The Chase: A Novel (8 page)

The following morning, Claire called David’s secretary from her car.

They exchanged greetings, and once again, Geraldine told Claire how sorry she was. Her voice broke as she did so.

“Thank you, Gerry. But I’ll be okay,” Claire said, thinking it was oddly true. She was still scared, but somehow, she had banished that lump of fear to a very distant place where she was able to ignore it. It was much easier to be angry and burning with determination to uncover the truth. “Maybe you should take a week or so off?” Claire asked her.

“I just can’t, Claire. The partners are transferring me to a new lawyer, either that or I’ll have to leave the firm. You know I’ve been David’s secretary for ten years!”

“I know. I’m so sorry you have to go through this, too.”

“Of course I do. David could yell and curse with the best of them, but he was a good guy and a great boss.” She sounded weepy.

Claire smiled grimly—she did not want to reminisce now. “Gerry, were you aware that David was in some kind of trouble before he died?”

Geraldine hesitated. “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?” Claire turned onto the two-lane highway leading to the freeway that would take her south and across the Golden Gate Bridge, reaching out a hand to calm Jilly.

“He never said a word. But the past week, maybe two, he was very short-tempered and distracted. I’ve known him so long. I can tell when he’s upset. He was pretty upset, Claire.”

Claire felt the guilt surging through her again. She had been his wife, but she hadn’t noticed that something was wrong, other than with their marriage. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything? Anything at all?”

“Yes, I am. And Claire? Detective Murphy already asked me these questions.”

Claire absorbed that and said, “Geraldine, have you ever heard of a man named Ian Marshall? I met him the night of David’s birthday, and he said he was David’s friend but later amended that to his being advised by David in some offhand way.”

“That name sounds familiar, Mrs. Hayden,” Geraldine said. “But off the top of my head, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Claire felt slightly excited. She was crossing the bridge now. Traffic had slowed but was moving at a steady pace. Claire took a sip from her coffee. “Would you want to check for me? Would you check his things, maybe his calendar, his address book?” David had been meticulous with his Palm Pilot, and Geraldine had backed up his agenda, calendar, and address book routinely.

Geraldine said she would do that immediately and get back to Claire as soon as she had something for her. Claire thanked her profusely. A moment later she was descending the bridge and entering the city.

Something was nagging at her. Then comprehension struck her. Ian Marshall was from New York City.
And David had been on his way to New York City
.

Claire turned onto Lombard Street, where rush-hour traffic was heavy. It wasn’t unheard of for David to go to New York on business; surely there was no connection. After all, Marshall had been in San Francisco the night of David’s party. They could have met earlier in the day, right there in the city. Claire’s excitement died. David’s trip to New York probably had nothing to do with Ian Marshall.

Claire turned into the driveway of her home a few minutes later, instantly uneasy. She got out of the car, carrying her coffee, letting Jilly jump out as well. She unlocked the front door and let herself into the silent, almost brooding house.

Claire was almost sorry she had come back. But the answer she wanted might very well be in her own home. Claire started down the hall, going straight to the office. She refused to glance, even once, into the living room or beyond it, at the terrace.

But from the corner of her eye, she saw that it looked exactly as it had the morning she had stumbled out of the house, with the Dukes and Jean-Léon. Police tape remained, as did the white dust the technicians seemed to have used everywhere.

She felt relieved to be in the office, which seemed normal and untainted by the madness and evil. Jilly seemed happier, too, going over to the couch and leaping onto it, where she promptly lay down.

Claire walked over to the desk and stared down at it. The World War II photograph was on top of David’s papers now; the detective hadn’t been interested in it. “Everyone acquires new hobbies, Mrs. Hayden” was all that he had said. He barely glanced at the fax from the investigative agency in London.

Claire began sorting slowly through David’s papers. It was a laborious process, especially because she did not know what she was looking for, and she was afraid that even if she found it, she would not know it was significant. Eventually she began going through the first of the desk’s three drawers. She went to take another sip of coffee and found her cup empty.

A page torn out of a newspaper was on top of the pads, pens, and notes in that first drawer. Only slightly curious, as David was not the type to cut something out of a newspaper, she took it out and unfolded it.

It was a middle page from the
San Francisco Examiner.
The first thing Claire saw was a small headline:
TOURIST BRUTALLY MURDERED IN FINANCIAL DISTRICT.

Her heart stopped. The lead-in read, “Throat slashed with no motive.”

Claire’s hands began to shake. The words on the page in front of her began to blur.
Copycat.
Jesus. Hadn’t she heard someone, somewhere, mention something about a copycat? Claire blinked hard to reestablish her vision. Her hands were shaking now, so that the page she held wavered before her eyes, making it harder for her to read.

The tourist had been an elderly man named George Suttill, on vacation from Great Britain with his lady friend. Claire could not read any further.

She sank down in a chair, stunned.

Then she grabbed the old photograph and turned it over and dear God, there was no mistake, the back read, “George Suttill and Lionel Elgin, probably the spring of 1944.”

Claire looked at the fax from the investigative agency in London.
Enclosed photo of Suttill and Elgin. Possible dead end. Please advise—WC
.

Obviously something was going on—obviously there was a connection between this Englishman’s murder and her husband’s.

Claire grabbed her purse and upended it. The items inside scattered all over her office floor. Amid Kleenex, a lipstick, house keys, and breath mints, Claire found Murphy’s soiled white business card. She dove for it.

She dialed frantically, trying to calm herself, but it was impossible.

“Murphy,” he said.

“Detective!” Claire cried. “Do you remember the photograph I showed you of the two army officers during the war? I just found a news clipping in David’s desk! George Suttill had his throat slit just the way David did!”

“Mrs. Hayden? Is that you?”

Claire nodded, aware that tears had slipped down her face. She was shaking uncontrollably.

“Please calm down,” Murphy said, sounding as relaxed as if he were discussing the weather. “We are very aware of the similarities between the two murders, and we are working on the connection. Actually, I’m glad you called. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

Claire had been standing; now she sat back down, nodding breathlessly. “So you know about George Suttill?”

“Of course we know. Suttill was murdered two days before your husband.”

“But you didn’t say anything.” Claire was bewildered. She did not want her mind to fail her now.

“No, we did not. It’s department policy not to discuss the details of an investigation with anyone outside of the investigative unit, Mrs. Hayden.”

“Bullshit,” Claire cried, and then she blinked, amazed with herself for being so rude.

He did not seem offended. “Mrs. Hayden, do you have any idea why David would deposit cash into his private savings account, five days in a row—just before he died?”

Claire blinked another time. “What?”

He repeated the question.

Claire stood up. “I’m not sure I understand. David had a private savings account?”

“Yes, he did, at First National.”

Claire could hardly breathe. “I didn’t know. We do our banking at Citibank.”

“I know that.”

“How much cash did he deposit?”

“Nine thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars—five days in a row.”

“You mean he put almost fifty thousand dollars’ cash into a secret bank account—one I did not know about?” Claire asked, aware of her voice becoming impossibly strained.

“Yes, he did.”

“But . . . why?”

“Any sum below ten grand isn’t reported. Clearly he was into something dirty.”

“Something dirty,” Claire repeated. But of course the detective was right. Honest citizens did not deposit fifty thousand dollars in cash, in increments that the authorities would not learn about. Honest citizens did not get their throats slit. Claire felt fear welling within her—and it had nothing to do with her being alone in the world.

“We found another interesting fact,” the Irishman said. It sounded like he was smoking a cigarette as they spoke.

Claire whispered, “What?”

“David had lunch at the Garden Court on April second, ten days before he was murdered. The reservation was for one
P.M
. but Iris agenda doesn’t say who his guest or guests were. Although the restaurant keeps records, and says it was a party of two.”

“And?” Claire asked, managing to swallow. She needed a glass of water.

“Suttill’s girlfriend, Frances Cookson—a New Yorker, by the way—told us that they’d had lunch there that day, around the same time. They were walk-ins, so they’re not on the books. But we believe her. We have no reason not to.”

Claire tried to understand. “What does it mean that David and Suttill were both dining there, separately, on the same day—at the same time—in the week or so before they both died?”

“I don’t know. But if it means something, I will find out.”

Claire was certain that he was smiling. He was smiling, and suddenly she was scared. She wet her lips. She spoke hoarsely. “Detective? Is there a serial killer on the loose?”

“Mrs. Hayden, do not be alarmed. We have no reason to think that you are in danger.”

That thought had never crossed Claire’s mind. Now it gave her pause. “But was it the same killer?” she asked.

He hesitated and sighed. “Yes. Same killer, same MO. Same weapon, in fact.” He paused.

Of course, this wasn’t a surprise, not after finding that article, but Claire felt ill.

“In fact, the killer used what is called a ‘thumb knife.’ It’s a three-inch blade, one side completely sharpened. Only an inch of the other side is usable. It’s a very odd weapon.”

Claire hardly cared. She was reeling.

“I’d never even heard of a thumb knife, and I’ve been on the force for twenty years. My partner has learned it was sometimes used by German operatives during World War II.”

Claire tuned in those last three words:
World War II
. “I beg your pardon?”

“German spies used thumb knives, Mrs. Hayden. Now you tell me what that means,” he said.

Claire was sitting in her car with Jilly, her forehead on her hands on the steering wheel, when her cell phone rang. She was mindless. She just couldn’t seem to think now.

She was going to skip the call, but instead, she straightened and picked it up.

“Claire!” Geraldine cried. “I’ve got it! I found a number for Ian Marshall in New York City. Are you ready?”

Claire had stiffened and was completely alert now. “What did you find out?” she asked warily. She knew an ax was about to fall. She could feel it as if her own head were right there on the chopping block.

“Ian Marshall is a director of an unusual organization, Claire. It’s called the Bergman Holocaust Research Center. Mostly it’s an educational group, privately endowed. He has a good reputation, and an M.A. in European history and a Ph.D. in Holocaust studies, the former from Oxford, the latter from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.”

“I don’t get it,” Claire said uneasily. But she kept thinking about the thumb knife that had killed both David and someone named George Suttill. A weapon used in World War II. Marshall seemed very involved in World War II. “What does this guy do? And how could he have been involved with David?”

“I have no idea why he and David were involved. His exact title is director of special investigations, Claire,” Geraldine said with excitement. “No one at the BHRC will discuss current and ongoing investigations, so they won’t really discuss him.”

“Special investigations?” Claire echoed. Her pulse was drumming. “Special investigations of what?”

“War crimes,” she replied.

Claire stared through the windshield at her house without really seeing it. It took her a moment to comprehend Geraldine. “He’s a Nazi hunter?” she asked incredulously.

“It seems that way.”

Claire stared, but all she saw now was David sitting in the lawn chair on the terrace, his throat slit, his torso covered with blood—and all she could think was that the killer had used a thumb knife, a weapon used by Nazi agents over fifty years ago.

Claire somehow said good-bye and hung up. It took her only a second to lift the receiver again and dial the number she had scrawled on a pad. She did not know what she was going to say, and as she had seen him only yesterday at David’s funeral, she did not even know if he was back in New York yet.

Her message sounded breathless to her own ears. “Ian, this is Claire Hayden. I’m sorry about our abrupt conversation the other day. I must speak with you again. It’s urgent. Thanks.” Claire left her numbers and hung up.

She was shaking. She was insane. He was a Nazi hunter, which made him an expert on Nazis, and maybe, just maybe, a killer from those days was on the loose. A killer . . . or a copycat. And that would explain why he had so suddenly appeared in their lives, if he was somehow involved in what was going on. But involved how? If he knew something that she did not, he was going to cough it up. But why hadn’t he been honest with her from the start? If he was investigating this killer, then why hadn’t he said so?

She could not know that thousands of miles away in a sunlit corner room in a brand-new building on the east side of Manhattan, Ian Marshall sat at his desk, listening to her message, his hands bridged in front of his face.