Night Whispers (11 page)

"I haven't agreed to go to Palm Beach with you yet," Sloan reminded him very firmly at the front door. "Also, it isn't a good idea to meet here tomorrow. Sara will be bursting with questions about you, and my mom is going to try to talk me into going to Palm Beach, even though I left a message on her answering machine saying that I absolutely wouldn't go. Both of them will probably appear here first thing in the morning."

"In that case, where can we meet?"

"How about the same place that we met tonight—at the dunes?"

Instead of replying, Paul shrugged into his jacket and studied the young woman waiting for his answer. In the last hour, she'd dealt calmly and efficiently with a man she believed to be an armed attacker, and with only moments to make the adjustment, she'd adapted to the need to pass her attacker off as her friend. A few minutes ago, he'd watched her adjust to the fact that her socialite father could actually be a criminal. Despite her small frame and delicate appearance, she was physically fit and mentally agile. Even so, he could see that the day had taken its toll on her. She looked tense and exhausted, and he felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt for having doused her vitality and warmth. He made an effort to lighten her mood a little. "When you see me at the dunes, could you be a little gentler with me this time?" he asked dryly.

"Are you going to attack me again?" she countered, managing a smile.

"I didn't attack you; I tripped."

"I like my version better," she jauntily informed him, and Paul laughed despite his worries.

As he crossed her front yard, however, his amusement gave way to concern over the problems she was likely to cause him in Palm Beach. Originally, he'd rejected the idea of using her in such a complex undercover scheme. He'd seen enough inept, inexperienced, and corrupt small-town cops to have developed an instinctive mistrust of them all, and the fact that this particular small-town cop had turned out to be a remarkably savvy, squeaky-clean young idealist who looked like a wholesome college cheerleader wasn't totally reassuring to him either.

He wasn't the least bit worried that she'd refuse to go to Palm Beach with him. Based on everything he'd read about Sloan Reynolds in her FBI file as well as his own personal observations, he was certain she would go to Palm Beach. The same stubborn integrity that had made her choose peanut butter as an eight-year-old, rather than contacting her father for money, would now force her to swallow her pride, reverse the upright, moral stance of a lifetime, and go to him in Palm Beach.

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T
he Ocean View Motel did not actually offer a view of the ocean except to the seagulls roosting on its roof, but it did have a swimming pool, a lounge that was open until two A.M., and cable television. All those facilities were in use at one A.M., when Paul pulled up in front of the main entrance.

The television set in the lobby was tuned to CNN, the sound drowned out by the jukebox in the lounge, where a half dozen people were drinking at the bar and ignoring the dance floor. He walked out a rear door and skirted around the swimming pool, where some teenage boys were playing water volleyball and keeping up a steady stream of friendly macho obscenities.

The telephone in his room was ringing when he let himself inside. Out of habit, not necessity, he let the phone continue to ring while he double-locked the door, checked it, and pulled the draperies over the windows; then he walked over to the bed and answered the phone. The voice on the cellular phone belonged to an agent whom Paul had known for years, one who'd been in Bell Harbor for the last two days helping Paul check out Sloan Reynolds. "Well?" the other agent demanded eagerly. "I saw you with her on the beach at a party. Is she going to cooperate?"

"She'll cooperate," Paul said. Cradling the phone on his shoulder, he leaned over and flipped on the air-conditioner to high, and the smell of cold, moldy air hit him in the face.

"I thought you weren't going to make contact with her until tomorrow morning."

"I changed my mind."

"When?"

"It might have been when she came up behind me and knocked me on my ass. No, I think it was right after that, when she was holding a nine millimeter Glock on me."

His friend let out a guffaw. "She made you? You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not, and if you harbor any hope of my continued friendship, you won't bring it up again." Despite the gruffness of his tone, Paul couldn't help smiling at the remarkable indignities that had been inflicted on him tonight by a naïve, inexperienced female cop who weighed less than one hundred ten pounds.

"I heard three shots tonight. With all her marksmanship medals from the police academy, I'm surprised she didn't at least nick you."

"She wasn't firing at me. She'd cornered what she believed to be an armed assailant on a crowded beach, and she knew her pals were less than three hundred yards away. Rather than taking the risk of disarming me single-handedly, which could have ultimately jeopardized the safety of innocent bystanders, she fired into the air and signaled for help. It was a good call on her part. Prudent, expedient, and imaginative."

He paused to prop a pillow against the headboard and stretch out on the bed before he continued. "By the time her backup arrived a few minutes later, she'd discovered who I am, grasped what I needed her to do, and she assumed the role she needed to play and pulled it off. All things considered," he finished, "she showed remarkable skill and adaptability."

"She sounds like she's perfect for your job then."

Leaning his head back, Paul closed his eyes and battled with his private misgivings. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Are you still worried that once she's in Reynolds's Palm Beach palace, surrounded by all his wealth and rich friends, she'll be tempted to switch sides on you?"

"After talking to her tonight, I'd say that's extremely unlikely."

"Then what's the problem? By your own admission she's smart, she's adaptable, and she's also a better shot than you are." When his friend didn't rise to that bait, he added cheerfully, "I don't think we should hold it against her that she also happens to have great legs and a beautiful face." In the telling silence that followed, the humor vanished from his voice. "Paul, we've ascertained that she's not corrupt, you don't think she's corruptible, and now you've discovered she's clever. What the hell is bothering you, anyway?"

"What bothers me is that she's a Girl Scout. It's fairly obvious she became a cop because she wants to help people. She rescues kites from trees and searches for mongrels in the street; then she stays on duty so she can comfort an old Hispanic woman whose house is burning to the ground. Given a choice between living on peanut butter when she was a kid, or asking her father for money, she chose the peanut butter. She's an idealist to the core, and
that
is what bothers me about her."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you know what an idealist is?"

"Yes, but I'd like to hear your definition, because until ten seconds ago I thought idealism was a rare virtue."

"Maybe so, but it's not an asset to me in a situation like this. Idealists have a peculiar habit of deciding for themselves what's right and wrong; they listen to their own voices; then they act on their own judgment. Unless idealism has been tempered, it bows to no authority but its own. Idealists are loose cannons in any situation, but in a sensitive operation like this one, a
naïve
idealist like Sloan Reynolds could become a nuclear warhead."

"I gather from that enlightening flight into philosophy that you're afraid she won't let you tell her what to think?"

"Exactly."

Sara said good night to Jonathan as soon as she reached her front door; then she took a hot shower, trying to steam away the chill of Jess's taunts. Somehow, the verbal combat had broken out between them soon after they'd first met, and she'd fallen into the habit of defending herself with periodic counterattacks. But tonight, he'd gone too far. He'd turned brutal. Worse, there'd been an element of truth in his words, which hurt her even more.

She was toweling her hair dry when her doorbell rang. Puzzled and cautious, she wrapped herself in a long robe, went into the living room, and peeked between the draperies before she went to the door. A Bell Harbor police cruiser was parked at the curb in front of her house. Pete must have decided to continue his party here, she thought with a weary smile, and the others would soon be arriving.

She opened the front door, and her smile abruptly faded. Jess Jessup was standing on her porch, his dark hair tousled as if he'd been running his hands through it—or, more likely, some eager woman on the beach had rumpled his hair after Sara left. Judging by the grim expression on his face, the lady's attentions must have been unsatisfactory. Injecting as much ice into her voice as she could, Sara said scornfully, "If you're not here on official police business, go away and don't ever come back here again. For Sloan's sake, I'll be polite to you if she's with you, but if she's not, you stay away from me!" She wanted to say more, and worse, but she suddenly felt like crying, which made her feel stupid and even angrier.

His brows snapped together as she finished her tirade. "I came here to apologize for the things I said tonight," he said, sounding angry, not apologetic.

"Fine," Sara said coldly. "You've done it. It doesn't change my mind." She started to shove the door closed, but he blocked it with his foot.

"Now what?" she demanded.

"I just realized I didn't come here to apologize." Before she could react, he caught her shoulders and pulled her toward him. "Get your hands off me—" she stormed; then his mouth swooped down and captured hers in a hard kiss that was easy to resist—until it softened. Shock and anger and an awful twinge of pleasure made her pulse race, but she stayed perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of struggling or cooperating.

As soon as he released her, Sara stepped back, her right hand groping for the doorknob. "Is assault a turn-on for those bimbos you date?" she demanded, and before he could reply, Sara gave the door a mighty shove that sent it slamming in his face.

Paralyzed, Sara stayed where she was until she heard his car start; then she slowly turned and leaned limply against the front door. Dry-eyed, she stared at the carefully chosen accessories she'd bought for her living room—a beautiful porcelain vase, an antique footstool, a small Louis XIV table. They were cherished items, of fine quality—beautiful symbols of the beautiful life she planned for herself and the children she would someday have.

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I
t was dusk when Carter Reynolds hung up the telephone in his office at home and swiveled around in his chair, gazing out the large circular window behind him. The San Francisco skyline stretched out before him, shrouded in fog—mysterious, exciting. In two weeks, he had to exchange all this for the monotonous blue skies of Palm Beach in March, a pilgrimage that his family had taken for generations, a tradition that his grandmother would not allow him to forsake.

In recent years, he'd come to regard the biannual trips to Palm Beach as increasingly irksome, unavoidable intrusions on his life, but after this last phone call, the trip was suddenly ripe with life-altering possibilities. For nearly an hour, he remained where he was, contemplating a complex variety of scenarios; then he swiveled around and pressed a button on the telephone that activated the house intercom. "Where is Mrs. Reynolds?" he asked the servant who answered.

"I believe she's resting in her room before dinner, sir."

"And my daughter?"

"I believe she is with Mrs. Reynolds, reading to her, sir."

Pleased that the women were together, he stood up and headed for the third floor, where forty years ago, his grandfather's architect had decided the family's suites should be located. Ignoring the elevator, he walked up a broad staircase with an ornate black wrought-iron railing; then he turned to the right, down a paneled hall where portraits of his ancestors brooded back at him from their heavy, richly carved frames.

"I'm glad the two of you are together," he said when Paris answered his knock and let him in. The room made him feel claustrophobic with its maroon brocade draperies perpetually drawn over the windows to block out the light and the cloying scent of lavender hanging in the air. Trying not to let it depress him, he looped his arm over Paris's shoulder and smiled at his grandmother, who was seated in a baroque chair beside the fireplace. With her white hair in a chignon and her frail body garbed in a gray dress with a high collar held together by a large filigree and ruby broach, Edith Reynolds looked like a well-to-do Whistler's Mother, except her spine was more rigid.

"What is it, Carter?" she demanded in her imperious voice. "Do be quick, will you. Paris was reading to me, and we're in a very good part of the story."

"I have exciting news for you both," he said, waiting politely for Paris to be seated.

"Sloan just called me," he told them. "She's had a change of heart. She's decided to join us in Palm Beach and stay with us for two weeks."