The Chase: A Novel (30 page)

Claire flopped back against the sticky seat of the cab. “I need panties.”

“What?”

“I didn’t do the best job packing in two minutes flat. I’m short a few things. Do you want a list of unmentionables?”

“Not really.”

“Who are you calling now?” He was on his cell phone.

“My office.”

Claire tuned out. Guilt tried to get a hold on her. She shoved it away. Yes, she did need a few things, but her shopping could wait. What she really needed was a moment alone—so she could call Jean-Léon.

She promised herself that she would not violate Ian’s trust. She would not compromise the investigation. But there was no way she was going to speak with her father with Ian listening to their every word.

Ian hung up. “There’s a few shops in my neighborhood. Mostly boutiques, but—”

“Why don’t you just drop me off at Bloomingdale’s?”

He studied her. “Okay. Claire, I hate seeing you upset like this.”

Claire sighed. “Believe me, it’s not fun.”

“You could change that stubborn mind of yours and go home.”

She looked at him. “So now you want to dump me? You guys are all the same, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”

“Be serious.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Things might get worse.”

Claire flinched. “How much worse?” She stared fearfully into his eyes, but she was seeing Jean-Léon, not Ian.

“I don’t know. But maybe you should prepare yourself.”

The cab dropped Claire off in front of Bloomingdale’s, which she hadn’t been to in years. They were in New York City. No one knew where they were. They were safe for a while. She was safe. So why did she feel uneasy splitting up from Ian now? It was absurd.

She waved briefly and walked to the front doors as the cab pulled away. Then she halted, not going inside. Ian had given her his cell phone, just in case she needed to call him.

The crowd was amazingly dense as it moved around her. She stood there in front of the store, hesitating. Ian hadn’t told her not to speak with Jean-Léon again, so she did not need to feel so guilty. Still, she knew he would not be happy for her to be in touch with her father, not now. Claire made her decision—she just had to speak with Jean-Léon one more time.

And she did not like the train of her thoughts. Why had her brain formed the words “one more time” as if it might be the last time?

Claire remained sick at heart. She quickly dialed Jean-Léon at the art gallery, but the only reply she got was his answering machine. She dialed his cell and it was answered instantly.

“Claire! Where the hell are you now? And where have you been?
Why didn’t you tell me you were shot?”
he demanded.

“How did you know that I was shot?” Claire asked, taken aback. “Dad, it was only a graze.”

“How do I know? I spoke with Elizabeth this morning before she left London, just after she met with you,” Jean-Léon said flatly. “Why do you think she went over there? I asked her to.”

Her heart was pounding erratically now. What was this? A conspiracy of Jean-Léon and Elizabeth? “How long have you known the Dukes, Dad?”

“Why?”

“I need to know.”

“We met in the late fifties, around the time I met your mother.”

Claire froze.
He was lying.

Or had the Dukes been lying?

“What? I missed that. What did you say?” she asked, her heart pounding.

“I met them at a party here in San Francisco. I remember very distinctly—I had just begun dating your mother. Claire, what is this about?”

Was he lying?
Claire refused to believe it—the Dukes had to be lying. “Dad, this is important. Did you find that bill of sale for the Courbet?”

“What?” he exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

“I need the bill of sale, Dad. I need you to fax it over to me.”

“What are you and Marshall up to? And where are you, Claire?”

Claire wet her lips. “Dad, what would you do if I told you that Marshall thinks your brother is a lie? What would you say if I told you that he thinks your brother was never a Frenchman? That he thinks your brother is Lionel Elgin—David’s killer?”

There was only the briefest instant of silence on the other end of the line. Jean-Léon said, mirth in his tone, “The man is certifiable. That would make me a liar, Claire, a liar and an Englishman, and I have
never
lied to you.”

She collapsed against the big window of the store, thinking,
Dad, what would you say if I told you that he thinks you are Elgin?
But she did not dare voice her inner thoughts and her very worst fears. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Dad. I just know it.”

“Are you crying?” he asked, surprised.

Claire shook her head, unable to speak. “No,” she managed. Then, “I need proof, Dad, proof that Robert’s dead and that you and he were born in St. Michele.”

“Is this a joke? A bad joke?”

She couldn’t speak; she could only shake her head.

“Where are you now? New York? Elizabeth said you were on your way home.”

“I’m at Heathrow,” Claire lied. She closed her eyes, hating herself.

“You’re on your way back to San Francisco?”

Claire made a sound that indicated yes.

“Good. Are you out of this now, Claire? Really, truly out?”

“Yes,” Claire said harshly. Then, prodded by some inner devil, she whispered, “No.”

“What? Did you just say no? Claire, is the line breaking up?”

“Dad, I need birth certificates for you and Robert. Surely they are stashed away somewhere?”

“I thought you said you were finished with this sordid affair,” Jean-Léon shouted.

“I will be—when I get those birth certificates!” Claire cried.

“Now you listen to me, Claire,” her father said, and he was angry. “I’ve checked Marshall out. Are you aware of the fact that he has a terrible reputation, Claire? You can’t trust him. He’s considered a cowboy—worse, a loose cannon—with his own agenda. I’ve spoken to the Bergman Holocaust Research Center. They said that, at times, he is good at what he does, but at other times, he’s crazy. Reckless. Impulsive. Like now. They
told
me, Claire, that Elgin
died
in 1980 in France. Of natural causes.
He’s dead, Claire.
He’s been dead for over twenty years! Elgin isn’t even on their wanted list! He’s not even
alive
, Claire.”

Claire was frozen.

“Claire?”

No, she did not believe it, not for a single second.

“Claire! Are you there?”

“You’re wrong,” she said flatly, finding it hard to breathe now. “Elgin killed George Suttill, and he killed David. Just like he killed Eddy Marshall in 1940,” she heard herself say. Her pulse was thundering in her ears now.

“Says who? Marshall?” Jean-Léon was sarcastic.

“Yes,” Claire whispered, feeling very much like her father’s punching bag.

“Did Marshall tell you why he’s so obsessed with Elgin, Claire? Did he tell you the real reason?” her father demanded.
“Did he tell you the truth?”

Claire swallowed in order to find her voice. “Elgin murdered his uncle. Eddy Marshall was his uncle, Dad.”

Jean-Léon made a sound. It was abrupt, both mirthful and mocking. “No, Claire, that’s not it. That’s not why your boyfriend is obsessed with Elgin. He believes Elgin murdered his
father
, Claire. In the winter of 1972.”

CHAPTER 13

Claire stared blindly at the passersby milling around her on Lexington Avenue. “What?” she managed.

“Bill Marshall was hit over the head with a tire jack while fixing a flat on the side of a highway somewhere in upstate New York,” Jean-Léon was saying. “Ask the center. They’ll tell you. It was an unfortunate, accidental crime; I think he was mugged for a few hundred dollars. Your friend Ian Marshall is convinced that Elgin—who is dead, Claire—murdered him. You are on a wild goose chase.”

“I’ve got to go. Bye, Dad.” Claire flipped the cell closed. She realized she could barely breathe and that she was shaking like a leaf.

Then she stood there in front of the huge storefront window, as still as the mannequins behind her. The crowd hurried to and fro past her, a mass of faceless humanity.

Claire took a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. It was impossible. She tried to think clearly. That, too, seemed impossible.

Why hadn’t Ian ever told her about his father’s death?

No wonder he recalled that the recorded conversation between his father and his Uncle Joe had taken place in 1972, the year of his death.

Elgin was dead?

Claire inhaled. If Jean-Léon was right, then this entire nightmare was over: the Dukes would be as innocent as anyone, Robert Ducasse would remain dead, a hero of the French Resistance, Jean-Léon was exactly who he said he was, because they were a different branch of the Ducasse family, and she could go home.

But how could Elgin be dead? David had been blackmailing Elgin, and he had died for his efforts. Or so Ian said.

George Suttill had discovered Elgin’s current identity, and he was dead. Or so Ian said.

Claire couldn’t even begin to imagine why Ian would make up such stories. Elgin had to be alive, because Claire could not imagine any other explanation for David’s and George Suttill’s deaths, not even at the hands of a copycat.

She just could not believe that Ian was crazy. Still, clearly, he was a man bent on revenge.

Whom should she believe? Was Elgin alive or dead?

Claire shopped mindlessly, picking up twos of everything, no longer certain of what she needed—slacks, knit tops, underwear, hose. By the time she left the store, she wasn’t sure what time it was; she didn’t know what she had purchased, either, or how much she had spent—and she didn’t care. She stepped out onto Third Avenue, took one look at the traffic, and realized the odds of getting a taxi at this hour were nil.
Great
, she thought with a sudden fury.
Just great.

Claire decided that walking would be faster than taking a bus. She didn’t feel up to figuring out the subway system, which she had never used in her previous travels to the city.

She began walking uptown, carrying her two bags. Shopping had been a badly needed distraction from the ramifications of that terrible phone conversation with Jean-Léon. Now, against her will, she began to turn over all the possibilities.

Ian thought that Elgin had murdered his father, Bill Marshall. That much Claire believed. Why hadn’t Ian told her the truth about his father? The omission was a terrible lie, especially now, when they were lovers and friends. And it made no sense.

Her father claimed that Elgin was dead—that he had died twenty years ago in France of natural causes. Could her father be mistaken? Claire could not really believe that Elgin was dead. Had they both lied to her in different ways?

She told herself that if Jean-Léon was lying to her, he was doing so only to protect Robert Ducasse, who had to be alive, who had to be Lionel Elgin. This
had
to be the case.

As far as Ian went, they truly had complicated matters, Claire thought with real anguish. She had been incapable of objectivity before. Now her feelings for Ian were further clouding her ability to be rational. Compounding matters was a pervasive sense of doom that was dogging her.

Claire had reached Seventy-second Street. Her sandals were hurting her feet, and her shopping bags seemed to have gained ten pounds each. But neither her feet nor her shoulders hurt the way her heart did. Her world had been turned violently upside down in a handful of minutes. She was so upset and angry—at Jean-Léon, at Ian, at everyone. Just then she wanted to be alone. But being alone wouldn’t help her to sort anything out.

If only she hadn’t gotten involved in this, or with Ian.

Claire could hardly believe her last thought. But she still loved him. Even frightened and angry, Claire knew that, and it only made matters worse.

Claire realized a bus had stopped on the other side of Third Avenue. The light was green and she ran across the intersection, somehow leaping onto the bus just before it closed its doors. She was too tired—and too distressed—to walk anymore.

The bus was so jammed that Claire saw no way to walk farther back. She scraped together the fare, deposited it, and grabbed onto a pole, all the while aware of receiving numerous stares. Claire realized she must look as frazzled and frantic as she felt. She had to pull herself together before she reached Ian’s apartment; otherwise, how would she be able to confront him? The cell phone rang. Claire jammed her shopping bags firmly between her knees so they would not overturn, then fumbled with her purse. She found the phone and looked at the screen. A 212 number that she did not recognize was illuminated on the dial. Ian had to be the caller.

“How does Italian sound?” he asked in a friendly tone, with no preamble, when she answered.

“We need to talk, Ian,” she said tersely.

There was a moment of surprised silence. “Okay. What’s happened?”

“I’ll be there in five or ten minutes,” she said, and flipped the lid closed. She was trembling.

Ian was waiting for her. He was standing in the open doorway of his apartment, and he wasn’t smiling.

Claire looked him in the eye as she came out of the elevator.

“What happened?” Ian asked quietly as she approached.

She walked past him and into his apartment, and dropped her bags, then whirled. “You did not tell me about your father, Ian.”

“What?” He paled, closing the door.

“You had every opportunity to tell me that he was murdered—
murdered
—in the winter of 1972!”

“Who have you been talking to?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Was he murdered? In the winter of ’seventy-two?”

“Yes, he was,” Ian said, and he turned and walked away from her.

So that much was true. Claire fought tears. She was so tired that she had to sit, and sank down on the rust-colored leather sofa. She cradled her face in her hands.

She heard Ian’s footsteps and looked up. He handed her a framed photograph.

Claire blinked. A handsome man with longish, curly black hair was standing in front of an old fighter plane that seemed to seat one person. He wore jeans, Frye boots, and a beat-up leather jacket—the kind pilots wore. He wasn’t smiling, and he was squinting against the sun. “Is this your father?” she asked with a lump in her throat.