Split Second

by Catherine Coulter

  “I suppose so, since I don’t have a will. But I could make a will tomorrow, leave everything to an animal shelter if I want. Listen, Coop, my uncle is very rich. I can’t believe it’s about my money.”

  He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “The gorilla in the room, Lucy, is that you found your grandfather’s murdered remains in your attic five days ago. Could someone be trying to hide something about that murder, something they don’t want you to find, or something they think you could possibly know? And what about that strange ring your grandfather left you?”

  So, it’s obvious, even to Coop, Lucy thought as she slowly chewed a moo shu pork pancake. She knew to her soul the ring had to be the key. Someone knew she had the ring, and they knew it was important enough to kill her for it. How could she hope to prove that; how could she protect herself or anyone else around her if she kept the letter a secret from everyone, even Coop? She had to tell him some of it; it was the only way to move forward. The letter, then, and what it said. But she wouldn’t tell anyone now about what she could do when she held the ring and said that word; maybe she never would.

  “Coop, there’s something I haven’t told anyone yet, something I thought was private, between my grandfather and me. There was more than the ring in that safe-deposit box, there was a letter written to me by my grandfather, probably not long before he was killed. I think it’s time for us to speak to Uncle Alan.”

  Ten minutes later, Coop followed Lucy out of his condo, his hand beneath her elbow, just in case.

  CHAPTER 51

  Washington, D.C.

  Thursday evening

  Huge yard, Coop thought, when he pulled into the Silverman driveway. Way too much work. Evidently, Mr. Silverman agreed, since the yard as well as the flagstone walkway were covered in six inches of sodden leaves left to rot from the last rain.

  At least it wasn’t raining now.

  Coop scraped wet leaves off his boots on the front porch.

  Lucy rang the doorbell. She waited nervously, knowing Coop had told them only that she’d had an automobile accident, but they shouldn’t worry, she was okay and wanted to come by to visit. Even Savich had agreed that an impromptu visit with her aunt and uncle might knock loose a lead or two, if Lucy felt up to it. More important, he wanted the Silvermans to know the FBI were looking at them and knew about the ring. He thought it might protect her. She hated this, hated that it had to be done, that her family’s involvement had to be faced.

  They heard the click of heels. Her Aunt Jennifer opened the door. “Lucy, my poor child!” And she enfolded Lucy in her arms and rocked her. “Agent McKnight promised us you were all right, but I’ll tell you, we’ve still been worried sick. Oh, you’ve got a bandage on your head!”

  “I’m all right, Aunt Jennifer, really.”

  “Come in, sweetheart, sit down, and I’ll get you some hot tea. And you are Agent McKnight?” A lovely arched dark brow shot up. “Oh, yes, I remember you from Josh’s funeral. It’s hard to believe he’s gone, but Lucy, you’re what’s important now. Come in, come in. Thank you, Agent, for calling us before we heard it on the news.”

  Lucy’s cousin Court was standing in the living-room doorway, smiling toward her.

  Lucy had told Coop about Court Silverman—that he was thirtysix, had never been married, owned vitamin stores, and was quite successful. He was tall, buff; he looked sleek. Yes, that was the word, sleek—like a freaking otter, Coop thought, and nearly smiled. He looked closely and saw the arrogant tilt to Court’s head that seemed to go naturally with his soft white shirt and expensive gray wool slacks. With his hands in his pockets, jiggling change, he looked sort of bored and weary, as though it was no big deal his cousin had almost been killed this afternoon. You’re a conceited little prick, aren’t you, Court?

  Coop saw Mrs. Silverman was beaming at her son. He shook Court’s hand after he extended it, almost unwillingly, Coop thought, as if Coop wasn’t worth the trouble.

  Coop said, “You guys aren’t first cousins, you’re what, once removed or something?”

  Court said, “Something like that, but unfortunately never kissing cousins, right, Lucy?”

  “I’m too staid and boring for you, Court; always have been.” She turned to Coop. “Court likes to play on the wild side—bungee jumping, skydiving, skiing the Alps, you name it. If there’s a chance he can break his neck, he’ll try it.”

  When they were all seated, Court opposite the rest of them in a beautiful French antique chair, swinging an Italian leather loafer, Jennifer Silverman said, “I’d hardly say you’re boring, Lucy. I mean, you’re a federal agent and all. But tell us what happened today! Agent McKnight said you lost control of your car and you were hurt? I told your Uncle Alan when you bought that monster that it wasn’t for a single girl, it didn’t make sense.”

  Lucy smiled. “Actually, my Range Rover was a hero, Aunt Jennifer, executed an amazing U-turn to save me. Unfortunately, he was totaled, so I am now officially without wheels. I was thinking about buying something really different from a Range Rover, something to help make me a little less boring. What do you think of a snazzy red Corvette?”

  Court stirred, and a dark brow went up. “You’re a cop, Lucy, but even you would find out you can’t drive a car like that without other cops stopping you for blowing your nose, just to get up and close and personal to it. You’d spend your time wiping their fingerprints off the hood.”

  Coop heard a kind of slimy charm in that. He decided he never wanted to play basketball or drink beer with Court Silverman. He said, “I gave you both the impression that Lucy was in an accident. We wanted to tell you in person that wasn’t what happened. Someone tried to kill her. But she was smart, took care of business. One of the men involved is dead; the other turned tail and ran. We’re looking for him now.” Coop looked straight at Court.

  There was a shocked silence until Jennifer said, “How many times did I tell both you and your father, dear, that being an FBI agent was a ridiculous choice for you, and it’s no big surprise that criminals are after you. I’ve always felt the only reason you went into the FBI was because your mother—”

  Lucy felt a flash of pain, then calm. “No, not at all, Aunt Jennifer. I applied to the bureau before Dad even told me that my mother had.”

  “I thought I heard voices. It’s you, Lucy. Thank God you’re okay.”

  Jennifer jumped to her feet. “Oh, Alan, do come in. Lucy and her friend are here. They say it wasn’t an accident—”

  Alan Silverman raised his hand. “Yes, I know, Jennifer. I called Agent Savich, Lucy’s boss, and he told me straight up what happened.” He leaned over her, eyed the bandage on her head, and carefully hugged her. “I have no doubt the FBI will find out who did this. Mr. Savich assured me they would protect you until they do. I’m so sorry, Lucy. I hope it’s not too bad?”

  “No, a bullet just took off a bit of my scalp, nothing serious,” Lucy said, smiling up at him. “We’ll find out the truth.” She introduced Coop to him, then, “Where’s Miranda?”

  Jennifer said, “She didn’t know you were coming, Lucy. She was leading the discussion at her book club this evening.”

  Lucy asked, “What book is that, Aunt Jennifer?”

  “She never tells us,” Alan said easily, sitting back in the matching chair next to his son’s, his eyes on her face. She saw deeper lines etched by his mouth. “I kid her about the club reading erotic novels, but she denies it.”

  Court laughed, a false, practiced sound that got to Coop like fingernails on a blackboard. “I caught her reading Portnoy’s Complaint last week. You might be right, Dad.”

  Jennifer slapped her hands together. “Stop it, both of you. What will Agent McKnight think of us?”

  Agent McKnight thought the book club sounded pretty interesting. He said, “Your daughter lives here?”

  Jennifer said, “Why, yes, she moved back maybe three months ago, but only until she finds a place she likes. They’re hard to come by
in the right neighborhood—too much crime elsewhere.”

  Coop looked at each of them in turn. “Do any of you have any ideas about who tried to kill Lucy today?”

  There was a babble of voices, all of them horrified, all eyes soon turning to him. Alan said, “How would you think we would know anything about such a thing? We’re the only family Lucy has left. We love her. Hurt her? That’s ridiculous.”

  Coop said easily, “It’s what we do, sir, ask questions until the answers fit together to solve the puzzle. It seems probable the attempt on Lucy’s life is directly tied to finding her grandfather’s remains.”

  Alan said, “For heaven’s sake, Lucy, you don’t think finding your poor grandfather had anything to do with these madmen trying to run you off the road today, do you? I mean, why?”

  “Actually, they didn’t seem like madmen, Uncle Alan. They were organized, both driving identical white vans. They tried to accordion me between them, and they shot at me.” She lightly touched her fingertips to the bandage. “They were pros, and someone hired them to kill me.”

  “Two white vans?” Court frowned at her, confused. “Who on earth would try to run you down with two white vans? Postal workers gone berserk?”

  Coop wanted to send his boot into Court’s right kidney.

  Lucy said very seriously, “That doesn’t seem likely, Court.”

  Coop said, “Like I said, the other guy turned tail and ran. We’ll find out soon who owns the white vans.”

  Court said, “I think I’d like a cup of coffee, Mom, if you don’t mind.”

  Jennifer flew to her feet. “Of course, sweetheart.” She patted Court’s arm, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll bring everyone some. Anyone for a snack?”

  She’s talking cookies when Lucy nearly got murdered today? Coop said, “No, thank you, Mrs. Silverman. Why don’t you leave the coffee for the moment? I would appreciate your telling me what you thought about Lucy’s murdered grandfather. Surely all of you have some thoughts about that.”

  Jennifer walked slowly back to the sofa and sat down, her eyes on her clasped hands.

  Alan said finally, “We’ve already discussed that tragedy with Lucy, and at length with the police. I suppose I must accept the unavoidable truth that my sister was involved, as was my nephew, Josh. It is painful, but there is no other conclusion. Helen killed her husband, and we may never know why.”

  “Do you know why, Mrs. Silverman?”

  “My sister-in-law, Helen, she was—quite emotional, often depressed, after Lucy’s mother died. There was anger in her, too, that erupted from time to time. But killing Milton? No, that isn’t possible. I have to believe someone else was responsible for Milton’s death.”

  Coop studied Jennifer Silverman’s lovely pale face. She was frankly beautiful for her age, with high cheekbones, good cosmetic surgery, no doubt, and a long, fit body—she would still be beautiful when she was ninety.

  Court said, “No, Mother, no one else was responsible. It had to be Aunt Helen, and it was murder, not a simple death. I mean, Uncle Milton didn’t tuck himself into that steamer trunk. You found his body yourself, Lucy. Maybe Aunt Helen discovered he was cheating on her. Dad, you think something like that would drive her over the edge?”

  Alan said, “I remember at the time—goodness, that was twenty-two years ago—I simply couldn’t understand why Milton had just up and left without a word to anyone, without a message, anything. He was simply gone. I can’t remember that his behavior was any different, not really. As for your grandmother, Lucy, when Milton disappeared, she was distraught. She said she couldn’t understand it, either, any more than I did. I remember comforting her, or trying to. Then she shut herself off, became remote. I was very worried about her for a long time.

  “As for your father, Lucy, he was tight-lipped, didn’t want to speak of his father. I remember he’d leave the room when we brought up Milton’s name, you know, to try to figure out why he’d left.” Alan sighed. “Helen killed him. Why? I don’t know. I strongly doubt it was because Milton was unfaithful. He wasn’t that kind of man. It’s been twenty-two years since that awful time. He’s dead, Helen is dead, Josh is dead. So, what’s the point? I think whatever happened should stay buried with them. They were our family, and they deserve at least some discretion from us. I don’t see that we need to discuss it further, Agent McKnight, unless you think that the men who tried to kill Lucy were somehow connected to her grandfather’s murder? I confess, I don’t see how.”

  Coop said, “Actually, we know the killers were after a ring Lucy got from her grandfather.”

  Alan Silverman looked bewildered. “Ring? What ring, Lucy?”

  “Grandfather left me a ring, Uncle Alan.”

  “That makes no sense. I don’t know about any ring. Where is this ring?”

  Lucy smiled as she slowly stood up. “It’s in a safe-deposit box at the FBI. It seems someone thinks it’s very valuable. Why? To be honest, I don’t really care why. What I care about is that someone is trying to kill me for it.”

  Alan rose as well. He studied her face. “I hope you don’t suspect us of having anything to do with these two men trying to kill you, Lucy. For a ring your grandfather had and left to you? It makes no sense to me. Jennifer?”

  Jennifer shook her head.

  Alan continued, “This has been an upsetting day for all of us. If that’s the only—official—business you have with us, Agent McKnight, I’d like to get some rest now. Lucy, I would like you to stay with us. We can protect you.”

  She said no, thanked him, kissed them all, and left. Lucy’s head was pounding. Coop took her hand, helped her into Gloria’s passenger seat. She slept during the entire drive back to Coop’s condo in Wesley Heights.

  CHAPTER 52

  Georgetown

  Thursday evening

  Savich tossed the kid-size Redskins football to Sean from the living-room doorway across the entry hall as he ran toward the front door. He caught the ball with both hands, then pulled it close to his chest, just as Savich had taught him.

  “Way to go, champ.”

  Savich had moved the small entry table to the dining room, so there wasn’t much left to destroy. It was dark outside, and it was, after all, football season, so what were he and Sean to do? He laughed at Astro, who saw his job as getting the football away from Sean if Savich wouldn’t give it to him. He was leaping up, trying to grab it with his teeth.

  Sherlock said, her voice low, since Sean seemed to be all ears since his fifth birthday, “Ann Marie Slatter is saying when Kirsten heard those two men mocking Bruce Comafield’s death, she just pulled her gun out of her jacket and shot them right there in the diner.”

  Savich said after he tossed another football to Sean, “There’s something she didn’t do that I’ll admit surprises me—”

  “She didn’t murder Ann Marie, and Kirsten knew she’d talk to the cops as soon as she got herself together again.”

  “Exactly.” He caught Sean’s wobbly pass and tossed it back. Sean dropped it, probably on purpose, and Astro went nuts, trying to kill it, barking his head off. Soon the two of them were rolling around on the floor, fighting for the ball.

  Sherlock said, “Do you think it’s possible Kirsten left Ann Marie Slatter alive to send us a message? Felt like thumbing her nose at us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, but he was thinking, Sending me a message? Sherlock had been the one who played Kirsten and sucked her in, nearly bringing her down. Even though Comafield had said Kirsten was coming after him, all he could think about was that insane psychopath coming after Sherlock, and it terrified him. He rose, scooped up his son and the football, wet with Astro’s slobber, hauled him over his shoulder, and trotted up the stairs with Astro at his heels. “I’ll take care of Sean; you give Coop and Lucy a call, see how she’s doing and how their visit to the Silvermans went, then finish your soup. You need to get to bed; you need to rest as much as Lucy does.”

  A half hour later, with Sean finally do
wn for the count, Sherlock took her final drink of the tepid tea Dillon had made especially for her—spiked with his favorite supplements—and ate the rest of her chicken noodle soup. She felt fine, really, only a bit of rawness in her throat where some sadist had shoved down the tube. It made her shudder to think about it.

  She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. What would Kirsten do now? She was worried for Dillon, because Kirsten had undoubtedly seen him on TV, maybe even saw him shoot Comafield outside the Texas Range Bar & Grill in Baltimore, and she was crazy enough to go after him. The thought scared her spitless.

  But she slept deeply that night, her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped tight around his chest.

  CHAPTER 53

  Wesley Heights

  Thursday night

  I’m lying on cement. Well, maybe the mattress wasn’t quite that hard, but with her bumps and bruises and aching muscles from being thrown around her Range Rover, it sure felt like cement.

  She finally got up, stiff and hurting, and went into the bathroom to pop some aspirin and move around a little. After she’d taken three aspirin, she managed a few stretches from side to side until she felt a zing of pain in her shoulder and had to stop. She stood straight again and, unfortunately, happened to look in the mirror. She saw a woman with ratty hair, her skin the color of oatmeal, with a big purple bruise on her jaw. Where had that beauty come from?

  Lucy hadn’t unbraided her hair before she’d fallen into bed. She did so now, and finger-combed her hair, not bothering to get her brush from the small overnight bag she’d quickly packed at her grandmother’s house. At least the butterfly strips Coop had pressed down over the cut on her scalp looked better than the bandage she’d worn home from the hospital. Her eyes kept going back to the bruise on her jaw.

  Of all things, she’d forgotten a sleep shirt, and so she was wearing one of Coop’s white T-shirts. She’d never before worn a man’s T-shirt, and thought she looked rather cute, at least from the neck down.