Catherine Coulter - Split Second

“I worked at Starbucks when I was a teenager, got my addiction there. You’ve got to taste the mean nonfat mocha latte with just a touch of cinnamon I learned how to brew. My parents assure me it classifies as ambrosia.”

Who cared about tasting fricking nonfat mocha latte—with cinnamon—when he was standing not five feet away from her, and she could cover that distance with a nice long jump and end up with her legs wrapped around his waist?

He turned away to put two slices of wheat bread into the toaster. “I’m making scrambled eggs. I only use half the yolk, so your arteries won’t clog.”

You want to eat? “That’d be good.”

She drank some more coffee, sat down at the kitchen table where he’d already set out plates and silverware. The kitchen was large and bright, even in the dismal gray morning light.

“You’ve got lots of gadgets. Do you use them all?”

He said over his shoulder, “Not really. My parents are the real cooks and like to give me these things. The panini press is their latest gift. I haven’t used it yet. Maybe if we’re here at lunch, we can give it a try.”

“Coop?”

“Yes?” He didn’t turn away from his skillet. She smelled frying bacon.

“Did Dillon want anything else?”

“Yeah,” he said. “He’d like to see your grandfather’s letter. So would I, for that matter. We can stop at your grandmother’s house after breakfast, take it with us to the CAU.”

As he spoke, Coop walked over to her, slipped his hand into her blouse, and pulled up the chain holding her ring. Lucy froze. He said quietly, “I saw you take it off last night. I remember you said you had no clue what these symbols mean. And this single word—how do you pronounce it?”

Her heart nearly stopped when he whispered the word closely enough.

“SEFYLL.”

She waited to see a reaction, just as she’d waited, frozen, when Dillon had said the word, but she already knew nothing would happen when Coop said it. She was right; everything continued as it was supposed to.

She lifted his fingers from the ring and put it back inside her shirt.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how anyone knew I even had this.”

He turned to face her, looking very serious. “Before I made the unforgettable decision to see if you were okay last night when I heard you moving around, I was lying awake in bed, asking myself that same question. If this ring is the reason your grandfather was killed, then someone must want it very badly. Maybe they were tipped off by somebody who knew you’d opened that box, or they could have been following you, or even have your grandmother’s house bugged.”

“I thought of that, but I wondered if I was getting too paranoid. I think you made a fine decision last night, Coop. After all, I’m your guest, and you had to make sure I was all right.”

He stared at her—no, at her mouth.

She said, “All right, all right. We can go over right after breakfast. It will be interesting having a conversation knowing we might be bugged. What would you like to talk about?”

He lifted the skillet off the stove, gave her a slow smile as he leaned back against the counter and said, “We don’t have to go right away. Come here.”

Whortleberry

Friday morning

Ann Marie Slatter watched the gorgeous TV reporter with the streaked blond hair climb back into her van, never once teetering on her stilettos, the cameraman behind her. She was still shaking when the young guy with the bad complexion drove them away. She’d made sure her makeup was perfect and the pretty yellow tunic she wore over her leggings looked hot. And she’d made sure they used her whole name, because adding Marie made it sound more sophisticated. Her boss, Dave, had told her some magazine or cable talk show might pay for her story if she played her cards right.

She didn’t relish going back inside her parents’ house. Her mom and dad wouldn’t stop telling her it was a miracle she was still alive, and it was past time she went back to church, because the good Lord had surely saved her yesterday, hadn’t He?

Ann Marie jumped into her ancient Mazda SUV and peeled out of the driveway. She’d rather spend some time with Dave and the sheriff than listen to that. She hadn’t cried during the interview, didn’t want to ruin her fresh eye makeup and look bad on camera, but now she teared up and got the shakes so bad she had to pull over. There wasn’t a soul around, so she let herself cry.

She heard a car coming behind her and looked at the rearview mirror. Great, someone would see her crying her eyes out on the side of the road.

The car came closer—no, not a car, it was a dirty white Silverado, and Ann Marie’s heart stopped. She knew who was driving it. She’d watched that crazy woman stroll out of the diner yesterday after murdering Lou and Frank, and drive away in that Silverado.

It was Ted Bundy’s daughter, she didn’t have a doubt. The tears froze on her face.

Ann Marie gunned her Mazda, but she didn’t get far. It only took a second for Kirsten to pull ahead of her car and block her in.

She threw the Mazda into reverse, but Kirsten simply pulled a gun out of her pocket and shot both the front tires. Then she strolled over to the driver’s side and tapped on the window, and tried the door. At least Ann Marie had locked all the doors. She stared at Ted Bundy’s daughter and saw her own death in the woman’s crazy eyes.

“Hi,” Kirsten said. “I’ve got you blocked right in, baby, and now you’ve got two dead tires, so you aren’t going anywhere. Hey, you like all the attention you’re getting from surviving the massacre at Dave’s Diner? I heard a newscaster call it that—it sounds so hokey, but that’s the media for you.”

Ann Marie whispered, “You—you said you hoped I’d get out of town, you said—”

“I can’t hear you, sweetcakes, you’ve got your window up. Roll it down so I can hear you better.”

Ann Marie shouted, “You wanted me to get out of this town—”

“Yes, yes, I know, but you see, my daddy didn’t ever do the expected thing, and I remembered that. And I really didn’t like what you’ve been saying about me on TV, calling me scary crazy and a monster. You should have been a little more grateful, don’t you think? But this isn’t about you, really; you’re not that important. This is about showing those fed bastards I can do whatever I want.

“Come on out now, little girl; it’s time you and I did our dance.”

“No!”

Kirsten kept that scary smile on her face as she slowly pulled a length of wire from her back pocket. “Remember all Frank’s brains exploding out of the back of his head? That really cool red dot on his forehead—it looked so innocent until you saw all his brains splatted on the vinyl booth behind him. Hey, at least you won’t have to clean that off now. Come on, little girl, time to get this show on the road. Open the door!”

Ann Marie scooted across the front seats, opened the passenger-side door, jumped, rolled, and came up running. She ran for all she was worth across an open field, gunshots sounding behind her.

Hoover Building, CAU

Friday afternoon

Savich listened carefully to what Ben said, then sighed. “Mrs. Patil having an affair—I wish I could tell you I’m surprised, but I’m not really. Why can’t people behave like they’re supposed to? Why can’t they ever be what they appear to be? You’re positive about the affair?”

Detective Ben Raven of the WPD said, “I guess I’m not surprised, either. Yes, we’re sure. Like I said, I had her followed, Savich, for want of anything better, since the case wasn’t going anywhere. Sure enough, she and Krishna Shama—remember, he’s the nephew of Mr. Patil’s lifelong best bud, Amal Urbi—met at a Holiday Inn just south of McLean. They spent two hours in room three-thirty-five. I doubt it was a prayer meeting for Mr. Patil. Then they went to a restaurant for a late lunch. Mrs. Patil came trotting home at five o’clock yesterday evening, in good time to head out to the hospital to see her husband. We checked. Mrs. Patil and Mr. Shama have visited that particular Holiday Inn a dozen times over the past several months.”