The Chase: A Novel (31 page)

“Yes. He’s standing in front of an old Spitfire at the RAF museum in Hendon, which is outside of London. This was taken in the mid-sixties. My dad was a pilot. Not professionally, but he had a Cessna. He just loved to fly.”

Ian was also a pilot, Claire had learned during a casual conversation on one of their flights. “Why didn’t you tell me that he was murdered?”

Ian shrugged as Claire set the photo down on the glass coffee table. “Who told you?” His eyes were dark, and all of his facial muscles had tightened.

“Jean-Léon.”

“I see.” If he was surprised, he gave no sign, but Claire knew he wasn’t. “What else did he say?” He was so calm—too calm.

“He said that you think Elgin murdered him.”

“He did.”

“How can you be certain? Maybe it was a mugging,” Claire said, strained.

“No, it was not a mugging, Claire.”

“You were ten years old when he died,” she pointed out.

“That’s right. And when I was a sophomore in college, I decided to investigate the ‘mugging.’ My father was hunting Elgin, Claire, when he died. He had figured out who he was, and he was about to nail the bastard.” Ian’s eyes flashed. “My mother told me the whole story. She had begged him to let sleeping dogs lie, but he wanted revenge for Eddy. He had adored him, and he never forgot his death. I didn’t tell you the truth. My father opened up the Elgin investigation in 1972. And he knew what he was doing. Remember when I said being a fed runs in the family? My father was an agent. He had the bureau’s resources at his fingertips. And one night, during a blizzard, Elgin hit him over the back of the head with a goddamned tire iron when he was changing a fucking flat tire, because he was getting too close.” Ian stared at her. He was flushed with anger. “It was Christmas Eve, Claire. December twenty-fourth, 1972.”

Claire stared back. In spite of herself, she was chilled. Bill Marshall had been murdered on the same day as his brother Eddy. “So this whole thing with Elgin is a personal vendetta. This whole chase is about Elgin having murdered your uncle
and
your father.”

“It’s more than that and you know it,” Ian said. “Thanks for selling me so short.”

“What if it was a mugging?” Claire asked, but less forcefully. She just had to ask. “Could Elgin be dead, Ian? Is there any way he could be dead?”

“Is that what he told you? And you believe him?” Ian was incredulous. “Have you forgotten the reason David disappeared? David saw Elgin murder George Suttill, and he was afraid he’d be next! The man is a killer, Claire. A mastermind and a killer.”

Claire felt as if she were facing a huge brick wall, one she would never break through. Instead, that wall would come crumbling down on her, burying her alive the way rubble had buried civilians in World War II. “David saw
someone
murder George Suttill. Maybe Elgin is dead and there’s a copycat—”

He made an exasperated sound and threw his hands up in the air. “There was a rumor. Briefly, in the early eighties, the rumor reached various agencies, including Special Branches at Scotland Yard, that Elgin was dead. That he died in France. But it was only a rumor, Claire, one I know Elgin started. Unfortunately, my father hadn’t shared his investigation or files with anyone. To this day I’ve never found them—I think Elgin destroyed them.”

“So my father made a mistake,” Claire said harshly.

“When David called me, I had to practically start this investigation from scratch,” Ian stated. “Your father is sticking his nose way deep into affairs he shouldn’t have any interest in,” Ian said flatly.

And the rest of it remained unspoken,
if he isn’t Elgin.
“Don’t. Stop right there. My father knows I’m in danger, and he wants me to come home. Period.”

“Then go home,” Ian said.

Claire just stared. Ian stared back. The apartment became frighteningly silent. The only sound she could hear was the air-conditioning unit. But a new fear rose up inside of her chest. “Is that what you want me to do?” she got out.

“Yeah, that’s what I want you to do,” Ian said roughly.

Claire couldn’t seem to get enough air. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” he said, his face tight and closed.

“But you’re kicking me out.”

“It’s for the best now.”

“No, it’s what’s best for you,” she said, choking. She turned almost blindly and made her way across the foyer to the guest bedroom.

His hand appeared on the door in front of her, effectively preventing her from entering the room. “That is so unfair. This is for your own good.”

She turned and faced him. Unfortunately, he was only a few inches away. “We’re partners.”

“I don’t need a partner anymore, Claire, and my decision has nothing to do with our personal relationship.”

“Do not even try to tell me that you are protecting me,” Claire said harshly.

“I am.”

“Then find someone other than my father to pin the Elgin rap on.” She meant every word.

“I wish I could,” he said with regret.

Claire turned abruptly, shoved his hand away, and slipped into the dark bedroom. She closed the door hard behind herself as she did so, and only then did she dare to fight the sobs that were threatening. Damn it. Damn him.

Suddenly she thrust the door back open. “What about your reputation?” she shouted.

He was standing right where she had left him, in front of the door. He appeared stricken. “What?”

“They said you have a terrible reputation. That you’re reckless: a cowboy with your own agenda.”

“Who the hell is ‘they’?” he demanded angrily. “Wait—let me guess.
Your father
!”

“He checked you out,” Claire cried.

“I’ll bet he did,” Ian said in a dangerous tone—one Claire did not like at all—and he turned his back on her and disappeared down the hall.

Claire was the one who felt stunned now. She hadn’t meant to attack him, and she didn’t really believe he had a horrid reputation—which meant that she did believe that her father was lying through his teeth. And now she had lost Ian, too.

She stumbled over to the bed and sat down hard, trembling. Everything was happening so quickly that she felt dizzy.

The lights in the bedroom came on. Claire blinked.

Ian stood in the doorway, a heavy brochure in hand. He smiled at her mirthlessly. “Would you like to speak to one of the executive directors at the center, Claire?”

She froze.

“Claire?”

The evening had become surreal. Claire was aware of Ian waiting for her response, but she couldn’t respond because she didn’t want to, because she didn’t dare. He seemed angry and hateful now. He was angry with her, that she knew—but surely he did not despise her as well? Claire felt almost as if she were outside of herself, watching the drama unfolding—the frightened, paralyzed woman, the angry man, and a bunch of ghosts surrounding them, patiently waiting for justice.

Ian didn’t wait for her answer. He handed her a beautifully published brochure. The cover was dark green, and embossed on it was a circular logo that read
BERGMAN HOLOCAUST RESEARCH CENTER
with a Star of David in its center.

Claire realized her hands were trembling as she opened it. The inside of the front cover listed the names of the institution’s directors and various employees. Claire found Ian’s name listed about twelve names down, as executive director of special investigations. Tears came to her eyes, blurring her vision.

She flipped through the brochure. There were different sections, some of which were education, information, research, and investigations. The final page listed hundreds of contributors, huge familiar corporations among them, as well as several philanthropists whose names she recognized. Claire closed the brochure and held it to her chest. Slowly, she looked up at Ian, feeling a lone tear trickle down her cheek.

His face was set. He took the brochure from her hands and opened it to the first page. He pointed to a name. It read “Leonard P. Feinstein, Executive Director.” Then he went to a phone, lifted it, and dialed. He handed Claire the phone without saying a word.

Claire heard it ringing. A woman answered. “Feinstein residence,” she said.

Claire found it hard to speak. “Mr. Feinstein, please,” she said. She heard how awful she sounded. She sounded ill.

A moment later a man came on the phone. “Yes?”

“Mr. Feinstein, my name is Claire Hayden. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you some questions,” Claire said, filled with pain. It was crossing her mind now that her relationship with Ian was over. And it had happened with the speed of light. But why?

Because he was going to destroy her father, one way or the other.

“How did you get this number?” he asked sharply.

Claire did not glance at Ian, who stood a few inches behind her, practically breathing down her neck. “From Ian Marshall. I’m here with him now.”

There was a pause. “I see. May I speak to Ian?”

Claire handed Ian the phone.

“Hello, Leonard,” Ian said after listening to the other man for an instant. “Yes, I’m fine. Look, do me a favor and answer Claire’s questions. It’s urgent. Thanks.” He handed the phone back to Claire, giving her a hard look.

Claire hesitated. “How would you describe Ian, Mr. Feinstein?”

“Excuse me?”

She trembled. “I was told he might not be the most reliable of employees.”

Feinstein actually laughed. “Who told you that? Ian is one of the most reliable individuals I know. He is also determined, thorough, and effective. The job he does for us is flawless, and that is no easy task in itself. You see, we are mostly an educational and research organization. His department is underfunded and understaffed. Yet somehow, over the years, he has brought dozens of war criminals to the attention of the appropriate authorities, both in this country and abroad. And some of them have been successfully convicted for their crimes. Ian is far more than reliable, he is resourceful. I would trust him with my life.”

Claire didn’t know what to say. She licked her lips. “Does the center think or know that Elgin is dead?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, “We know no such thing. That is a very odd question. Elgin remains in the top five on our most-wanted list. He’s still on Scotland Yard’s most-wanted list as well.”

“Thank you,” Claire whispered, blindly handing Ian the phone.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her body was shutting down just the way her mind was. The part of her brain that was still functioning heard Ian speak briefly with Feinstein and then hang up. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw him straighten and look at her. She couldn’t face him now.

It was hard to get the words out. “I need to be alone.”

She thought he said, “Claire? I hate that this is happening,” but she could not be sure.

“Good night, Ian,” she said, refusing to even look in his direction.

“I’m sorry, Claire.”

She nodded, refusing to cry in front of him.

He backed out, shutting her door.

Claire left her bedroom the following morning before eight. She had cried herself to sleep but woken up periodically, the tears coming again and again. As a result, she felt more tired that morning than she had the day before, and she also looked like hell.

As she entered the living area, she could smell something delicious wafting out of the kitchen, which was one door down the hall, on the other side of the entry. She could also smell coffee. Claire hesitated. Ian hadn’t left for his meeting with Frances Cookson. What should she do?

She could turn around and hide in the bedroom until he left. Or she could go into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, which she desperately needed.

Claire crossed the foyer, apprehension rising in her. She reminded herself that they were both mature and intelligent adults. The kitchen had no door, and she paused on the threshold. Ian was at the stainless-steel stove, making French toast.

He had recently showered, and his dark hair was still wet. He was already dressed for his business meeting, in pale gray trousers, a white button-down shirt, and a flashy, colorful print tie. He was wearing his shoulder holster, and in it was his gun.

He was impossibly attractive.

Becoming involved with him had been the worst mistake of her life.

It hurt so much.

He turned to the opposite counter where oranges were cut up, awaiting their fate in the juicer, and he saw her. He went still.

“Good morning,” Claire said quietly.

His gaze scanned her, lingering on her eyes searchingly. “Good morning. How did you sleep?” He did not smile. The tension was thick enough to stick in a bread slicer.

“Like shit.”

He clenched his jaw. He moved past the oranges on the cutting board and poured her a cup of fresh coffee. He didn’t ask her how she liked it; he already knew. Claire watched him add skim milk and half an Equal. He handed it to her.

Claire drank it, watching him add more French toast to the pan. He looked unbelievably good in the kitchen.

He lowered the flame and faced her, leaning his hip against the granite counter. “I’m sorry about the way we fought last night.”

Claire nodded curtly. “Don’t want to talk.”

“Maybe we should,” he said.

“Don’t think so.” She sipped more coffee, staring into the creamy brown liquid.

“Claire. You know you need to go home. You know it’s best now.”

She sensed another huge argument in the making. “I know nothing of the sort. I know only that you are a bossy pain in the butt. Ordering me around as if we’re in the marines.”

“I want you out of this.”

“Well, maybe I won’t go.”

“Maybe I’m not giving you a choice,” he said flatly. “Your tickets back to the Bay Area will be messengered over here before ten. Flight leaves at noon. Be on it.”

She was so unhappy that her temper only prickled at his high-handed takeover of her life. How had it come to this? The child within her wanted to go to him, tell him she was sorry and that she still loved him, and lay her head on his chest while he held her. Had they become enemies?

“My father must be protecting his brother,” Claire said flatly. She had thought it all out last night. Her father had lied about Ian and he had lied about Elgin, so there was no other option. “But he is not Elgin. He might even be the third brother. Remember? Lady Ellen had a child. We never asked her what happened to her son.”