Catherine Coulter: Split Second

“I think God feels the same way about Dad. All of you know how he could make you laugh, even if you were in a big funk. He could throw out one-liners so fast it was hard sometimes to keep up with him. It was impossible not to wear a perpetual smile around my father, even when I was a teenager and my world was otherwise filled with angst.

“Another thing about my dad—I always knew he was in my corner. No one messed with me, ever, teenage boys in particular.

“When I told him I’d changed my mind and I didn’t want to become a lawyer, that what I really wanted to do with my life was become part of the best cop shop in the world—the FBI—I’ll never forget the look on his face. Surprise, and then tears filled his eyes. I asked him what was wrong, and he smiled at me and hugged me and said it must be fate. When I asked him what he meant, he told me my mother had applied to the FBI only a few weeks before her death. Then he laughed, said he would have to readjust his long-term plans since it didn’t look like he would have a lawyer daughter to support him in his old age. In the FBI I’d do a whole lot more good than most lawyers ever do, but I wouldn’t get paid much for it.”

Lucy paused to let the burst of laughter wash over her. It was as if the entire audience sitting in front of her had drawn a collective breath, and let in some memories of their own.

“My dad loved his snifter of Hennessy Ellipse cognac every evening. He’d sit in his favorite chair, his head against the chair back, his eyes closed, and I’d know he was thinking about my mother. I know my mother and father are together now, and that all heaven laughs.

“My dad was the best of fathers. I will miss him forever.”

When she relinquished the mike to her Uncle Alan and smelled his familiar bay-rum scent when he hugged her, she realized some of her deadening pain was gone. She felt warm again.

Alan Silverman didn’t speak until Lucy was once again seated beside Coop. Alan smiled at her as he said in his deep, booming voice, “I am a lawyer, and Josh often told me the same thing.”

And there was more laughter.

Hoover Building

Tuesday morning

“Please, Dillon, I can do my job. I want to work; I need to work.”

Savich looked beyond Agent Lucy Carlyle’s pale, composed face, beyond the misery sheening the air around her, to the fierce determination in her eyes. They were a darker blue than Sherlock’s, the color of the Caribbean under a cloudy sky. She looked as neat and puttogether as she always did, her chestnut hair, many different shades after the hot sun of summer, plaited neatly in a thick French braid, and her signature small silver hoops hanging from her ears. Her skin was so pale—was it whiter than usual? Grief, he knew, could leach the color out of you. She was wearing black boots and a white blouse and a black pants suit that looked to be a size too large for her. How much weight had she lost in five days?

He said, “What are you going to do with your dad’s house, Lucy?”

Why did he care? “I’m going to sell it. I’ve decided to sell my condo, too.” She drew a deep breath, spit it out. “I’m going to move into my grandmother’s house.”

This surprised him. Savich had heard about Helen Silverman Carlyle’s huge mansion in Chevy Chase, Maryland, one of those fine old houses built at about the turn of the twentieth century, a barn of a place and a bear to heat, he imagined, in the Maryland winters. She’d been quite the philanthropist, a friend, in fact, of his own very famous grandmother, Sarah Elliott.

“Your grandmother died a while ago, didn’t she?”

“Three years. My dad kept Mr. and Mrs. McGruder on to take care of the house and grounds after she died. They live in town, and checked in with my dad several times a month.” She swallowed, looked down at her boots, frowned because she saw some mud on the toe, then looked up at him again.

“Why are you moving into her house, Lucy?”

Why does he want to know all this stuff ? He can get the truth out of a stalk of asparagus, so keep it simple. “I don’t know, it’s just something that feels right.”

A black eyebrow shot up. “It feels right to you?”

Idiot. He can spot a lie even before it’s out of your mouth. He was simply curious, but now you’ve got him focused on it.

She found a smile. “You’re my boss, Dillon, but I know I can keep some things private; it’s in my job description.”

He smiled back at her. “Point taken. Are you going to need some help moving?”

She shook her head. “I’ll take it slow and easy, move a bit at a time. Please, let me work while I’m doing it.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you work the Black Beret case with Coop in the mornings and take the afternoons off to get yourself moved. It’s a big house, Lucy. Are you sure you want to rattle around in it alone?”

“I grew up in that house. I love it.”

He frowned.

“What are you thinking, Dillon?”

“What? Oh, someone walked on my grave. I had this strange feeling someone else was outside Mr. Patil’s Shop ’n Go when the cops started arriving, but that’s impossible, the cops would have seen anyone out there.

“Now, Lucy, you promise me you’ll holler loud if you need help? With anything?”

Savich watched her walk slowly from his office, after less resistance than he’d expected. It seemed she’d have agreed to anything just to get out of there. There was something going on with Lucy, and he’d bet some fresh grilled corn on the cob it was more than her grief for her father. No, this was something else, and it was connected, somehow, to her grandmother’s house. Too bad his gut wasn’t telling him any more than that. He’d have to keep a close eye on her.

Savich rose and walked to his one big window. It was a cool day, with lots of sun, and there were a good dozen people already eating an early lunch in the park across the street. He felt it again, someone walking on his grave, and he let his mind float back to that night, trying to focus on something or someone who didn’t belong beyond that huge glass window at the Shop ’n Go just as the police arrived, but it was growing fainter in his mind.

It was a glass half full, Lucy thought, but working a half day was better than nothing. She got out of Dillon’s office as fast as she could. He always saw too much. She cleaned up some paperwork, humming to herself to keep focused, because her brain kept splintering off to her father, laughing or smiling, or to his face slack in death, and tears would clog her throat. An hour later, on her way out, Coop called her over. “I got a call from the Cleveland PD. A bartender notified the police department last night, said our guy came in the bar about nine o’clock, looked around, then left real fast when he saw the bartender looking hard at him. He said he ran outside and looked around for the guy, but he didn’t see him. Then he called the police.”

“So he’s aware everyone’s on the lookout for him.”

Coop nodded.

“Same description?”

“He didn’t even change his black socks.”

“Do you think he will now?”

“He got a scare last night. I’m thinking he’s gonna have to get out of Dodge, head to another big city, maybe Philadelphia or New York, and change his routine and color scheme.

“Hey, why don’t I buy you some lunch—there’s that new Moroccan restaurant over on Crowley. My friend at State says the couscous is pretty good.”

She eyed him. He wasn’t acting like a conceited jerk. In fact, she didn’t ever recall his being anything but nice to her, and she realized she appreciated it. She didn’t have to jump on his busy fishing line if he threw it her way. She started to say no, and then her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember. Coop grinned. “Yep, it’s that time. You got something heavier than that wimpy jacket? It’s pretty chilly out there.”