Night Whispers (41 page)

"What?"

Cagle held up the thirty-five pages of information on Sloan Reynolds. "She's a cop," he repeated.

Hocklin's first thought was that if he had to tell the media he'd made a mistake today, he was going to look like a world-class ass; then he relaxed a little. "So what—cops don't make much dough, and she wanted her fair share from the old lady."

"Maybe."

"Did she deny the Glock was hers?"

"No. She denied having hidden it under the mattress. Anyway, it's registered to her. Look, right here—" He pointed to the DBT report.

Hocklin ignored it. "She had motive, means, and opportunity. Book her."

"I don't think—"

"I gave you an order."

"But we could be making a mistake."

"Book her, and if we're wrong, we'll apologize."

Cagle glowered at Hocklin's back as the captain walked away; then he heaved himself out of his chair. He walked into the room where Flynn was trying to question Sloan Reynolds. "Excuse me," he said automatically to her; then he looked at Flynn. "I need to talk to you out there." He jerked his head toward the door.

Flynn looked puzzled, but Sloan wasn't. She knew the moment Cagle looked at her and said "Excuse me" that he'd found out her secret. Based on the sheaf of papers in his hand with data printed from top to bottom, she assumed he'd finally bothered to run her through DBT, because she wouldn't have turned up in the ROC files when he checked with them. Now that they knew, she was still in something of a predicament because she couldn't tell them why she'd lied about being an interior designer, and she couldn't tell them she was working for the FBI.

She expected Flynn and Cagle to walk back in and start treating her more like a puzzling enigma than a murderer. In that she was wrong.

"Miss Reynolds," Flynn said flatly, "will you come with me, please?"

Sloan stood up. She couldn't believe they were going to release her this easily. "Why?"

"You already know the procedure. You've been through it before, only on the other side."

"You're actually going to book me?" she burst out angrily. "Without asking for any explanations?"

The two detectives looked at each other. Cagle shoved his glasses up on his nose and managed to look both sheepish and angry. "Well ask you for explanations later. But if I were in your place when we start asking, I'd tell us to shove the questions up Captain Hocklin's ass, and then I'd demand that we contact your attorney."

Sloan had her answer: Hocklin wanted her booked, regardless. Hocklin, she realized bitterly, had probably already announced it to the flock of reporters outside.

She went with them, refusing to give them the satisfaction of uttering a word. She knew what hotel the attorney was staying in, and if he wasn't there, she knew she could call Noah and Noah would find him. There wasn't much point in contacting Paul, since he'd probably expect her to sit around in jail until he got the thirty-six hours he said he needed.

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J
ack Robbins leaned back in his chair, watching his computer download files from Data Base Technologies, but his thoughts kept returning to the newspaper clipping and the male face that seemed distantly familiar.

He shook his head as if that would dislodge the unsettling thought. Leaning forward, he typed in a query for "Reynolds, Sloan." On the bottom of his computer screen the words "Now Online" were flashing, followed by the names of the entities who were currently searching DBT's database.

When he typed in her name, he didn't expect to turn up anything extraordinary, and he wasn't curious about the details of the woman's personal life. He was simply doing the job he was paid a great deal of money to perform—which was to insulate Noah from potential problems of any nature. In Jack's mind, the possibility that the woman who made Noah's face and voice soften might also become a suspect in a murder case constituted A Very Big Potential Problem.

DBT came up with seven matches for the name "Sloan Reynolds" and provided the social security number and city of residence for each name. Only one of the matches lived in Florida—Bell Harbor, Florida. He chose that one. She was going to be easy to single out, he realized with relief. When the download was complete, he went off-line and pulled up her file on his computer disk.

The first section of information provided all her addresses for the last ten years, the taxable value of every home she'd lived in, and the names of whomever she'd paid a mortgage payment to or made a rent payment to. She owned a very modest house, Jack noted.

The next section listed the names of anyone who had ever lived with her at any address, or even received mail at her address. Evidently, she'd never had a live-in boyfriend, not for even a month.

He held down the "page down" key a split second too long, and his computer jumped to a later section that listed the names and phone numbers of all her neighbors at all her addresses. Instead of returning to where he'd left off, he scrolled backward from that point. She didn't have a car, which struck him as odd, but she owned an inexpensive boat. She'd never had a lien, judgment, or bankruptcy, either. She'd never been involved in a criminal, a civil, or even a motor vehicle problem.

She was incredibly clean, Jack thought as his scrolling took him back into the first section. She was a saint. She was… He stood clear up out of his chair, staring at the screen on his laptop…

…She was a cop!

She was a detective on the force of the Bell Harbor Police Department! She was no interior designer; she was a cop. And for some reason, she didn't want Noah to know it.

Jack slapped a floppy disk into the laptop and transferred her file to it. While that was happening, he picked up the telephone and called local telephone information for Bell Harbor. He asked the operator for the number of the Bell Harbor Police Department; then he dialed that number.

"Detective Sloan Reynolds, please," he said to the man who answered.

"She's on vacation until next week. Can anyone else help you?"

Jack hung up and headed for Noah's office, the floppy disk in his hand. He reached Noah's office doorway at the same time Mrs. Snowden did, and the unflappable Mrs. Snowden, who appeared to be shaken up for the first time since Jack had known her, rushed forward and cut him off.

"Mr. Maitland," she burst out.

Noah was on the telephone with the head of an aeronautics company in France, and he frowned at her and then at the two flashing lights on two other phone lines. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but Paris Reynolds is on line two. It's her second call. You were on the phone when she called the last time, but now she says it's urgent."

Noah said an abrupt good-bye to the French industrialist and lunged for line two, but Jack stopped him. "Don't take that call yet, Noah! I have something to tell you."

Noah paused, his arm outstretched toward the phone. "What the hell is it? Didn't you—"

"She's a cop, Noah."

In all the years he'd worked for Noah Maitland, Jack had never seen him immobilized by any emotion or any event. The worse the pressure, the greater the disaster, the more energized he became until it was dealt with. Now, however, Noah stared at him as if unable to absorb what Jack had just told him. "You're out of your mind," he said finally, reaching for the flashing button on the telephone again. "Sloan is afraid of guns."

"Listen to me, Noah," Jack said sharply. "She's a detective with the Bell Harbor police force. I don't know what she's doing here, but she's obviously under cover."

A sudden collage of images flashed through Noah's mind—Sloan in the backyard with Carter, tossing him on the ground. Sloan showing Courtney some self-defense moves. Sloan, chasing down a killer, dodging obstacles and leaping hedges like a graceful gazelle. No… Like a
cop
!

He reached for the phone, slowly this time, and picked up Paris's call. He listened for a moment. "How long ago did they take her in? All right, calm down. Your father is upset, and he's not thinking clearly. I'll handle it and call you back." He hung up the phone and looked at Jack, his expression completely blank. "Why would she lie to me?"

Before Jack could begin to speculate, Mrs. Snowden reappeared in the doorway. "Ross Halperin is on the phone, and he says it's an emergency."

Courtney collided with her as she raced into Noah's office. "Sloan's been arrested!" Courtney cried, lunging for the television set and turning it on.

"I'll take Halperin's call," Jack said, reaching for the phone to talk to Noah's chief counsel. When he hung up, he looked at Noah and hid his wrath behind a flat, terse voice. "The FBI got a search warrant. At this moment, they, along with the Coast Guard and the ATF, are swarming all over your boats looking for a stash of illegal automatic weapons."

Noah slowly stood up. "What? Why in hell would she lie to me?"

Courtney was standing in front of the television set, swearing at the commercial that was interrupting the cable newscast. "Noah, look, dammit—" she said, pointing, but the news story that came on wasn't about Sloan.

"It's been a tough day for the rich and famous in Palm Beach, Florida," the newscaster announced. "Within the hour, two yachts belonging to tycoon-socialite Noah Maitland have been impounded and boarded by the FBI, Coast Guard, and ATF. We have footage."

Jack recognized the profile of the FBI agent standing at the
Apparition's
stern at the same time Noah did.

"
Richardson
!" The name exploded from Noah like a curse.

"Your girlfriend's a cop, Noah," Jack said flatly, "and her 'boyfriend' is FBI."

"Courtney!" Noah snapped. "Get out of here."

She took one look at Noah's face and started backing out of his office. Despite her flippant, disrespectful digs about her brother's business dealings, Courtney had never really believed Noah did anything wrong. "Sloan's a cop?" she said, looking dazed. "And Paul's an FBI agent? And they both wanted to take the yachts away from you? But why?"

He turned and looked at her, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. Mrs. Snowden drew her the rest of the way out of Noah's office and hesitantly said as she closed the door, "Mr. Maitland—Sloan Reynolds is on the phone."

Standing behind his desk, his gaze riveted on CNN's coverage of the takeover of his property, Noah reached out and pressed
the
speaker button on the telephone. Sloan sounded calm but a little shaken. "Noah, Mr. Kirsh isn't in his room at the hotel. I've been arrested."

"Have you now?" Noah said silkily. "Do you only get one phone call?"

"Yes—"

"That's too damned bad, Detective Reynolds, because you just wasted it." Reaching out, he disconnected the call.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Noah watched the invasion of his personal property. He remembered Sloan's reaction to the weapons she'd seen on board, the questions she'd asked him about them. And then she'd gone to his stateroom with him to make love. They'd made love for hours that night—after she'd pried enough information out of him so that her coconspirator could bluff a federal judge into issuing a search warrant.

He thought of the way he'd held her hand and confessed that he was crazy about her, and the way he'd told her he felt like a teenager in love for the first time. "Bitch!" he said aloud.

The newsclip ended, and he turned back to his desk and went into action; he told Mrs. Snowden to get four people on the phone for him. Two of them were attorneys, one was a retired federal judge, and the other was a Supreme Court justice. When he finished rapping out those instructions, he told Jack what he wanted done. "Got it?" he snapped.

"Consider it done," Jack replied.

"When I'm finished with that son of a bitch," Noah said in a murderous voice, "he won't be able to get a job as a crossing guard!"

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P
aul made certain Maitland's ships were secured for the night and under guard; then he wearily walked over to his rented car. The ten p.m. news came on as he pulled out of the marina. "
It's been a bleak day for two of Palm Beach's most respected families
," the newscaster said. "
This afternoon, Sloan Reynolds, daughter of financier Carter Reynolds, was arrested for the murder of her great-grandmother, Edith Reynolds
."

Swearing under his breath, Paul made a U-turn in the street, slammed down on the accelerator, and headed for the police station.

In her cell at the police department, Sloan was listening to the same broadcast, but it was the second half of it that brought her to her feet in an agony of disbelief:

"A
short while later, the FBI, in collaboration with the Coast Guard and a team from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, seized and boarded two yachts belonging to billionaire Noah Maitland. Sources close to the investigation report that the FBI has reason to believe Maitland has been using the yachts to transport illegal weapons
."