The Chase: A Novel (51 page)

I love you . . . He’s using you
.

Ian’s words, her father’s words. Suspicion rose within her.

“Claire? We need you now,” Ian said.

CHAPTER 23

Claire prayed she had not heard him correctly. But he said again, “We need you now.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Ian’s gaze was intense. “Claire, I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“It doesn’t.”

“You’re upset and angry—understandably so.”

“Don’t you dare pretend to understand how I feel or what I’m going through,” she warned.

“Okay.” He raised both hands. “I won’t. And you’re right. I can’t possibly comprehend how you’re feeling now.” Ian pushed the covers aside and swung his legs over the bed.

Claire watched. She made no move to help him.

After a pause, he stood. “I sort of liked it when you were a mama hen.”

Claire’s face felt impossibly rigid. She did not respond.

He walked over to her. Claire flinched as he reached for her hands. “If your father is innocent, Claire, he’ll be able to prove it. If not, he has to pay for his crimes.”

Claire jerked away from him. She was shaking. “He’s innocent.”

“Do I have to remind you how many innocent people have died because of Elgin? I could be dead now, Claire. You could be dead!”

She refused to meet his gaze. “You have made your point. A killer is on the loose.
A monster.
But it is
not
Jean-Léon.”

“If he’s innocent, the truth will come out,” Ian said firmly.

“What do you want from me?” she cried, finally meeting his gaze. “What?”

“Call your father,” he said. “Arrange a meeting. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“You mean you and a hundred cops will swarm all over him. You mean I should be the
bait
in your
trap”

Ian was so very calm. “If he’s innocent, it won’t hurt anyone.”

“You want me to trap my own father!” she screamed. “You know what, Ian?
Go to hell.”

Claire did not wait for his reaction. She rushed from the room and out the door.

The street was residential. Old town houses, mostly brick and all converted to apartments, lined the block, as did reed-thin and apparently unhealthy elm trees. Here and there, a tree was fenced off from the neighborhood’s dogs, and daffodils smiled happily at the world. Not a single parking space was available; cars lined both sides of the street, a few of them junkers. And there was a plainclothes police car parked across the street. It stood out like a sore thumb.

Did they really expect that car and the single detective in it to stop anyone?

It was ridiculously easy to walk up the block toward the apartment building where Frances Cookson lived. Blending with the pedestrians was almost as simple as getting through the locked lobby door by claiming to be an early guest of a tardy resident. In fact, it was amazing how old age opened up so many doors so easily—no one ever suspected an elderly person of being anything other than needy and feeble and sweet.

A quick inspection of Frances Cookson’s door told the intruder that it was double-locked and chained. A knock would have to do.

“Yes? Who is it?” an elderly woman’s voice said from the other side of the door.

There was no doubt that Frances Cookson was peering through the peephole now. There was also no reason to assume a new alias. The identity established over half a century ago would do.

Frances Cookson opened the door, her eyes somewhat wide with surprise. “Can I help you?” she asked in confusion. “Do you have the right apartment?”

“Yes, I do.” The knife followed the smile. The movement was so quick that it wasn’t until the small blade had arced across the jugular vein of the blond woman that she realized what was happening. In that moment, their gazes met, the woman’s wide and astonished.

“I’m sorry.” The words were sincere.

But no link could be left to the past.

Claire paused blindly on York Avenue outside the hospital. Her father’s ugly words echoed in her mind, and clearly, he was right.

I love you.

Once, Claire would have believed such a declaration from Ian. Now she must not even consider it, she must not remember it, she must not. She hurried across the street, moving with several other pedestrians, and it was only when she was halfway across that she realized the light was red and traffic was coming uptown and she had better move out of the way, fast.

She ran to the safety of the other sidewalk, panting and out of breath. Ian wanted her to set a trap for her father; she would never do it.

Her cell phone rang.

Claire stumbled and reached for Ian’s phone, stashed in her pocket. But it was silent.

Her own phone was in her purse. The ringing ceased.

Claire moved into the shadows of a deli’s awning, looking at her caller ID. She was afraid it had been Jean-Léon, who even now might be back in the city. But it was not. Elizabeth Duke had been the caller.

Claire hesitated, then called her back unthinkingly, her grip clammy on the phone.

“Claire! Did you hear what happened?” Elizabeth cried, sounding distraught.

“What happened?” Claire managed numbly.

“They had William in custody all day, Claire, all day, questioning him for the crimes of that spy, Elgin. But he’s home now, thank God; in fact, he is so upset he is drinking a Scotch in bed. Claire!” She started to weep.

Claire found it impossible to find compassion for the other woman. She was too frightened for herself—and Jean-Léon. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s innocent,” Elizabeth said, choking on tears. “Thank God they realized that.”

“Yes. Thank God.”

“Claire? Are you nearby? He’s asked for you.”

Claire stiffened as a million warning bells went off at once in her mind. “What?”

“He’s asking for you.”

Claire tried to cope with this startling bit of information. What if William were Elgin; what if the police—and Ian—were wrong?

Why else would he ask for her now?

Was this a trap?

“Claire? It would be lovely if you could drop by. We both need you,” Elizabeth said.

Claire swallowed hard. And if William was innocent? Then he was an old man in failing health who had gone through a terrible ordeal. And his request would make sense—she was the daughter he had never had.

“I’ll try,” Claire said, and it was a lie. There was no one and nothing that could make her go over to their house now.

“Please come soon. In the state he is in, I expect him to be asleep within the hour.”

“All right,” Claire managed, and it was another terrible lie.

You think it’s Jean-Léon.

Yes, I do
.

Claire hurried up the block. Someone was innocent, and it was either William or Jean-Léon, but it could not be both.

Oh God, what was she going to do?

Go home. Except going home would not change anything, and it would not make this nightmare go away.

Claire shut her eyes as if, in doing so, she could shut out the truth. How could her father be Lionel Elgin? How?

The answer was simple: he had never been there for her. He was so remote. She had never had that hug she had craved her entire life. His only love, his true love, was art.

It was, in fact, very possible. She had been speaking with Jean-Léon from the moment she had met Ian. Elgin seemed to know their every move—and so did her father.

Her father’s words, Ian’s words, echoed relentlessly in her mind. Claire wanted to clap her hands over her ears and scream in frustration and despair.

The telephone rang again.

Claire paused on the corner of Sixty-seventh and First Avenue, looking at it. It continued to ring. Insistently, incessantly.

Claire knew who it was. This time it was not Elizabeth. She hesitated, but there was no caller ID. He was calling from a blocked line.

“Dad?” she asked warily.

“I’ve finally caught up with you,” Jean-Léon said abruptly. “I’m in the city, Claire. Where are you?”

Claire hesitated. She was afraid to tell her father where she was.

“Claire?”

“I’m—downtown.”

He seemed to accept that, but then, why would he suspect his own daughter of lying? “We have to meet, without Marshall. I’ll explain everything then.”

What explanation could he possibly make?

“Claire? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m still here,” she said, and she felt the kind of anguish she had felt when her mother died. The sense of loss was acute. The loss—and loneliness.

“Is Marshall still in the hospital?”

“Yes,” she said dully. This was, she thought, the blackest day of her life. Worse than the day her mother had died.

“When is he being released?”

“I don’t know.” She had somehow turned into an incorrigible liar, lying to everyone she loved most.

“Meet me tomorrow morning at six, in the park. Enter at Eightieth Street by the Met. Walk straight west and through the first tunnel. When you come out, continue on until you reach the Great Lawn. Start across it. Keep walking until I meet you.”

Claire hesitated, and she could not seem to speak. The conflict engulfed her. Making a decision now seemed an impossible feat.

If he’s innocent, the truth will come out
.

He’s using you ruthlessly
.

I love you
.

“Claire? Are you there? Damn it, I have to go!”

“I’m here,” Claire whispered, feeling faint. “All right. Central Park, six tomorrow morning. I’ll be there.”

The sun was rising at six the following morning. It was cool out as Claire approached Fifth Avenue, the huge Metropolitan Museum of Art ahead of her, taking up almost four blocks. She paused for the light, as there was some traffic even at this early hour. She wore a sweater, but it could not chase away the chill within her, which cut through every fiber of her being. Claire was sick inside.

The light changed. She was the only person to cross the street.

As she walked into the park, she left the huge building of the Met behind. A woman was walking a German shepherd, and a homeless man was sleeping in rags on a park bench, but otherwise she did not see anyone.

Claire had never felt so alone in her entire life.

The path began to fork; ahead was the tunnel her father had spoken about. She veered to her left, moving away from the back of the museum. The tunnel was dark and cold. Claire began to tremble with dread.

Could she really do this? Did she even want to?

But she had to have answers. She just had to.

She was walking between two fields. Two men playing with their dogs were on her left. Ahead, Claire saw the Great Lawn.

A man appeared in the midst of lawn, far away, a distant silhouette. Claire’s heart turned over.

Last night, Ian had told her that Frances Cookson had been murdered.

Claire reached the lawn. She continued in the same direction, now walking across the soft wet grass. Jean-Léon was walking toward her. As he came closer, Claire faltered, filled with fear.

How could she do this?

She wanted to turn and run.

He waved for her to come toward him when he was still twenty yards away.

Claire continued on. Never in her life had she felt so miserable.

Her father halted in front of her and smiled. “I am so glad to see you,” he said with emotion.

Claire bit her lip to keep it from trembling uncontrollably. “Dad. Frances Cookson is dead.”

“Who?” His opaque gray gaze was searching. “Claire, you don’t think—”

She hugged herself. “Did you . . . ?”

He stared. “Jesus! I don’t even know who the hell Frances whatever-her-name is!” He seemed angry.

“Did you kill her?” she asked harshly.

He stared at her. “Is that what you think?”

“Just answer me!” she cried.

“No, Claire, I did not.”

Claire stared back at the man standing before her. He was seventy-eight—or so he claimed—and looked amazing for his age. He was as handsome as Paul Newman, as youthful, as virile. He might as well have been Paul Newman, or John Doe, or anyone. Did she love this man? She didn’t even know this man. He was a stranger—he had always been a stranger. She had certainly craved his love. Now, she did not know how she felt.

“Is William your brother?” she whispered. “Is he Robert Ducasse?”

“No, Claire. My brother is dead.”

“Robert Ducasse died in a POW camp during the war,” Claire whispered. “His brother, Jean-Léon, died fighting in France.”

He blinked. “Jesus! They were cousins—my grandfather was one of four brothers—the family is huge!”

“You said you were going to explain,” Claire tried.

“Did I say that? I said we had to meet. I don’t like what’s happening, Claire. You’re afraid of me, I can see it on your face and in your eyes, and I’m your father. It’s Ian Marshall. He’s brainwashing you. And I can’t stand it.”

“Dad—did you murder David?”

He seemed startled and then furious. “Is that what you think?” he exclaimed. “Claire, how could you think such a thing!”

“I don’t know,” she cried back. “Are you really Lionel Elgin? Did you murder Eddy Marshall? Did you kill his wife, Rachel? Were you the one who murdered Bill Marshall? Please, Dad, I have to know!”