Lansford began to pace the suite’s living room, his lawyers hovering close, wanting to object, but to what? Then, with perfect timing, one of the lawyers said, “There is nothing Mr. Lansford can tell you that would be of any assistance in finding her. After all, as you said, she was already an adult when he married her mother. As he has already said, he rarely saw her. She was nearly a stranger to him.”
Lucy said, “Tell us about her birthday, Mr. Lansford—you gave her a black Porsche, right?”
Lansford stopped pacing and slowly turned to face her. “How do you know about that?”
Coop said, “Your sister-in-law, Sentra Bolger, told us.”
He looked ready to spit. “Sentra? That idiot woman, you can’t believe a word she says, she’s nuts, and it’s worse because she’s good at it, she’s very convincing.”
Lucy said, “Yes, she is convincing. Surely your wife told you when we interviewed Sentra, we believed her to be Kirsten’s mother and your wife, Elizabeth Mary Lansford?”
“Yes, yes, but she said Sentra refused to tell her anything about her conversation with you, only that Sentra had said she’d kissed you off.” He nodded at Lucy and Coop. “You two were with her on Friday night?”
Lucy said, “Yes, we were, and believe me, Sentra was very up front, very believable at playing both your wife and Kirsten’s mother. About Kirsten’s birthday—Sentra told us Kirsten was charming to you, unusual for her, according to Sentra. She told us Kirsten was very pleased with your gift of the Porsche. Sentra was there, wasn’t she, sir?”
“Yes, she was, not that I wanted her there, but Elizabeth believed it would be a good idea because she is, after all, Kirsten’s aunt, and Elizabeth wanted Kirsten’s family around her. Bruce”—Lansford nodded toward Mr. Buff Tan—“was there as well. Listen, Sentra loves to play roles. She could be Lady Macbeth one minute and then segue easily into Lady Gaga.”
Coop asked, “Why did you buy her such an expensive present, Mr. Lansford?”
Again he ran his tongue over his lips.
One of the lawyers said, “A father’s gift doesn’t have to justify a price tag, Agent.” Almost in the next breath, the lawyer cleared his throat. “Ah, what I meant to say is that even a stepfather, related only by marriage, a man who had nothing at all to do with any of her upbringing, can give a splendid gift, Agent McKnight, as a loving gesture to his wife.”
Lansford said, not looking away from Coop, “Shut up, Cox. Listen, Agents, you want the truth? Here it is—I could barely tolerate Kirsten. She was cold and weird and generally unpleasant, and, as far as I could tell from all the years I knew her, she didn’t have a single friend, didn’t go on a single date with a man, and despised her mother. But then again, I rarely saw her; her mother, either. So was she always like this? A loner? Always creepy? I don’t know, but it sounds right.”
Lucy said, “Then why the Porsche, Mr. Lansford?”
He waved them over to one of the beautiful sofas. “Sit, all of you, sit.”
Cox opened his mouth again, but Lansford waved him to silence. “I gave her the Porsche because her mother—although she didn’t say anything about it to me—wanted desperately to see her daughter. I knew the only way to make Kirsten come over, the only way to make sure she’d be pleasant, was to do something big, like the Porsche. That’s why I gave it to her.
“Now, Elizabeth told me who Kirsten’s father was when I asked her to marry me, when Kirsten was nineteen. Elizabeth didn’t ever want me to question that she’d kept the truth from me on purpose if, somehow, I found out about Kirsten’s parentage. I tell you, I couldn’t believe it at first. I mean, Ted Bundy, that horrific monster—no, I couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe the woman I loved had actually slept with that psychopath. I didn’t want to know any of the particulars, and that was fortunate, since she didn’t want to talk about what had happened between the two of them.
“As I said, Kirsten was nineteen at the time. I’ll tell you, even before I knew who Kirsten’s father was, I didn’t want to be around her. Like I told you, she was always sullen around me, obviously didn’t want me near her mother, although she was just as sullen, just as unpleasant, to her mother. She obeyed her mother only when she felt like it. Then she’d turn on a dime—she’d become the nicest girl you can imagine, all smiles and hugs and charm, like at her birthday party. And yes, this was always connected to something her mother or I did for her. You can be sure I gave marrying Elizabeth a lot of thought after she told me about Kirsten.
“But you see, I loved Elizabeth, loved her to my bones, and she loved me. However, she put me off for another two years until Kirsten was twenty-one, out of the house, and on her own, and I wouldn’t have to be around her. Then we finally married.
“I will be honest. I knew that if Kirsten’s parentage ever came out, my businesses would suffer and we would be hounded by the media, but I didn’t see how it ever would come out. Elizabeth told me Bundy never knew about the child, so who would tell?”
Lucy said, “Sentra told us you didn’t know about Kirsten’s parentage.”
He snorted, a curiously charming sound. “I repeat, Sentra’s nuts. She’s a liar. She likes to cause problems, to give her sister grief. What if Elizabeth hadn’t come in before you left? You’d still believe you’d spoken to Elizabeth, wouldn’t you?”
“Very likely,” Coop said.
Lucy asked, “Do you know who told Kirsten her father’s identity?”
Lansford sighed. “It had to be Sentra. But why?” He snorted, waved a hand. “Am I an idiot, or what? It’s Sentra we’re talking about here, and that crazy witch would do anything, and for no good reason. I think it’s only because they’re twins that Elizabeth can’t seem to distance herself from Sentra, once and for all.
“I know Elizabeth certainly never told Kirsten who her father was, though she told me Kirsten asked her often enough when she was a little girl. Elizabeth simply told her that her father was dead, and that came true, soon enough, in that Florida electric chair.
“Elizabeth said when Kirsten was twenty-five she became even more secretive from one day to the next, even more unpleasant to her—in fact, she simply cut her out of her life. Elizabeth wanted desperately to believe it was simply another phase, but she said she knew in her heart Kirsten had found out about Bundy.
“And then Elizabeth found the book on Ted Bundy, right on top of Kirsten’s dresser, where she’d left it so her mother would know. As I said, we didn’t see her again, until her birthday party, which was fine with me, but I know Elizabeth worried.
“Do you know, in that book on Bundy, Kirsten had drawn circles around her father’s photos, yellow circles? And little hearts. I’m wondering now if she recognized herself.”
CHAPTER 21
Little hearts. Savich could only imagine what Mrs. Lansford had thought when she’d seen that.
Mr. Lansford said, “When Elizabeth told me about Bundy being Kirsten’s father, she admitted she hadn’t had a clue what or who Kirsten was from the time Kirsten reached puberty. She didn’t know what she would do or say or think about any particular subject from one minute to the next. She also admitted to me that Kirsten’s strangeness had always frightened her, given who her father was. Elizabeth read every book she could find on whether psychopathic behavior could be inherited, but she simply couldn’t be certain about Kirsten. She said she was afraid to even think about it; it was simply too upsetting.
“Because Kirsten hadn’t been arrested by the age of twenty-one, Elizabeth told me she began to breathe more easily, finally admitted that was why she’d waited another two years to marry me. She hadn’t wanted me near someone who could possibly harm me. I remember before she was twenty-five, Kirsten occasionally slept over, but let me tell you, I’d forget her for months at a time.
“That black Porsche.” He dashed his fingers through his beautifully styled hair. It fell right back into place. “Do you know, I always liked black until Kirsten. But black was the only color
I ever saw her wear. Fricking black. And so I bought her the black Porsche. I wanted to tie a black bow around the Porsche, but her mother said it wouldn’t go over well, Kirsten would think I was making fun of her, and I confess, when she said that, I felt a chill run over me. So the bow was huge and red, and Kirsten smiled and patted me, told me thank you, and she kissed me maybe a dozen times. She even asked questions about my upcoming campaign. She was all interest, all sweetness—that day—and I’ll confess, I wanted to believe she was simply a bit on the exotic side, that her weird behavior was mainly affectation. I never dreamed she was indeed a copy of her father. I mean, who could dream of such a thing? We never saw her again after that day.”
Savich said, “You said she was unpredictable, Mr. Lansford. Could you give us an example?”
He walked over to the window and looked out onto the quiet courtyard. He said over his shoulder, “I remember once, she was maybe twenty-four, she waltzed into my office in Silicon Valley, completely unexpected, and told me she was taking me to lunch.”
Coop said, “Did you go?”
Another moment of silence, then Lansford said, “I’ve never said this before, haven’t, as a matter of fact, even let myself think it. But now that I remember that day, I realize I went to lunch with her for the simple reason that I was afraid of her. I tried to tell myself that I had no reason to be, but still—I’ll never forget the first time I met her, this eighteen-year-old who was attending Berkeley, an art major, and she looked like she wanted to shoot me, sullen as a little kid—but much more than that. I saw something in her eyes when she looked at me, lurking there, if you will, something that alarmed me. I know that sounds melodramatic, as if I’m embellishing my reactions, since I now know who she is, but I’m not sure. That something I saw hiding in her eyes, it was this Kirsten—Ted Bundy’s daughter. You know she also attended law school for a little while, like her father?”
“Yes,” Savich said. “We know.”
Lansford raised bleak eyes to Savich. “My poor wife is devastated. Can you imagine finding out your child has murdered five people?”
Lansford shook his head, trying to get his brain around the horror. “I remember Elizabeth told me once she must be the luckiest woman alive. I thought she was talking about meeting me, about our coming together, and my ego bounded to the stratosphere.” He gave a sharp laugh, met Savich’s eyes. “But what she meant was that she had survived Bundy, that he hadn’t tortured her and murdered her—he only left her pregnant.
“She left yesterday to stay with her cousins in Seattle. Yes, I know, Ted Bundy lived there. Did she meet him in Seattle? I don’t know, I didn’t ask her, but I know it was her first home.”
“What about Sentra?”
“I happened to go by the gallery Friday night and saw the two of them together. Elizabeth was furious, of course, and Sentra, well, she was laughing, talking about what an interesting evening it had been.”
Coop said, “Mr. Lansford, do you think it’s possible Sentra is Kirsten’s mother and not Elizabeth?”
“What? No, I have never thought that. What possible reason could they have had for a ruse like that?”
“Maybe your wife took the baby because, as you say, Sentra was nuts, not at all good mother material.”
“No, Elizabeth would have told me.”
“Has Sentra always been an interior decorator?”
Lansford laughed. “Oh, you can’t know how rich that is. Sentra is the longtime mistress of Clifford Childs, an old-time San Francisco aristocrat with old-time money—actually, he has a vast reservoir of money. She’s never earned a dime, never done a worthwhile thing in her life, even though she claims she’s an interior decorator. She met Childs when she was all of twenty-two years old, and he was thirty, a recent widower with two sons. They’ve been together ever since, thirty-two years.”
They all knew this, since a Google search had turned up dozens of society party photos. Lucy asked, “Why didn’t they marry?”
“I don’t know why, but the way Sentra tells it, she keeps turning him down. Why? Sentra says he’s too possessive. He’s always given her an outrageous allowance, treated her like a queen. They’re quite the society couple. I believe he’s even left her half his estate in his will. His two sons love her as much as Daddy, their wives as well—amazing, since I can’t imagine her being able to hide what a loon she is for very long. Maybe it doesn’t matter to any of them that she’s crazy, or maybe this role is simply easy for her, and pleases her, and with them there is no pretense. Yes, one big happy family. It’s all very odd. Do you know Childs came to my big fund-raiser in San Francisco and contributed huge bucks for my campaign?”
Lucy said, “Thirty-two years. That’s almost exactly Kirsten’s age. Excuse me for repeating this, but maybe you’ve given us the reason for Sentra giving up Kirsten as a baby—namely, Clifford Childs. What do you think? Sentra was twenty-two years old, had a baby, no means of support, and here comes her knight—namely, Clifford Childs.”
Lansford said, “Sure, that could make sense, but like I already said, I know Elizabeth, and I know she would have told me if she weren’t Kirsten’s mother; there’d have been no reason for her not to. Actually, I think she would have been greatly relieved to be able to tell me that. No, there is no doubt in my mind that Elizabeth is Kirsten’s mother.”
“Did Sentra know Bundy personally?”
“Elizabeth never said one way or the other. But listen, I admire my wife for what she did. She was twenty-two years old, and she supported herself by selling her art, attended classes at Berkeley, and raised a child on her own.”
Savich nodded. “Do you know how Clifford Childs has reacted to all this?”
Lansford gave a bark of laughter. “He called me an hour ago. True to form, Clifford and the family have closed ranks around Sentra. He sees her as a victim who needs his protection.
“Listen, Agents, do you think Elizabeth could be in any danger from Kirsten? The thought scares me stupid.”
Savich said, “No, I don’t think so, Mr. Lansford. If I were worried about one of you, I’d say it would be you. Take care in your daily routine, all right? Be aware of the people who come near you—until we catch Kirsten.”
Lansford was staring down at his butter-soft black loafers. Then he looked up at all of them. “Agents, we will all be suffering until you do.”
CHAPTER 22
Washington Memorial Hospital
Sunday afternoon
Mr. Patil had been transferred to a bed on a surgical floor, and his physicians were predicting a full recovery.
Savich was pleased to see Mrs. Patil standing next to her husband’s bed, since he hadn’t met her when he’d gone to the Patil home, and then Kirsten Bolger had come roaring into his life and he’d put off going back. But Ben had interviewed her and said he hadn’t gotten any brilliant leads or insights from her.
She was leaning forward slightly, speaking quietly to Mr. Patil, her hand on his shoulder.
Mr. Patil looked over at him and smiled widely. “Ah, Agent Savich, you have not yet met my wife, Jasmine. She will not leave my room. She complains that I am not healing myself fast enough. When the doctors tell her I won’t live, she tells them they are all worthless mongrels, but now that they tell her I will live, I hear her say to Dr. Pritchett that he is a miracle man, another Mother Teresa.”
Mrs. Patil broke into rapid Hindi, none of which Savich understood. He waited until the woman was finished. Mr. Patil said, “She tells me you are very handsome, Agent Savich, that it is possible you would be worthy of our eldest granddaughter, Cynthia, who is as American as you are.”
Savich smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Patil, but I am already married.”
“That is a great pity,” Mrs. Patil said, and gave him a big smile. “But Cynthia, she is a silly girl. She would worship you, and you would probably scare her to death.” Then she broke again into milea-minute Hindi to her husband. Why? She was as perfectly fluent in English as Mr. Patil. He l
ooked at her while she spoke. She was younger than her husband by a good twenty years, putting her in her fifties, he thought, and she looked maybe in her late forties, the result of a couple of excellent face-lifts, most likely. She was a finelooking woman, a spark in her dark eyes, and her hair was glossy black without a hint of gray, worn in a short swing around her cheeks. It seemed to him she was as Americanized as her granddaughter Cynthia.
When she ran down, Savich asked her, “Were you born in America, Mrs. Patil?”
“Oh, no, my parents moved here when I was seventeen, and that is why I have a bit of an accent,” and she preened, patting her hair, and then her husband’s veiny old hand.
Mr. Patil looked up at her, besotted.
Savich couldn’t recall Mr. Patil’s first name; then, in the next instant, Jasmine called him Nandi. This charming old man’s name was Nandi. That name sounded so warm, so inviting, and it certainly fit him, Savich thought. They had four children, two sons and two daughters, and eight grandchildren, the eldest twenty, the youngest two years old. Her precious husband had no enemies, Mrs. Patil told Savich, not a single one. It had been two robberies, nothing more, because who would hate a man who owned a Shop’n Go? He made people happy. He sold them hot dogs and beer. He didn’t lie or cheat or steal. Robbers, stupid, greedy robbers. Catch them.
In short, Mr. Patil was a saint, and Savich had better get on the stick. And she could be right. Could be, but something simply didn’t feel right about a little old man like Mr. Patil getting shot in the dark.
Mr. Patil said, “Agent Savich, I find myself wondering also why you have not caught the man who shot me. A violent man who robs convenience stores, would he not be in your files, in your databases?”
“We’re certainly checking that all out, Mr. Patil.”
Jasmine said, “It has to be a robber, Agent Savich, not some evil archenemy who does not exist, out to murder my Nandi, because—well, because why? Yes, a robber, it simply must be.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 141
