. It felt like death. It even smelled like death. Claire knew her imagination was overactive, but the shadow of evil seemed to be present everywhere. What was actually present were tons of cardboard boxes.

“Privacy,” he said, entering the office.

She was a schmuck, Claire decided. He hadn’t wanted to talk in front of the driver, that was all. He did not have a dire or foul intent toward her.

Still, Claire remained at the door while he went to the desk, keeping the width of the room between them. She watched him pick up the photo and fax. He studied the photo for a long time.

“Are we going to talk now?” she asked finally.

He turned, and she saw his face. It was grim, and there was no mistaking his anger.

Claire stiffened.

“We can talk now,” he said. “But I’d like to see the Courbet.”

She stared. An idea struck her. “Is that why you were wandering around my house the night of the party? Are you also a collector, like my father?”

“Yes and no,” he said, coming toward her. Claire forgot to move away. “The Courbet belongs to the Elgin family,” he said. “It was the centerpiece of their collection, and it disappeared sometime during the latter years of the war. Lady Elgin reported it missing or stolen after the war.”

“It’s in the master bedroom,” Claire whispered. Had her father bought a stolen painting? “Is Elgin dead also?”

“No. He is very much alive,” Ian said, moving past her without looking at her. “In fact, he’s our killer.”

Claire ran after Ian. To go upstairs, she had to cross the living area. She refused to glance at it or the terrace. She found Ian in the master bedroom, standing in front of the Courbet, staring grimly at it. Claire suddenly realized that the painting should be moved, perhaps back to her father’s. “I demand an explanation,” she cried.

“That’s a problem,” he said, not looking at her. He was studying the painting, and suddenly, he shivered.

“What is it?” Claire asked quickly.

He shrugged, still studying the masterpiece. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I just had the weirdest feeling. . . .” He stopped himself. Still, he did not glance at her. “I’d hoped to have a chance to see this someday. I don’t think this painting was stolen. I think that when Elgin disappeared, he must have taken this painting with him.”

“You were interviewing my father. Did my father buy this painting from Elgin? And who is Elgin? And will you look at me, damn it!” She grabbed his arm. “Is my father in danger, too?”

He looked at her. “You are a double-edged sword, Claire. I do not want you involved. You don’t need to know any of this. You already know too much for your own good.”

She reeled as if struck. “You’re kidding, right? You are kidding?”

“I am dead serious,” he said grimly.

“My husband was murdered right outside and just below where we are now standing. He was in some kind of trouble. I think you know what kind. Now maybe my father knows the killer, too. And you expect me to just walk away, pretending that everything’s hunky-dory, while this killer runs around scot-free?”

“Yeah, I do. Hunky-dory?” He smiled.

She felt her fists ball up. If he laughed at her again, she would flatten his nose, and to hell with the gun he carried. “I seem to be regressing to some adolescent stage of behavior and language usage,” she snapped. “But you cannot keep me in the dark.”

“Actually, I can. This is an official homicide investigation. You are not a cop.”

“Neither are you!” she shouted.

“I am not a policeman, and no, I don’t work for any government agency. The center is privately funded. But I do work closely with the police and other government agencies, including foreign ones, whenever the need arises,” he said. “Like now.”

Claire was very angry. “I want my photo back. And the fax.”

He made a sound. “That’s juvenile.”

“As I said, I seem to be regressing.” She held out her hand.

“Claire.”

“No.”

“I mean it, Marshall. I know you want that photo. I bet you don’t have a photo of Elgin, even if he’s only twenty in it. I bet you want to dash over to a computer and do some imaging and aging. That’s my property in your hand, and I want some goddamned answers. Do we have a deal or not?”

He said, his mouth curling a bit, “Talk that way at your fund-raiser next month, and you won’t raise a dime, much less that million you’re fishing for.”

“How the hell do you know so much about me?” she asked with fear.

He handed her the photo and the fax. “No, Claire, we do not have a deal.” And he walked out of the room.

Claire was still, but only for an instant. Then she ran after him. “Ian, please.
Please
” she cried. She heard the desperation in her tone and knew she was begging, but she did not care.

He halted in his tracks. “Shit,” he said.

Claire allowed the tears to fall. It was the oldest trick in the book, but her tears were real—David was dead, and she was alone and terrified.

“Claire, cut it out,” he said, turning helplessly.

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she lied. Actually, the brief need to cry had ended. Her tears were drying up as fast as they had flowed.

Ian sighed. “You don’t want to hear any of this,” he said. “Trust me, Claire.”

Alarms went off, right there inside of her head. “David told me he was in big trouble,” she said. “What kind of trouble could it have been?”

“The killing kind,” he said.

“Ian?” The tears shimmered in her vision again. “Please. He was my husband. We were together for almost fifteen years.”

His jaw tightened visibly. “He may have been blackmailing Elgin, Claire. And to make matters even worse, he witnessed George Suttil’s murder.”

Had David been out of his mind? No wonder he was dead. Claire was stunned.

“Claire? Driver’s back. I’ll drop you at the gallery so you can pick up your car.”

Claire hardly heard Ian, who stood in the driveway sipping from a Styrofoam container of coffee. She was reeling. If only David hadn’t done something so stupid—and illegal. She remained on the steps in front of her house. What should she do now?

Find Elgin. Bring him to justice.

“Claire? C’mon. I have a flight to catch.”

That got her attention. She came down the steps. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have a flight to catch,” he said. He looked closely at her. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” she echoed in some disbelief. “You drop that bombshell on me and ask me if I am okay? No, I’m not okay. Is my father in danger?”

Ian hesitated, then said, “No.”

Claire was incredulous. “You’re lying to me!”

“Why won’t you leave this alone?” he exploded. “God damn it, if only I had gone to the gallery a bit earlier, we wouldn’t even be standing here hashing this out.”

She was alarmed now, and filled with caution. She couldn’t trust this man because he was a stranger—a stranger with a temper who carried a gun and was so damned evasive. “How do you know that Elgin is the killer? And not someone else?”

He turned a hard gaze full-force upon her. “Get in the car, Claire. I have a plane to catch. I am not about to miss it because of you.”

Claire didn’t like his tone. It was threatening. She got into the car.

This time Ian jumped into the front seat, beside the driver. Clearly, he wished to avoid close contact with her. That was fine with Claire as well. He handed her a container of coffee. Claire took it but made no move to drink it as they headed down the hill, merging into the traffic on Leavenworth Street.

Shit
, she thought. He was refusing to tell her anything, and he had lied—her father might be in danger. Why was he flying out of town so fast? Did that mean that Elgin—if he was the killer—was no longer in town? Claire hoped that was the case. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m making a brief stop to speak with Murphy, and then it’s back to the hotel to pack and check out.”

“No, I mean where are you flying to?”

He didn’t turn to look at her. “You are awfully nosy. I liked the dolled-up, glam-queen version of Claire Hayden better.”

“She’s gone.”

Now he twisted to look at her. “Take off those sunglasses,” he said.

“Like hell I will,” she said, having just put them back on.

He reached out and removed them.

Claire bit back a protest—and this one might have been a real curse.

His face softened. “Look, Claire, right now everything’s okay, and you don’t have to worry.”

She saw that he was concerned. “But I am worried. This is not a case of ignorance being bliss.”

“Can’t you see that I’m an old-fashioned kinda guy, and I am trying, in my own way, foolish as it may be, to protect you?”

Claire stared into his eyes, which happened to be green. “That’s a nice way to be,” she heard herself say. “That is, if you are telling me the truth.”

“I also happen to be a basically honest guy, too. Which is why I hunt down people like Elgin.”

Claire smiled a little, and it was genuine. “Is that a Brooklyn accent?”

“Queens,” he said with a small, answering smile. “Friends?”

She hesitated. She did not dare trust him yet. “Friends.”

He stuck out his hand. She took it. The shake was brief but firm. Claire realized his touch flustered her. Unfortunately, she still found him highly attractive.

Then, “Can I borrow the photograph and fax, please?”

Her mind sped. If he was tight with the police, she could be forced to hand over the items anyway. “Sure. What are friends for?” She smiled her perfect socialite smile at him.