Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

They had been caught completely off-guard by the revelation that Jonas Selby had another son. They had postponed a meeting between the half brothers until the older one had got aggressive about it... like his goddamn father, Thomson thought.

Meanwhile they had run checks on Harry Selby... a widower, two young children, small farm, ample bank account, a National Football League pension, strong ties to his home and family. Nothing to involve him with Jarrell or keep him at Summitt after they’d settled their real estate business. Thomson had okayed their meeting, though the timing was precarious. After all, it seemed wiser than running the risk of deepening Harry Selby’s anxieties... risking his suspicions...

His decision had been sound, Thomson thought. Selby had left Summitt, and now they could handle Jarrell as necessary, without any complications...

The massage relaxed him and put him in an alert and sexually expectant mood — Earl would show up, don’t worry...

The cocktail party at the fairway home reserved for him was crowded and noisy, with tanned executives and their smartly turned out wives standing about waiting to talk to him. His spirits rose later when an unescorted young woman joined his large table at the dinner dance. Her name was Natalie Winters. Her cousin was an auditor at Dupree, but she hadn’t seen him around. Natalie was a graduate student at Maryhill, a local college. She occasionally joined friends here at the club for bridge, she told Thomson.

A Dupree senior executive, Frank Mallon, suggested with a smile that Natalie must have got her dates mixed up because her cousin was in Houston on a research trip. Possibly, she replied casually, she wasn’t all that good at dates and things.

George Thomson had been pleased when she agreed to join him later and alone for a brandy. Her hair was black in the smoky light and her body was full, but with a muscular agility that Thomson found marvelously exciting.

A ringing phone woke him early the next morning. As he lifted the receiver he was comfortably aware of the warm darkness and the silky feel of the girl snuggled up behind him.

It was Clem Stoltzer on the line from Summitt, with Sergeant Hank Ledge on an extension. Thomson swung his legs off the bed and listened, his frown deepening.

Natalie Winters went into the bathroom and closed the door. He waited until he heard the water running. The sergeant told him he had talked to Earl on Thursday and that Jarrell Selby was now missing...

Natalie came out of the bathroom, her hair smooth and fragrant. She lay on the bed with one slim leg outside the coverlet.

“How long’s he been gone?” Thomson said.

“Since yesterday morning, Major,” Ledge told him. “Left his apartment at first light, near as we can figure. Gate guards didn’t check him out, and his car’s still here. So he may not have left Summitt. We’re checking. But the girl’s gone, that’s for sure.”

“Call me at Wahasett in about two hours.” Thomson’s voice had sharpened; it was good to be reminded of his old rank, and the time with Ledge in Korea. “I’ll need all the details then for Mr. Correll.”

“We’ll stay on top of it, Major.”

Thomson called the desk for his car.

He then dialed a number in Philadelphia. The phone was lifted on the first ring; he realized with relief that Lorso had been waiting for his call.

“I’m leaving here in a few minutes, Dom. I just talked to Stoltzer. They got problems. But what about Harry Selby’s daughter? The papers have anything on it?”

“Just a couple of lines in the Bulletin . I already talked to Captain Slocum. Everything’s all right.”

Thomson drew a deep breath; his stomach felt cold. “Why’d you call Slocum?”

“That can wait, I think, Giorgio. I’ll see you at your place. I’ll have it all then.”

“Is Earl home?”

“Now look, you take it easy. Earl’s home, everything’s fine. Have some breakfast. Don’t drive with just coffee. A salami omelette, that’s good, and some white toast with butter.”

“Let me have it now, Dom. All of it.”

“But there’s nothing, Giorgio. Nothing definite.”

“Why’d you call Slocum, then?”

“Because I’m paid to worry, goddammit. It was last night, the accident. It came in as a missing persons, a minor child. The dispatcher had a name, Shana Selby, that’s how it made the paper for one edition. Muhlenburg sent it over to East Chester, just routine — that’s how Eberle got a line on it. There was some talk about a red car, he said. I don’t know where the hell that came from. Eberle told Slocum. Giorgio, like I said, Earl’s home, don’t worry about it. His car’s not in the garage but I haven’t talked to him yet. I’ll have the whole story when you get here.”

Thomson said, “Take care of it, Dom. Take care of it.”

“Don’t worry, Giorgio.”

Thomson put the phone down and listened to the heavy stroke of his heart. He poured himself a drink, a splash of Black Label from a bottle on the dresser. It tasted sour. He shouldn’t be worrying, Lorso was closer to him than anyone at Harlequin, anybody anywhere for that matter. There was no name or title on Lorso’s door, but few people or problems could get to Thomson’s desk without clearance from the little Sicilian.

“Is anything wrong, Mr. Thomson?”

Natalie Winters punched up a pillow behind her back, and watched him pulling on the yellow jockey shorts he had thrown off so impatiently a few hours ago.

“No, just a change of plans,” he told her.

He was hardly aware of her, she knew, though she could see the soft bulge of a morning hard-on filling the ribbing of his shorts. He was of medium height and build, but looked larger because his shoulders and arms were thickly muscled. His complexion was dark, not only from the sun but because he was Italian, he had told her last night. His hair was black, his face was hard, the features cut sharply, and his eyes told her it wouldn’t be wise to antagonize him, not because he was cruel especially but because he had very little patience with people. Impatience and cruelty were closely related, she had reason to know.

He was close to fifty, or maybe older, but in surprisingly good shape. He ate and drank sensibly, made a point of that, he had told her. Took plenty of vitamins. But there was something else he wasn’t getting enough of, Natalie could have told him.

He had been quick last night, rushing it as if he were afraid it might not be there, but after an assist from her that he was hardly conscious of, a touch and pressure that brought a glaze of confident anticipation to his eyes, after that he had settled into a secure and relishing rhythm so intense that when it coiled and finally broke free he cried out as if he were in pain, a sound that always touched Natalie and made her feel tender.

His name was Tomaso, he told her before falling asleep, his hands loose and relaxed between her thighs... Giorgio Tomaso.

She raised herself on an elbow now, the sheet dropping away from her smooth white legs. “I thought you were playing golf today, Mr. Thomson. Aren’t you one of the leaders in the tournament?”

“I guess I am at that, but it can’t be helped.”

“You said we’d drive over to Atlantic City this afternoon. You told me you liked the casinos. A psychiatrist would know why, I guess, but gambling turns me on. It’s scary. I do things, things that are crazy, and I can hardly remember them.”

“Well, like I told you, something came up.”

She glanced down at him and laughed. “I can see that, Mr. Thomson.”

“Look, you got a card? No, you wouldn’t have. Put your phone number on a coaster or a matchbook. I’ll be in touch, Natalie. I mean it.”