The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  Claire didn’t know what to say. She licked her lips. “Does the center think or know that Elgin is dead?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, “We know no such thing. That is a very odd question. Elgin remains in the top five on our most-wanted list. He’s still on Scotland Yard’s most-wanted list as well.”

  “Thank you,” Claire whispered, blindly handing Ian the phone.

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her body was shutting down just the way her mind was. The part of her brain that was still functioning heard Ian speak briefly with Feinstein and then hang up. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw him straighten and look at her. She couldn’t face him now.

  It was hard to get the words out. “I need to be alone.”

  She thought he said, “Claire? I hate that this is happening,” but she could not be sure.

  “Good night, Ian,” she said, refusing to even look in his direction.

  “I’m sorry, Claire.”

  She nodded, refusing to cry in front of him.

  He backed out, shutting her door.

  Claire left her bedroom the following morning before eight. She had cried herself to sleep but woken up periodically, the tears coming again and again. As a result, she felt more tired that morning than she had the day before, and she also looked like hell.

  As she entered the living area, she could smell something delicious wafting out of the kitchen, which was one door down the hall, on the other side of the entry. She could also smell coffee. Claire hesitated. Ian hadn’t left for his meeting with Frances Cookson. What should she do?

  She could turn around and hide in the bedroom until he left. Or she could go into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, which she desperately needed.

  Claire crossed the foyer, apprehension rising in her. She reminded herself that they were both mature and intelligent adults. The kitchen had no door, and she paused on the threshold. Ian was at the stainless-steel stove, making French toast.

  He had recently showered, and his dark hair was still wet. He was already dressed for his business meeting, in pale gray trousers, a white button-down shirt, and a flashy, colorful print tie. He was wearing his shoulder holster, and in it was his gun.

  He was impossibly attractive.

  Becoming involved with him had been the worst mistake of her life.

  It hurt so much.

  He turned to the opposite counter where oranges were cut up, awaiting their fate in the juicer, and he saw her. He went still.

  “Good morning,” Claire said quietly.

  His gaze scanned her, lingering on her eyes searchingly. “Good morning. How did you sleep?” He did not smile. The tension was thick enough to stick in a bread slicer.

  “Like shit.”

  He clenched his jaw. He moved past the oranges on the cutting board and poured her a cup of fresh coffee. He didn’t ask her how she liked it; he already knew. Claire watched him add skim milk and half an Equal. He handed it to her.

  Claire drank it, watching him add more French toast to the pan. He looked unbelievably good in the kitchen.

  He lowered the flame and faced her, leaning his hip against the granite counter. “I’m sorry about the way we fought last night.”

  Claire nodded curtly. “Don’t want to talk.”

  “Maybe we should,” he said.

  “Don’t think so.” She sipped more coffee, staring into the creamy brown liquid.

  “Claire. You know you need to go home. You know it’s best now.”

  She sensed another huge argument in the making. “I know nothing of the sort. I know only that you are a bossy pain in the butt. Ordering me around as if we’re in the marines.”

  “I want you out of this.”

  “Well, maybe I won’t go.”

  “Maybe I’m not giving you a choice,” he said flatly. “Your tickets back to the Bay Area will be messengered over here before ten. Flight leaves at noon. Be on it.”

  She was so unhappy that her temper only prickled at his high-handed takeover of her life. How had it come to this? The child within her wanted to go to him, tell him she was sorry and that she still loved him, and lay her head on his chest while he held her. Had they become enemies?

  “My father must be protecting his brother,” Claire said flatly. She had thought it all out last night. Her father had lied about Ian and he had lied about Elgin, so there was no other option. “But he is not Elgin. He might even be the third brother. Remember? Lady Ellen had a child. We never asked her what happened to her son.”

  “I have to go—I’m late,” Ian said, not looking at her now. He was turning the burner off. The French toast was done, but he hadn’t eaten his breakfast and clearly did not intend to. Alarm filled her. “What?”

  “I’m late,” he said. “Here.” He took a plate out of a cabinet for her. Still avoiding eye contact, he left the kitchen, leaving the oranges on the counter.

  He was leaving, just like that.

  Stunned and barely able to comprehend what was happening, Claire saw him emerging from the dining area, his jacket now on. He had his briefcase in hand. Her alarm increased. She wanted to call to him, beg him to wait, stop. She could not get a single word out.

  He looked at her. His eyes seemed dark and determined, but they also seemed unhappy. “Have a good trip, Claire.”

  Claire couldn’t seem to speak.

  He waited another moment.

  “Yeah,” Claire said, oh-so-succinctly.

  He turned and left. The front door closed with a terrible and harshly final sound.

  Dazed, Claire took the French toast and put it on a plate; she juiced two oranges, careful not to think or feel; and, plate and glass in hand, she walked over to the breakfast nook and sat down. It overlooked a part of the terrace. It looked to be a beautiful spring day. There were even birds singing on the terrace. He had potted geraniums, and they were in bloom. Claire choked on a bite of the French toast.

  She had never felt more miserable in her entire life.

  The tickets came at a quarter to nine. Claire put them in the garbage.

  How could she leave?

  Her father could not be Elgin, and she had to protect him at all costs. If Elgin turned out to be Robert, Claire no longer cared—she would care only that Jean-Léon not pay any price for protecting his brother for so many years. If Elgin turned out to be William, which was extremely doubtful because of the way her father had lied, it would hurt, but she would survive. In any case, she could not go home and pretend this was not happening; she could not merrily go about her business as if nothing was wrong.

  She had to get over to Frances Cookson’s and find out what was happening—before it was too late.

  But she did not have an address, and the meeting was about to begin. Claire didn’t bother to try to call Ian on his cell—she knew he would not tell her where he was.

  She ran into his office, and rushed over to the larger desk, which was covered with neat piles of paper, folders, and books. The first thing she saw by the telephone was a notepad. Scribbled on it was an address in the East Fifties and the time, nine A.M.

  Sixty seconds later she was out the door.

  Claire jammed the elevator button. It was ten to nine. It might take only ten minutes to get to the Sutton Place address. “C’mon,” she growled at the bank of elevators.

  William Duke couldn’t possibly be their man, not when her father had told so many lies in order to protect his brother. And Ian did not have any photographs of Robert. Or did he?

  Claire froze. He did—if William Duke was really Robert Ducasse.

  If William was her uncle, it would explain his nearly lifelong friendship with her father and the fact that they had both emigrated from France. If William was Robert Ducasse, everything suddenly made sense. His love and kindness to Claire had been more than friendship—because he was really her uncle. God—how could she not have seen this before? How could she have been so blind?

  The elevator door
opened.

  Claire leaped inside and pounded frantically on the lobby button.

  But it also meant that William was a ruthless killer.

  Frances Cookson’s apartment was just off of York Avenue on a side street, overlooking the East River. It was an old, beautiful brownstone town house that had been converted to apartments. By the time Claire had pressed the buzzer in the lobby, it was a quarter past the hour. Ian had only a fifteen-minute head start on her.

  Claire was filled with apprehension as she explained to Frances over the intercom that she was Ian’s assistant and running late. Clearly Ian did not object, as she was promptly buzzed through the locked door leading into the building.

  As there was no elevator, Claire walked up the narrow, carpeted stairs to the third floor. Now that Claire had made the connection between William and Robert Ducasse, she was stunned that she hadn’t guessed earlier. She couldn’t wait to tell Ian.

  Frances had left her apartment door open, and Claire walked into a small, cozy parlor, filled with mismatched furniture and throws. The first person she saw wasn’t her hostess, who greeted her at the door, but Ian, seated on a sofa in the living room. He was regarding her, but his expression was impossible to read. Instantly Claire was uncomfortable, but she knew he would not make a scene in front of Frances Cookson.

  Frances appeared to be about seventy, and she was an attractive, naturally blond woman with Scandinavian features who seemed young and agile for her age. She led Claire over to the sofa where she had been seated with Ian, cups of coffee and a plate of cookies on the low table in front of them.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Claire said, trying not to look at Ian. She failed. She sent him her society smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

  He stared at her. “No problem,” he said.

  The tension hadn’t softened in the half hour or so that had passed since he left his condo, and Frances looked from the one to the other with obvious bewilderment.

  “Let me get you a cup of coffee,” Frances said, and before Claire could protest, she walked into the adjacent kitchen.

  Claire realized she was unbearably tense, and she met Ian’s gaze with trepidation.

  “Did you get the tickets?” he asked quietly.

  Claire sat down, not on the sofa beside him, but in a flanking chair. “Yes, I did.”

  “Good.”

  “They’re rat food.”

  “What does that mean, Claire?” he asked somewhat darkly.

  She smiled sweetly. “They’re in the garbage. Where they belong.”

  “You belong on that plane,” he shot back.

  “The caveman act doesn’t suit you, Ian. Besides, Jane has something to tell Tarzan.”

  “Has something else happened?” he asked flatly, but she saw the interest in his eyes.

  “Not really,” she said, smiling and looking all around the apartment as if taking cues on how to decorate for Home & Design magazine.

  “What does that mean?”

  “William is my father’s brother, Ian,” she said. “William is Robert Ducasse.”

  He studied her. “I was wondering if that might not be the case myself.”

  “What? You knew?”

  “Claire, I don’t know anything for certain. I am wondering if William and your father are brothers. And if they are, then who is who.”

  Before Claire could comprehend that, Frances appeared and handed her a mug of steaming coffee. Claire set it down. Ian was still determined to believe that Jean-Léon was Elgin. “You are wrong,” she snapped.

  “I’m conducting an interview, Claire,” Ian said warningly. “May I record our conversation, Mrs. Cookson?”

  “Of course. But you do know that I already spoke to the police, not once but several times.” She smiled, but sadly.

  Ian said, “New York City, Frances Cookson, April thirtieth, 2001.” He glanced at his watch. “Nine-twenty-five A.M.” Then he smiled at Frances kindly. “Why don’t you tell me what happened the day George saw Elgin? Beginning with what day it was.”

  “I will never forget the date—it was the day before he died.” Her tone quavered. “April ninth. We had arrived in San Francisco on the seventh. He was so upset.”

  Claire went to the kitchen, which was separated from the living area by its counter, and pulled a tissue from a box of Kleenex. She handed it to her. Frances accepted the tissue with a small smile.

  “Where did Suttill see the man he believed to be Elgin?” Ian asked, although they already knew this.

  “We were in San Francisco on a holiday, you know. We prefer to eat a large lunch—usually we don’t eat at night. It was at the Garden Court, and it was just after one.”

  “So Suttill had no doubt that the man he met there was Elgin.”

  Frances nodded. “I had never even heard of this Elgin until that day. We met about eight years ago, when he was on holiday here in New York, and we’ve been dating ever since. We are both very active people. We live in the present. We had never even discussed the war.” She added, “I suppose I should be speaking in the past tense. It’s so hard.”

  “What happened at the restaurant?” Ian said. “Would you mind very much recalling the conversation?”

  “I’m not certain. I never saw anything or anyone—I was in the ladies’ room at the time. When I returned to our table, George was paying the check, and he was extremely agitated. We hadn’t even touched our food. I never saw this man—Elgin. George took my arm and we left the restaurant without a backward glance. It wasn’t until we were in the car that he started rambling on about the war and a spy who had murdered a pilot and agents, and it hardly made any sense! I really could not comprehend a word he was saying, except he kept coming back to one name: Lionel Elgin. George did finally tell me that Elgin had been his superior during the war, and one day he just vanished, but they found all these incriminating things in his apartment, making it quite clear that he was a spy.” She paused, staring down at her hands, which were ringless, the manicure nude and perfect, and she smiled sadly again. “And a day later he was dead.”

  “I am sorry,” Ian said softly.

  Claire reached out to touch Frances on the hand. “I am, too. If it’s any consolation, we believe this man, Elgin, also murdered my husband.”

  Frances started. “Oh, dear, I am so sorry.” Suddenly she flushed, looking from Ian to Claire. “I mistakenly assumed the two of you were a couple.”

  Claire felt her cheeks heating. “We’re not,” she said with a grimace. She had to glance at Ian.

  He looked away, his expression tight and hard, to reach for his briefcase. Claire knew what was coming, and she tensed as he removed half a dozen photographs from his briefcase. “We really appreciate your help, Mrs. Cookson,” Ian said quietly.

  Frances covered her eyes with her hands. “Sometimes I wish I could forget that day, George, everything. I never thought to find love again, not at my age.” She looked up. “My husband died in 1989. I wasn’t looking for anyone, and then four years later I met George and it was the most natural thing in the world, being with him, falling in love all over again, like a foolish teenage girl.” Tears slid down her round cheeks.

  “Frances.” Claire laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” She felt terrible for the older woman. Her loss seemed so much greater than Claire’s. Claire had her whole life ahead of her; this woman did not.

  Elgin was not her father. Her father had not done this.

  “George did not deserve to be murdered,” Frances said on a long, shaky breath. “I miss him so. But time heals all wounds.” She smiled bravely, and they all knew it was a facade.

  Claire didn’t know what to say.

  “Mrs. Cookson, even though you say you never saw Elgin, I’d like to show you some photographs. Maybe one of these men will strike a bell. Maybe one will seem familiar. Maybe you did see Elgin without knowing it, from the corner of your eye.”

  Frances was surprised. “The police never showed me any phot
ographs.”

  “I know,” Ian said with a smile, laying the photos down on the table.

  Claire went rigid. A part of her still dreaded that moment of ultimate revelation. She couldn’t seem to move.

  Ian spread out the six photos on the coffee table in front of the older woman. Claire glanced at them from where she sat—which meant that she was looking at them upside down. It hardly mattered. The first person she recognized was William Duke. The other five men were strangers.

  Ian had not put her father’s photo there.

  Claire gasped, her eyes flying to his. She wanted to say thank you. Instead, tears of relief filled her eyes, and she turned her head away quickly so he would not see.

  “I don’t know,” Frances whispered, studying the photos intently.

  Claire found herself leaning forward. Frances’s hand moved over the photos, and it seemed to hover above William’s picture, as if she might lift it up. Then she picked up the sixth photo, studied it, and put it back down. She glanced up at Ian, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I . . . I think I might recognize this man,” Frances said, pointing at the sixth photo.

  Claire closed her eyes. Amazingly, she was filled with relief. What if there was another explanation for Jean-Léon’s lies?

  Claire decided that she would continue to pray for both her father’s and William’s innocence.

  “All right,” Ian said finally. He was obviously disappointed as he stood up. “Maybe we can speak a bit more another time.”

  Claire’s heart sank. She knew he hadn’t shown the older woman Jean-Léon’s photo because of some degree of sensitivity to her presence, but he would come back—alone—and do so.

  “I am so sorry I can’t be more helpful, Mr. Marshall,” Frances said, walking them to the door.