Night Whispers (10 page)

"We handle most types of policies. Are you interested in adding to your existing insurance?" he quickly inquired, sounding as if he were about to launch into a sales pitch. It was a masterful diversionary tactic, because absolutely no one wanted to be at a party while someone tried to sell them insurance, and he obviously knew it. In other circumstances, Sloan would have been amused and impressed.

"No, I'm really not," Sara said, looking panicked at the prospect that he would start trying to persuade her differently.

To Sloan's enormous relief, he decided to extricate Sloan and himself from the whole ordeal. "Sloan's been so busy this weekend that we've hardly had any time together, and I have to leave tomorrow," he told the little gathering around them; then he looked at her as if they were at least very close friends. "How about fixing me a cup of coffee before I go back to the hotel, Sloan?"

"Great idea," Sloan managed, and with a quick wave to her friends, she turned and walked away with him.

Sara watched them for a long moment; then she glanced at her date. "Jonathan, I left my sweater somewhere around here. I think it's on Jim's blanket. Would you mind getting it for me?" Jonathan nodded and walked away.

Jess eyed the other man with a cynical twist of his lips; then he took another swallow of beer. "Tell me something, Sara," he said sardonically, "why do all the men you go out with have three-syllable first names?"

"Why do all the women you go out with have two-digit IQs?" Sara countered, but her verbal thrust lacked force because she was preoccupied with Sloan and Paul Richardson. Standing beside Jess, she watched the couple walking across the sand toward the street "He's very attractive," she remarked, thinking aloud.

Jess shrugged. "He doesn't do anything for me."

"That's because
he
doesn't look like a topless dancer."

"I don't trust him," Jess stated, ignoring her topless dancer remark.

"You don't even know him."

"Neither does Sloan."

"Yes she does or she wouldn't have invited him here," Sara argued loyally, but in reality she was staggered that Sloan had not mentioned him to her.

"I'm surprised you aren't already on your way to your office to run a Dun and Bradstreet report on him," Jess said sarcastically.

"I thought I'd wait until tomorrow morning," Sara retorted, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could rile her.

"You are one mercenary little bitch."

Never before in their long history of rivalry had Jess Jessup ever crossed the line from sarcasm to profane personal attack. Sara felt tears sting her eyes, which upset her even more. "You really have a hard time dealing with rejection, don't you?" she fired back.

"You can't reject something that was never offered. And while we're being so blunt," he continued ruthlessly, "can you explain to me why Sloan Reynolds would want a shallow, mercenary, flirtatious tease like you for her best friend?"

Sara felt as if he'd punched her in the stomach. Never in her life had she confronted such virulent contempt from any human being except her mother, and the childhood memories flooded over her, paralyzing her. He was waiting for her to fight back, and she couldn't. For some reason that wasn't even clear anymore, she and Jess had disliked each other from the beginning, but she hadn't realized, hadn't even imagined, that he genuinely despised her. She stared at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears; then she dropped her gaze and swallowed, trying to force the words out. "I'm sorry," she managed as she turned away.

"You're sorry?" he repeated. "What the hell for?"

"For all the things I must have done to make you despise me."

Jonathan arrived with her sweater and spread it over her shoulders, and they walked away. "I'd like to go home now," she told her date. "I'm a little tired."

Jess watched her walk away. "Shit," he said bitterly; then he crushed the beer can in his hand and flung it into a trash container.

«
^
»

S
loan nodded at one of her neighbors who was walking his dog on the beach, and she smiled at another couple who were talking with friends in their front yard, but the minute she stepped into her own living room, she dropped the charade. "Why am I under FBI surveillance?" she demanded.

"How about that cup of coffee while I explain?"

"Yes, of course," Sloan replied after a startled pause, and led him into the kitchen. If he was willing to stay long enough for coffee, then he must be planning to give her a genuine explanation, rather than the brusque brush-off she'd feared.

She went over to the sink and filled the coffeepot with water. As she spooned coffee into the basket, she looked over her shoulder at him, watching as he removed his navy cotton jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. He was about forty, tall and athletically built, with short dark hair, dark eyes, and a square jaw. Clad in a white polo shirt, navy slacks, and navy canvas deck shoes, he would easily pass for an attractive, clean-cut, casually dressed businessman—except that he was also wearing a brown leather shoulder holster with a nine millimeter Sig-Sauer semiautomatic protruding from it. Since he seemed to be unbending a little, Sloan kept her tone very polite and even gave him a little smile of encouragement as she prodded him to begin. "I'm listening."

"Two weeks ago, we discovered that your father was going to make contact with you," he said, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down at the table. "We know he planned to telephone you today. What did he tell you?"

Sloan plugged the coffeepot in, turned around, and leaned against the Formica countertop. "Don't you know that, too?"

"Let's not play games, Detective."

His clipped, autocratic reply irked Sloan, but she had a peculiar feeling that if she kept her cool and played her cards just right, he was going to tell her everything she wanted to know. "He said he'd had a heart attack and he wanted me to come to Palm Beach for a few weeks."

"What did you tell him?"

"I don't even know the man. I've never laid eyes on him. I told him no. Absolutely not."

Paul Richardson already knew all that. He was interested only in her attitude and her spontaneous, unguarded reactions to his questions. "Why did you refuse?"

"I just told you why."

"But he explained to you that he'd had a heart attack and that he wants to get to know you before it's too late."

"It is already thirty years too late."

"Aren't you being a little too impulsive here?" he argued. "There could be a lot of money in this for you—an inheritance."

His notion that Carter Reynolds's money should, or could, influence her decision filled Sloan with scorn. "Impulsive?" she challenged. "I don't think you could say that. When I was only eight years old, my mother lost her job and we ended up living on hot dogs and peanut butter sandwiches for weeks. My mother wanted to call him and ask him for money, but I looked up peanut butter in a schoolbook and proved to her that it was one of the most nutritious foods on earth; then I convinced her I loved peanut butter more than chocolate. When I was twelve, I got pneumonia, and my mother was afraid I was going to die if I didn't go to the hospital, but we didn't have any insurance. My mother told me she was going to call him and ask him to guarantee the hospital bill, but I didn't have to go to the hospital. Do you know why I didn't have to go to the hospital, Agent Richardson?"

"Why?" Paul asked, unwillingly touched by the fierce pride, the ferocious dignity emanating from her.

"Because I got better that very night. And do you know why I made such a miraculous recovery?"

"No, why?"

"I made that miraculous recovery because I
refused
to do anything that would ever,
ever
force us to accept one cent from that creep."

"I see."

"Then you'll also see why I wouldn't touch his money now, when I'm neither sick nor hungry. In fact, the only thing I'd turn down faster than his money at this moment is his invitation to spend time with him in Palm Beach so that he can soothe his conscience." She turned back to the counter and reached into a cabinet for two coffee mugs.

"What would it take to make you change your mind about visiting him?"

"A miracle."

Paul remained silent, waiting for her curiosity to rise to the surface once her animosity ebbed. He thought it would take her several minutes to make the emotional transition, but in that he had also underestimated her. "Did Carter Reynolds send you here to try to change my mind?" she demanded. "Are you here officially for the FBI, or is it possible that you're doing a little moonlighting for him on your vacation?"

Her suggestion was completely off-base, but it told Paul she had a clever imagination and the ability to make quantum leaps in logic on her own. Unfortunately, he did not regard either of those qualities as an advantage to him in the particular role he had in mind for her.

"The bureau is interested in some of Reynolds's business activities and in some of his business partners," he replied, ignoring her accusation. "Recently we uncovered information that indicates he's involved in certain criminal activities, but we don't have enough evidence yet to prove that he's directly or even knowingly involved."

Despite her genuine indifference to her father, Paul noticed that she went very still at the realization that he was probably a criminal. Instead of feeling some understandable gratification at the news, as he'd hoped and expected she would, she evidently didn't want to believe that of him. She got past it within moments, however, and sent him a quick, apologetic smile; then she poured coffee into the mugs and carried the tray over to the table.

"What kind of activities do you think he's involved in?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"I don't understand what any of this has to do with me," she said as she slid into a chair across from him. "You can't think I'm involved in whatever he's doing," she added with such sincerity in her voice that Paul smiled against his will.

"We don't think that. You were of no interest to us until a few weeks ago. We have an informant close to him in San Francisco who tipped us off about you and about his intention to contact you. Unfortunately, as of yesterday, that informant is no longer accessible to us."

"Why not?"

"He died."

"Of natural causes?" Sloan persisted, unconsciously reverting to the detective she was trained to be.

Richardson's almost imperceptible hesitation told her the answer even before he spoke. "No."

While Sloan was still reeling from that, Richardson continued. "We've had him under surveillance, but we haven't been able to get enough evidence to persuade a judge to authorize a wiretap. Reynolds maintains an impressive suite of offices in San Francisco, but he transacts the business we're interested in elsewhere, possibly at home. He's cautious and he's clever. He's leaving for Palm Beach and we'd like to have someone in place close to him while he's there."

"Me," Sloan concluded with a sinking feeling.

"Not you. Me. Tomorrow, I'd like you to have a sudden change of heart and call Reynolds. Tell him you've decided you would like an opportunity to get to know him, and that you'll join him in Palm Beach."

"What good will that do you?"

He gave her an innocent look that wasn't innocent at all. "Naturally, you'll want to bring a friend along so you won't feel all alone and self-conscious in your new surroundings, someone you can while away the time with when you aren't spending it with your newfound father."

Appalled by what he was suggesting, Sloan leaned limply against the back of her chair and stared at him. "That friend would be you?"

"Of course."

"Of course," she repeated dazedly.

"If Reynolds objects to your bringing this friend along, tell him that we were planning to spend your two-week vacation together and that you won't change your vacation plans unless I can come along. He'll give in. He has a thirty-room house in Palm Beach, so an extra guest won't matter. Besides, he's not in any position to impose limitations on you right now."

An overpowering weariness settled over Sloan. "I'll have to think this over for a while."

"You can give me your answer tomorrow," he stipulated; then he glanced at his watch, took a few swallows of his scalding coffee, and stood up, reaching for his jacket. "I have to get back to the hotel for a phone call. I'll come back here in the morning. You're off tomorrow, so that will give us time to work out a story that will satisfy everyone here and everyone in Palm Beach. You will not be able to disclose the truth to anyone, Sloan. That specifically includes Sara Gibbon, Roy Ingersoll, and Jessup."

Sloan found it a little odd and unsettling that he "specifically" included those people, but when he added, "That also includes your mother," she felt a little better.

"I can't overemphasize the need for absolute secrecy," he continued as they walked through the living room. "No one is to be considered trustworthy here, or when we get to Palm Beach. There is more at risk than you know."