Catherine Coulter - Split Second

“We believe so,” Coop said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carpenter.”

“But why did she want to torment me? I didn’t even know her.”

She called you because she’s an unbelievably cruel bitch. Lucy said aloud, “That’s an excellent question.” She sat forward. “Tell me, sir, was your wife by any chance an artist?”

“Why, yes, she was, but—” Roy Carpenter blinked. “She called it her hobby; she always laughed when I told her her paintings were good enough to sell. There, over the fireplace, that’s one of Arnette’s landscapes. Next to it is a portrait she did of her mother. They’re acrylic; that was her favorite medium. I’ve got several dozen of her paintings. I change them out every couple of months. She was very good, don’t you think?”

They rose to look at the paintings. Coop said, “Yes, she’s very good, Mr. Carpenter, very good indeed.” Coop supposed he’d call them neo-Impressionist, with their soft muted colors, the shapes slightly blurred, the trees a bit out of focus, but the colors were beautiful and deep. Her mother was a lovely woman, he thought, her face both haunting and beautiful. He saw hints of pain around her mouth and her eyes, a pain that seemed familiar and to have been with her for a very long time. It took talent to capture that.

Mr. Carpenter was staring at Lucy. “Why did you ask me if Arnette was an artist?”

“I think it might be our tie-in, Mr. Carpenter. Did Kirsten Bolger mention Arnette’s art? Did she say she painted as well?”

“No, not that I remember. Wait, when she said good-bye to me, she said she was off to Post Street to visit the art galleries. I remember I was standing there on the sidewalk, not knowing what to say, and she patted my face and kissed my cheek. I was so surprised I didn’t move. Then she gave me a little wave, pulled her black wig over her head, and sauntered off, whistling. I remember thinking she was crazy. I guess she is.”

“Close enough,” Lucy said.

Washington, D.C.

Sunday afternoon

Savich gave Sean and Marty each a cup of cocoa, told them a third time not to spill it. He said to Sherlock, “That was Delion I was talking to in the kitchen. Kirsten’s trail has gone cold. He said the Porsche Lansford gave her is long gone, no transfer of title, nothing, so she probably sold it for cash. She emptied out her bank accounts the week before the first murder in Chicago. Lots of cash, so it isn’t difficult for her to survive. As for any credit cards, she must have also thrown them away. He can’t find anyone in San Francisco who’s seen her since then.”

Sherlock said, “At least having her identity blared on every TV in the country can’t send Kirsten Bolger any deeper underground.”

“Let’s hope not. There really isn’t an option anymore, now that the Drudge Report posted that leak. No way to keep Ted Bundy out of it, either, too juicy. So now every talking head gets to rock and roll with this crazy killer. I need to get dressed if I’m going to make it to the news conference. Director Mueller wants me front and center when he releases her name to the media.”

Sherlock felt a niggling fear at having Kirsten Bolger focus her mad attention on Dillon. “You want backup?”

Savich watched Sean very nearly tip his cocoa cup. “No, you don’t have to come. Sean, don’t wave your cocoa around while you chase Astro.”

His cell sang out Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli singing “Time to Say Good-bye,” Sherlock’s favorite song of all time. Savich didn’t answer right away, because Sherlock and the two children seemed to be listening to it.

“Savich.”

When he cut off his cell a few minutes later, he said, “That was Lucy. Mr. Maitland asked both her and Coop to be at the news conference.”

“Go make yourself look tough and professional; I’ll watch the cocoa.” But Sherlock simply couldn’t help worrying. That was part of her job description.

The press conference was attended by every media hound inside the Beltway. Savich looked out over the media room, chaotic and noisy, with scores of reporters and TV people setting up their cameras.

Director Mueller outlined the process by which they’d discovered the real identity of the Black Beret. He closed, saying, “I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous this woman is. Just to remind yourself, simply think of her father, Ted Bundy. Being identified like this may make her even more ruthless and desperate. We know all of you will help with publicizing her photo. Please encourage your readers and your viewers to contact the FBI if they see her. No one but law enforcement should attempt any direct contact with her.” He ended with the hotline number, and turned it over to Savich as the questions began.

Savich, as was his habit, said nothing at all, simply waited until there was silence again. He introduced Lucy and Coop, and paused again, focusing every face on him. He pushed a button on the lectern, projecting Kirsten’s photo behind him. “Five days ago, Kirsten Bolger was in Philadelphia. We do not know if she is still there or has gone to another city. We do not know if she will continue to dress as you see her in this photo.” He waited, then put up two more large photos of Kirsten Bolger. In one she had long blond hair and black clothes, and in the second, she was dressed like a man, with black hair and black clothes. “She has experience changing her appearance, from appearing as both a man and a woman, and this gives you an idea of some of the ways she’s dressed in the past.” He leaned forward, looked at them. “I want to emphasize along with Director Mueller that we appreciate your viewers’ and your readers’ help in contacting us if they see the woman in these photos. We don’t know what she’ll do now that her real identity and photos are public, but I am very concerned she may up the ante, as her father did. She is well aware that Ted Bundy was her father.

“I’ll take questions now.”

A tsunami of loud questions rolled toward him. He pointed toward Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post.

Jumbo lumbered to his feet. He looked untidy and unwashed, as if he’d dressed to go out fishing on this fine Sunday morning, and had to hurry all the way back. “Is it true the mother of Bundy’s daughter is an artist who is married to George Bentley Lansford, a candidate for Congress?”

It never failed—Jumbo always had the best sources. Savich saw Lucy was surprised this information was out already.

Savich said, “That appears to be the case, though we are awaiting final confirmation.”

Jumbo said, right on the heels of Savich’s comment, “You interview Mr. Lansford yet?”

“No,” Savich said. “Not yet.”

There were several dozen more questions, most of them about Ted Bundy, not his daughter, and Savich answered each one honestly, until Mr. Maitland shut it down. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your cooperation. We will keep you updated. Let me emphasize that Kirsten Bolger is a very dangerous woman. Ah, I hope all you bartenders out there keep a sharp eye out.”

There was one lone laugh, a few more shouted questions, but there was no one to answer them. Coop said to Savich as they walked off the dais, “Are you going to ask Inspector Delion to interview Mr. Lansford?”

“Nope. You, Lucy, and I are going to do it. Turns out Mr. Lansford and two lawyers are here in Washington. I called. They grudgingly agreed to let us see him in a couple of hours.”

Lucy said, “The lawyers’ll hang over him like a couple of bats, won’t let him help us.”

Director Mueller nodded. “What about Lansford’s wife, Kirsten’s mother? What has she to say about her daughter being a serial killer?”