The Beginning (24 page)

“We thought you'd killed him,” Scott said. “He wasn't even supposed to be at home that night. He was supposed to be in New York, but he came back unexpectedly. You grabbed that gun and you shot him.”

But Sally was shaking her head, looking not frightened but thoughtful, her forehead furrowed. “No, I remember when I got here I tried the front door. I didn't expect it to be unlocked, but it was. Just as I turned the knob, I heard a shot. I ran into this room and there he was, on the floor, his chest covered with blood.

“I remember—” She paused, frowning ferociously. Then she pressed her knuckles against her forehead. “It's so vague, so fuzzy. Those damned drugs you gave me—I could kill you for that.”

Quinlan said, “He's in so much trouble now, Sally, that killing him would be letting him off lightly. I want to see him spend all his money on lawyers. Then I want to see him rot in prison for the rest of his miserable life. Don't worry about him. You can do this. It's all vague, but it's there. What do you see?”

She was staring down at where his body had sprawled, arms flung out, his right palm up. So much blood. There had been so much blood. Noelle had laid a new carpet. But there'd been something strange, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, something…

“There was someone else there,” she said. “Yes, there was someone else in the room.”

“How did you get the gun?”

She said without hesitation, “It was on the floor. He was bending down to pick it up when I came into the room. He straightened up real fast and ran to the French doors.”

She turned slowly and looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave onto a patio and yard. There were high bushes and a fence between this house and the one next door.

“You're sure it was a man?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I can see his hand opening the handle on the French doors. He's wearing gloves, black leather gloves.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No, he—” Her voice froze. She began to shake her head back and forth, back and forth. “No,” she whispered, looking toward those French doors. “It's not possible. It's just not possible.”

“You see him now, Sally?” Quinlan's voice was steady and unhurried.

She looked at James, then at her mother, at Scott, and finally at Dr. Beadermeyer. She said, “Maybe they're right, James. Maybe I am crazy.”

“Who was he, Sally?”

“No, no, I'm crazy. I'm delusional.”

“Who was he?”

She looked defeated, her shoulders bowed, her head lowered. She whispered, “He was my father.”

“Ah,” Quinlan said. Everything was falling neatly into place, though not yet for the others.

Noelle whispered, “Your father? Oh, Sally, that's impossible. Your father was lying dead on the floor. I saw him, I went down on my knees beside him. I even shook him. It was your father. I couldn't be wrong about that.”

Scott waved his pipe at her, shaking his head, saying, “She's bloody crazy, crazier than we thought. Your father's dead, Sally, just like Noelle said. I saw him dead too. Don't forget there were the two of us.”

Dr. Beadermeyer said, “It's all right, Sally. It's another symptom of your illness. Will you come with me now? I'll call your father's lawyer, and he can come and make sure this man doesn't take you to jail.”

Quinlan let all their voices float over him for a moment. He stood up and walked to Sally. He took her hands in his. “Well done,” he said, leaned down, and kissed her.

“You bastard, that's my wife! I don't want her, but she still is my wife.”

He kissed her again. “Everything makes sense now.” He turned to Dr. Beadermeyer. “Now it all fits. You're a cosmetic surgeon, Norman. You must be very good at it. Where did you find the man whose face you reworked into Amory St. John's?”

“You don't know what you're talking about. The murdered man was Amory St. John. No one doubted it. Why should they? There were no questions.”

“That's because there was no reason to doubt it. Why would anyone check dental records, for example, if the wife of the deceased identified the body, if the face on the body looked like all the faces on all the photographs on the desk? It does bother me though that the medical examiner didn't see the scars from the surgery. You must be very good, Norman.”

“Did you really do that, Dr. Beadermeyer?” Scott asked. “Did you really plan with Armory St. John to kill another man and have him take Amory's place? Was he planning to leave me to take the fall? It's the truth, isn't it? I'd be the one blamed because he was supposedly dead. And I didn't do all that much, I swear. There was Sally, but that was necessary because we knew she'd read several short messages I'd forgotten were in my briefcase. There wasn't any choice. I went along with him because I had to.”

Quinlan hit him again, this time in the jaw. He rather hoped he'd broken it.

Beadermeyer looked down at Scott, who was now lying on his side, unconscious. “What a piece of nothing he is, but that's not my problem. Now, Agent, all this is nuts. Armory St. John was the one who died. I've had enough of this. I'm sorry, Sally. I've tried to help you, but now I don't care. I'm leaving.”

“When the devil leaves hell, you sadistic monster,” she said “is when I'd go with you.”

“Best you find another comparison, Sally,” Quinlan said. “I know for a fact that the devil roams the world. We've got two of his minions right here. So Sally's father is still paying you. That surely answers the rest of my questions.”

“I'm leaving,” Dr. Beadermeyer said and walked toward the door.

“I don't think you want to leave just yet,” Savich said, stepping into the room.

“When that worm wakes up I want to hit him,” Noelle St. John said. “Well, maybe I won't wait.” She walked over to Scott and kicked him in the ribs. “As for you,” she said to Dr. Beadermeyer, “if only Agent Quinlan will give me a rubber hose, I'll work you over but good. What all of you did to my daughter…I'd like to kill you.”

“I'll make sure you get that rubber hose, Noelle,” Quinlan said.

“I'm going to sue all of you. Police brutality, that's it, and libel. Look at poor Scott.”

Sally went over and kicked Scott in the ribs. Then she walked into her mother's arms.

Savich nodded to Quinlan and smiled at Sally. “That was well done. Quinlan's good at helping people remember.''

He turned to Dr. Beadermeyer. “I don't think you want to leave yet. I've got lots more buddies coming any minute now. And they're all special agents, which means they can shoot off the end of your pinkie finger at fifty yards and make you sing out every secret you've had since you were two years old. They're really very good, so it's best that you stay put, Dr. Beadermeyer.”

Noelle was staring at Dr. Beadermeyer. “I hope you rot in the deepest pit they can find to throw you in. Now, you miserable bastard, where is my husband? Who was the poor man both of you murdered?”

“That's an excellent question,” Quinlan said. “Tell us, Norman.”

It happened quickly. Dr. Beadermeyer pulled a small revolver out of his coat pocket. “I don't have to tell you anything, you son of a bitch. You've ruined my life, Quinlan. I have no home, no money, damn you, nothing. I'd love to kill you, but then I'd never know peace, would I?”

They heard several car doors slam.

“It's too late to whine, Norman,” Quinlan said. “Now you're going to the slammer. You might consider cutting a deal. Tell us where Amory St. John is hiding. Tell us the name of that guy whose face you rearranged. Tell us the whole sordid story.”

“Go to hell, Quinlan.”

“Not for many years yet, I hope,” Quinlan said. “So it was Amory St. John who was continuing to pay you to keep Sally a prisoner. Was it indeed her father who followed her to The Cove and peered at her through her bedroom window that night? Were you with him? Did the two of you knock us out and take Sally back to your wonderful sanitarium? Yeah, that sounds right. It was Amory St. John on the phone to his daughter, his own face staring in at her through the bedroom window.”

“It's all a lie, all of it. I'm leaving now. Come here, Noelle. I don't think anyone will shoot if you're with me.”

Sally said, “My father must have been furious when I saw him run out of this room. He would have thought I'd shout it to the world. That's why he wanted you to keep me in the sanitarium.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Sally,” Dr. Beadermeyer said. “You're crazy. You escaped from a mental institution. Even if you'd spouted all this out as soon as the cops got here, no one would have believed you, not a single soul.”

“But it would have raised questions,” Quinlan said. “I would have wondered and chewed on it. I'm a real FBI nerd when it comes to things like that. I wouldn't have let it go. Sally's right. That's why you and her father wanted to keep her locked up. She was out of the way permanently. And her father still believed she knew he was a traitor, or at least suspected he wasn't a solid citizen.”

“Shut up. Come here, Noelle, or I'll shoot your bloody daughter.”

“How much money are we talking here, Norman? A couple million? More? It just occurred to me why you wanted Sally so badly. She was your insurance policy, wasn't she? With her, you didn't have to worry that Amory St. John would kill you. Of course, he could have killed Sally too, but that would have raised questions inevitably.

“No, better for him to keep paying you off until he came up with a bright idea to rid himself of you. Have I gotten anything wrong, Norman? I love real-life wicked plots. Novels can't even come close.”

Dr. Beadermeyer waved the gun. “Come here, Noelle.”

Scott stirred on the floor, shook his head, and slowly sat up. He moaned and rubbed his jaw. “What's going on here? What are you doing, Dr. Beadermeyer?”

“I'm leaving, Scott. If you want to come along, you can. We've got Noelle. The cops won't take a chance of shooting because they might hit her. Come here, Noelle.” He pointed the revolver at Sally. “Now.”

Noelle walked slowly to where he stood. He grabbed her left arm and pulled her tightly against him. “We'll go out through the French doors. Nice and slow, Noelle, nice and slow. Ah, Scott, why don't you stay put? I never really liked you, always thought you were a no-account loser. Yes, you just stay here.”

“What you're doing isn't smart, Norman,” Quinlan said. “Believe me, it isn't smart at all.”

“Shut up, you bastard.” He kicked open the French doors and pulled Noelle through them. Quinlan didn't move, only shook his head. Savich said, “You did warn him, Quinlan.”

There were voices, two shots. Then dead silence. Savich ran outside.

“Noelle!” Sally ran through the open French doors onto the patio, yelling her name over and over.

They turned to see Noelle stumble toward her daughter. The women embraced.

Quinlan said, “Now, Scott, why don't you tell us which woman is your lover—Jill or Monica?”

“Neither, damn you. I'm gay!”

“Now that's a kicker,” Quinlan said.

Savich came back in. There was a huge grin on his face. “Poor old Norman Lipsy's got a nice big nick in his arm. Unfortunately, he'll be fine.”

“I'm glad about that,” Quinlan said. “I want to see him rot in jail with Bubba, his future boyfriend.”

“Scott is gay, James?” Sally stared at her husband. “You're gay and you married me?”

“I had to,” Scott said. “Your father's ruthless. I'd only done a little fiddling with some clients' accounts, but he discovered it. That's when he got me into the arms deals and told me I had to marry you. He also paid me, but believe me, it wasn't enough to bear you for those six months.”

Quinlan laughed and pulled Sally against him. “I hope this doesn't depress you too much.”

“I think I'll kick up my heels.”

They heard Dr. Beadermeyer cursing outside, then moaning, complaining loudly that his arm was bleeding too much, that he'd die from blood loss, that the bastards wanted him to die.

They heard Savich laugh and say loudly, “Justice. I do like to see justice done.”

Sally said, “There's no justice yet. James, where is my father?”

He kissed her on the mouth and hugged her. “We'll check first to see if his passport is gone. If it isn't, we'll have him soon enough.”

“Another thing,” Savich said, “where is that bloody Roth-Steyr pistol?”

“I remember running after my father out the French doors. I threw it in the bushes.”

“The cops would have found it. They didn't.”

“Then that means her father saw her throw it away and doubled back to get it,” Quinlan said. And he smiled. “That pistol IDs him better than fingerprints.”

“That poor man Dr. Beadermeyer operated on. I wonder who he was?”

“I don't think we'll ever know, Sally, unless Beadermeyer talks. He was cremated. Damnation, all the clues were there, staring me right in the face.

Your father had made out a new will about eight months ago, specifying that he wanted to be cremated immediately. Norman Lipsy was a cosmetic surgeon. You were certain it was your father on the phone. I should have believed you, but I truly thought you'd heard some sort of spliced tape recording of his voice. We'll get him, Sally. I promise.”

Quinlan took her home and made her promise to stay there. He had to go to the office and see how the investigation was going.

“But it's after midnight.”

“This is a big deal. The FBI building will be lit up from top to bottom, well, at least part of the fifth floor.”

“Can I come with you?”

He pictured thirty men and women all talking at the same time, going over reams of paper, one group reviewing what they'd recovered from Amory St. John's office, another group delving into Dr. Beadermeyer's papers.

Then there was Dr. Beadermeyer to interview—ah, he wanted to get Norman in a room alone, just the two of them and a tape recorder and go at it. He nearly rubbed his hands together.

“Yes,” he said, “you can come, but agents will latch on to you and question you until you want to curl up in the fetal position and sleep.”

“I'm ready to talk,” she said and grinned up at him.

“Oh, James, I'm so relieved. Scott is gay and my mother wasn't in on anything. There
is
someone here for me besides you.”

 

MARVIN
Brammer, head of the Criminal Investigative Division, wanted her examined by FBI doctors and shrinks.

Quinlan talked him out of it. Sally didn't get to see him do it, but she bet he was very good.

She ended up talking at length to Marvin Brammer. He, without realizing it, was positively courtly with her.

By the end of the hour-long interview, he'd gotten even more details of that night from her. Brammer was one of the best interviewers in the FBI, an organization known for its excellent interview skills. Maybe he was even better than Quinlan, but she doubted if James would admit that.

When she came out of Marvin Brammer's office, Brammer behind her with his hand lightly holding her elbow, there was Noelle sitting in the small waiting area, asleep. She looked young and very pretty. She looked, Sally thought, just like she should look. But she was worried about her father. What if he got to Noelle again? What if he got to her? She'd said all that to Mr. Brammer, but he'd reassured her again and again that they would have guards on the two of them. There was no chance Amory St. John would get near either of them. Besides, he couldn't imagine the man being that stupid. No, everything would be all right.

“That's my mother,” Sally said. “Isn't she beautiful? She's always loved me.” She gave Brammer a smile that would have disarmed a rabid cynic.

Brammer cleared his throat. He ran his fingers lightly through his thick white hair. The word was that his interview skills had increased exponentially when his hair had turned white overnight after a shoot-out five years before in which he'd nearly been killed. You looked at him and you trusted him.

“From what Quinlan told me—he insisted on talking to Scott Brainerd—it seems that Scott did indeed embezzle client funds on a very small scale. But your father caught him, and that was it. He did some of your father's dirty work, so your father really had him. Ah, you were right, he did have a lover, a guy named Allen Falkes, in the British embassy. I'm sorry.”

“Actually, all of this comes as quite a relief. I'm not hurt, Mr. Brammer,” she said, and it was true. “I'm just surprised by all of it. I've really been used, haven't I?”

“Yes, but a lot of people are used every day. Not as grossly as you've been, but manipulated by those who are more powerful, those who are smarter, those who have more money. But as I said, that won't be a problem anymore, Mrs. Brainerd.”

“Call me Sally. After all this, I don't think I ever want to have the Brainerd name attached to me again.”

“Sally. A nice name. Warm and funny and cozy. Quinlan likes your name. He said it was a name that made him feel good, made him feel like he'd always get a ready smile, and probably a good deal more, but he didn't add that. Sometimes Quinlan has discretion, at least when he's on the job—or rather, when he's talking to me, his boss.”

She said nothing to that.

Brammer really didn't know why he was doing it, but this thin young woman who'd been through more than her fair share for a lifetime, who didn't know the first thing about getting information out of people, had made him spill his guts—and she hadn't said a thing.

Actually, he wanted to take her home with him and feed her and tell her jokes until she was smiling and laughing all the time.

He said, impelled by all the protective instincts she fostered in him, “I've known Quinlan for six years. He's an excellent agent. He's smart and he's intuitive. He's got this sort of extra sense that many times puts him nearly in another person's head—or heart. Sometimes I'm not sure which. Sometimes I have to rein him in, yell at him because he plays a lone hand, which we don't like to have happen. Bureau agents are trained to be team players, except for those in New York City, of course, and Quinlan down here at headquarters. But I always know when he's doing it, even though he thinks he's fooling me.

“He also has this knack for making people remember things buried deep in their brains. He did that with you tonight, didn't he?”

“Yes. But, on the other hand, Mr. Brammer, you got even more out of me.”

“Ah, but that's because Quinlan opened the spigot, so to speak. Now, in addition to being one of the best agents in this office, he's a very talented man. He plays the saxophone. He's from a huge family sprawled out all over the East Coast. His father retired two years ago, a big-time investment banker. His first wife, Teresa, was a big mistake, but that's over with. He hunkered down for a while, rethought lots of things, and then he came out of hibernation, and he got well. Now he's met you, and all he can do is smile and rub his hands together and talk about the future. Treat him well, Sally.”

“As in be gentle with him?”

Marvin Brammer laughed. “Nah, beat on him, give him a run for his money, don't let him pull any of his smart-ass pranks on you.”