Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  She closed the door in his face and quickly locked it.

  She didn’t hear a sound for many moments.

  “I have a key, Rafaella.”

  “Try using it and you’re a dead man.”

  Nothing but silence.

  Then she heard him walking away. Whistling.

  Twelve

  Giovanni’s Island

  March 2001

  Marcus waved good-bye to Punk, who sported a pale blue stripe through her hair today, and walked down the immaculately trimmed walkway to the executive wing of the resort. The Chicago banker, Punk had told him in some disgust, was a dud, but she’d found a guy from San Diego who was a hunk, and what did Marcus think of him? The guy in question was about twenty years old, a beautiful blond California surfer who did his workouts directly in front of the mirrors.

  “The three of you should have a great time,” he’d told her, and Punk had laughed and laughed. She’d just join him, she told Marcus, and they’d have an orgy.

  His workout had gone well. He had nearly full rotation back in his shoulder, and if his strength wasn’t yet at one hundred percent, it was close. He could take on Ms. Holland. He went directly into the private entrance to his office, not wanting to see Callie just yet. He quietly locked the door, then pulled the small electronic device from his pants pocket, flipped the blue switch, and walked slowly about the room. Nothing. No bugs. He was more relieved to find nothing than to find a listening device. It meant he was trusted. Then he pulled out his cell phone and punched in Savage’s number in Chicago. Savage answered on the second ring.

  “Yeah, Marcus? What’s going on?”

  “Giovanni’s made another deal. He told me about it last night. This one will go through a munitions factory in Lyons, France, with an end-user certificate showing the stuff is going to Nigeria. It’ll be rerouted to Bombay, of all places, then to the Middle East, to Syria. It’s all aboveboard, approved by the French government, Giovanni’s name isn’t being used at all, and the man who’s rerouting the arms to Syria is so crooked I can’t believe he can still walk straight—Jack Bertrand.”

  Savage whistled. “That fellow’s worked with the CIA in the past, hasn’t he? Getting arms to places they don’t want to be involved with directly?”

  “Yes, and he’s used this French munitions factory a couple of times in the past, but not for the CIA. You know the scam well enough.”

  “When was the deal approved?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Giovanni’s proved his trust now.” He heard the optimism in Savage’s voice.

  “Not so fast, John. It would appear so, but I wouldn’t swear to it still. He wants me to fly to Marseilles and oversee the packing and crating and delivery of the goodies—mines, for the most part, on this shipment—onto the ship that is, in actuality, bound for Bombay, not Nigeria. It’s Bertrand he doesn’t particularly trust on this one, so he wants me to finalize the deal and handle the money transfer before the mines leave France. It’s Bertrand’s job to see that the stuff gets to Syria. My bet is the stuff ends up in Syria. Giovanni didn’t consider that a need-to-know for me, so he didn’t tell me.”

  Savage whistled. “Really, old buddy, it sounds like you’ve finally got him.”

  “No, not yet, unfortunately. Now, don’t get hot under your collar, Savage. Giovanni’s clean on this one; no one could prove he’s involved, except at the highest levels, and even my testimony wouldn’t be enough. I’ve been through this same kind of deal too many times to think it’ll soon be over. Maybe we won’t even get this Bertrand character. It will take more time.”

  “Do you think the French authorities will put the munitions factory out of business when they find out about this deal?”

  “No, but hopefully they’ll investigate and find the greedy little sons of bitches doing the stealing from the factory. As for Bertrand, he has powerful friends. And those powerful friends have other powerful friends. Tell Hurley to let the mines go through, at least until they get to Bombay. He can stop them there. Of course everyone will throw up their hands and claim they know nothing about anything and just look at the end-user certificate. Also, I won’t be suspected. If anything, it’ll be one of the little guys at the munitions factory, playing off both ends. We’ll just have to bide our time.”

  “It’s past time for you to get out, Marcus. I know we’ve had this conversation before, but dammit, listen to me. You’ve done your duty. Just blow off this assassination thing, let whoever it is have another go at him. Let him get killed. Who cares?”

  Marcus sighed. “You do, John, and so do I, not to mention Uncle Morty.”

  “Damn Uncle Morty. Oh, hell, I don’t mean that. All right, have it your way. Incidentally, your mom is with him a great deal of the time. You just be careful, particularly in Marseilles. You’re dealing with real scum. Bertrand’s connected to Olivier, isn’t he?”

  “I doubt it, but Dominick didn’t tell me. You know what he and Olivier think of each other. Working together on this? Hard to believe.”

  “How’s your reporter doing?”

  “She’ll be going back to the compound this morning. She’s stubborn, wants to fracture my head with a rock, she knows karate as well as I do, and—”

  There was a deep chuckle. “Sounds like you’re having a fine old time. I saw a photograph of her. On the back of her hardcover.”

  “So?”

  “She looks fascinating, those bright eyes of hers…what are they, green?”

  “No, pale blue. When she’s mad, they’re flecked with gray.”

  “She’ll be all right with you off the island?”

  “Yes, at least she’d better be.” Marcus rang off after a few more minutes, and he wasn’t thinking of Rafaella as a killer anymore. He was thinking of her as a woman who was vulnerable and naive and arrogant. Yeah, she had a smart mouth. He was worried about her. He’d be gone for three days, maybe longer. The good Lord only knew what kind of trouble she could get herself into during that time.

  He rose and slipped out through the private entrance of his office. He wondered if he could talk Ms. Holland into some good old-fashioned necking before he took her over to the compound. He’d even be content with more talk about camping when they’d been kids. There were so many off-limit subjects. It only added to his frustration. He wanted to know her, really know her. He wanted to talk to her, really talk. He wanted to get beyond the superficial jokes and baiting.

  Probably she wouldn’t even speak to him. She’d been pretty pissed with him last night. And he thought he knew why. There was the swimming-pool thing, of course, but she’d enjoyed herself immensely. No, she’d refused to stay at the compound because she’d been afraid he’d search her villa.

  And he would have. He wondered if he could get her out of there even now so he could search. He should have thought of it sooner. A phone call from the States? No, he couldn’t do that. She’d think it was about her mother. He didn’t want to frighten her like that just to search her villa.

  He wanted to read that strange-looking book of hers. It occurred to him now why it was strange. It was because it wasn’t a published book. No, it was something like a diary or a journal. He wanted very much to know its contents.

  But Rafaella wasn’t stupid. When he asked her if she’d like to have breakfast with him, she agreed immediately, and he knew that she’d already hidden the book and he’d never have a chance of finding it.

  He took her to breakfast. No choice. She looked fresh and young, guileless as a nun, in white slacks and a pale blue blouse. She’d French-braided her hair and was wearing next to no makeup. She looked just fine to him. More than just fine.

  “You look chipper this morning. You sleep well? Or were you too busy burying things?”

  Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup. “I ran last night and took all my valuables, all my collectibles, all my secret documents with me, and buried them deep. You’ll never find them, so you can just forget it.”

  �
��That’s what I thought you’d done.” He sighed, sat back in his wicker chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope you took high tide into consideration and didn’t bury the goodies too close to the shoreline.”

  She slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, goodness me. So silly of little old me, and so stupid. It must be my hormones acting up.”

  “You did say last night that your period was due soon.” That earned him a hiss that he chose to ignore. “All right, so you’re good. I should have coshed you over the head last night and searched your place. You’re making my life difficult, Ms. Holland. But then you start kissing me and I find I’m ready to forgive you just about anything.”

  She opened her mouth but he raised his hand to stop her. “No, don’t say it. You’ve got a rock in your villa now, with my initials on it.”

  Rafaella smiled at him. “You’re good-looking, Marcus. Even while I carved your initials in that rock, I thought you were good-looking. Even when I think you’re the biggest jerk alive, I still think you’re good-looking.”

  “And a superb lover? Given the constraints of eight feet of water, of course.”

  She just looked at him. Finally she said, “Yes, I’ve never done anything so crazy before. I just didn’t care, didn’t think. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

  He wished she wouldn’t talk like that. It scared him to death and worried the hell out of him. He decided superficial talk was better. At the very least, it was safer. He said abruptly, “Yeah, it’s bloody odd.”

  “I’ve never trusted good-looking men before. Not that I trust you, of course. There was that Spanish boy who was a senior when I was a lowly freshman, and he was divine-looking, at least that’s what all the girls thought. But I didn’t trust him. And I trusted him even less when he turned his Latin black eyes in my direction.” She stopped and her look was one of profound worry. “I wish I understood this thing about you.”

  “I’m a plain and simple man. There’s nothing to understand.”

  “Sure, and my managing editor is an evangelist bound for heavenly climes.”

  “Well, we’re even. I’ve never particularly trusted good-looking women.”

  She laughed, no hesitation, no guile, she just laughed at him. “That’s absurd.”

  “You’re trying to make me believe that you don’t know you’re good-looking? Able to shiver my timbers if you really try?”

  She looked at him then, her laughter dried up. “I’m not in your league, Mr. Devlin, or whatever your name is. I should be the one running a check on you, but I’ll bet whatever you are, whoever you are, no one would find out. You’re that good, aren’t you?”

  “I wonder, Ms. Holland. If anyone had asked me, I would have assured them that you could play well in any league at all. I’d also tell them that you made the cutest little noises in your throat when you were nearing your climax. And your legs are strong from all that running. I like how they—”

  “I wonder where the waitress is,” Rafaella said, and looked around.

  “Did you go to your senior prom? Did you wear a guy’s senior ring? Do you like football?”

  She cocked her head at him, the waitress forgotten. “Yes, no, and yes, I love football.”

  “Who’s your favorite NFL team?”

  “The Forty-niners. I’m in love with Bryant Young and J.J. Stokes and—”

  He held up a hand, laughing. “More lust. Do you watch the games on Sundays?”

  “Yes I do. I have the Sunday Tribune, coffee, and croissants from my neighborhood bakery. Also I’m in on the betting pool at the Tribune. I’ve won over three hundred dollars the past couple of seasons. How about you?”

  “I’m a Bears fan, what else?” He fell silent, picturing suddenly being in bed with her on a fall Sunday morning watching a game until the half, then making love, watching more of a game, arguing about plays—He hurt suddenly and said abruptly, “I’m leaving the island today.”

  Rafaella, startled, quickly looked back at him. She realized she didn’t want him to go. It was disconcerting and vastly annoying. “Why? Or is this another one of your secrets?”

  “I’ve got some business in France, nothing much. I’ll be back by Friday. One thing, Ms. Holland. Be careful at the compound. I’m very serious. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t act first without thinking. You understand me?”

  “What I don’t understand is why you’re warning me.”

  He shrugged and waved a hand toward Melissa, one of the waitresses. “You’re terrific in the deep end. Just be careful. Hi, Mellie. A jolly beautiful morning, isn’t it? Toast and half a grapefruit, please. Ms. Holland?”

  “Do you have three initials or just the two? Coffee, please, Melissa, and a croissant.”

  Marcus watched Melissa’s long legs as she made her way toward the kitchen. “I wonder if Juan found your panties in the pool yet. He’s eighteen and horny. He’ll go mad, probably frame them on the wall next to his bed.”

  “What’s your business in France?”

  “Or maybe old DeLorio found them. He likes to swim early in the mornings. You be careful of him.” Marcus sat forward and grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “I mean it. Don’t trust a soul. Now, what was in that journal you hid?”

  No information from him, Rafaella thought. The closemouthed slippery clam.

  “Ah, here’s our breakfast.” He released her hand. “Keep up your strength, Ms. Holland. When I get back, I’ll have thought up new and even more exciting ways of easing you out of your virtue.”

  The Bridges, Southampton, Long Island

  March 2001

  Charles Winston Rutledge III carefully laid the phone receiver back in its cradle. Still the same. The doctors had detected some improvement in the EEG, but they remained guarded in the prognosis. There’s always a chance, Mr. Rutledge, they’d say. It was their litany. He’d flown in Dr. Jacob Phillos, one of the foremost neurologists in the world. There was a chance, Dr. Phillos had told him following a bout of profound thought on his part. He’d then patted Charles’s arm as if he were a worried parent or a five-year-old patient and told him not to worry. Damned old fool.

  And the other doctors would gather around and chant their litany. There’s always a chance, Mr. Rutledge, don’t give up. Always a chance.

  It had become his litany as well. Margaret had to live. She would live. He literally couldn’t go on without her. He knew it, had known it for a very long time.

  He punched in a call to B.J. Lewis, a private investigator in Manhattan. He identified himself and was put through instantly to the great man himself, a self-image that Charles found amusing at the best of times and ludicrous at the worst of times, like right now. But Lewis was good, more than good.

  “Rutledge here. Anything?”

  Charles prepared himself for disappointment, ready to grunt neutrally to cover his irritation, his annoyance with everyone around him who professed an expertise and didn’t come through. Not, of course, that there’d been much for B.J. Lewis to go on. A dark sedan, four-door; the driver probably drunk, a car that should be damaged on the passenger’s side, since it had hit Margaret’s car on her side.

  But he wasn’t to be disappointed, not this time. He sat forward in his chair, clutching the phone. “My God, are you certain, B.J.?”

  He listened again, his hand shaking with excitement. “Of course I don’t know.” Then, “Keep on it,” he said finally. “You know as well as I do that we can’t rush this. Keep gathering evidence. I’ve got to do some thinking.” He listened for a few more moments, then rang off.

  B. J. had very probably found the individual who’d struck down Margaret, then speeded off. At least he’d firmly identified the car and the owner, who’d probably been driving. Charles didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. A woman owned that car. A damned drunk woman had hit Margaret.

  Her name was Sylvia Carlucci.

  And B. J. had wondered rhetorically if Charles knew of this woman. She was infamous for the sheer number of doll
ars she flung about, the number of martinis she could belt down, and the number of young studs she took to bed.

  Charles rose slowly to his feet. When he’d hired B. J., it was out of a need to do something, anything, to make him feel he had some modicum of control. But he hadn’t expected this. No, anything but this. A drunk kid, perhaps, scared and panicked. But not Sylvia Carlucci. Even if she’d been a nun, people would have known about her; she’d never been a low-profile lady, because her father was Carlo Carlucci of Chicago. Sylvia Carlucci—about fifty years old now, and still going strong, strong with the booze, strong with the young studs she hauled around, and there was her husband, of course, who’d kicked her out of his life many years before, not that they’d been close for a decade before that. But no divorce, of course no divorce, not the daughter of Carlo Carlucci, who still lived in a penthouse on Michigan Avenue, all of seventy-five years old now, still surrounded by his cronies, scores of parasites.

  The irony of it nearly bowled him over.

  The phone rang. It was his private line. He knew that no one in his household would answer this line. He walked back to his desk and picked up the phone. Only six people knew of this number. “Yes? Rutledge here.”

  “I’ve missed you, Charles.”

  This was all he needed. He pitched his voice low and filled it with false patience. “Listen to me, Claudia, I don’t know why you called, but I don’t need this. My wife is still in the hospital, still in a coma, and I’m rather busy, what with my business and worrying about her.”

  “But it’s been so long, and I do miss you.”

  Charles looked across the expanse of his library, through the bow windows that gave onto the east lawn. It was a lovely prospect even with the winter naked trees and the brown grass and the pruned rosebushes. Everything was dormant. Even Margaret.

  But Claudia wasn’t dormant; beautiful talented Claudia. He couldn’t remember why the hell he’d even let her into his life. But then, of course, he did. It was her mouth. Quite simply, it was the lady’s mouth.