Catherine Coulter - Split Second

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.

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 down 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.