Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  Her mother was lying in a private suite in the east wing of the private hospital, Pine Hill. The decor reminded Rafaella of the suite she’d stayed in once at the Plaza—muted colors, and very expensive. Except for the regulation bed, the slender tubes in her mother’s nose, and the lines in her arms, her mother could have been sleeping. They’d been here, sitting quietly, for nearly a half-hour now.

  Rafaella’s stepfather, Charles Winston Rutledge III, was the quintessential WASP, old money, prep school at Bainbridge followed by Yale, a wealthy entrepreneur in his own right. Odd that he had eyes very nearly the color of hers—pale blue—when she now realized that it was also the color of her real father’s eyes. Mrs. McGill had been wrong about Dominick Giovanni being pure Italian. Those pale blue eyes had to have come from a more northern country.

  There was only one other similarity between the two men besides the color of their eyes. Dominick Giovanni and Charles Rutledge were nearly the same age. Only a year separated them, Dominick Giovanni being the older.

  “You’re very quiet, Rafaella.”

  She jumped at the unexpected sound of Charles’s voice. It was pitched low, just above a whisper, so as not to disturb her mother, which was absurd, since her mother was in a deep coma.

  I was just thinking about my father, who’s a criminal. Rafaella wasn’t about to tell Charles of her discovery. It would be needlessly cruel. He loved her mother, and the knowledge of her mother’s journals, her seemingly endless obsession with Dominick Giovanni, would give him incalculable pain. No, Rafaella wouldn’t tell him a thing. “I was just thinking about things. I’m scared, Charles.”

  He simply nodded. He understood, too well. “I spoke to Al Holbein. He called yesterday to see how Margaret and you were doing. He told me about you breaking that Pithoe case in Boston. He said it was par for the course—you were bright as hell and tenacious as a pit bull—but a cop, Masterson is his name, is trying to take all the credit, which, Al says, isn’t working, but is also par for the course.”

  “Actually all the credit should go to a little old Italian lady named Mrs. Roselli.”

  Charles cocked a beautifully arched brow at her. “Tell me about it.”

  Rafaella smiled. “Al called me in and assigned me to the case. I didn’t want it. The press had sensationalized it, and it was particularly gruesome. And nobody really cared anymore, because the crazy who had done it—Freddy Pithoe, the son—had confessed right away. It just gave the media a chance to do another dance on Lizzie Borden again. But you know Al, he got me going, made me so mad I wanted to slug him. He didn’t say a word about any anonymous tip he’d gotten, and of course he’d gotten one—from Mrs. Roselli. When I asked her later why she hadn’t told the police what she’d told Al, she said that the snot-nosed kid they sent had no manners and treated her like a strega stupida. Why should she say anything to a snot-nosed kid with no manners who treated her like a stupid witch? I had no answer for that.

  “I then asked her why she’d told Al. She said that he’d done a series about ten years ago on the Italians in Boston and he’d mentioned her husband by name and written what a fine man he’d been. Guido Roselli had been a fireman killed in a runaway fire in the South End. She pulled out the yellowed clipping and read it to me.

  “She told me too that she didn’t really like Freddy. She thought he was weird. It was the boy, Joey, she cared about.”

  “Yet she cleared Freddy and showed the boy to be the guilty one. Interesting.”

  Rafaella nodded.

  “Why do you think Freddy Pithoe opened up to you? Was he another Mrs. Roselli?”

  Rafaella gave him a crooked smile. “He told me over and over, when I asked why he hadn’t told the police about X or about Y, that they’d just called him a fucking liar—excuse the language, Charles—and told him to shut up. I listened to him and didn’t comment until I realized he wasn’t telling me the truth; then I kept after him until both of us were hoarse.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you, God, for Mrs. Roselli.”

  “What will happen to the boy, Rafaella?”

  “Hopefully he’ll get into a decent foster home and have a very good shrink.”

  “And Freddy?”

  “I spoke to Al. He promised to find a job for Freddy on the paper. He’ll be all right. Freddy’s one of the walking wounded, but he’s also a survivor.”

  Charles fell silent. Rafaella watched as he carefully lifted her mother’s hand and kissed her fingers. Rafaella wished at that moment that Charles, kind, handsome Charles, was her father. But he wasn’t her father. Neither was her father a man named Richard Dorsett, a physician who’d been killed in a freak car accident. A very brave man, a very good man. All a lie. She should have realized it was a lie so much sooner—because she didn’t carry his name. She carried her mother’s. She remembered her mother explaining that to her, and since she hadn’t really cared, since that shadowy man had never been real to her, she’d paid little attention.

  She wondered if there were a man whose name was Richard Dorsett. If there were, he’d sure be a better father than her real one was.

  Her father was a criminal. There were six and a half journals covering twenty-six years. Rafaella had looked to see the last entry. Her mother hadn’t written a word since November. Was it possible that Charles knew about the journals? About Dominick Giovanni? She shook her head. No, her mother would protect him from that, just as Rafaella would.

  She was nearly halfway through the third journal and she itched to get back to them. She looked down at the five-carat marquise diamond on her mother’s left hand, a gift from a man who loved this woman more than he loved himself, more than he loved his own life. She wished she could talk to him, pour out her fear to him, her questions. But she mustn’t.

  Dominick Giovanni had been her mother’s private penance, a demon she’d exorcised again and again, or tried to. Rafaella hoped writing the journals had helped her. She knew that her mother would never have shown the journals to her.

  Rafaella had learned in the third journal that her mother had gotten her revenge on Gabe Tetweiler. She’d gotten him; but good. It had cost her ten thousand dollars or thereabouts, but old Gabe was now in prison in Louisiana for attempted child molestation.

  Rafaella said, “You’re a very fine man, Charles. I wish you were my father.”

  “I agree with that, my dear.”

  Rafaella lifted her mother’s other hand. So cold and so very limp. “I don’t want her to die.”

  Charles was silent.

  “She’s not going to die, is she?”

  “I don’t know, Rafaella. Would you rather she spent the next twenty years hooked up to all this cold equipment, a vegetable? Dead but alive thanks to these machines?”

  Rafaella laid her mother’s hand down beside her and rose. “Who’s the man who hit her?”

  “Nobody knows. There was a vague description of the car—a dark sedan, four-door, but that’s it. Man, woman—the guy who saw the accident wasn’t sure. Whoever it was, the driver was weaving all over the road—a drunk, the cops say.”

  “So this drunk hits her, guesses things are bad, and takes off?”

  “That’s what the police are saying. They put out their bulletins on him, but—” Charles shrugged.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back soon.”

  Charles gave her an intent look. “Don’t lock all your feelings inside, Rafaella. You don’t have to keep all that hurt to yourself. I’m here, you know, and I love you.”

  Rafaella merely nodded. She walked from the room, closing the door very quietly behind her.

  Giovanni’s Island

  February 2001

  Marcus was in pain; he was also confused by what had happened. Why had Van Wessel and Koerbogh poisoned themselves? And why now? If they’d planned to, why not immediately? Why didn’t Dominick come and explain it to him?

  But Dominick didn’t say anything when he visited. Nor did Merkel. The la
te afternoon of the Dutchmen’s demise, Marcus was alone, bored, in some pain, and woozy from the lingering effects of the Demerol. He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the door open quietly. It was probably Merkel with an ad to show him from the most recent GQ, a suave new suit he wanted to buy. He’d shown Marcus a good half-dozen now, telling him that he owed him for getting blood all over his suit. All the suits were white; they all looked like the ones he already owned. When Marcus had suggested a double-breasted Armani, he thought Merkel was going to expire.

  “Hello, baby.”

  He would have groaned except he decided in that instant to feign sleep.

  “It’s just as well,” he heard her say more to herself than to him. He felt the bed give as she sat beside him. Then he felt her hand slip under the single sheet and stroke over his side.

  He didn’t need this, he didn’t want it. “Paula, stop it, for God’s sake! I’m a sick man and you’re married.”

  “DeLorio is still in Miami and I’ve decided to make you feel better. Think of me as your private nurse. I quite like you, Marcus, even though you act like a jerk toward me sometimes. But then I wonder how many women you’ve made love to, and it makes me hot.” Her hand was on his butt now, and he brought his legs together, but it didn’t matter. Her long fingers slid between his thighs and she was touching him.

  “Paula, stop it!” He reared up, trying to turn, and the pain stopped him cold. He gasped, frozen.

  “Lie down, baby, just lie down. Paula will make you feel better.”

  “Get out,” he said, but his voice was low and indistinct, and he was, incredibly, hard as a stone. Then she helped him onto his side, something he hadn’t expected, because it forced her to get her hands off him. Just for a moment. Then she had the sheet down and he was nude and he was hard and she was looking at him and smiling, and holding him on his side against her body.

  “Very impressive. A long time, Marcus? I like to see a man appreciate me. Let’s see how far the appreciation goes, shall we?”

  “Please,” he said, wishing he had the strength to push her away. He could have found the strength, he finally admitted to himself, he was just choosing to lie to himself and not use it. He tried to roll back onto his stomach, but she just moved closer, sitting against him, holding him still. He groaned when her hand closed over his cock. She found her rhythm and she talked to him, sex talk, that made him furious and aroused him quickly, too quickly. His breath was heaving and he was shuddering. She released him and he felt her warm mouth close over him and he was shoving into her mouth and she took him, and God, she was good, not giving him a moment’s respite, and he jerked in her mouth and as he came she caught him in her hand again. He panted, sucking in deep breaths, the pain in his shoulder momentarily suspended. She was on her knees next to the bed, and strands of her white-blond hair were clinging to his sweating belly.

  She looked up him. “That was very nice—for you, Marcus. Next time, it’s for me, okay? I hear someone coming. Probably Merkel. Just keep the sheet up and he won’t know what you’ve done.” She giggled as she wiped her hand quickly on the sheet.

  Marcus heard her say something to Merkel in the hall.

  He pulled the sheet to his nose. He felt raped, furious, and eased. Masturbated by Paula, for God’s sake. She was good, and that made him even angrier.

  He opened an eye to see Merkel looking down at him.

  “Smells like sex in here.”

  Marcus closed his eyes again.

  “DeLorio’s coming back tonight. You’ll be safe from her then. I think I’ll spray some pine-forest air freshener in here.”

  Then Merkel laughed again. Another spontaneous laugh, at his—Marcus’s—expense.

  “Go drown yourself.”

  “You want a washcloth, buddy?”

  “I never want to hear your horsey laugh again, you stupid Neanderthal. Yeah, give me a washcloth.”

  “Hurt my feelings, Marcus, you surely do. I know you’ve tried to make me laugh for more months than I can count. Now you did it and you’re pissed. You’re weird.”

  What Marcus wasn’t was weird; what he was, was frantic. He had to get out of here. Paula and her play with him could ruin everything. It could get him killed. He had to get away from here, back to the resort. And that night he did, at least as far as Dominick’s downstairs library and meeting room.

  He made it, breathing hard, his skin filmed with sweat from the exertion, but he was determined. Dominick hadn’t told him a damned thing. He had to find out what was going on. He closed his sweating hand over the doorknob, then paused. He heard DeLorio say in a loud voice, “A shame the Irish trash didn’t cash it in.”

  Dominick’s voice, mild and calm: “Marcus saved my life. Incidentally, you’ve got some Irish blood in you.”

  “He had his reasons, no doubt. Anyway, what do you expect? You treat him like he’s more important to you than your own son. My God, if I’d had a go at him, he’d have been in hell before he hit the ground!”

  Marcus backed off. He hadn’t realized DeLorio hated him so much. He wondered if DeLorio would be a problem, a real problem he’d have to worry about. The good Lord knew he had enough problems, and now this tantrum from a twenty-five-year-old man whose wife of ten months had given him head only four hours before. Marcus made his way back upstairs. His shoulder hurt and he felt dizzy.

  He still hadn’t found out anything about the Dutchmen. He had to get away from here.

  Boston Tribune Newsroom

  Boston, Massachusetts

  March 1, 2001

  One day back, and the wretched phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Rafaella grabbed it on the third ring, scrunched it between her shoulder and her ear, and kept reading the articles she’d found in the Tribune’s library on arms smuggling. Not much, but it was a start.

  “Rafaella Holland here.”

  “Hi. It’s Logan.”

  “Airport?”

  An old joke between them, not funny anymore, yet she’d said it out of reflex action.

  “Yeah. The first-class section. Where have you been? What’s going on?”

  She found herself blinking. She’d forgotten all about Logan Mansfield, an assistant D.A. “My mother was hurt in an accident. I flew there last Friday.”

  “Oh. How is she?”

  “Very serious.” Her voice cracked. “In a coma.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Rafaella. I want to see you tonight. It’s been two weeks, nearly. I need to talk to you.”

  She was leaving tomorrow. She chewed on her lower lip, staring at the article in her hand about the scandal in Sweden. Bofors illegally sold weapons to Iran and Iraq. Not too good for Nobel Industries, she thought. Logan made an impatient noise and she said quickly, “Sure, Logan. Come on over to my place around eight o’clock. I’ve got to clean out my fridge. You can help me.”

  He agreed and rang off.

  I shouldn’t have invited him over, she thought, then shook her head. She and Logan Mansfield had been together for nearly three years now, lovers occasionally, friends occasionally, adversaries occasionally, neither one wanting commitment. A perfect arrangement for both of them.

  She read on about the “Irangate” in Italy, this one about Borletti’s northern Italian weapons manufacturer illegally shipping mines and other weapons to Iran. Lord, it was complicated, all the machinations they went through to get the illegal arms from point A to point B. She read about end-user certificates that were all a scam, about different methods of smuggling—mines and arms or whatever, in crates labeled “medical equipment” or “farm equipment”—the list was endless. Criminal ingenuity—and in the U.S. there was only the U.S. Customs Service to stop them.

  Besides Borletti, she read about a man named Cummings who said he’d sell to anyone if the government allowed it except Qaddafi. There was Kokin and his Los Angeles arms emporium; and Soghanalian, who had branches in Miami, Beirut, and Madrid. Some did business with the CIA, others didn’t. Most claimed they were as honest as the
sky was blue. If that were true, Rafaella thought, then how had the war between Iran and Iraq lasted so very long? And the war in Angola?

  There were other names mentioned, and among them she found, finally, the name she was looking for—Dominick Giovanni. She read intently now. “…Little is known about Giovanni, a U.S. citizen. He is protected by intermediaries, and prizes anonymity. It’s rumored that his power and influence base exceed those of Robert Sarem and of Roderick Olivier in the world arms market. He operates solely out of his compound on his own island in the Caribbean…”

  “You still going, Rafe?”

  She looked up at Al Holbein. “I need a vacation, just like I told you. Charles agrees I should go. I’ll keep in touch with him every day to see how my mother is doing.” It hurt to lie to Al, just as it had hurt to lie, by omission, to Charles.

  “If it’s just a vacation,” Al said, moving closer, blocking her from Gene Mallory’s view. “Ignore lover boy,” he added, “he’s just jealous.”

  “I will. It’s a good thing sometimes that you’re twenty pounds overweight, boss.”

  “In your ear, kiddo. Where are you going, Rafaella? And why? You might as well tell me the truth. I can always tell when you’re lying to me.”

  He rarely used her full name. It gave her pause. Had he spoken to her stepfather? It wouldn’t have mattered. Charles wasn’t all that intuitive at the moment, all his energies focused on her mother; he didn’t know what his stepdaughter was up to. She’d been very careful.

  “A vacation, a long-overdue rest. In the Caribbean. For two weeks. You jealous? And I don’t lie.”

  He didn’t answer, just looked at her closely. He looked down at the pile of articles on her desk. “You’ll send a postcard?”

  “Count on it. I’ll try to find one of those Men Are Pigs cards, just for you.”