Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Big Ed suddenly looked like he was twelve years old. “Ah, Ma, I just flipped the switch, didn’t really look at it.”

Ms. Darlene smacked him on the arm.

As soon as they stepped outside Enrico’s to walk back to the First Precinct, Sherlock gave Coop a huge smile and pulled out the sketch. “You remember him, don’t you, Coop? His name is Bruce Comafield.”

He studied it again, and said, “When you showed it to Ms. Darlene, I tell you, Sherlock, I couldn’t believe it. You got this out of Thomas?”

She nodded.

“When you think about it, it’s not so surprising Mr. Lansford’s aide would know his stepdaughter. So he and Kirsten—do you think they’re both involved in this killing spree?”

“No clue, but we’re going to find out.”

“So, he went out the back? Where did he go? Did he meet up with Kirsten, before or after she’d killed Genny Connelly?”

“Good questions. I could give Thomas Hurley a big kiss, but he might put me in one of his poems.”

When they faced Captain Slaughter, at his request, ten minutes later, he said immediately, “Detective Alba here tells me you got Daniel Gibbs to do a sketch, supposedly of a guy sitting with Kirsten Bolger.”

Detective Alba said, “We could have gotten that sketch, too, if Hurley had told us about the guy.”

Captain Slaughter waved her away and looked down at the sketch Sherlock laid on his desktop.

Detective Alba jerked her head toward Sherlock. “She says she recognizes him, sir.”

Captain Slaughter raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow.

Sherlock handed him the sketch. “If you would make a copy of the sketch and fax it to the homicide divisions in San Francisco, Chicago, Cleveland, and Philadelphia, I’d appreciate it. Then we’ll check it out. If it’s really the guy we think it is, you’ll know it right away.” Captain Slaughter handed off the sketch.

Detective Henry Norris said, “At least we know for sure it isn’t a sketch of Kirsten Bolger’s daddy; we can all give thanks for that.”

“Amen to that,” Sherlock said, and smiled at Norris. “Thank you for your assistance. Please send all your ideas and further interviews to us. We certainly appreciate it.”

“Yes, indeed,” Captain Slaughter said. “You’re smiling, Agent Sherlock. You’ve got something up your sleeve?” He handed the sketch back to her and she gently laid it flat in her briefcase.

She patted his arm. “Yes, sir, I believe I do.”

“You should tell us who you think this guy is,” Detective Alba called after them. “I told you, we’ve got a right to know.”

“Once we’re certain,” Sherlock said again, and finger-waved her good-bye, never looking back. She felt rather small about it, but Detective Alba was a pain. She’d been tempted for a moment to tell her they’d have gotten the same information at Enrico’s Bar—if they’d thought to ask. She’d give Captain Slaughter a heads-up when she got back to Washington.

Chevy Chase, Maryland

Tuesday afternoon

Lucy drove back toward Chevy Chase so excited she could practically fly. She hit traffic, and each time she stopped, she stared at the envelope on the passenger seat beside her, saw the bulging lump of the ring.

When she reached her grandmother’s house, she carried the envelope into the library, as carefully as she would fine bone china. She set it atop the desk and stood there, looking at it. Slowly, she opened the envelope and turned it downward into her palm. A large, heavy gold ring fell out, pure gold, yes, and it was ugly and clumsylooking. She looked closely, saw the top of it came to nearly a point in the very center. Three rubies formed a triangle around the crest. No, they weren’t rubies, they were carnelians, flat, no luster at all. She rubbed them on her pants leg, but they still looked dull, no sparkle or shine. So this was the ring her grandfather had taken from her grandmother? This ring was why she’d stabbed him to death?

She took her grandfather’s letter from the envelope and read it again.

My dearest Lucy,

I know, my darling, that you are grieving mightily as you read this, at your father’s death. I am sure you know he loved you as much as is possible for a person to love, as do I, my dearest.

Forgive the shock of reading these words from my hand, no doubt a very long time since I held you last. I write after long thought and with your welfare in mind. You are probably reading this letter in your middle years, and wondering why I didn’t tell you all of this when you were younger. It was for your own protection, and because of my respect for your father, and my only son. While he lived, I know he would not have approved of my writing to you, nor giving you this ring. This is why I instructed the ring and letter not to be given to you until after his death.

You are no doubt looking at or holding an old ring in your hand. It is an odd-looking ring, is it not? It is indeed very old and heavy—ugly, really—with its mysterious inscriptions and its few dull stones. But it is much more than that—it is your birthright.

I first saw it when you were about two years old, the night your mother, Claudine, was taken from us in that terrible auto accident. Your grandmother and I saw the accident because we were driving directly behind her, on our way to a Whistler showing at the Ralston Gallery. Your grandmother was devastated, and she was drunk, a nearly empty bottle of vodka sticking out from beneath her pillow. I had never seen her drink like that before.

She said over and over that she didn’t deserve to be alive if our daughter-in-law, Claudine, was dead. She was suffering so much, I feared she would try to harm herself, but instead she started talking about the ring, how if she’d only been wearing it she could have stopped the accident and Claudine would still be alive. “A ring?” I asked her. “What difference could a ring have possibly made?” I asked her again when she didn’t answer. She looked at me, her face blotched from her weeping, her eyes dead with despair, and then she took this strange old ring with the dull red stones wrapped in a sock out of the bottom drawer in her bedside table. I thought it was the ugliest ring I’d ever seen, and I asked her what it was. She said her own mother had given it to her before she died, and made her swear not to tell anyone about it except her own daughter, and that meant you, in this case—her granddaughter—when her time came to pass the ring along. Helen was crying, choking on her own words. She said the ring was magic. She said she’d always been afraid of it and had kept it hidden, and so Claudine’s death was her fault, since if she’d been wearing it she could have saved Claudine. I thought she was having a breakdown, could no longer bear to be in touch with reality, but then, you see, she showed me what the ring can do.

Your grandmother never really recovered, was never herself again, at least to me, after that night. She kept the ring with her, wouldn’t let it out of her sight, until she seemed obsessed with it, hardly talked to me of anything else. I grew to fear what she might try to do with it, fear who else she might tell and what would happen to her if she did. But I feared most of all for her sanity.

I thought I must get rid of the thing, but then I thought about how different our lives would be if she had managed to save Claudine. I thought of Josh, numb with grief that night, huddled next to you, Lucy. I thought of you, only two years old and destined to grow up without a mother because an idiot drunk had smashed his car into hers and killed her instantly.