The pandemonium annoyed Roy Ingersoll, who wasn’t feeling well, and he retaliated by prowling up and down the aisles of desks, gobbling antacid tablets and looking for something to criticize. Marian Liggett, his sixty-five-year-old secretary, who was hard-of-hearing and who regarded the newly installed telephone-intercom system as evil and untrustworthy, added her voice to the din by standing in his office doorway and shouting to him whenever he had a phone call.
Officers tried to concentrate on their paperwork and ignore the distractions, but everyone was finding that a little difficult to do—everyone except Pete Bensinger, who was so excited about his bachelor party that night and his forthcoming marriage that he was oblivious to Ingersoll’s sour mood and everything else. Whistling under his breath, he sauntered down the aisles, stopping to chat with anyone who’d talk to him. “Hey, Jess,” he said, stopping at the desk beside Sloan’s. “How’s it going?”
“Go away,” Jess said as he typed out a report on a minor drug bust he’d made earlier in the week. “I don’t want your good mood to rub off on me.”
Pete’s euphoric good cheer was undiminished by Jess’s rebuff. Stopping at Sloan’s desk, he leaned over and tried to sound like Humphrey Bogart. “Tell me, kid, what’s a good-looking broad like you doing in a place like this?”
“Hoping to meet a smooth talker like yourself,” Sloan joked without looking up from the notes she was making on the class she was about to teach.
“You’re too late,” he crowed, throwing up his hands in delight. “I’m getting married next week. Haven’t you heard?”
“I think I did hear a rumor like that,” Sloan said, flashing him a quick smile as she continued to write. The truth was that she, and nearly everyone else on the force, had been directly involved in his entire rocky courtship. He’d met Mary Beth five months ago and fallen in love with her “at first sight” by his own calculation. Unfortunately, neither Mary Beth nor her well-to-do parents had been particularly enthusiastic about marriage to a police officer whose occupational and financial prospects were far less than dazzling, but Pete had persevered. Armed with a great deal of advice from his fellow officers, most of which was very bad advice, he’d pursued Mary Beth and triumphed against all the odds and obstacles. Now, with his wedding only a week away, his boundless enthusiasm was boyish and utterly endearing to Sloan.
“Don’t forget to come to my bachelor party on the beach tonight,” he reminded her. Jess, Leo Reagan, and Ted Burnby had originally planned to have a party with a female stripper and the usual sort of drunken revelry, but Pete wouldn’t hear of it. His marriage to Mary Beth meant too much to him, he declared, to do anything right before it that he might regret . . . or that she might make him regret, Jess Jessup had added. To make certain he got his way, Pete had insisted that his bachelor party be a “couples” party, and he was bringing Mary Beth to it.
“I thought the party was tomorrow night,” Sloan lied, sounding as if she might have a problem being there tonight.
“Sloan, you have to come! It’s going to be a great party. We’re going to light a fire on the beach and barbecue—”
“Sounds like a violation of the Clean Air Act to me,” she teased.
“All the beer you can drink,” Pete cajoled.
“Drunkenness and disorderly conduct—we’ll all get busted, and the news media will turn it into a national scandal.”
“No one will be on duty to make the bust,” he countered happily.
“I will,” Sloan said. “I’m splitting a shift with Derek Kipinski tonight, so he’ll be at the beginning of your party and I’ll be there later.” Pete looked a little crestfallen, and she added more seriously, “Someone has to work the beach; we’ve got a serious drug problem there, particularly on the weekends.”
“I know all that, but we aren’t going to stop it by busting some small-time pusher under the pier. The stuff is coming in by boat. If we want to get rid of it, that’s where we should be stopping it.”
“That’s a job for the DEA and they’re supposedly working on it. Our job is to keep it off the beach and off the streets.”
She glanced at the entrance and saw Sara walking in; then she jotted another note on her list of reminders for the self-defense class. “I’ve got to teach my class in ten minutes.”
Pete gave her shoulder a brotherly squeeze and wandered off to his desk to make a phone call. As soon as he was out of hearing, Leo Reagan got up and crossed the aisle to Sloan’s desk. “I’ll give you ten-to-one odds he’s calling Mary Beth,” he said. “He’s already called her three times today.”
“He’s completely besotted,” Jess agreed.
Sara arrived, perched her hip on the edge of Sloan’s desk, smiled a greeting at the two men; then she leaned around Leo and looked at Pete, who was leaning way back in his chair, grinning at the ceiling. “I think he’s adorable,” she said. “And based on the look on his face, he’s definitely talking to Mary Beth.”
Satisfied that Pete was preoccupied, Leo pulled an envelope out of his shirt pocket and held it out toward Jess. “We’re taking up a collection to buy Pete and Mary Beth a wedding gift. Everyone is putting in twenty-five bucks.”
“What are we buying them, a house?” Jess said. He dug into his pocket, and Sloan reached for her purse.
“Silverware,” Leo provided.
“You’re kidding!” Jess said as he put twenty-five dollars into the envelope and passed it to Sloan. “How many kids are they planning to feed, anyway?”
“I dunno. All I know is that Rose called some store where they keep a list of stuff the bride picked out. Would you believe your twenty-five dollars will only buy part of one fork?”
“It must be one hell of a big fork.”
Sloan exchanged a laughing look with Sara as she slid twenty-five dollars into the envelope. At that moment, Captain Ingersoll strolled out of his glass-enclosed office, studied the scene, and noticed the cheerful gathering around Sloan’s desk, and his expression turned to a glower.
“Shit,” Reagan said. “Here comes Ingersoll.” He turned to leave, but Sara was untroubled by the captain’s glower or his impending arrival.
“Wait, Leo, let me donate something toward the silverware.” She put money into the envelope; then she turned the full force of her most flirtatious smile on the captain in a deliberate and unselfish attempt to alter his mood for everyone’s sake. “Hi, Captain Ingersoll. I’ve been worried about you! I heard you got sick from that awful chili yesterday and had to go to the first aid trailer!”
His glower faltered, faded, then turned into what passed for his smile. “Your friend here recommended it,” he said, jerking his head toward Sloan, but he couldn’t pry his gaze from the hold of Sara’s. He even tried to make a joke about the money she’d just given Reagan. “Don’t you know that bribing a police officer is a felony in this state?”
He really had an atrocious sense of humor, Sloan thought as he added in a jocular voice, “And so is interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty.”
Sara batted her eyes at him and he actually flushed. “How am I interfering?”
“You’re a distraction, young lady.”
“Oh, am I?” she cooed.
Behind Ingersoll’s back, Jess opened his mouth and pretended to be sticking his finger down his throat. Unfortunately, Ingersoll, who was no fool, looked around at that moment and caught him in the act. “What the hell is the matter with you, Jessup?”
Sloan choked back a laugh at Jess’s predicament and came to his rescue. “I think I’ll get some coffee,” she interrupted hastily, standing up. “Captain, would you like a cup?” she asked in a sweetly subservient voice designed to startle and disarm him.
It worked. “What? Well . . . yes, since you offered, I would.”
The coffeepots were located on a table across the aisle, just beyond the copy machines. “Two sugars,” he called when Sloan was halfway there. Sloan’s telephone began to ring, and he picked it up solely to impress
Sara with how busy he was at all times. “Ingersoll,” he barked into the receiver.
The male voice on the other end of the line was courteous but authoritative. “I understood this was Sloan Reynolds’s phone number. This is her father.”
Ingersoll glanced at the clock. Sloan’s class was scheduled to begin in three minutes. “She’s just about to start a self-defense class. Can she call you back later?”
“I’d prefer to speak to her now.”
“Hold on.” Ingersoll pressed the hold button. “Reynolds—” he called out. “You have a personal call. Your father.”
Sloan looked over her shoulder as she dropped two sugar cubes into his coffee. “It can’t be for me. I don’t have a father—”
That announcement was evidently more interesting than some of the other conversations in the room, because the noise level promptly dropped by several decibels. “Everyone has a father,” Ingersoll pointed out.
“I meant that my father and I don’t have any contact,” she explained. “Whoever is calling must be looking for someone else.”
With a shrug, Ingersoll picked up the phone. “Who did you say you were calling?”
“Sloan Reynolds,” the other man said impatiently.
“And your name is?”
“Carter Reynolds.”
Ingersoll’s mouth fell open. “Did you say Carter Reynolds?”
“That’s exactly what I said. I would like to speak with Sloan.”
Ingersoll put the call on hold, folded his arms across his chest, and stood up, staring at Sloan with a mixture of awe, accusation, and disbelief. “By any chance, could your father’s name be Carter Reynolds?”
The name of the renowned San Francisco financier-philanthropist exploded like a bomb in the noisy room, and in the aftermath, everything seemed to grow still and silent. Sloan stopped in her tracks with a coffee cup in each hand, then continued walking. Familiar faces in the room stared at her with unfamiliar expressions of suspicion, wonder, and fascination. Even Sara was gaping at her. Ingersoll took the cup of coffee she handed him, but he remained near her desk, obviously intending to eavesdrop.
Sloan didn’t care that he was there; in fact, she scarcely noticed. She’d never received so much as a birthday card from her absentee father and whatever his reason for suddenly tracking her down now, it wasn’t going to matter. She wanted to convey that to him very firmly and completely and impersonally. She put her coffee cup down on her desk, shoved her hair off her cheek, picked up the receiver, and put it to her ear. Her finger trembled only a little as she pressed down on the flashing white button. “This is Sloan Reynolds.”
She’d never heard his voice before; it was cultured and tinged with amused approval. “You sound very professional, Sloan.”
He had no right to approve of her; he had no right to any opinion whatsoever where she was concerned, and she had to fight down the impulse to tell him that. “This isn’t a convenient time for me,” she said instead. “You’ll have to call back some other time.”
“When?”
A recent newspaper picture of him flashed through her mind—a handsome, lithe man with steel gray hair who was playing doubles tennis with friends at a Palm Beach country club. “Give it another thirty years, why don’t you.”
“I don’t blame you for feeling annoyed.”
“Annoyed—You don’t blame—!” Sloan sputtered sarcastically. “That is extremely nice of you, Mr. Reynolds.”
He interrupted her tirade in a pleasant, but no-nonsense tone. “Let’s not argue in our first conversation. You can berate me in person for all my paternal shortcomings, in two weeks.”
Sloan took the phone from her ear momentarily and glared at it in frustrated confusion, then returned it. “In two weeks? In person? I’m not interested in anything you have to say!”
“Yes, you are,” he said, and Sloan felt a flash of furious admiration for his sheer gall and the force of his will, which seemed to prevent her from hanging up on him. “Maybe I should have said it in a letter, but I thought a phone call would accomplish things more quickly.”
“Just what is it that you want to accomplish?”
“I—” he hesitated. “Your sister and I want you to join us at the Beach for a few weeks so we can all get to know each other. I had a heart attack six months ago—”
The “Beach,” Sloan surmised, was clearly the insiders’ term for Palm Beach. “I read about your illness in the newspaper,” Sloan said, managing to convey studied indifference along with the reminder that all she knew of her own father was what she read. Geographically, Palm Beach was not very far away, but socially and economically, Palm Beach was in another galaxy. To add to its own prestige, the Bell Harbor newspaper always carried the Sunday social section from its illustrious neighbor to the south, and it was there that Sloan saw frequent pictures and mentions of her socially prominent father and her accomplished sister.
“I want the three of us to get to know each other before it’s too late.”
“I can’t believe your nerve!” Sloan exploded, angry and bewildered by the unexpected sting of tears she felt at the emotionally charged phone call. “It is already much too late. I have no desire whatsoever to know you, not now, after all these years.”
“What about your sister?” he countered smoothly. “Don’t you have any interest in getting to know her?”
Sloan’s mind promptly conjured up the same photograph at the country club. Her sister, Paris, had been her father’s tennis partner. With her dark head thrown back and her right arm extended in perfect form for a perfect tennis serve, Paris hadn’t looked as if her life was anything except . . . perfect. “I have no more interest in getting to know her than she’s had in getting to know me,” Sloan said, but she felt as though the words had a hollow ring.
“Paris feels as if she’s missed out on a very important part of her life by not having known you.”
According to the frequent mentions of Paris that Sloan had seen, Paris’s life had been an endless succession of glamorous and fulfilling events—from her tennis and equestrian trophies to the lavish parties she hosted for her father in San Francisco and Palm Beach. At thirty-one, Paris Reynolds was beautiful, poised, and sophisticated, and she hadn’t needed or wanted Sloan in her life before this. That knowledge hardened Sloan’s weakening resolve to avoid any contact with the wealthy branch of her family. “I’m just not interested,” she said very firmly. “Good-bye.”
“I spoke to your mother today. I hope she can change your mind—” he was saying as she hung up the phone. Her knees began to shake in delayed reaction, but she couldn’t give in to weakness in front of everyone. “That’s that,” she said brightly. “I’d better get going; I have a class to teach.”
5
By the time Sloan reached her temporary classroom, she’d convinced herself that her emotions were firmly under control and that she could concentrate completely on what she had to do.
She walked into the room, closed the door behind her, and gave the group a bright, fixed smile. “We’re going to be talking about correct ways for women to deal with several potentially dangerous situations. . . .” she announced; then she realized she’d forgotten to greet them or introduce herself. “By the way, my name is Sloan Reynolds . . .” she began again. And my father has just contacted me for the first time in my life, she thought.
Sloan shook her head to clear it. The classes she was about to give were vitally important to the women in the room, and the women were all important to her. They needed her advice; they were counting on her. Carter Reynolds was nothing to her.
Sloan thrust him out of her mind and began the first of her lectures. “We’ll start with one of the most common scenarios where a lone woman suddenly finds herself in danger. Let’s suppose you’re alone on the road at night and you get a flat tire,” she said. “There’s very little traffic and the nearest lights—the nearest sign of people—are three or four miles away. What do you do?”
Several
hands went up and Sloan nodded toward an attractive middle-aged woman who sold real estate. “I’d lock the car doors, roll up the windows, and stay in the car until a police car, or tow truck, or some sort of trustworthy help arrives.”
That was exactly the answer Sloan expected to hear, and it was the wrong answer. “Okay,” she said, preparing to illustrate her point. “Now, suppose that while you’re locked in your car, a vehicle pulls over to the side of the road. A man gets out, comes over to you, and offers to help. What will you do?”
“Does he look trustworthy?” the realtor asked.
“I don’t know what honest looks like,” Sloan countered firmly, “and neither do you. I mean, who looked more wholesome than Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy? But let’s suppose the guy who offers to help you doesn’t look trustworthy. What would you do then?”
“I’d keep the window up, and—and I’d lie and tell him help is already on the way!” the realtor finished with the enthusiasm of one who has come up with an inspired solution. “Is that the right answer?”
“Well, let’s see if it is or isn’t,” Sloan said as she walked over to a table where she’d set up a television and videocassette player. “If your man was a good guy who truly wanted to help, he’ll leave. But what do you think he’ll do if he’s a bad guy who wants to rob or rape or murder you?”
“What can he do?” the woman replied. “I’m in the car with the doors locked and the windows up.”
“I’ll show you what he can—and will—do,” Sloan said as she pressed the playback button on the VCR. The television screen lit up showing a nighttime scene exactly like the one Sloan had described, with an actress playing the part of the stranded motorist on the highway. On the screen, a second car pulled to a stop, and a clean-cut-looking actor got out and offered to fix her tire. When the woman politely declined his help, he suddenly grabbed the door handle and tried to open the car door. She began screaming in panic, and he ran to his car, but instead of leaving, he returned a moment later with a tire iron; then he bashed in her window, unlocked the door, and jerked the screaming, struggling woman out of the car, where he began bludgeoning her with the tire iron.
Night Whispers Page 4
