The Chase: A Novel (15 page)

“Hello?”

“Claire, is that you?”

Claire blinked, stunned, at the sound of Elizabeth Duke’s voice. “Elizabeth?” Guilt filled her. She had left town without calling Elizabeth or saying good-bye. Worse, she hadn’t said anything about William, and should she? William could not be Elgin, but what if she was wrong?

“Claire!” Elizabeth’s voice filled with relief. “I’m so glad I found you. Your father was so distraught, and he called me a few moments ago. Oh, Claire. Are you all right?”

Claire turned off the burner and sat down at the tiny kitchen table. “I’m okay. Much better than I’ve been, actually.” But her mind was racing. What had Jean-Léon said, exactly?

“You sound better, and for that, I’m relieved. But Claire, I am worried about you.”

“Please don’t worry. I’m in good hands,” Claire said, envisioning just that—herself in Ian Marshall’s large hands.

“Don’t worry? Your father says you’ve teamed up with Marshall to find David’s killer. He’s afraid you might be in danger, and I am, too. Claire, this isn’t like you.”

“No, it’s not.” Claire wondered what else Jean-Léon had told Elizabeth. “How did you get this number? And how did you know I was here?”

“Your father had the number, Marshall gave it to him yesterday morning. I didn’t expect to find you there, but I was hoping Marshall would tell me where you were staying.”

“It was easier to stay at his place. We got in very late last night.” Claire felt herself flush. Of course, never in a million years would Elizabeth suspect that Claire was having fantasies about jumping into bed with her host. She would never in an eternity suspect a real affair, either.

There was a pause. Then, “Claire, will you consider coming home? The police will find David’s killer. That’s their job.”

Claire hesitated. “I can’t, Elizabeth. I just have to do this.”

“But why? You were about to move into that charming house in Mill Valley. You’re in the middle of planning a fund-raiser. Why? What if, God forbid, you get hurt?”

Claire actually considered the question. “Elizabeth? I know this sounds strange, but for the first time in years—and I do mean years—I feel young and alive.”

There was absolute silence on the other end of the phone.

Now Claire blushed. She felt her cheeks burn.

“My God, Claire, you’re in a state of grief. Has Marshall taken advantage of you?”

“Have you and Jean-Léon been comparing notes?”

“We have. He doesn’t like him, Claire, and I trust your father’s judgment completely.”

“Well, I sort of do like him,” Claire said, surprised because she was actually bristling.

“Very well. You know, your mother was a very determined woman, and I have always thought you were so much like her. Now more than ever.” Elizabeth’s tone was soft but resigned.

“Wish me luck?”

“I’ll do more than that. Is there anything at all I can do to help—or see you through this safely?”

Claire thought about it. “Yes. Would you please make sure that Jean-Léon finds a bill of sale for the Courbet he gave us for David’s birthday?”

Elizabeth seemed surprised. “That’s an odd request.”

“Just please make sure he does it.” Claire felt relieved. Apparently her father had not mentioned everything she and Ian were up to. Just in case William was, somehow, a ruthless and sociopathic killer, it was best that Elizabeth did not know about their hunt for Elgin.

“Very well. Which hotel will you be in?”

Claire started. She realized that Elizabeth assumed she was staying in New York, and that she would be more comfortable in a hotel. “Actually, I’m off to Wales. But I’ll call from the U.K. so you don’t worry.”

“Wales? Claire—” Elizabeth began in a worried and motherly protest.

“Trust me, Elizabeth. I’m a grown woman and I can handle this.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I know you can. But how can I not worry? It’s almost as if you’ve run off with an absolute stranger, and it’s just not like you.”

“Maybe I had a lobotomy in my sleep,” Claire said.

“What?”

“Bad joke. How’s William?”

“I haven’t told him yet what’s going on. He loves you so, and I hate worrying him.” She hesitated. “He hasn’t been feeling well recently, Claire, and I didn’t want to say anything. He’s going in tomorrow for tests. He’s been complaining of dizziness.”

Claire froze. “Oh, no. Please tell me he’s all right.”

“I’m sure he is,” Elizabeth said, too firmly—as if trying to convince herself. But they both knew that William was in his early eighties, and at that age, any number of medical conditions could occur.

“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” Claire said decisively, worried now about the man who had showered her with so much affection for most of her life.

“You do that, dear. And Claire? If you need anything, call.”

Claire promised that she would, and they exchanged good-byes. Then Claire stared at the phone, concerned about William. This was not the first time in her life she had faced the fact that life was so unpredictable and so fragile. She had learned that horrific lesson at the too tender age of ten.

Claire finished her breakfast. It was almost two, and she decided to shower and dress. But on her way to the shower, she found herself making a detour. The one room in Ian’s condo that she hadn’t even glimpsed was his office.

Claire walked past the bathroom and to the end of the hall. His office door was closed; she pushed it open. A room with wood floors and three walls of bookcases, all crammed with books and notes, faced her. Also facing her was a wall of windows, and his desk and PC.

This was a very serious office indeed, Claire thought, wondering if it was off-limits. But they were partners now, so he should not have anything to hide.

Claire walked in, glancing at one shelf of books. Medieval history tomes faced her. She smiled. Clearly he was a Renaissance man.

She walked over to his desk, and the first and only thing she saw was the photograph. Her smile vanished.

It was black-and-white. Clearly the young man was an officer, for he wore a belted uniform and beret. In fact, as Claire picked it up, she saw wings over the man’s left breast pocket, as well as half a dozen medals. And the officer resembled Ian.

Almost exactly. Like twins, or like a father and son. He was smiling at the camera, a reckless gleam in his eyes. And those were Ian’s eyes, Ian’s nose and chin, and one but not two of Ian’s dimples.

Chills crept over Claire. This explained why it was so personal for Ian Marshall. The officer had to be his father.

And clearly, this was a dated photograph. Claire squinted at it, but there was no way she could tell if the uniform was American or not. She wasn’t certain why it mattered, but a gut feeling told her that it did.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to ferret out Eddy,” a voice said from behind her.

Claire whirled. Ian stood in the doorway, leaning against the wall. His eyes were on her intently.

Claire held up the photo, then the question she was about to ask died.

Ian was taking a long look at her legs.

She flushed, even though this had been her silly plan all along.

“You could lift that photo a bit higher,” Ian said a touch roughly.

Claire realized what he meant, and she felt her color heighten. She dropped her hand to her side, and the T-shirt fell an inch or so. “You could have knocked.”

“My office. My T-shirt. You could have changed.”

“I was just about to jump in the shower.”

“This does look like the bathroom,” Ian agreed.

Claire walked over to him, not quite steadily. “I was snooping. Guilty as charged. But not with malicious intent. Is there a reduced penalty for good intent? I
am
sorry,” she added.

“Are you?”

Claire bit her lower lip, because how could she be sorry? She had just found Ian’s personal connection with World War II. “You win. I’ll go to jail,” she said.

“Not funny. I happen to know you don’t have a malicious bone in your body, Claire,” he said. “I also know you’re dying to ask who that man is.
That
is Eddy Marshall.”

He took the photo from her hand and put it back on his desk. Then he walked over to a bookcase and handed her another photo, also in a frame.

Claire blinked and her heart jumped. She took everything in almost at once. She was looking at the same handsome young man, only now he was with two other men, everyone wearing beaten-up bomber jackets and standing arm in arm, grinning, in front of some kind of old, open-air, single-seat plane with a big propeller and a round nose. Clearly they were pilots, and now she could see the RAF insignia on the plane.

And there was an RAF pilot whose body was found in a pond not far from Elgin Hall, his throat slit.
Ian had told her so.

“Who is Eddy Marshall? Your father? He was in the RAF?”

He went to her and took the photo from her hands. He stared down at it grimly. “No. Eddy Marshall was my uncle—my father’s oldest brother.”

“And?” She held her breath.

“And he was Elgin’s first victim,” Ian said. “His first victim, but clearly not his last.”

CHAPTER 6

He was the pilot Elgin had murdered. This helped to explain so much. “When was this taken?” Claire whispered finally.

“The summer of 1940.” Ian put the framed photo back on the bookshelf. “Eddy quit his job and took off for France to join l’Armée de l’Air so he could fight the Germans in April or May of 1939. He went over with two or three other American boys.”

Claire stared back at him. Her mind was racing. “How did it happen?” she asked.

“He never got a chance to fight in France; the country fell before he could complete his training,” Ian continued. “He somehow got to Britain, claimed he was a Canadian, and joined a Canadian squadron of the RAF. By July of 1940 he was fighting Germans, all right. He was the first American to down a Gerry—an ME-110. Before he died, he had ten kills on his record, and he was wing commander of an Eagle squadron. He was a hero, Claire.” Ian was harsh and grim. “An all-American hero.”

“And?”

“Elgin murdered him. Eddy was on to the bastard, and Elgin murdered him in late December 1940. In fact, it was Christmas Eve.”

Claire stared, her heart skipping a dozen beats. “This is why you are burning to get Elgin.”

“I am determined—not burning—to get Elgin because I believe in justice, and thus far, Elgin has eluded all justice. I am determined to get Elgin because his is the most heinous of the cases I have on my desk.”

Claire only half believed him. Her mind made rapid calculations, and all the while, she tried to remain skeptical and logical. “How did Eddy uncover Elgin? I mean, no one else did.”

Ian sighed. “Eddy’s job before he took off for France was with the FBI.”

Claire’s eyes widened.

Ian shrugged. “My baby sister is a fed right now. It sort of runs in the family.”

Claire stared. “Are you an agent?” She didn’t know anything about the FBI, but it might explain the gun he carried. Claire felt certain that the average Nazi hunter was no Indiana Jones.

He did smile. “Are you kidding? You know what I do and where I work. Besides, federal agents make squat. If that was my income, I couldn’t live like this.”

Claire knew he was telling the truth. “So what are you saying? Eddy had some training and he stumbled onto Elgin by sheer chance?”

“Yes and no. Eddy was in love with Elgin’s cousin, Rachel Greene.” He gazed at Claire. “That was how he met Lionel Elgin. So my guess is that he stumbled onto Elgin’s activities by chance, but after meeting him through Rachel.”

“How did they meet?” Claire asked after a moment. “Eddy and Rachel, I mean.”

“I know what you meant. I don’t know how Eddy and Rachel met. The family myth is he crash-landed right at her feet.” Ian smiled then. “Which makes a cute story, but I doubt it’s true. However, they were newlyweds when he was murdered.”

Claire had to shiver again. “Poor Rachel,” she heard herself whisper. “Poor Eddy.”

“Yeah,” Ian said flatly. Claire took one last look at the handsome, carefree young fighter pilot in the photos on the bookshelf. An idea occurred to her. “Is there any way to know if the same person killed all three—Eddy and George Suttill and David?”

“Special Branch believes to this day that the same killer did in Eddy, the intelligence officers, Suttill, and David. It’s the assumption they, the SFPD, and the FBI are working on. The bad news is that the killer is a pro. He didn’t leave any evidence behind with either Suttill or David, just the deed itself.”

“Well,” Claire said, “the plot thickens.”

“You need to pack. And change.” He started for the door. “Unless you intend to get arrested for indecent exposure.”

Claire followed him out, smiling and satisfied. “Do you think this is indecent? I kinda thought it was sexy.”

He ignored her, heading into his own bathroom. Claire stared after him, glad he’d returned—until an image of the reckless and handsome Eddy Marshall came to mind. His resemblance with Ian was eerie. So, being in the FBI ran in the family? There was something about that statement, or the way Ian had made it, that gave her pause. She could smell a rat. He was holding out on her again, she felt certain of it.

And she was still wondering why he didn’t have any photographs of his father anywhere, when the rest of his home was like a family museum.

Claire went to get dressed.

They arrived in London just before seven, managed Immigration, and killed two hours over breakfast, bleary-eyed, waiting for their short flight to Cardiff. There they rented a car, a small hatchback Fiat. The map proved deceptive. Wales was a region filled with hills, mountains, rivers, and lakes, and the route north had not been direct, although the scenery had become more and more breathtaking the farther they went. By the time they reached the small town of Ruthin, outside of which Lady Elgin now lived, it was early evening.

The town was set on a ridge in the southern end of the Vale of Clwyd, surrounded by lush, wooded hills. They had alternated the driving, with Ian doing his manly best to do most of it, and now he parked on St. Peter’s Square, just a stone’s throw from the old church of the very same name. Two-story buildings, mostly of stone, with timbered fronts, lined the square. Claire felt as if she had walked back in time; having been to England before, she knew that, in many ways, she had.