The Chase: A Novel (11 page)

“I hate it when you do that,” he said.

She ignored the remark and handed him the photograph and fax.

“Thank you, Claire,” he said. Then he hesitated. “Look,” he said. “I want you to lay low for a while.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

He avoided her gaze. “Because there’s a slight chance, a very slight chance, that you may be in danger, too.”

Claire wished Ian a good trip, then waved after him as the sedan crept away. Then she leaped into her Land Rover, which, miraculously, had a ticket but had not yet been towed, and she sped out of Maiden Lane in the opposite direction. By the time she reached the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, four and a half minutes had elapsed. She had run three red lights, and she doubted he would appear for a half an hour, if not more.

Her heart felt as if it had become permanently lodged in her throat. She was in danger? Could this be happening?

Claire had the valet park her car and watched to make sure it was whisked away into the underground garage, because if it remained in front of the hotel, she had not a doubt Ian would notice it. She was going to con her way into his room so she could find the answers he refused to give her. Determination fueled her now. She ran into the lobby. Having connections paid off. She had used the Mandarin Oriental Hotel for a fall gala for San Fran Save a few months ago, and had attended many events there over the years. Claire knew several of the concierges, as well as the events manager and the general manager. One of the concierges was only too happy to help her out, and she learned that Ian’s room was 514.

Good God, she thought, going over to the marble bank of elevators. Had she just bribed the concierge? It was unbelievable.

She could not be pleased. What kind of danger could she possibly be in? And more important, why?

On the fifth floor, Claire found his room and went through the process of pretending to discover that she did not have a key. A hotel maid with a housekeeping cart approached. “I will call security,” she said in a heavily accented voice.

“I am going to divorce the bastard,” Claire cried, beginning to weep. “He left me stranded—stranded—at the Embarcadero, and I have no money, no change, he has the bank card, he is such a shit! And he has the keys! I am divorcing him, I have had it, screw men!” She wept. It was amazing what fear could do. She had never been a good actress before.

Someone banged on a wall or door and shouted, “Be quiet!”

“I divorced my husband, and I am very happy, you will be happy, too,” the maid said, shaking her head. “Here, honey, go in.” She unlocked the door for Claire and smiled. “Just don’t tell anybody, I break the rules.”

“You are so kind,” Claire said, giving her ten dollars.

The maid stuffed it in her apron, and Claire decided she had better ease up on the bribes or payoffs or whatever they were. She was on a budget now.

And then she was inside Ian Marshall’s room, and she double-locked the door. Now he would not be able to get in, not even with his electronic key.

Claire collapsed against the door. And then she smiled, at once incredulous and disbelieving. God, she had done it. She had broken and entered into a hotel room. It was as if she had become someone else.

She looked around.

The room was state-of-the-art and modern. There was a king-size bed, two stark white stone bed tables, interesting iron wall sconces, and a desk. There was also an entertainment center, which probably housed a minibar. A laptop was on the desk.

Claire sat down at the desk. As she booted up, she looked down at Ian’s briefcase.

Claire didn’t hesitate. She bent and opened it. Inside were various folders and pads. She took everything out and began skimming over his notes. The problem was, they were illegible to her eye.

She flipped pages, then frowned, because the one name that did leap out at her was Robert Ducasse.

Robert Ducasse was her uncle, who had died in 1944, just before D-day. He had been a hero of the French Resistance.

Claire did not like finding his name on Ian’s legal pad. She stared at it. Why was there a question mark next to his name?

Windows ME came up. Relieved, Claire put down the pads by her feet. She hesitated, deciding to check his agenda first. She opened up his Task Scheduler and, with a click, found the second week of April, the week of David’s death.

“Hayden” was entered for April 12, as was the note “Party, 7
P.M
.” Her home address was there, and her home telephone number. Inhaling, Claire scrolled back to April 10, the day George Suttill had been murdered. His name was listed under the date.

Claire didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she opened up his address book, and sure enough, David was listed under Hayden—all of his numbers, and his work address as well as that of their home. There was a notation that read “Wife—Claire.”

Claire stared at the page. Why was she so uneasy?

She turned to D. Instantly, she found her father’s name, address, and numbers, as well as those of the Dukes. What were the Dukes doing in Ian’s address book?

Claire’s fear increased.

Claire closed the scheduler and opened up the Documents folder. She saw a file named Elgin and clicked on it, her pulse racing with excitement. She quickly read that Lionel Elgin had been born in 1922 at Elgin Hall, his family home just outside of London. Claire stopped, stunned.
They were after an Englishman?

She exhaled loudly and continued to read. He had come from an old and wealthy family. His father, Randolph Elgin, had been a baron; his mother had died when he was a young boy. He had attended Eton and was in his first year at Oxford when the war began. He inherited his father’s title and estates when his father disappeared in August 1940. By then, Lionel was a lieutenant in the air force.

Something sounded behind Claire, but she did not quite hear it. Elgin was an Englishman, not a German, and if he had been born in 1922, he was only seventeen when the war began in 1939.

Elgin was an Englishman—and William Duke was in Ian Marshall’s address book.

Claire’s heart felt as if it had dropped from her body and right through the floor. Like a damned World War II rocket.

How old was William Duke? Good God, he was in his eighties. He was older than Elgin, who was in his late seventies.

Something jiggled behind her. Claire froze.
Ian had opened the door, and now he was trying to open it fully, but the safety latch wouldn’t allow him to open it more than an inch or two
.

Claire was afraid to breathe, to move.

A silence fell. He had stopped trying to pull open the door.

Shit and damn and double damn
, Claire thought, panicked.

Slowly, she turned and looked at the door, now slightly ajar. She saw nothing, and too late, she recalled that he had a gun.

And then it struck her that he might think someone else was in his room—someone like Elgin.

“Ian, it’s only me!” she cried, jumping to her feet.

His eye appeared in the crack between the door and the wall, and with it, the nose of his black gun. “God damn it,” he said, very low and succinctly. “Open the door, Claire. Now.”

Claire wet her lips. Of course she had to let him in.

“Open the door, Claire. Before I shoot the latch off.”

“You wouldn’t”

“I would. I have a silencer. Open the door.”

Claire opened the door.

Ian came in. She looked at his gun as he closed the door, her heart exploding in her chest with fear and dire predictions. The gun did not have a silencer attached to it. He had lied—again.

Not a good sign
, she thought.

He shut and double-locked the door behind her. “What the hell are you doing?”

Claire shrugged helplessly. She was trying to figure out how many seconds it would take her to unlock the door and flee.

He scanned the room and cursed. “You just don’t give up, do you, Claire?”

Tears of fright almost came. She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”

“Under other circumstances, I would admire your gumption. But right now, I’m pissed.”

“Sorry,” she whispered meekly.

He put his gun down on the desk by the laptop. He studied the screen, then glanced at the notes at his feet. He looked up—at her. “So now you know.”

She swallowed, but she was short of saliva. “I know Elgin is English. I know that you have William Duke’s name in your address book.”
And he’s English, too
, she wanted to add, but wisely, she did not.

He sighed.

Then she heard herself say, “William is one of the nicest and kindest men I know. I’ve known him my entire life. He is not a killer. He is not Elgin.”

Ian stared.

“You think it’s him!” she cried, horrified. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?

“Go home, Claire,” Ian Marshall said, sounding tired. He walked over to the closet and took out a garment bag, throwing it on the bed. Then he turned, removing his jacket, which he tossed on the chair. He unbuckled and slid off his holster. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you might be in danger.”

“But why?” Claire managed.

He was unbuttoning his pale blue shirt. “The killer may be someone you know, and that’s all I can say right now.”

Claire stared. Oh, God.
It could not be William Duke!

He stripped off the shirt, tossing it aside, and shrugged on a red polo shirt.

Claire flushed. The man was all muscle—either he had a great metabolism or he worked out. She suspected both. “I can’t go home,” she said.

He put two suits into the garment bag, and a pair of shoes. “How come I thought you’d say that?”

Claire hadn’t moved since he had come into the room. Now she wrung her hands. “Why is my uncle’s name on that pad?” she asked fearfully.

He zipped up the garment bag, and folded it over. He straightened and turned. Their eyes met. He was silent.

“My uncle died over half a century ago,” she cried. But she was feeling ill.

His face darkened with anger. “Fine. I give up. You know what, you’re a ballsy lady for a society dame, and being as you are hounding me out of all patience, I concede the day, Claire. You win.”

He was shouting. Claire pressed her spine into the door.

“I’m not sure your uncle is dead,” Ian Marshall said. “I’m not sure he’s dead, and I’m not sure that
he
isn’t Lionel Elgin.”

CHAPTER 4

If a bomb had exploded right in front of her, she would not have been more stunned. “Are you nuts?” she demanded, but she began to shake.

He crossed his arms and stared. “No. I’m not crazy, Claire.” He hesitated. “And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.”

“The bearer of bad tidings?”
She felt shell-shocked. “Excuse me. My uncle died in May of 1944. So if he was Elgin, Elgin is dead—and someone is a copycat killer!”

“Elgin is alive,” Ian said.

“And my uncle was a Frenchman,” Claire cried. “What are you suggesting, that he was born in England, that he was born an Elgin—which would make my father what, Ian?” Fury overcame her. “A liar, that’s what it would make him.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian repeated grimly. “I am more sorry than you can know.”

Claire didn’t like that. She stiffened in alarm. But this would explain why Ian had been so reluctant to be honest with her. “My father was born in a small village in France, about a hundred kilometers south of Paris. So was Robert. End of story. And Robert is
dead.”

“So it’s been claimed,” Ian said.

Claire stared at him, her breathing fast and shallow. So much fear consumed her that she could hardly think straight or see clearly. “Maybe you’re Elgin,” she said, jabbing her hand in his direction.

“I’m thirty-nine, Claire,” Ian said quietly. “Maybe you’d better sit down. You are as white as a sheet.” Kindness had crept into his tone. He seemed reluctant to allow it in.

“I’m not sitting anywhere,” Claire shouted. “You know what I meant. Maybe you’re copycatting Elgin!”

“You’re hysterical. I’m hunting Elgin, Claire. I’m
hunting
the man who killed your husband, George Suttill, and a number of others as well.”

Her uncle was dead. And he was a Frenchman—her father was a Frenchman. Robert Ducasse was not alive, and he was not an alias for Lionel Elgin. It was impossible.

“But you suspect William, too.” She met his gaze. She had been hoping to calm herself, but accusing William Duke, who was more of an uncle to her than Robert had ever been—obviously, since Robert had died twenty-odd years before she was born—did not help her to recover her composure.

’There’s three years missing from William Duke’s life in the mid-forties—it’s highly suspicious and too damn coincidental for me.”

Claire turned away. She felt ravaged, more so than she had ever thought it possible to be. But her father could not have deceived her all of these years, claiming to be a Frenchman, claiming that his brother was dead. “My father is fluent in French,” she said.

Ian was studying her very closely.

Claire shivered.

“What is it, Claire? What is it that you really want to ask me?” Ian asked softly.

Claire continued to tremble. She went to the bed and sat down, gripping the edge of the mattress. She hadn’t really heard him. “I need to understand now, Ian. I need to understand everything. Tell me about David . . . and Elgin.”

He seemed somewhat surprised by her response. “You don’t need to know.”

Claire launched herself at him. She grabbed his arms, on the verge of tears. “You can’t do this to me!” she cried. “You can’t appear in my life, and then the next thing I know, David is dead! You can’t come into my life this way and accuse someone I love of being a horrible, horrible liar.” She knew she referred to her father now, when it had been William she wanted to discuss. “If you have any ethics—and any kindness—you will explain everything to me.” Tears swam in her eyes. His face, so close to hers, was blurring. Claire released him abruptly. There was too much compassion in his eyes—and too much pity.

Claire turned her back to him.
There was something else there, but she must not consider it.
“Besides,” she said harshly, “I’m your partner now.”