Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  “Marcus—you’re jealous of Marcus!”

  “Devlin is just a nobody who makes a good employee. Come on, Paula.”

  Dominick said nothing, merely waited until his son and daughter-in-law were out of his hearing.

  “I thought she would be good for him,” Dominick said to no one in particular. “I really did. I thought DeLorio would get better. He needs to gain his bearings, to understand his position in the world as my son. He’s all I have. A wife should have helped him.

  “Paula’s family is rich, she attended all the right schools—her father even sent her to a finishing school in Switzerland—and look at her, always whining, never content. Didn’t you tell me you saw Link come out of her room really late one night while DeLorio was still in Miami?”

  “Yeah, but Link’s too old for her. Maybe he was just telling her stories about his bad old days. Another thing. The relationship between the two of them—it works, most the time. DeLorio likes to be the one in charge, and unless I miss my guess, Paula very much likes being compliant, submissive. They sort of fit together.”

  “Only in the bedroom.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s a start.”

  Coco also knew that the marriage kept DeLorio away from the female help, but she didn’t say that out loud. He was dangerous, this uncontrolled boy in a man’s body, and he was a sadist and a bully. For the most part, Dominick seemed to wear blinders where his son was concerned. Only when confronted face-on with his son’s viciousness, his savagery, would he control him with equal viciousness. He’d told Coco before that he expected DeLorio to mature, to gain his bearings, to become reasonable, but Coco knew this would never come about. She dug her fingertips into a particularly knotted muscle in Dominick’s lower back and he groaned with pleasure.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning and Marcus had already learned a bit about Rafaella Holland by making a simple phone call to Marty Jacobs of the Miami Herald. Marty knew everything about everybody and loved to gossip, free of charge. Marty told him about the Pulitzer Prize she’d won—yeah, for the bust of that group of neo-Nazis in Delaware some two and a half years before. So she’d been the reporter to crack that story. Marcus remembered it. After the Pulitzer she’d moved to the Boston Tribune and gotten a quick promotion to one of two investigative-reporter spots. He’d heard that she was a looker. Did Marcus want to get her in the sack?—Well, then, he didn’t need to tell Marcus anything…. Marty had then given him another name and number for more personal stuff. Marcus had found out she was twenty-five or twenty-six, smart, stubborn, sometimes she acted before she thought, the impulsive sort, and she’d just cracked another big story about a guy in Boston who had supposedly axed his family. But he hadn’t, as it turned out, the little brother had done it, and she’d found out the truth. She was also illegitimate, a little-known fact. Her mother was very rich and had been very young at the time of Rafaella’s birth. The identity of her real father was unknown and likely to remain so.

  Her stepfather was Charles Winston Rutledge III, a very wealthy, influential newspaperman, and her mother was currently lying in a private hospital on Long Island, in a coma after being hit by a drunk driver who’d left the scene. The cops were looking for a dark blue sedan, no license number, not even an I.D. on the sex of the driver. Long shot to say the least. When Marcus hung up, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, tapping them together.

  She was here to do a book, was she?

  And her mother was in a coma in a hospital?

  He wanted to know everything about her. There was a lot happening, too much, and he knew that information might be the only thing to keep him alive. He thought back to Bathsheba, the attempt on his life the previous evening—if it had really been a true attempt to kill him—pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Savage in Chicago.

  He smiled as he listened to the soft ringing through to Savage’s number. Marcus’s office had been dutifully bugged for his first six months. Then he’d simply brought the bugs to Dominick and told him it was shit and he didn’t like it and he’d quit if Dominick didn’t trust him enough, at least as the manager of the resort.

  Then, two months later he used his cell phone for the first time in his office. Thanks to the ingenuity of the U.S. Customs Service, his was a very special cell phone, one that couldn’t be nabbed by triangulation. They’d also provided him with a past life that would prove out, no matter how in-depth the inquiries. What more could a man want?

  Now, every two weeks, he had the office electronically checked for bugs. Trust was fine, up to a point.

  “Savage here. What’s up, Marcus?”

  “Several things, John. I want you to have Hurley or one of his guys find out about a Rafaella Holland, a reporter on the Boston Tribune. I’ve already found out a great deal but I have this feeling there’s more, and just maybe that more could get me killed. Anyway, see what Hurley can discover. Any word on this Bathsheba thing? On the woman, Tulp?”

  “Yeah, I was going to call you at our usual time about it. The woman is most likely Frieda Hoffman, from Mannheim, Germany, and an assassin. It gets complicated. She has a reputation for being tough and getting the job done. She asked for and got big bucks. What do you think about that? She matches your description to me, and she’s also missing. Hurley’s trying to find out who hired her to kill Dominick. I’ll let you know when there’s any word. Now, Bathsheba—nothing like that in Holland, no terrorist group with that name, no big organizations, nothing. Hurley’s still checking, though. It shouldn’t be too much longer now. Ah, Marcus, Hurley told me he was real glad you didn’t let Dominick bite the big one.”

  “He would be. A bullet’s too easy for him. He wants Dominick in prison until the second coming. Oh, yeah, John, I’ve also been wondering why these folk would want the damned name Bathsheba painted on the side of the helicopter. It seems needlessly risky, particularly if the logo could lead back to an organization or to a person responsible.”

  “Because, my friend, no one was to come out of there alive, at least no one who could possibly have seen the logo. Has Giovanni discovered anything?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t told me a thing. He’s always polite, but inflexible as a stone. He just puts me off. Anything on Koerbogh and Van Wessel?”

  “Little crooks for hire. Even if you had questioned them, according to Hurley, they wouldn’t have known a thing.”

  Then why did they poison themselves?

  Marcus rang off, gave Callie some dictation, and looked up to see that it was nearly one o’clock. Rafaella Holland was having lunch now with Coco.

  “I’m going to lunch,” he said to Callie, and left before she could question him, or sidetrack him, or collar him with more messages.

  When he saw the two women together, he knew they were discussing something he wouldn’t like. Coco caught his eye and waved to him, then said something to Rafaella.

  Her head jerked up and she sent him a look that would make the most intrepid man shake in his shoes.

  He grinned, feeling suddenly that the world was a very interesting place to be, and strode over to their table.

  Eight

  Marcus’s timing was rotten, Rafaella thought, frowning toward him. She was sorting through various options when, to her immense relief, a woman approached and handed him a piece of paper. Both Coco and Rafaella watched him read it, fold it carefully, give them a small salute, and leave in the opposite direction.

  “Probably another disaster brewing,” Coco said. “Marcus can solve nearly any problem, and just about all of them swim directly to him.” And then she frowned and Rafaella wondered if she was thinking about the previous evening, if she even knew about it. Rafaella wasn’t about to bring it up.

  “I’m glad he’s out of the way for a few minutes. I really wanted to talk to you, Coco.”

  Rafaella turned her worship approach on Coco Vivrieux, and saw that even though the woman knew what she was doing, she was more or less succumbing with good grace and
some laughter. It was a relief. She felt the urge to be candid and ingenuous, and that worked too. She presented Coco with an autographed copy of her book on Louis Rameau, titled Dark Horse, and said simply, “I want to do a biography of Mr. Giovanni, with emphasis on the past two years—in other words, on you, Ms. Vivrieux.”

  Rafaella bit into a fresh shrimp that she’d dipped into a sauce that held just a nip of horseradish, and chewed slowly as Coco sat there saying nothing, looking mildly worried and more than a little wary. Things didn’t look promising.

  Rafaella rifled through the pile of photos and clippings from her mother’s journals. She picked up one and showed it to Coco. “I love this photo of you taken with Mr. Giovanni coming out of that boutique in the village of St. Nicholas on Crete.”

  Coco blinked, trying to remember. “Good heavens, how do you know of this? Ah, what a week that was. Do you know there’s an island right there called Spinalonga that was a leper colony for centuries? Your collection here is terrifying. Oh, look at this one of Dominick in Paris. Is this how you know about me and Mr. Giovanni?”

  Rafaella smiled. “I have just about everything ever written and have just about every photo published of you and of both of you together.” Thanks to my mother’s obsession with the man.

  She watched Coco pick up another photo, then another. Some brought smiles, others frowns. Rafaella had carefully culled out those before Coco’s current three-year stint with Mr. Giovanni. Also, the articles she’d brought were more social than otherwise, except for two. Finally Coco turned to Rafaella and said with a charming Gallic shrug, “Well, you got me fair and square. I can see you aren’t going to let this go. You might as well come to the compound this evening and speak to Mr. Giovanni yourself. Just one thing, though, Rafaella, he will be the one to make any and all decisions.”

  There was one article she’d brought that spoke of some Senate hearings in the late eighties that had seemed innocuous enough to Rafaella. Coco read it, then paused a moment as she stirred her iced tea, gently moving the sprig of mint. “You know, then, that Mr. Giovanni has enjoyed a rather enigmatic past.” She shrugged. “Controversial, if you will. Things like Senate hearings, several indictments—no convictions, of course—one, I believe, on tax evasion and another having to do with political bribes back in the eighties…there was even a felony charge a very, very long time ago. Of course, all of that is public record. He’s still harassed by American agencies for supposed drug trafficking, which he doesn’t do. He’s very much against drugs, as a matter of fact. Why I don’t know, but he would die before he’d touch drugs. He even sponsors some drug-rehab programs in the U.S. But the Americans don’t buy it; they believe it’s all lies and hype and they want to bury him. I just want you to know—up front—there are always two sides to everything.”

  “I understand that,” Rafaella said, and added, lying without a qualm, “I had heard that he backed some drug programs.” She picked up the other article, handing it to Coco. “My preliminary research has also turned up that Mr. Giovanni is an arms dealer.”

  Coco glanced over the text. “Oh, yes, but that’s all aboveboard and quite legal. He does business with the CIA, but of course, if anyone asked him, a reporter, whoever, he’d refute that he did, point-blank.”

  “Then he doesn’t lean into the gray or the black arms market?”

  “Certainly not. He knows the men who do it, but he would never be involved. Roddy Olivier, for example. Now, you want to meet an evil man, a man who makes your skin crawl, go to London and talk to him.”

  “I understand there are vast amounts of money, depending on the risk you take.”

  “That’s true of nearly everything in life, isn’t it? These are questions you must ask Dominick, if he allows them. I really don’t wish to say any more about it.”

  “Is he guilty of those things you mentioned earlier?”

  Coco chewed on the sprig of mint even as she smiled. “Of course not. Perhaps he did some foolish things when he was younger, but then again, who doesn’t? He’s older now, wiser—at least that’s what he likes to tell me. He doesn’t believe in drugs, as I already told you, wouldn’t touch them despite all the money involved, which makes me wonder why the DEA has him on their list. He’s a very rich man, Rafaella, and he owns this entire island, not just Porto Bianco. There are also his houses in Paris, Rome, a villa on Crete—near St. Nicholas—and a huge cattle ranch in Wyoming. He’s a legitimate businessman, but nonetheless, I truly don’t believe he’ll want anyone to do his biography. Why would he?”

  Coco shrugged again. “But you know men, they’re so—well, unpredictable, I guess you could say. So, come to dinner at the compound this evening and ask him yourself.”

  “I’d like that. Thank you again. Could I ask you, Coco—you speak English with no French accent, yet I’ve read several interviews about you—this one, for example—and, well, in it you seem very French.”

  Coco smiled easily. “I do the French routine very well. I’ve perfected it. You see, I was speaking rather loudly to Marcus yesterday when I met you, and, admit it, if I’d suddenly turned on the French, you would have wondered, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would. Thank you for telling me the truth. And your name, Vivrieux? Where are you really from?”

  Coco gave her a long, very intent look. “I was born and raised in Grenoble, France. Vivrieux is a very old, respected family name.”

  “I would love to ski there. I hear it’s wonderful. It’s nice to have an old family name.”

  “It is,” Coco agreed, the pact made. “Oh, here’s Marcus, back again.” She waved and Rafaella looked up to see him strolling through the tables on the lanai, pausing to speak to guests, to the waitresses—there were only women serving on the Hibiscus Lanai—then stopping at their table. “Hello, Coco, Ms. Holland. Are you enjoying our perfect weather? Our chef’s perfect concoctions?”

  “Certainly, Marcus. Join us. If I know Callie, she hasn’t allowed you to eat yet, has she?”

  “Nope, that one’s a soulless taskmaster.” He signaled a waitress, and without asking, she brought him a glass of Perrier, two lime slices on the edge of the glass. He squeezed both slices into the glass before drinking.

  “Miss Holland wants to do a biography of Dominick.”

  Marcus choked on his Perrier.

  It was rather disconcerting, the way Coco just said right up front what they’d been talking about. Did this man know everything that went on? Yes,” Rafaella said quickly, “with emphasis on the past few years, since Miss Vivrieux has been with him and since he bought the resort and the island.”

  “I think not,” Marcus said, after he’d gotten his breath. He then turned in his chair to answer a question asked by a man seated behind him.

  “Who asked you?” Rafaella said, all but snarling. Marcus made no sign he’d heard her. He spoke for a few more minutes, then turned back to the women.

  “So, who cares what you think?” Rafaella asked.

  “Coco will agree with me,” Marcus said easily.

  “There are a few unpleasant things lurking on the horizon. I just don’t think it’s smart to do something of this nature right now.”

  “I heard about your scrape last night,” Coco said to Rafaella. “Marcus told Dominick that you saved his life.”

  “It was purely by accident, nothing heroic, I assure you.” So, everyone on this island knew everything the moment it happened. Not surprising, not really. “I don’t suppose he told you he’d managed to find out who did it?”

  Marcus just shook his head and ordered a club sandwich. He turned back to her, and he looked so tough and hard that she nearly missed the baiting gleam in his eyes. “Let me be blunt, Ms. Holland. No more talk about horizons. There’s simply too much crap going down right now. I think you should take your little fanny—wait, not all that little, if I recall correctly—and go back to the Tribune and scrutinize everyone else’s business, and, of course, go back to your very nice apartment in Brammerton and
your slew of boyfriends. They’ll surely be more predictable and more to your expectations.”

  Rafaella picked up her glass of iced tea and threw it in his face.

  “I was wrong,” he said, wiping himself down with a napkin. “Your fanny is very nice. I shouldn’t have intimated that there was more to it than was strictly necessary. I keep forgetting that women are so sensitive. They just can’t take even the smallest objective observation.”

  “Miss Vivrieux, I would like to come to the compound for dinner this evening. Could you tell me how to get there?”

  Coco told her she’d send someone for her, and Rafaella, not looking again at Marcus, left the table.

  “What’s going on between you two, Marcus?”

  Marcus glanced toward the retreating Rafaella.

  “She does have a very nice fanny.”

  Coco laughed. “Why would she save your life, then toss tea in your face?”

  “Who understands women?”

  “Jerks don’t, that’s for sure.”

  “Can I come to dinner too?”

  “Only if you can promise no more violence. Lord knows, we’ve too much of the real sort right now. And no more baiting Ms. Holland, Marcus.”

  “Scout’s word, ma’am,” he said, and solemnly laid his open palm over his heart.

  Merkel was willing enough to play tour guide to Ms. Holland. The island—called Calypso Island before Mr. Giovanni had bought it—was just a little over three square miles, roughly two thousand acres, and roughly the shape of a watermelon. They were a leeward island, just west of Antigua, about fifty miles southeast of St. Kitts.

  The resort took up the length of the east side, Mr. Giovanni’s compound the west side. It was mountainous—as mountainous as any island in the Caribbean could be—and the chain nearly met the sea, end to end. It was covered with lush jungle, very nearly impenetrable because of the heavy rainfall. Here on the eastern side, it rained usually every morning for about thirty minutes, but that was about it. When the island had been at its most productive, a good ninety percent of the population had lived on the western side. The natives had evidently claimed there were evil spirits lurking on the eastern side and avoided it. There was more rainfall on the western side. But you could die of mold rot in the jungle that covered the mountains in the center. The interior was unpopulated and had been for a very long time.