by Brenda Joyce
Claire was frozen.
“Claire?”
No, she did not believe it, not for a single second.
“Claire! Are you there?”
“You’re wrong,” she said flatly, finding it hard to breathe now. “Elgin killed George Suttill, and he killed David. Just like he killed Eddy Marshall in 1940,” she heard herself say. Her pulse was thundering in her ears now.
“Says who? Marshall?” Jean-Léon was sarcastic.
“Yes,” Claire whispered, feeling very much like her father’s punching bag.
“Did Marshall tell you why he’s so obsessed with Elgin, Claire? Did he tell you the real reason?” her father demanded. “Did he tell you the truth?”
Claire swallowed in order to find her voice. “Elgin murdered his uncle. Eddy Marshall was his uncle, Dad.”
Jean-Léon made a sound. It was abrupt, both mirthful and mocking. “No, Claire, that’s not it. That’s not why your boyfriend is obsessed with Elgin. He believes Elgin murdered his father, Claire. In the winter of 1972.”
CHAPTER 13
Claire stared blindly at the passersby milling around her on Lexington Avenue. “What?” she managed.
“Bill Marshall was hit over the head with a tire jack while fixing a flat on the side of a highway somewhere in upstate New York,” Jean-Léon was saying. “Ask the center. They’ll tell you. It was an unfortunate, accidental crime; I think he was mugged for a few hundred dollars. Your friend Ian Marshall is convinced that Elgin—who is dead, Claire—murdered him. You are on a wild goose chase.”
“I’ve got to go. Bye, Dad.” Claire flipped the cell closed. She realized she could barely breathe and that she was shaking like a leaf.
Then she stood there in front of the huge storefront window, as still as the mannequins behind her. The crowd hurried to and fro past her, a mass of faceless humanity.
Claire took a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. It was impossible. She tried to think clearly. That, too, seemed impossible.
Why hadn’t Ian ever told her about his father’s death?
No wonder he recalled that the recorded conversation between his father and his Uncle Joe had taken place in 1972, the year of his death.
Elgin was dead?
Claire inhaled. If Jean-Léon was right, then this entire nightmare was over: the Dukes would be as innocent as anyone, Robert Ducasse would remain dead, a hero of the French Resistance, Jean-Léon was exactly who he said he was, because they were a different branch of the Ducasse family, and she could go home.
But how could Elgin be dead? David had been blackmailing Elgin, and he had died for his efforts. Or so Ian said.
George Suttill had discovered Elgin’s current identity, and he was dead. Or so Ian said.
Claire couldn’t even begin to imagine why Ian would make up such stories. Elgin had to be alive, because Claire could not imagine any other explanation for David’s and George Suttill’s deaths, not even at the hands of a copycat.
She just could not believe that Ian was crazy. Still, clearly, he was a man bent on revenge.
Whom should she believe? Was Elgin alive or dead?
Claire shopped mindlessly, picking up twos of everything, no longer certain of what she needed—slacks, knit tops, underwear, hose. By the time she left the store, she wasn’t sure what time it was; she didn’t know what she had purchased, either, or how much she had spent—and she didn’t care. She stepped out onto Third Avenue, took one look at the traffic, and realized the odds of getting a taxi at this hour were nil. Great, she thought with a sudden fury. Just great.
Claire decided that walking would be faster than taking a bus. She didn’t feel up to figuring out the subway system, which she had never used in her previous travels to the city.
She began walking uptown, carrying her two bags. Shopping had been a badly needed distraction from the ramifications of that terrible phone conversation with Jean-Léon. Now, against her will, she began to turn over all the possibilities.
Ian thought that Elgin had murdered his father, Bill Marshall. That much Claire believed. Why hadn’t Ian told her the truth about his father? The omission was a terrible lie, especially now, when they were lovers and friends. And it made no sense.
Her father claimed that Elgin was dead—that he had died twenty years ago in France of natural causes. Could her father be mistaken? Claire could not really believe that Elgin was dead. Had they both lied to her in different ways?
She told herself that if Jean-Léon was lying to her, he was doing so only to protect Robert Ducasse, who had to be alive, who had to be Lionel Elgin. This had to be the case.
As far as Ian went, they truly had complicated matters, Claire thought with real anguish. She had been incapable of objectivity before. Now her feelings for Ian were further clouding her ability to be rational. Compounding matters was a pervasive sense of doom that was dogging her.
Claire had reached Seventy-second Street. Her sandals were hurting her feet, and her shopping bags seemed to have gained ten pounds each. But neither her feet nor her shoulders hurt the way her heart did. Her world had been turned violently upside down in a handful of minutes. She was so upset and angry—at Jean-Léon, at Ian, at everyone. Just then she wanted to be alone. But being alone wouldn’t help her to sort anything out.
If only she hadn’t gotten involved in this, or with Ian.
Claire could hardly believe her last thought. But she still loved him. Even frightened and angry, Claire knew that, and it only made matters worse.
Claire realized a bus had stopped on the other side of Third Avenue. The light was green and she ran across the intersection, somehow leaping onto the bus just before it closed its doors. She was too tired—and too distressed—to walk anymore.
The bus was so jammed that Claire saw no way to walk farther back. She scraped together the fare, deposited it, and grabbed onto a pole, all the while aware of receiving numerous stares. Claire realized she must look as frazzled and frantic as she felt. She had to pull herself together before she reached Ian’s apartment; otherwise, how would she be able to confront him? The cell phone rang. Claire jammed her shopping bags firmly between her knees so they would not overturn, then fumbled with her purse. She found the phone and looked at the screen. A 212 number that she did not recognize was illuminated on the dial. Ian had to be the caller.
“How does Italian sound?” he asked in a friendly tone, with no preamble, when she answered.
“We need to talk, Ian,” she said tersely.
There was a moment of surprised silence. “Okay. What’s happened?”
“I’ll be there in five or ten minutes,” she said, and flipped the lid closed. She was trembling.
Ian was waiting for her. He was standing in the open doorway of his apartment, and he wasn’t smiling.
Claire looked him in the eye as she came out of the elevator.
“What happened?” Ian asked quietly as she approached.
She walked past him and into his apartment, and dropped her bags, then whirled. “You did not tell me about your father, Ian.”
“What?” He paled, closing the door.
“You had every opportunity to tell me that he was murdered—murdered—in the winter of 1972!”
“Who have you been talking to?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Was he murdered? In the winter of ’seventy-two?”
“Yes, he was,” Ian said, and he turned and walked away from her.
So that much was true. Claire fought tears. She was so tired that she had to sit, and sank down on the rust-colored leather sofa. She cradled her face in her hands.
She heard Ian’s footsteps and looked up. He handed her a framed photograph.
Claire blinked. A handsome man with longish, curly black hair was standing in front of an old fighter plane that seemed to seat one person. He wore jeans, Frye boots, and a beat-up leather jacket—the kind pilots wore. He wasn’t smiling, and he was squinting against the sun. “Is this your father?
” she asked with a lump in her throat.
“Yes. He’s standing in front of an old Spitfire at the RAF museum in Hendon, which is outside of London. This was taken in the mid-sixties. My dad was a pilot. Not professionally, but he had a Cessna. He just loved to fly.”
Ian was also a pilot, Claire had learned during a casual conversation on one of their flights. “Why didn’t you tell me that he was murdered?”
Ian shrugged as Claire set the photo down on the glass coffee table. “Who told you?” His eyes were dark, and all of his facial muscles had tightened.
“Jean-Léon.”
“I see.” If he was surprised, he gave no sign, but Claire knew he wasn’t. “What else did he say?” He was so calm—too calm.
“He said that you think Elgin murdered him.”
“He did.”
“How can you be certain? Maybe it was a mugging,” Claire said, strained.
“No, it was not a mugging, Claire.”
“You were ten years old when he died,” she pointed out.
“That’s right. And when I was a sophomore in college, I decided to investigate the ‘mugging.’ My father was hunting Elgin, Claire, when he died. He had figured out who he was, and he was about to nail the bastard.” Ian’s eyes flashed. “My mother told me the whole story. She had begged him to let sleeping dogs lie, but he wanted revenge for Eddy. He had adored him, and he never forgot his death. I didn’t tell you the truth. My father opened up the Elgin investigation in 1972. And he knew what he was doing. Remember when I said being a fed runs in the family? My father was an agent. He had the bureau’s resources at his fingertips. And one night, during a blizzard, Elgin hit him over the back of the head with a goddamned tire iron when he was changing a fucking flat tire, because he was getting too close.” Ian stared at her. He was flushed with anger. “It was Christmas Eve, Claire. December twenty-fourth, 1972.”
Claire stared back. In spite of herself, she was chilled. Bill Marshall had been murdered on the same day as his brother Eddy. “So this whole thing with Elgin is a personal vendetta. This whole chase is about Elgin having murdered your uncle and your father.”
“It’s more than that and you know it,” Ian said. “Thanks for selling me so short.”
“What if it was a mugging?” Claire asked, but less forcefully. She just had to ask. “Could Elgin be dead, Ian? Is there any way he could be dead?”
“Is that what he told you? And you believe him?” Ian was incredulous. “Have you forgotten the reason David disappeared? David saw Elgin murder George Suttill, and he was afraid he’d be next! The man is a killer, Claire. A mastermind and a killer.”
Claire felt as if she were facing a huge brick wall, one she would never break through. Instead, that wall would come crumbling down on her, burying her alive the way rubble had buried civilians in World War II. “David saw someone murder George Suttill. Maybe Elgin is dead and there’s a copycat—”
He made an exasperated sound and threw his hands up in the air. “There was a rumor. Briefly, in the early eighties, the rumor reached various agencies, including Special Branches at Scotland Yard, that Elgin was dead. That he died in France. But it was only a rumor, Claire, one I know Elgin started. Unfortunately, my father hadn’t shared his investigation or files with anyone. To this day I’ve never found them—I think Elgin destroyed them.”
“So my father made a mistake,” Claire said harshly.
“When David called me, I had to practically start this investigation from scratch,” Ian stated. “Your father is sticking his nose way deep into affairs he shouldn’t have any interest in,” Ian said flatly.
And the rest of it remained unspoken, if he isn’t Elgin.“Don’t. Stop right there. My father knows I’m in danger, and he wants me to come home. Period.”
“Then go home,” Ian said.
Claire just stared. Ian stared back. The apartment became frighteningly silent. The only sound she could hear was the air-conditioning unit. But a new fear rose up inside of her chest. “Is that what you want me to do?” she got out.
“Yeah, that’s what I want you to do,” Ian said roughly.
Claire couldn’t seem to get enough air. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” he said, his face tight and closed.
“But you’re kicking me out.”
“It’s for the best now.”
“No, it’s what’s best for you,” she said, choking. She turned almost blindly and made her way across the foyer to the guest bedroom.
His hand appeared on the door in front of her, effectively preventing her from entering the room. “That is so unfair. This is for your own good.”
She turned and faced him. Unfortunately, he was only a few inches away. “We’re partners.”
“I don’t need a partner anymore, Claire, and my decision has nothing to do with our personal relationship.”
“Do not even try to tell me that you are protecting me,” Claire said harshly.
“I am.”
“Then find someone other than my father to pin the Elgin rap on.” She meant every word.
“I wish I could,” he said with regret.
Claire turned abruptly, shoved his hand away, and slipped into the dark bedroom. She closed the door hard behind herself as she did so, and only then did she dare to fight the sobs that were threatening. Damn it. Damn him.
Suddenly she thrust the door back open. “What about your reputation?” she shouted.
He was standing right where she had left him, in front of the door. He appeared stricken. “What?”
“They said you have a terrible reputation. That you’re reckless: a cowboy with your own agenda.”
“Who the hell is ‘they’?” he demanded angrily. “Wait—let me guess. Your father!”
“He checked you out,” Claire cried.
“I’ll bet he did,” Ian said in a dangerous tone—one Claire did not like at all—and he turned his back on her and disappeared down the hall.
Claire was the one who felt stunned now. She hadn’t meant to attack him, and she didn’t really believe he had a horrid reputation—which meant that she did believe that her father was lying through his teeth. And now she had lost Ian, too.
She stumbled over to the bed and sat down hard, trembling. Everything was happening so quickly that she felt dizzy.
The lights in the bedroom came on. Claire blinked.
Ian stood in the doorway, a heavy brochure in hand. He smiled at her mirthlessly. “Would you like to speak to one of the executive directors at the center, Claire?”
She froze.
“Claire?”
The evening had become surreal. Claire was aware of Ian waiting for her response, but she couldn’t respond because she didn’t want to, because she didn’t dare. He seemed angry and hateful now. He was angry with her, that she knew—but surely he did not despise her as well? Claire felt almost as if she were outside of herself, watching the drama unfolding—the frightened, paralyzed woman, the angry man, and a bunch of ghosts surrounding them, patiently waiting for justice.
Ian didn’t wait for her answer. He handed her a beautifully published brochure. The cover was dark green, and embossed on it was a circular logo that read BERGMAN HOLOCAUST RESEARCH CENTER with a Star of David in its center.
Claire realized her hands were trembling as she opened it. The inside of the front cover listed the names of the institution’s directors and various employees. Claire found Ian’s name listed about twelve names down, as executive director of special investigations. Tears came to her eyes, blurring her vision.
She flipped through the brochure. There were different sections, some of which were education, information, research, and investigations. The final page listed hundreds of contributors, huge familiar corporations among them, as well as several philanthropists whose names she recognized. Claire closed the brochure and held it to her chest. Slowly, she looked up at Ian, feeling a lone tear trickle down her cheek.
His face was set. He
took the brochure from her hands and opened it to the first page. He pointed to a name. It read “Leonard P. Feinstein, Executive Director.” Then he went to a phone, lifted it, and dialed. He handed Claire the phone without saying a word.
Claire heard it ringing. A woman answered. “Feinstein residence,” she said.
Claire found it hard to speak. “Mr. Feinstein, please,” she said. She heard how awful she sounded. She sounded ill.
A moment later a man came on the phone. “Yes?”
“Mr. Feinstein, my name is Claire Hayden. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you some questions,” Claire said, filled with pain. It was crossing her mind now that her relationship with Ian was over. And it had happened with the speed of light. But why?
Because he was going to destroy her father, one way or the other.
“How did you get this number?” he asked sharply.
Claire did not glance at Ian, who stood a few inches behind her, practically breathing down her neck. “From Ian Marshall. I’m here with him now.”
There was a pause. “I see. May I speak to Ian?”
Claire handed Ian the phone.
“Hello, Leonard,” Ian said after listening to the other man for an instant. “Yes, I’m fine. Look, do me a favor and answer Claire’s questions. It’s urgent. Thanks.” He handed the phone back to Claire, giving her a hard look.
Claire hesitated. “How would you describe Ian, Mr. Feinstein?”
“Excuse me?”
She trembled. “I was told he might not be the most reliable of employees.”
Feinstein actually laughed. “Who told you that? Ian is one of the most reliable individuals I know. He is also determined, thorough, and effective. The job he does for us is flawless, and that is no easy task in itself. You see, we are mostly an educational and research organization. His department is underfunded and understaffed. Yet somehow, over the years, he has brought dozens of war criminals to the attention of the appropriate authorities, both in this country and abroad. And some of them have been successfully convicted for their crimes. Ian is far more than reliable, he is resourceful. I would trust him with my life.”
