Split Second (22 page)

CHAPTER 49

Whortleberry, Virginia
Thursday afternoon

Kirsten frantically turned the radio dial of the stolen Silverado to the next station, and heard it again.
The male accomplice of Ted Bundy’s daughter, Kirsten Bolger, died after extensive surgery during the early hours of this morning from gunshot wounds in a shoot-out in Baltimore with the FBI. . . .

She smashed her fist against the radio until it went silent, and pulled to the side of the country road. She laid her forehead against the steering wheel, the horrible truth playing over and over in her mind. Bruce was dead, really dead. But he’d managed to save her, and now those fed jerks were chasing their tails again.

She slammed her foot down hard on the gas, and the Silverado shot forward. Soon she was flying, singing Springsteen’s “Born to Run” at the top of her lungs, hooting and hollering, trying to drown out her thoughts.

Who would she talk to now about her daddy and what he did with his lady loves? She remembered how after she’d gotten back to him, she’d dress to look like her own lady love for the evening, and they’d watch lovely raunchy porno and Bruce would grab her and they’d tear the sheets off the bed. No one would ever understand her like Bruce did; no one else would listen to her tell how it felt to jerk the wire one last time and know, know all the way to your soul, that this life was gone, forever. And he’d hold her and tell her how much he loved her as his thumb rubbed away the dried blood on her hands.

How had Bruce missed that setup? How had the cops even known they’d be at that dive? That big-haired waitress, she’d bet on it. She’d seen Big Hair looking at her, but she hadn’t paid her much attention because she was just an old hag with tons of brassy blond hair who worked in a bar. Who cared what she thought about anything? Kirsten wished she’d told Bruce about her, but she hadn’t.

Even that smart-mouthed redheaded girl was a fed. The redhead had played her, played her really good. She got hold of herself. With any luck, the redhead was dead now, like Bruce was dead, a tag hanging off her big toe. Kirsten hoped she’d died in her own vomit. Not that it mattered much. It was the FBI boss guy who’d shot Bruce, the guy on TV Bruce had told her about, whatever his name was.
I’ll put him down, Bruce, like I promised you. Wherever you are, you can count on that.

Kirsten heard a sob. It was from her, from deep inside her, and it surprised her.

Bruce was gone. She was alone again, and she couldn’t bear it.

You never had anyone, did you, Daddy? You were always alone, weren’t you? If only you’d known about me, if only we could have been together, you could have told me how clever I was, how right I was, to kill those snotty girls in high school. But like you, I had to learn alone, and practice until I was pleased with what I’d done, until I was ready to take a road trip, just like you.

But I had Bruce. I’ll bet even when you were with my bitch of a mother, you felt alone. You knew she wouldn’t understand, knew you couldn’t ever confide in her, share your plans and triumphs with her, not like I did with Bruce. He loved me, he admired me for what I was, what I did, just as you would have done if only you’d known about me. You could have taken me away from that bitch. What fun we would have had. I bless Aunt Sentra for finally telling me about you. I would never have realized, never have felt what I could share with another person. Most of those ridiculous books I read about you, those writers were idiots, they didn’t understand, didn’t know what it was like to be so full of life, so full of power.

But I understand. And now I’m like you. Alone.

She’d crossed into Virginia on a narrow country road with few cars on it. She’d stolen a big Gold Wing outside Baltimore, but she’d felt way too exposed, so the first chance she got, she revved it off a cliff, watched it bounce into scrubs and trees on its way down to the bottom, smashing itself to pieces. She’d watched the wheels spin in the early dawn light. She’d hot-wired the old Silverado right out of a driveway on a cul-de-sac near Pinkerton, and started driving.

She saw a diner up ahead.
What an ugly piece of crap,
she thought, plunked down by itself on the edge of a podunk town called Whortleberry, a long name for a dot on a map. There wasn’t a single car parked in front—no surprise there. The diner was long and narrow, old and weather-beaten. It reminded her of that big-haired waitress who’d called in the feds on them. What was her name? Kirsten didn’t know, but she could find out, if she ever wanted to go back to Baltimore and pay her a visit. She looked again at the diner, still didn’t see anything going on.

What a dump.
Burgundy vinyl-covered booths lined up along the long window that gave out onto the empty parking lot. It was good nobody was around; it seemed like it was meant to be, a diner here, just for her.

She felt the chill wind against her face when she stepped out of the Silverado and pulled her leather jacket closer. A stupid tinkling bell rang when she pushed open the door. Sure enough, the place was empty except for a single woman sitting at the counter, hunched over, reading a paperback, a cup of coffee at her elbow. She turned to see who’d come in, her long streaked blond hair falling straight to her shoulder. Kirsten realized she wasn’t a woman, she was a girl, real young, and she was wearing a dippy uniform.

Kirsten pulled off her driving gloves. “Get me coffee.”

The girl looked her over, rose, straightened her red uniform with its stupid white handkerchief sticking up out of her single breast pocket, and walked behind the cheap laminate counter to pour some obviously old coffee from a nearly empty carafe into a chipped mug.

Kirsten said, “Bet you don’t get much business here.”

“Enough,” the girl said, and shoved the mug toward her. “But not today. You want anything else?”

You’re rude, little girl.
Kirsten shook her head. Five minutes passed, and no one came in. Kirsten timed it. She had to admit, it made her consider the possibilities—that sweet young thing lying at her feet, making her journey to the hereafter, the sullen, rude little bitch. She watched the girl return to her seat and the novel. She ignored Kirsten.

Kirsten said, “You got a cook in the back?”

That broke the dam, and the complaints burst out of her. “The putz went home, sick to his stomach, he said, from stuffing down too many nachos last night watching a dorky football game. He made me stay even though all the regulars know I can’t cook and they won’t come in until he’s back.”

“I guess you made the coffee. It sucks.”

“Yeah, I did. Hey, it looks like you’ve got crappy taste, since you drank all of it. You want a refill?”

Kirsten had to laugh; the girl had a mouth on her.
Like the redhead last night, like Suzzie with two z’s
. This girl was pretty, fine-boned, with the greenest eyes Kirsten had ever seen.
Nice,
she thought,
succulent,
the way her daddy preferred them.
Young,
she thought,
and probably dead broke.
Kirsten bet she had a yearning to do a whole lot else that wasn’t this. Kirsten shook her head, put her palm over the top of her mug. “No coffee. Why aren’t you in school?”

“I graduated last May. I’m saving to get out of this dump. Hey, I’ll get you a piece of pie if you promise to give me a good tip.”

“What kind of pie, and who made it?”

“Strawberry. It’s fresh. Dave made it this morning before he got sick and went home. How about an extra-large tip for an extra-large piece?”

Kirsten smiled at her, a scary smile, but she didn’t know it. The girl took a step back and tried to mask her alarm with a shrug.

Kirsten said, “Sounds good to me.” It did, indeed. Kirsten realized she was starving, hadn’t eaten since—when? She couldn’t seem to remember. The past hours were a blur of panic and pain and rage. But life had to go on, that’s what her daddy would say, and so she’d eat a slice of strawberry pie, and then she’d see.

Ann Marie Slatter felt something cold slither through her when the weird woman smiled at her. The knife she was using to cut the strawberry pie slipped out of her nervous hands and dropped to the floor. She picked it up, wiped it on her apron. She gave the woman nearly a quarter of the pie, left only a sliver so Dave could complain about it when he came back, whenever that would be. He loved strawberry pie, particularly his own, and she knew he was looking forward to eating it when he got back.

“That big enough?”

“That’s very nice of you.” Kirsten cut a bite and ate it. Delicious. She ate steadily until it was gone. She sat back and rubbed her stomach. She said, “You won’t believe the size of the tip you’re going to get.”

Ann Marie shrugged again, tried to act blasé, but realized she was frightened to her bones. She wanted to run out the door and never see this woman again. She stared at the woman’s red hair, in thick, short spikes, and her face, it was dead white, like—something nagged at her, something just out of reach, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

The door to the diner opened, and Ann Marie was so relieved she nearly shouted with it.

Kirsten watched two older men stroll in, shrug out of their jackets, and slide into a booth. Hayseed farmers, one paunchy, the other skinny, both wearing faded jeans, flannel shirts, and boots older than she was. The bald guy, skinny as a windowpane, called out, “Hey, Annie, two coffees for Frank and me. I hear Dave’s living in the bathroom.” He said to Frank, all jowly, with a full head of stark white hair that looked weird with his dyed ink-black mustache, “I told Dave what those leftover nachos would do to him, but he ate a huge mound without stopping, even with the cheese cold and hanging in strings off his chin.”

Frank laughed.

Kirsten kept quiet, watched Ann Marie take them two mugs of coffee, these mugs not chipped, and the coffee was from a full pot in the back, nice and fresh, the little bitch.

The bald guy thanked Ann Marie. “Hey, I was telling Frank that the guy who was shacking up with Bundy’s daughter, you know, that crazy chick who’s killing women all over the country? He’s dead. The FBI shot him outside a bar in Baltimore. At least one of those crazies is dead and gone.”

Frank was stirring sugar in his coffee. “Talk about crazy—that guy had to be a lunatic to hook up with that nutty broad. As bad as her father, that’s what everybody says. Hey, what’s the guy’s name? The guy who was shacking up with her?”

Bald Guy said, “It’s something strange—I can’t remember.”

Kirsten said quietly, “His name was Bruce Comafield.”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “He worked for her step daddy, you know, that rich guy who wanted to run for Congress from California until it got out who his stepdaughter was?”

Bald Guy said, “Big surprise for him, I bet, both his stepdaughter and his aide. I’ll bet Stepdaddy’s glad the guy’s lights are out. What’s his name? Oh, yeah, Bruce.”

Kirsten couldn’t breathe. She watched the bald guy wag a skinny finger at Frank; why, she didn’t know.

She heard a soft keening sound, realized it was from her, from a wound deep inside her she thought she’d die of. Like Bruce had died.

She said to the two men, “That guy you’re talking about who was traveling with Bundy’s daughter? Bruce Comafield? Well, he wasn’t crazy.”

Both men were staring at her now. Ann Marie was, too. It came out of Ann Marie’s mouth in a wild burst—“I remember now, I’ve seen your photo. You’re her! Oh, sweet Jesus! You’re Bundy’s daughter! ”

Frank and Bald Guy froze.

Kirsten smiled at all of them as she rose slowly, reached into her leather jacket, and pulled out a small 340 S&W revolver. She shot Frank in the middle of his forehead; then, still smiling, she turned to Bald Guy, whose mouth was open to scream, but no sound came out, because she shot him in the heart. They both fell forward on the table, sending their coffee mugs flying, blood mixing with the coffee.

Ann Marie Slatter screamed and screamed, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, shock holding her frozen. Her eyes never left Kirsten’s face. She heard a whimper, didn’t even realize it was from her.

Kirsten studied her dispassionately. “Hey, kid, I left you a big tip. I hope you get out of this podunk town,” and she left.

CHAPTER 50

Wesley Heights, Washington, D.C.
Thursday afternoon

Coop pulled into a parking slot in front of an older three-story redbrick building, beautifully landscaped with grass, bushes, and trees, already hunkering down now for the coming winter.

He looked over at Lucy, felt a slap of anger seeing the bandage over her temple, knowing too well she could be dead if the bullet had slanted only a bit inward. Her eyes were closed. He hoped she wasn’t still in pain. “Lucy? You awake?”

She opened her eyes and slowly turned her head to face him. She smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry.” She looked around. “I’ve always loved this area. Did you know your neighborhood was developed in the 1920s, one of the first communities from a master plan in the country? So many beautiful properties here, you’re lucky.”

Coop said, “This building—I wanted to live here the first time I saw it four years ago.”

She said, “I want to go home, Coop.”

“One more time, kiddo—Savich ordered a guard for you until we get our heads around what happened. I’m not going to let you stay in that big house by yourself. Let me speak very slowly here, since your brain doesn’t seem to be plugged in—two guys, probably pros, tried to execute you today. Going home ain’t gonna happen.”

Lucy needed another pain pill onboard. It wasn’t only her head, it was all of her. Her muscles ached, and she had bruises everywhere. She felt exhausted, the aftermath of all the adrenaline that had rocketed through her.

He opened her car door, stood looking down at her. Finally, she gave him her hand, and he pulled her out. He saw she wasn’t all that steady on her feet, and supported her along the walkway. He unlocked the front glass doors, the panes, she saw, a colorful display of Art Deco, and led her into a good-sized lobby with a bank of mailboxes along one wall and three healthy-looking palm trees in Italian pots along the other.

He got his mail, took her elbow, and escorted her to the elevator. He pressed four.

The hallway was wide, covered with a stylish dark blue carpet with green splashes, but the track lighting was too bright, and it made her head hurt worse.

“Hang in there, Lucy. I’ll give you some water when we get inside, and you can take another pill. I’m thinking a nice nap would be a good thing for you; then I’ll order in our Szechuan.”

She nodded, but nothing was okay. On the other hand, she was alive, and for now, that was enough.

She’d been trying to think, of course, as best she could manage. Coop was right, it had been a pretty well-planned execution, and she should be dead.
Pros?
But who would hire pros to murder her? She shivered. No one had ever wanted her dead before, not she herself the target. And why should that happen now, today, if not because of the ring?

Of course, Dillon and Coop and everyone wanted to know everything, but what could she say? She couldn’t be sure who had tried to kill her, though, she had to think of her Uncle Alan. Did her grandmother tell him about the ring and what it could do? Did he or someone else who knew about the ring so many years ago find out her grandfather had left it for her? But how? And had the killers been told she kept the ring with her? And to take it off her dead body? Another big-time shiver.

She thought of the letter from her grandfather, tucked away in a book in her grandmother’s library. Did someone in the law firm know what her grandfather had left her? Surely not Mr. Claymore. Or had someone found the letter in the library? The McGruders had the key, and so did Uncle Alan. The painkillers still in her system tumbled and tossed the thoughts in her brain.

Coop unlocked the door at the end of the corridor and helped her inside. She felt like falling over, but she forced that aside and walked into the square entry hall with its red-and-blue Gabbeh carpet on the polished oak floor. He walked beside her into a large rectangular living room with huge windows on both open sides, with more Gabbeh carpets in yellow and green scattered over the polished oak floor. The furniture was solid, kind of Spanishy, she thought, and the pale lemony walls held vivid oil paintings, again, many of them Italian landscapes. The room felt peaceful, a strange word to come to her mind just then, but it was true.

“This is beautiful, Coop.”

“Thank you. I, well, I’ve put some time and thought into how I wanted it to look. The building went condo about two years ago, so I own it now. No yard work, and that means I go to Savich’s house to play basketball with Sean.”

“The paintings, they make me feel like I stepped into Tuscany.”

“I spent some summers riding through Italy, picked some of these up in little out-of-the-way towns whenever I could afford them.”

“A motorcycle?”

He led her to a big overstuffed chair, lightly pushed her down. “Nah, motorcycles are too dangerous.”

“I suppose you speak Italian?”

“A bit. I wave my arms around a lot while I talk, makes me more fluent. I’m getting you a glass of orange juice, that’s what Dr. Mom recommends for anything from a sprained ankle to a bullet in the head.”

He spoke Italian, he had great taste, he wasn’t a playboy—she fell asleep.

She felt fingers lightly stroking over her forearm, and heard a low voice. “Lucy?”

Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed for her SIG.

He touched her hand. “No, it’s okay. It’s only me. Here.”

Once she took a pain pill and drank half the orange juice, she laid her head back against the chair. She watched him walk to one of the windows and stand silently, looking out, his arms loose at his sides. Time passed, and she realized she was beginning to feel better, except for the light throb where the bullet had kissed her scalp. She suspected her other aches and pains would get worse as the day went on.

She said, “Dillon told me Kirsten dumped the Chevy Cobalt. Now she’s driving a motorcycle.”

“Hopefully the cops will see it and report it.”

“She’ll drive it in some bushes soon, anyway, and steal another car.” Lucy drank the rest of the orange juice.

“Probably. Bedtime for you now.”

She slept throughout the afternoon. When she awoke, she smelled Chinese, and smiled.

She walked to his kitchen, yawning. He was laying out plates and silverware. “Thanks, Coop, for taking care of me.”

“You’re pretty easy. Sit down, and we can eat.”

“I guess you’re right, going home wouldn’t be such a good idea.”

“I wanted you to see my place, anyway,” he said, and handed her the carton of fried rice. Lucy saw there was Szechuan beef, her favorite moo shu pork, pot stickers, everything she liked. While she spooned up hot-and-sour soup, Coop said, “While you were asleep, Savich and I discussed who could have tried to kill you. Forensics is still at that van we left on Country Route Thirty-five. You know we’re going to trace the van, and sooner or later ID the driver. Then we’ll be able to find the other van and the guy driving it. The two men have a history, that’ll make it easier to find him.”

“I agree they were pros, Coop. They knew what they were doing.”

“Can you think of anyone from a former case who could be behind this attempt on your life?”

She slowly shook her head.

He took her hand. “Hard as it is to think about, there’s always family. We have to start there. We’re thinking your uncle as well as your cousins, Court and Miranda, would stand to inherit a big chunk of money if you died, wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose so, since I don’t have a will. But I could make a will tomorrow, leave everything to an animal shelter if I want. Listen, Coop, my uncle is very rich. I can’t believe it’s about my money.”

He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “The gorilla in the room, Lucy, is that you found your grandfather’s murdered remains in your attic five days ago. Could someone be trying to hide something about that murder, something they don’t want you to find, or something they think you could possibly know? And what about that strange ring your grandfather left you?”

So, it’s obvious, even to Coop,
Lucy thought as she slowly chewed a moo shu pork pancake. She knew to her soul the ring had to be the key. Someone knew she had the ring, and they knew it was important enough to kill her for it. How could she hope to prove that; how could she protect herself or anyone else around her if she kept the letter a secret from everyone, even Coop? She had to tell him some of it; it was the only way to move forward. The letter, then, and what it said. But she wouldn’t tell anyone now about what she could do when she held the ring and said that word; maybe she never would.

“Coop, there’s something I haven’t told anyone yet, something I thought was private, between my grandfather and me. There was more than the ring in that safe-deposit box, there was a letter written to me by my grandfather, probably not long before he was killed. I think it’s time for us to speak to Uncle Alan.”

Ten minutes later, Coop followed Lucy out of his condo, his hand beneath her elbow, just in case.