Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Savich said, “You said she was unpredictable, Mr. Lansford. Could you give us an example?”

He walked over to the window and looked out onto the quiet courtyard. He said over his shoulder, “I remember once, she was maybe twenty-four, she waltzed into my office in Silicon Valley, completely unexpected, and told me she was taking me to lunch.”

Coop said, “Did you go?”

Another moment of silence, then Lansford said, “I’ve never said this before, haven’t, as a matter of fact, even let myself think it. But now that I remember that day, I realize I went to lunch with her for the simple reason that I was afraid of her. I tried to tell myself that I had no reason to be, but still—I’ll never forget the first time I met her, this eighteen-year-old who was attending Berkeley, an art major, and she looked like she wanted to shoot me, sullen as a little kid—but much more than that. I saw something in her eyes when she looked at me, lurking there, if you will, something that alarmed me. I know that sounds melodramatic, as if I’m embellishing my reactions, since I now know who she is, but I’m not sure. That something I saw hiding in her eyes, it was this Kirsten—Ted Bundy’s daughter. You know she also attended law school for a little while, like her father?”

“Yes,” Savich said. “We know.”

Lansford raised bleak eyes to Savich. “My poor wife is devastated. Can you imagine finding out your child has murdered five people?”

Lansford shook his head, trying to get his brain around the horror. “I remember Elizabeth told me once she must be the luckiest woman alive. I thought she was talking about meeting me, about our coming together, and my ego bounded to the stratosphere.” He gave a sharp laugh, met Savich’s eyes. “But what she meant was that she had survived Bundy, that he hadn’t tortured her and murdered her—he only left her pregnant.

“She left yesterday to stay with her cousins in Seattle. Yes, I know, Ted Bundy lived there. Did she meet him in Seattle? I don’t know, I didn’t ask her, but I know it was her first home.”

“What about Sentra?”

“I happened to go by the gallery Friday night and saw the two of them together. Elizabeth was furious, of course, and Sentra, well, she was laughing, talking about what an interesting evening it had been.”

Coop said, “Mr. Lansford, do you think it’s possible Sentra is Kirsten’s mother and not Elizabeth?”

“ What? No, I have never thought that. What possible reason could they have had for a ruse like that?”

“Maybe your wife took the baby because, as you say, Sentra was nuts, not at all good mother material.”

“No, Elizabeth would have told me.”

“Has Sentra always been an interior decorator?”

Lansford laughed. “Oh, you can’t know how rich that is. Sentra is the longtime mistress of Clifford Childs, an old-time San Francisco aristocrat with old-time money—actually, he has a vast reservoir of money. She’s never earned a dime, never done a worthwhile thing in her life, even though she claims she’s an interior decorator. She met Childs when she was all of twenty-two years old, and he was thirty, a recent widower with two sons. They’ve been together ever since, thirty-two years.”

They all knew this, since a Google search had turned up dozens of society party photos. Lucy asked, “Why didn’t they marry?”

“I don’t know why, but the way Sentra tells it, she keeps turning him down. Why? Sentra says he’s too possessive. He’s always given her an outrageous allowance, treated her like a queen. They’re quite the society couple. I believe he’s even left her half his estate in his will. His two sons love her as much as Daddy, their wives as well—amazing, since I can’t imagine her being able to hide what a loon she is for very long. Maybe it doesn’t matter to any of them that she’s crazy, or maybe this role is simply easy for her, and pleases her, and with them there is no pretense. Yes, one big happy family. It’s all very odd. Do you know Childs came to my big fund-raiser in San Francisco and contributed huge bucks for my campaign?”

Lucy said, “Thirty-two years. That’s almost exactly Kirsten’s age. Excuse me for repeating this, but maybe you’ve given us the reason for Sentra giving up Kirsten as a baby—namely, Clifford Childs. What do you think? Sentra was twenty-two years old, had a baby, no means of support, and here comes her knight—namely, Clifford Childs.”

Lansford said, “Sure, that could make sense, but like I already said, I know Elizabeth, and I know she would have told me if she weren’t Kirsten’s mother; there’d have been no reason for her not to. Actually, I think she would have been greatly relieved to be able to tell me that. No, there is no doubt in my mind that Elizabeth is Kirsten’s mother.”

“Did Sentra know Bundy personally?”

“Elizabeth never said one way or the other. But listen, I admire my wife for what she did. She was twenty-two years old, and she supported herself by selling her art, attended classes at Berkeley, and raised a child on her own.”

Savich nodded. “Do you know how Clifford Childs has reacted to all this?”

Lansford gave a bark of laughter. “He called me an hour ago. True to form, Clifford and the family have closed ranks around Sentra. He sees her as a victim who needs his protection.

“Listen, Agents, do you think Elizabeth could be in any danger from Kirsten? The thought scares me stupid.”

Savich said, “No, I don’t think so, Mr. Lansford. If I were worried about one of you, I’d say it would be you. Take care in your daily routine, all right? Be aware of the people who come near you—until we catch Kirsten.”

Lansford was staring down at his butter-soft black loafers. Then he looked up at all of them. “Agents, we will all be suffering until you do.”

Washington Memorial Hospital

Sunday afternoon

Mr. Patil had been transferred to a bed on a surgical floor, and his physicians were predicting a full recovery.

Savich was pleased to see Mrs. Patil standing next to her husband’s bed, since he hadn’t met her when he’d gone to the Patil home, and then Kirsten Bolger had come roaring into his life and he’d put off going back. But Ben had interviewed her and said he hadn’t gotten any brilliant leads or insights from her.

She was leaning forward slightly, speaking quietly to Mr. Patil, her hand on his shoulder.

Mr. Patil looked over at him and smiled widely. “Ah, Agent Savich, you have not yet met my wife, Jasmine. She will not leave my room. She complains that I am not healing myself fast enough. When the doctors tell her I won’t live, she tells them they are all worthless mongrels, but now that they tell her I will live, I hear her say to Dr. Pritchett that he is a miracle man, another Mother Teresa.”

Mrs. Patil broke into rapid Hindi, none of which Savich understood. He waited until the woman was finished. Mr. Patil said, “She tells me you are very handsome, Agent Savich, that it is possible you would be worthy of our eldest granddaughter, Cynthia, who is as American as you are.”

Savich smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Patil, but I am already married.”

“That is a great pity,” Mrs. Patil said, and gave him a big smile. “But Cynthia, she is a silly girl. She would worship you, and you would probably scare her to death.” Then she broke again into milea-minute Hindi to her husband. Why? She was as perfectly fluent in English as Mr. Patil. He looked at her while she spoke. She was younger than her husband by a good twenty years, putting her in her fifties, he thought, and she looked maybe in her late forties, the result of a couple of excellent face-lifts, most likely. She was a finelooking woman, a spark in her dark eyes, and her hair was glossy black without a hint of gray, worn in a short swing around her cheeks. It seemed to him she was as Americanized as her granddaughter Cynthia.