“And from their father,” interposed Jemima.
“The judge knew a real motherly woman when he saw one,” Zillah went on as though she had not heard. “He said so in court for all the world to hear. And he was right, wasn’t he? Seven years she left them. Not a card. Not a present. And then thinking she could come back, just like that, because their father was dead, and claim them. All for an accident of birth. She was nothing to them, nothing, and I was everything.”
And Jemima herself? Her mission?
“Oh yes, I got you here deliberately. To test the children. I was quite confident, you see. I knew they would fool you. But I wanted them to know the sort of questions they would be asked—by lawyers, even perhaps the Press. I used to watch you on television,” she added with a trace of contempt. “I fooled that judge. He never knew about their father and me. I enjoy fooling people when it’s necessary. I knew I could fool you.”
“But you didn’t,” said Jemima Shore coldly. She did not like the idea of being fooled. “There was one more clue. An expression. The expression of triumph on your face when I told you I was satisfied about the children and was going back to London. You dropped your guard for a moment. It reminded me of a woman who had once scored over me on television. I didn’t forget that.” She added, “Besides, you would never have got away with it.”
But privately she thought that if Zillah Parr had not displayed her arrogance by sending for Jemima Shore Investigator as a guinea pig she might well have done so. After all, no one had seen Catharine Parr for seven years; bitterly she had cut herself off completely from all her old friends when she went to Ireland. Zillah had also led a deliberately isolated life after her husband’s death; in her case she had hoped to elude the children’s mother should she ever reappear. Zillah’s sister had vanished to Canada. Elspeth Maxwell had been held at arm’s length as had the inhabitants of Kildrum. Johnnie Maxwell had met Zillah once but there was no need for him to meet the false Mrs. Parr, who so much disliked fishing.
The two women were much of an age and their physical resemblance in youth striking: that resemblance which Zillah suggested had first attracted Mr. Parr towards her. Only the hair had to be remedied, since Catharine’s untended hair had darkened so much with the passing of the years. As for the corpse, the Parr family lawyer, whom Zillah had met face to face at the time of her husband’s death, was, she knew, on holiday in Greece. It was not difficult to fake a resemblance sufficient to make Major Maclachlan at the Estate Office identify the body as that of Zillah Parr. The truth was so very bizarre: he was hardly likely to suspect it. He would be expecting to see the corpse of Zillah Parr, following Johnnie’s account, and the corpse of Zillah Parr, bedraggled by the loch, he would duly see.
The unkempt air of a tramp was remarkably easy to assume: it was largely a matter of externals. After a while the new Mrs. Catharine Parr would have discreetly improved her appearance. She would have left Kildrum—and who would have blamed her?—and started a new life elsewhere. A new life with the children. Her own children: at last.
As all this was passing through Jemima’s head, suddenly Zillah’s control snapped. She started to cry: “My children, my children. Not hers, Mine—” And she was still crying when the police car came up the rough drive, and tall men with black and white check bands round their hats took her away. First they had read her the warrant: “Mrs. Zillah Parr, I charge you with the murder of Mrs. Catharine Parr, on or about the morning of August 6…at Kildrum Lodge, Inverness-shire.”
As the police car vanished from sight down the lonely valley, Tara came out of the rhododendrons and put her hand in Jemima’s. There was no sign of Tamsin.
“She will come back, Miss Shore, won’t she?” she said anxiously. “Zillah, I mean, not that Mummy. I didn’t like that Mummy. She drank bottles all the time and shouted at us. She said rude words, words we’re not allowed to say. I cried when she came and Tamsin hid. That Mummy even tried to hit me. But Zillah told us she would make the horrid Mummy go away. And she did. When will Zillah come back, Miss Shore?”
Holding Tara’s hand, Jemima reflected sadly that the case of the Parr children was probably only just beginning.
DETECTIVE: KATHRYN DANCE
FAST
Jeffery Deaver
JEFFERY DEAVER (1950– ) has written more than a dozen novels about Lincoln Rhyme, the brilliant quadriplegic detective who made his debut in The Bone Collector (1997), which was filmed and released by Universal in 1999 and starred Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. Other Rhyme novels are The Coffin Dancer (1998), The Empty Chair (2000), and, most recently, The Cutting Edge (2018).
He has also written more than twenty stand-alone and other series novels, most notably those featuring Kathryn Dance, who made her debut in The Cold Moon (2006), a Lincoln Rhyme novel in which she makes a brief appearance, followed by her first star turn in The Sleeping Doll (2007). Dance, an agent in the California Bureau of Investigation, is brilliant in the art of interrogation and is a highly accomplished reader of body language.
Deaver was born outside Chicago and received his journalism degree from the University of Missouri, becoming a newspaperman, after which he received his law degree from Fordham University, practicing for several years. A poet, he wrote his own songs and performed them across the country.
His works have been translated into twenty-five languages and are perennial bestsellers in America and elsewhere. Among his many honors are seven nominations for Edgar Awards (twice for best paperback original, five times for best short story), three Ellery Queen Readers Awards for best short story of the year, and the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award from the (British) Crime Writers’ Association for Garden of Beasts (2004).
His non-series novel A Maiden’s Grave (1995) was adapted for an HBO movie titled Dead Silence (1997) and starred James Garner and Marlee Matlin. His suspense novel The Devil’s Teardrop (1999) was a 2010 made-for-television movie of the same name.
“Fast” was originally published in Trouble in Mind (New York, Grand Central, 2014).
Fast
JEFFERY DEAVER
THEY WERE JUST ABOUT TO SEE the octopus when she received a text alerting her that two hundred people were going to die in two hours.
Kathryn Dance rarely received texts marked with exclamation points—the law enforcement community tended not to punctuate with emotion—so she read it immediately. Then called her office, via speed dial three.
“Boss,” the young man’s voice spilled from her iPhone.
“Details, TJ?”
Over their heads:
“Will the ticket holders for the one-thirty exhibition make their way inside, please.”
“Mom!” The little girl’s voice was urgent. “That’s us.”
“Hold on a second, honey.” Then into the phone: “Go on.”
TJ Scanlon said, “Sorry, boss, this’s bad. On the wire from up north.”
“Mom…”
“Let me talk, Mags.”
“Long story short, Alameda was monitoring this domestic separatist outfit, planning an attack up there.”
“I know. Brothers of Liberty, based in Oakland, white supremacists, antigovernment. Osmond Carter, their leader, was arrested last week and they threatened retaliation if he’s not released.”
“You knew that?”
“You read the statewide dailies, TJ?”
“Mean to.”
“…the Monterey Bay Aquarium is pleased to host the largest specimen of Enteroctopus dofleini on exhibit in the northern California area, weighing in at a hundred and twenty-one pounds! We know you’re going to enjoy viewing our visiting guest in his specially created habitat.”
“Okay. What’s the story?” Dance persisted into the phone as she and her children edged closer to the exhibit hall. They’d waited forty-five minutes. Who would have thought octopuses, octopi, would be such a big dr
aw?
TJ said, “Everybody believed they were going to hit somewhere up there, Alameda, Contra Costa, San Fran, but maybe there was too much heat. Oakland PD had a CI inside the group and he said two of their people came down here, set up something. And—”
She interrupted. “ ‘Set up something.’ What does that mean?”
“An attack of some kind. He doesn’t know what exactly. Maybe an IED, maybe chemical. Probably not bio but could be. But the number of victims is for sure, what I texted you. Two hundred plus or minus. That’s confirmed. And whatever it is, it’s up and running; the perps set it and they were headed back. The CI said four P.M. is when the attack goes down.”
Two and a half hours. A little less. Lord…
“No idea of the victims, location?”
TJ Scanlon offered, “None.”
“But you said they ‘were’ headed back.”
“Right, we caught a break. There’s a chance we can nail ’em. The CI gave us the make of the car—a 2000 Taurus, light blue. CHP spotted one in Marina and went after it. The driver took off. Probably them. They lost the pursuit on surface roads. Everybody’s searching the area. Bureau’s coming in from the field office. Hold on, boss. I’m getting something.”
Dance happened to glance up and see her reflection in the glass panel on the other side of which elegant and eerie sea horses floated with sublime, careless ease. Dance noted her own still gaze looking back at her, in a narrow, Cate Blanchett face, hair in a ponytail, held taut by a black-and-green scrunchy installed that morning by her ten-year-old daughter, currently champing beside her. Her mop-headed son, Wes, twelve, was detached from mother and sister. He was less intrigued by cephalopods, however big, and more by an aloof fourteen-year-old in line, a girl who should have been a cheerleader if she wasn’t.
Dance was wearing jeans, a blue silk blouse and a tan quilted vest, comfortably warm. Sunny at the moment, the Monterey Peninsula could be quite fickle when it came to weather. Fog mostly.
“Mom, they’re calling us,” Maggie said in her weegee voice, the high pitch that conveyed exasperation really well.
“One minute, this’s important.”
“First, it was a second. Now it’s a minute. Jeez. One one-thousand, two one-thousand…”
Wes was smiling toward, but not at, the cheerleader.
The line inched forward, drawing them seductively closer to the Cephalopod of the Century.
TJ came back on the line. “Boss, yep, it’s them. The Taurus’s registered to the Brothers of Liberty. CHP’s in pursuit.”
“Where?”
“Seaside.”
Dance glanced around her at the dim concrete and glass aquarium. It was holiday break—ten days before Christmas—and the place was packed. And there were dozens of tourist attractions like this in the area, not to mention movie theaters, churches, and offices. Some schools were closed but others not. Was the plan to leave a bomb in, say, that trash can out front? She said into the phone, “I’ll be right in.” Turning to the children, she grimaced at their disappointed faces. She had a theory—possibly unfounded—that her two children were more sensitive to disappointment than other kids their age because they were fatherless…and because Bill had died suddenly. There in the morning, and then never again. It was so very hard for her to say what she now had to: “Sorry, guys. It’s a big problem at work.”
“Aw, Mom!” Maggie grumbled. “This is the last day! It’s going to San Diego tomorrow.” Wes, too, was disappointed, though part of this wasn’t sea life but pretty cheerleaders.
“Sorry, guys. Can’t be helped. I’ll make it up to you.” Dance held the phone back to her ear and she said firmly to TJ, “And tell everybody: No shooting unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want either of them killed.”
Which brought conversation around them in the octopus line to a complete stop. Everyone stared.
Speaking to the wide-eyed blonde, Wes said reassuringly, “It’s okay. She says that a lot.”
* * *
—
The venue for the party was good. The Monterey Bay Seaside Motel was near the water, north of the city. And what was especially nice about this place was that unlike a lot of banquet rooms this one had large windows opening onto a stretch of beach.
Right now, Carol Messner noted, the beach had that December afternoon look to it: bleached, dusty, though the haze was mostly mist with a bit of fog thrown in. Not so focused, but, hey, a beach view beat a Highway 1 view any day, provided the sun held.
“Hal,” she said to her associate. “You think we need more tables over there? It looks empty.”
Carol, president of the local branch of the California Central Coast Bankers’ Association, was a woman in her sixties, a grandmother several times over. Although her employer was one of the larger chain banks that had misbehaved a bit a few years ago, she’d had no part of mortgage-backed securities; she firmly believed banks did good. She wouldn’t have been in the business if she didn’t think that. She was living proof of the beneficence of the world of finance. Carol and her husband had comfortable retirement funds thanks to banks, her daughter and son-in-law had expanded their graphic arts business and made it successful thanks to banks, her grandsons would be going to Stanford and UC-Davis next fall thanks to student loans.
The earth revolved around money, but that was a good thing—far better than guns and battleships—and she was happy and proud to be a part of the process. The diminutive, white-haired woman wouldn’t have been in the business for forty-six years if she’d felt otherwise.
Hal Reskin, her second in command at the CCCBA, was a heavyset man with a still face, a lawyer specializing in commercial paper and banking law. He eyed the corner she pointed at and agreed. “Asymmetrical,” he said. “Can’t have that.”
Carol tried not to smile. Hal took everything he did quite seriously and was a far better i-dotter than she. “Asymmetrical” would be a sin, possibly mortal.
She walked up to the two motel employees who were organizing the room for the Christmas party, which would last from three to five today, and asked that they move several of the round ten-tops to cover the bald spot on the banquet room floor. The men hefted the tables and rearranged them.
Hal nodded.
Carol said, “De-asymmetricalized.”
Her vice president laughed. Taking his tasks seriously didn’t mean he was missing a sense of humor.
Hal took the room in. “Looks good to me. Double-check the sound system. Then we’ll get the decorations up.”
“The PA?” she asked. “I tried it yesterday. It was fine.” But being the i-dotting banker that she was, Carol walked to the stage and flicked on the PA system.
Nothing.
A few more flicks of the off-on toggle.
As if that would do any good.
“This could be a problem.”
Carol followed the cord but it disappeared below the stage.
“Maybe those workers,” Hal said, peering at the microphones.
“Who?”
“Those two guys who were here a half hour ago. Maybe before you got here?”
“No, I didn’t see anybody. José and Miguel?” she asked, nodding at the men on the motel staff, now setting up chairs.
“No, other ones. They asked if this is where the banking meeting was going to be. I told them yes and they said they had to make some repairs under the stage. They were under there for a few minutes, then they left.”
She asked the two motel workers in the corner, “Did you hear that there was a problem with the sound system?”
“No, ma’am. Maria, Guest Services, she handle everything with the microphones and all that. She said it was fine this morning. But she off now.”
“Where are those other workers?” Carol asked. After receiving blank stares, she explained what Hal had told her.
“I don’t know who they’d be, ma’am. We’re the ones, José and me, who set up the rooms.”
Walking toward the access door to the stage, Hal said, “I’ll take a look.”
“You know electronics?” she asked.
“Are you kidding? I set up my grandson’s Kinect with his XBox. All by my little ole lonesome.”
Carol had no idea what he was talking about but he said it with such pride she had to smile. She held open the access door as he descended beneath the stage. “Good luck.”
Three minutes later the PA system came on with a resonant click through the speakers.
Carol applauded.
Hal appeared and dusted off his hands. “Those guys earlier, they knocked the cord loose when they were under there. We’ll have to keep an eye out, they don’t do it again. I think they’ll be back.”
“Really?”
“Maybe. They left a toolbox and some big bottles down there. Cleaner, I guess.”
“Okay. We’ll keep an eye out.” But the workmen were gone from Carol’s mind. Decorations had to be set up, food had to be arranged. She wanted the room to be as nice as possible for the two hundred CCCBA members who’d been looking forward to the party for months.
* * *
—
A stroke of luck…and good policing.
The CHP had collared the Brothers of Liberty perps.
Kathryn Dance, who’d dropped the disgruntled children off with her parents in Carmel, was standing in the weedy parking lot of an outlet mall only six miles from the California Bureau of Investigation’s Monterey Office, where she worked. Michael O’Neil now approached. He looked like a character from a John Steinbeck novel, maybe Doc in Cannery Row. Although the uniform of the MCSO was typical county sheriff’s khaki, Chief Detective O’Neil usually dressed soft—today in sport coat and tan slacks and blue dress shirt, no tie. His hair was salt-and-pepper and his brown eyes, beneath lids that dipped low, moved slowly as he explained the pursuit and collar. His physique was solid and his arms very strong—though not from working out in a gym (that was amusing to him) but from muscling salmon and other delicacies into his boat in Monterey Bay every chance he got.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 181
