Split Second (10 page)

CHAPTER 21

Little hearts.
Savich could only imagine what Mrs. Lansford had thought when she’d seen that.

Mr. Lansford said, “When Elizabeth told me about Bundy being Kirsten’s father, she admitted she hadn’t had a clue what or who Kirsten was from the time Kirsten reached puberty. She didn’t know what she would do or say or think about any particular subject from one minute to the next. She also admitted to me that Kirsten’s strangeness had always frightened her, given who her father was. Elizabeth read every book she could find on whether psychopathic behavior could be inherited, but she simply couldn’t be certain about Kirsten. She said she was afraid to even think about it; it was simply too upsetting.

“Because Kirsten hadn’t been arrested by the age of twenty-one, Elizabeth told me she began to breathe more easily, finally admitted that was why she’d waited another two years to marry me. She hadn’t wanted me near someone who could possibly harm me. I remember before she was twenty-five, Kirsten occasionally slept over, but let me tell you, I’d forget her for months at a time.

“That black Porsche.” He dashed his fingers through his beautifully styled hair. It fell right back into place. “Do you know, I always liked black until Kirsten. But black was the only color I ever saw her wear. Fricking black. And so I bought her the black Porsche. I wanted to tie a black bow around the Porsche, but her mother said it wouldn’t go over well, Kirsten would think I was making fun of her, and I confess, when she said that, I felt a chill run over me. So the bow was huge and red, and Kirsten smiled and patted me, told me thank you, and she kissed me maybe a dozen times. She even asked questions about my upcoming campaign. She was all interest, all sweetness—that day—and I’ll confess, I wanted to believe she was simply a bit on the exotic side, that her weird behavior was mainly affectation. I never dreamed she was indeed a copy of her father. I mean, who could dream of such a thing? We never saw her again after that day.”

Savich said, “You said she was unpredictable, Mr. Lansford. Could you give us an example?”

He walked over to the window and looked out onto the quiet courtyard. He said over his shoulder, “I remember once, she was maybe twenty-four, she waltzed into my office in Silicon Valley, completely unexpected, and told me she was taking me to lunch.”

Coop said, “Did you go?”

Another moment of silence, then Lansford said, “I’ve never said this before, haven’t, as a matter of fact, even let myself think it. But now that I remember that day, I realize I went to lunch with her for the simple reason that I was afraid of her. I tried to tell myself that I had no reason to be, but still—I’ll never forget the first time I met her, this eighteen-year-old who was attending Berkeley, an art major, and she looked like she wanted to shoot me, sullen as a little kid—but much more than that. I saw something in her eyes when she looked at me, lurking there, if you will, something that alarmed me. I know that sounds melodramatic, as if I’m embellishing my reactions, since I now know who she is, but I’m not sure. That something I saw hiding in her eyes, it was this Kirsten—Ted Bundy’s daughter. You know she also attended law school for a little while, like her father?”

“Yes,” Savich said. “We know.”

Lansford raised bleak eyes to Savich. “My poor wife is devastated. Can you imagine finding out your child has murdered five people?”

Lansford shook his head, trying to get his brain around the horror. “I remember Elizabeth told me once she must be the luckiest woman alive. I thought she was talking about meeting me, about our coming together, and my ego bounded to the stratosphere.” He gave a sharp laugh, met Savich’s eyes. “But what she meant was that she had survived Bundy, that he hadn’t tortured her and murdered her—he only left her pregnant.

“She left yesterday to stay with her cousins in Seattle. Yes, I know, Ted Bundy lived there. Did she meet him in Seattle? I don’t know, I didn’t ask her, but I know it was her first home.”

“What about Sentra?”

“I happened to go by the gallery Friday night and saw the two of them together. Elizabeth was furious, of course, and Sentra, well, she was laughing, talking about what an interesting evening it had been.”

Coop said, “Mr. Lansford, do you think it’s possible Sentra is Kirsten’s mother and not Elizabeth?”

“
What?
No, I have never thought that. What possible reason could they have had for a ruse like that?”

“Maybe your wife took the baby because, as you say, Sentra was nuts, not at all good mother material.”

“No, Elizabeth would have told me.”

“Has Sentra always been an interior decorator?”

Lansford laughed. “Oh, you can’t know how rich that is. Sentra is the longtime mistress of Clifford Childs, an old-time San Francisco aristocrat with old-time money—actually, he has a vast reservoir of money. She’s never earned a dime, never done a worthwhile thing in her life, even though she claims she’s an interior decorator. She met Childs when she was all of twenty-two years old, and he was thirty, a recent widower with two sons. They’ve been together ever since, thirty-two years.”

They all knew this, since a Google search had turned up dozens of society party photos. Lucy asked, “Why didn’t they marry?”

“I don’t know why, but the way Sentra tells it, she keeps turning him down. Why? Sentra says he’s too possessive. He’s always given her an outrageous allowance, treated her like a queen. They’re quite the society couple. I believe he’s even left her half his estate in his will. His two sons love her as much as Daddy, their wives as well—amazing, since I can’t imagine her being able to hide what a loon she is for very long. Maybe it doesn’t matter to any of them that she’s crazy, or maybe this role is simply easy for her, and pleases her, and with them there is no pretense. Yes, one big happy family. It’s all very odd. Do you know Childs came to my big fund-raiser in San Francisco and contributed huge bucks for my campaign?”

Lucy said, “Thirty-two years. That’s almost exactly Kirsten’s age. Excuse me for repeating this, but maybe you’ve given us the reason for Sentra giving up Kirsten as a baby—namely, Clifford Childs. What do you think? Sentra was twenty-two years old, had a baby, no means of support, and here comes her knight—namely, Clifford Childs.”

Lansford said, “Sure, that could make sense, but like I already said, I know Elizabeth, and I know she would have told me if she weren’t Kirsten’s mother; there’d have been no reason for her not to. Actually, I think she would have been greatly relieved to be able to tell me that. No, there is no doubt in my mind that Elizabeth is Kirsten’s mother.”

“Did Sentra know Bundy personally?”

“Elizabeth never said one way or the other. But listen, I admire my wife for what she did. She was twenty-two years old, and she supported herself by selling her art, attended classes at Berkeley, and raised a child on her own.”

Savich nodded. “Do you know how Clifford Childs has reacted to all this?”

Lansford gave a bark of laughter. “He called me an hour ago. True to form, Clifford and the family have closed ranks around Sentra. He sees her as a victim who needs his protection.

“Listen, Agents, do you think Elizabeth could be in any danger from Kirsten? The thought scares me stupid.”

Savich said, “No, I don’t think so, Mr. Lansford. If I were worried about one of you, I’d say it would be you. Take care in your daily routine, all right? Be aware of the people who come near you—until we catch Kirsten.”

Lansford was staring down at his butter-soft black loafers. Then he looked up at all of them. “Agents, we will all be suffering until you do.”

CHAPTER 22

Washington Memorial Hospital
Sunday afternoon

Mr. Patil had been transferred to a bed on a surgical floor, and his physicians were predicting a full recovery.

Savich was pleased to see Mrs. Patil standing next to her husband’s bed, since he hadn’t met her when he’d gone to the Patil home, and then Kirsten Bolger had come roaring into his life and he’d put off going back. But Ben had interviewed her and said he hadn’t gotten any brilliant leads or insights from her.

She was leaning forward slightly, speaking quietly to Mr. Patil, her hand on his shoulder.

Mr. Patil looked over at him and smiled widely. “Ah, Agent Savich, you have not yet met my wife, Jasmine. She will not leave my room. She complains that I am not healing myself fast enough. When the doctors tell her I won’t live, she tells them they are all worthless mongrels, but now that they tell her I will live, I hear her say to Dr. Pritchett that he is a miracle man, another Mother Teresa.”

Mrs. Patil broke into rapid Hindi, none of which Savich understood. He waited until the woman was finished. Mr. Patil said, “She tells me you are very handsome, Agent Savich, that it is possible you would be worthy of our eldest granddaughter, Cynthia, who is as American as you are.”

Savich smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Patil, but I am already married.”

“That is a great pity,” Mrs. Patil said, and gave him a big smile. “But Cynthia, she is a silly girl. She would worship you, and you would probably scare her to death.” Then she broke again into milea-minute Hindi to her husband. Why? She was as perfectly fluent in English as Mr. Patil. He looked at her while she spoke. She was younger than her husband by a good twenty years, putting her in her fifties, he thought, and she looked maybe in her late forties, the result of a couple of excellent face-lifts, most likely. She was a finelooking woman, a spark in her dark eyes, and her hair was glossy black without a hint of gray, worn in a short swing around her cheeks. It seemed to him she was as Americanized as her granddaughter Cynthia.

When she ran down, Savich asked her, “Were you born in America, Mrs. Patil?”

“Oh, no, my parents moved here when I was seventeen, and that is why I have a bit of an accent,” and she preened, patting her hair, and then her husband’s veiny old hand.

Mr. Patil looked up at her, besotted.

Savich couldn’t recall Mr. Patil’s first name; then, in the next instant, Jasmine called him Nandi. This charming old man’s name was Nandi. That name sounded so warm, so inviting, and it certainly fit him, Savich thought. They had four children, two sons and two daughters, and eight grandchildren, the eldest twenty, the youngest two years old. Her precious husband had no enemies, Mrs. Patil told Savich, not a single one. It had been two robberies, nothing more, because who would hate a man who owned a Shop’n Go? He made people happy. He sold them hot dogs and beer. He didn’t lie or cheat or steal. Robbers, stupid, greedy robbers. Catch them.

In short, Mr. Patil was a saint, and Savich had better get on the stick. And she could be right. Could be, but something simply didn’t feel right about a little old man like Mr. Patil getting shot in the dark.

Mr. Patil said, “Agent Savich, I find myself wondering also why you have not caught the man who shot me. A violent man who robs convenience stores, would he not be in your files, in your databases?”

“We’re certainly checking that all out, Mr. Patil.”

Jasmine said, “It has to be a robber, Agent Savich, not some evil archenemy who does not exist, out to murder my Nandi, because—well, because why? Yes, a robber, it simply must be.”

Savich left five minutes later, thinking about Jasmine Patil, who’d given him a come-on sweep of her eyes before he’d left the hospital room.

CHAPTER 23

Chevy Chase, Maryland
Sunday afternoon

Lucy was opening the front doors when she heard Mrs. McGruder call out, “Lucy! Wait a moment!”

She turned, a smile on her face, to see Mrs. McGruder, dressed in her favorite dark purple, walking as quickly as her bulk would allow up the steps and onto the front porch, Mr. McGruder behind her, dressed in dark work clothes, heavy old work boots on his feet.

“How nice to see you both,” Lucy said, and shook their hands. “I was very pleased you were at my dad’s funeral.” Her voice broke, and she held still, trying to get a hold on herself.

Mrs. McGruder took her hands, squeezed them. “I know, dear, I know. It’s very difficult for all of us, but especially for you. You and Mr. Joshua were so very close. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”

That nearly made Lucy smile. A wife calling her husband by his last name, something that was done maybe a hundred years ago. She’d always thought it was curiously charming.

Mr. McGruder scratched his forearm and allowed that it was right.

Lucy said, “I’m very pleased you came by, since I wanted to speak to you both. Thank you for filling the fridge, Mrs. McGruder, but I can do my own shopping now. But perhaps you could come by once a week and straighten up for me, do some general cleaning?”

“Well, naturally, but I can come every single day, if you would like, Lucy.”

But Lucy didn’t want anyone around. She wanted to be alone to search this barn of a house. No, she told Mrs. McGruder, that wasn’t necessary. Before Mrs. McGruder could try to talk her around, Lucy turned to Mr. McGruder, complimented him on the nicely raked front lawn, done, he told her, that morning.

She didn’t want to ask them in; she had too much to accomplish. But neither of the McGruders appeared to want to come in. Mrs. McGruder said, “How we miss Mr. Joshua. It was a lovely service, Lucy. Ah, and how we miss your grandmother. Such a gracious lady, she was, so interested in everything, and always seeing to her charities, always on the go, always reading and studying. A very sharp lady, she was. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”

Mr. McGruder nodded, walked over to pick up a stray yellow oak leaf on the flagstone sidewalk.

Lucy said, “Do you remember my grandfather, Mrs. McGruder?”

“Well, that is a question for Mr. McGruder. He and Mr. Milton were great friends, weren’t you, Mr. McGruder?”

“That we were,” Mr. McGruder said, straightening, still holding that lone oak leaf in his hand. “A fine man; missed him sorely when he left. One day to the next, he was gone. I never could understand that.” He shook his head. His gray hair didn’t move, and Lucy realized he’d pomaded it down flat to his scalp.

“Did he seem unhappy before he left?”

“Mr. Milton? Oh, goodness, no,” said Mrs. McGruder.

“Aye, he did,” Mr. McGruder said right over her. “Maybe not exactly unhappy, but I remember he was all jumpy and distracted, I guess the word is, but when I asked him, I remember he wouldn’t tell me what bothered him. And then he was gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, then shook his head sadly. “So much trouble, so much death; it’s enough to make a man wonder how much more time he’s got left.”

That was a cheery observation,
Lucy thought, thanking the McGruders again and sending them on their way.

Not five minutes later, Lucy was zipping up her ancient jeans, then pulled a dark blue FBI sweatshirt over her turtleneck sweater and slipped sneakers over her thick socks. Out of habit she clipped her SIG to her jeans. She was hurrying because she didn’t want to be searching the attic after dark—it was that simple. She didn’t know why, but there was something about attics and basements after dark, when everything was quiet, that gave her the willies.

She needed to get a move on. The narrow door at the end of the corridor on the second floor had always been locked when she was a child, the attic out-of-bounds to her, and it still sported a Yale lock. She’d been in the attic only once, to see if she wanted any discarded furniture for her condo—three years ago, right after her grandmother had died. She pulled out her SIG and smacked the butt to the lock, once, twice, and it opened. She climbed the steps into the immense, shadowy attic. It seemed to Lucy that with every step she took, the air got colder and clammier. There was no heat up here, but why should it feel clammy? There’d been no rain for a while. She noticed the bare attic beams weren’t insulated. It had to be roasting hot in the summer up here, and now in the late fall, it was as cold as the outside air.

She flipped the switch, and the long shadows of the huge open area gave way to a burst of light, not from a naked one-hundred-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling but from a bank of fluorescent lights. She immediately felt better, and wasn’t that stupid and childish of her?
Stop it, get a grip. It’s a ridiculous attic, and Ted Bundy doesn’t live here.

Lucy looked around and lost every drop of optimism she’d had about how easy looking through the attic might be. She’d forgotten how immense it was, overflowing with old furniture, a zillion taped boxes, and ancient luggage. She wondered if some of the stuff dated back even before her grandparents had bought the house fifty years ago. Well, it didn’t matter. She’d have to dig in.

Yeah, but dig in to find what, exactly?

She didn’t have a clue. Still, Lucy hoped to her sneakered feet that when she found it, she’d know instantly.

Lucky her—all the boxes were beautifully labeled as everything from kitchenwares to master-bedroom linens to books.

She found a box labeled LUCY—TEENAGER and dug into it, unable to help herself. She’d pulled out her sophomore yearbook when her cell rang. “Yes?”

“Lucy, my angel, it’s Uncle Alan. I’m downstairs, sitting on your doorbell, but you don’t answer. Where are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m up in the attic, Uncle Alan. I’ll be right down. Is Aunt Jennifer with you? Court and Miranda?”

“Nope, only me. Your Aunt Jennifer sends her love. Court and Miranda—well, it seems the less I know about what they’re doing, the better. Your Aunt Jennifer, ah, hopes you’re all right.”

All right?
How could she be all right? “I’ll be right down, Uncle Alan.”

Alan Silverman, her grandmother’s youngest brother, was actually her great-uncle. He’d been in her life from her earliest memories. He was in his seventies now, having retired hurriedly after the bankers screwed the world, and she wondered cynically how many shaky derivatives and fancy bond packages he himself had conjured up. He’d married late, produced two children, Court and Miranda, who were, actually, her first cousins once removed, many years older than Lucy. Neither of them had ever married, and that seemed a bit odd to Lucy, both of them, well into their thirties and still out dating. Court was a gym rat and liked to think of himself as a stud, and maybe that explained it—he was too focused on himself to consider letting another person in. He was a successful retailer, owner of three vitamin stores in the D.C. area—LIFE MAX Natural Supplements—that were doing very well.

As for Miranda, she was a wannabe hippie, something of a resurrected flower child but without the usual freshness or color. Her clothes were all long and too loose, too depressing, really, all browns and grays and blacks. She always wore her hair straight, parted in the middle, and Lucy wished she’d wash her hair a bit more often. She played the French horn quite beautifully, though as far as Lucy could tell, that was the only thing on which she expended much effort. Once, she remembered, Miranda invited her to a séance in her condo before she’d moved back to her parents’ house some months before, after breaking it off with a guy her Aunt Jennifer had called The Louse. Lucy had politely declined the invitation.

She opened the door and was immediately pulled into Uncle Alan’s arms. He held her close and patted her back. “How are you, kiddo?”

She leaned back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I’m okay—well, as okay as can be expected. I miss Dad all the time, of course. But they’ve made me one of the leads on this whole deal with Ted Bundy’s daughter; talk about a major-league distraction.”

“But you’re not in any danger from her, are you? I know, I saw you and Agent McKnight on TV at the news conference with your boss, Agent Savich. It’s quite an accomplishment that they’ve made you such a big part of that, Lucy. If she was watching it, she knows who you are. You’ve got to promise me to be careful, sweetheart.”

“That’s a very easy promise to keep, Uncle Alan. Come in, come in.”

She led him into the lovely big living room, then stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed. It smelled musty, she thought, like no one lived there. She’d hardly come into this room at all since she’d moved in. But she would have to, since there were plenty of hidey-holes here where something could be stashed. She felt a chill through her FBI sweatshirt. “It’s too cold in here; let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee.”

Now, her kitchen smelled lived in, like a comfortable friend, in spite of all the intimidating stainless-steel gadgets, and she smiled as she bustled around to get milk and Splenda, both musts for Uncle Alan’s wuss coffee.

She said over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet, “How is Aunt Jennifer?”

“Sad, a bit depressed, as I am, as both Court and Miranda are. She loved your father as much as I did. We were all together for so very long.” He fell silent, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. “Josh was too young, Lucy, too young.”

She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly handed him a cup of coffee. Thankfully, his tears receded as he went about his ritual of adding milk and two Splendas.

He took a sip, sat back, and smiled at her. “When I think back—do you know I met Jennifer when I was nearly thirty-five years old?” His eyes twinkled. “Jennifer admits only that she was much younger than I. And then we had Court and Miranda. We wanted more children, but it wasn’t to be.” He took another drink of coffee. “Life,” he said. “It’s so damned uncertain, you know?”

She nodded. Oh, yes, she knew, knew too well. And so did Mr. McGruder.

“Why did you move back in here, Lucy?”

Because of what my father yelled out right before he died.
But she didn’t say that; she couldn’t; it wasn’t fair to anyone if there was no proof, no reason for it. She said, “I always loved this house. I didn’t want to see it go to strangers. At least not yet.”

“Talk about rattling around. Your Aunt Jennifer doesn’t think it’s healthy for you, Lucy. She says too many ghosts live in the corners.”

“Ghosts?” She smiled. “I haven’t bumped shoulders with a single ghost yet. Listen, I’m fine. Do you know my old bedroom still looks like a teenage girl just walked out of it? Grandmother didn’t change a thing, not that she’d need to, since there are—what? Ten bedrooms in this place?

“Everything’s okay, Uncle Alan. Tell Aunt Jennifer not to worry. If a ghost turns up, why, then we’ll have a nice chat and I’ll offer it coffee with lots of Splenda. As for Bundy’s daughter, I don’t even live here officially, so she can’t know my address, and don’t forget, I’m always armed and dangerous.”

“Even Court says he’s impressed with what you can do in the gym. He still spends much of his time there, you know.”

Lucy thought again about her dashing, beautifully dressed cousin once removed, and that smirk he always wore. From their youngest years, Court had known he was hot. He’d hated his sister, Miranda, enough to make her hate him as much as she loved him. Lucy once saw Miranda haul off and punch him in the nose. He’d been so shocked, he hadn’t retaliated. Lucy laughed. It felt good. She hadn’t laughed since Coop had come to her hotel room in San Francisco. No, she’d also laughed when he’d patted her hand as they left Lansford’s suite at the Willard early that afternoon, and Coop had remarked to no one in particular that anyone who told his lawyer to shut up without even sparing him a glance couldn’t be all bad, and he’d given Lucy a blazing smile.

Uncle Alan drank more coffee, though it had to be lukewarm by now, with all the milk he’d added, and then drummed his fingertips on the table. There was something on his mind, Lucy realized, and he didn’t know how to bring it up. So she patted his hand just as Coop had patted hers, and said, “Spill it, Uncle Alan. I can take it. What do you want to say?”

He took another sip of his coffee, carefully and studiously returned the mug to the middle of a napkin, then finally looked at her. “Your Aunt Jennifer and I want you to come stay with us for a while, Lucy. We’re worried.”

Worried? Why, for heaven’s sake?
She was shaking her head as she said, “I really appreciate your offer, but I need to stay here.” She realized she might have sounded a bit cool, and added, “I can’t, Uncle Alan. I’ve got so much on my plate right now, and I’ve got so much to do here—” She broke off, wondering how in the world she could be an FBI agent when things she wanted to keep buried insisted on popping right out of her mouth.

“Of course you’ve got lots to do. This is a very big house, too big for one single girl.”

She ignored that. “I’ve got help. Mrs. McGruder cooked for me and stocked the whole kitchen, and Mr. McGruder takes care of the yard, of course. They were here a while ago. They’ll continue coming. Everything will be fine.”

“She’s a lousy cook.”

“Maybe not as good a cook as Aunt Jennifer, but I don’t mind cooking for myself. I’ve done it for years now. Don’t worry, Uncle Alan, everything’s okay, I promise. Thank you both for inviting me. But I’ll be fine.” And Lucy rose. There wasn’t much daylight left. She had no intention of spending a single minute in the attic after dark, and she had to get back to it.

He didn’t want to leave, she could see it on his face, a face that reminded her of his older sister, her grandmother, Helen. He was a lot younger than her grandmother—she could never remember how many years exactly. They hadn’t been very warm toward each other much, she remembered, but Uncle Alan had loved his nephew—her father, Josh—very much. After her mother’s death, when Lucy and her father had moved in, he used to visit them in the evenings several times a week. She stood there over him, smiling.