“Repent!” His hands gripped Grace’s cheek like a vise. He was trying to press his thumbs into her eyeballs. Grace felt her skull fill with blood. The pain in her shoulder was so excruciating she was surprised she hadn’t passed out. “Repent, sinful daughter of Eve!”
“You repent, asshole!”
With all her remaining strength, Grace brought her free arm down hard in a karate-chop motion on the back of Gavin Williams’s neck. She heard a crack, like a snapping branch. Williams’s hands went slack, a toy robot whose batteries just died. As he slid to the floor of the car, his head dangled from his torso at an absurd angle, like a flower on the end of a broken stem. His eyes were still open, frozen for all eternity in an expression not of hatred, but of intense surprise.
With her free arm, Grace got hold of the lapel of his jacket and pulled the slumped corpse toward her. It was slow work, but eventually he was close enough for Grace to reach into his jacket pocket. Inside, glinting like nuggets of gold in a stream, were the keys to her handcuffs.
The cuffs opened easily, but moving her arm was agony. Grace screamed as she staggered out of the car, tears of pain coursing down her cheeks, mingling with the blood from where Williams had scratched her. She’d seen girls dislocate their shoulders during her gymnast days, and knew what to do. Slumped down in the mud, leaning back against the side of the car, she gritted her teeth.
One. Two…three.
The pain was indescribable. But the relief was instant and sweet. Grace savored it. She laughed, the deep, heartfelt laugh of the survivor. When her strength had returned, she went over to Williams’s body, retrieving his wallet and everything else he had of value. Then she stood up, lit a match and tossed it into the sedan. She watched the flames engulf Gavin Williams’s body, and stood there, warming herself in their heat. It felt good.
She was alive.
She was free.
But her work wasn’t over.
THIRTY-TWO
CAROLINE MERRIVALE SAT DOWN AT HER dressing table, pulled back her hair and slathered Crème de la Mer moisturizer over her face. At forty, she still had the skin of a woman half her age, which pleased her. Caroline had never been a classic beauty, not like the Grace Brooksteins of this world. But she had style and presence, she dressed well and she knew how to take care of herself.
She wondered what she would do with the rest of the day. John had left early for the airport. Harry Bain was sending him to Mustique of all places, in search of another piece of the giant Quorum jigsaw puzzle. But not before Caroline had forced him to have sex with her, photographing him in a series of humiliating and graphic poses. Dominating John was always a pleasure, but today she’d enjoyed it more than usual. In recent weeks, Caroline had noticed a change in her pathetic, milquetoast of a husband—a growing confidence that made her uneasy. He practically skipped out of the house in the mornings, excited to get to work. He’d even taken to telling her things about his day—as if she were interested!— “Harry Bain said so-and-so,” or “the agency were delighted with my work on such-and-such.”
Caroline had deliberately waited until this morning to teach John a lesson. He’d been full of this trip to Mustique for days, and she wanted the bursting of his bubble to have as much impact as possible. When he got home, she would tell him flat out: he’d acted as the FBI’s unpaid lackey for long enough. It was time to get back to work, start a fund of his own and bring in some more money. Billy Joel’s estate in East Hampton was up for sale after his third divorce. Caroline had had her eye on that house for years.
“Mrs. Caroline?” Cecilia, the Merrivales’ housekeeper, knocked nervously on her employers’ bedroom door. “Is a gennelman downstairs to see you.”
Caroline turned and glared. Naked from the waist up, with a thick white layer of cream on her face, she looked like a Maori warrior minus the tattoos. “Do I look like I’m ready to receive guests?” she snarled.
Cecilia tried to avert her gaze from her boss’s nipples, large and dark and repellent, like two rotting mushrooms. “He ask for Mr. John. Is from police. He said he will wait.”
Meanwhile, downstairs, Mitch looked around the Merrivales’ sumptuous living room. The most striking object in it was probably the solid gold Louis XV carriage clock over the mantel. It was vulgar and hideous, but it must have cost a fortune. But everything about the room bespoke serious money: the heavy, brushed-silk drapes, the antique French furniture, the Persian rugs, the Ming vases. This is what they had left after the Quorum fraud wiped them out? How much did they have before?
It didn’t matter now anyway. Armed with Hannah Coffin’s testimony and a copy of the airline records, as well as Buccola’s evidence of foul play to Lenny’s body, Mitch had enough to bring John Merrivale in. Of course, a confession would seal the deal. Push it from a solid circumstantial case to a guaranteed conviction. Mitch pictured the expression on Dubray’s face when he told him. The groveling apology. His triumphant reinstatement and promotion to captain. Better still would be Grace’s smile. How happy he, Mitch Connors, would make her, and how grateful she’d be. Oh, Mitch, you’re incredible. How can I ever make it up to you? He’d get her a lawyer. She’d appeal her sentence and—
“This had better be important.”
In a stark gray kimono, with her black bobbed hair slicked back and her face bare of makeup, Caroline Merrivale looked even harder than usual. She reminded Mitch of a prison matron. Anna Wintour meets Cruella de Vil.
“I don’t appreciate uninvited guests at eight thirty in the morning.”
“I need to speak to your husband. Urgently.”
“He’s not here. Was that all?”
Christ, she’s disdainful. Mitch stiffened. “No, it’s not all. I need to know where he is. Like I said, it’s urgent.”
Caroline Merrivale yawned. “I have no idea where he is. Gretchen, John’s secretary, keeps his diary. She’ll be here at ten, I believe. Or is it eleven? Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Take one more step and I will arrest you.” Mitch stood up and grabbed Caroline by the wrist. She swung around, laughing.
“Arrest me? For what? Let go of me, you fool.”
“Not until you tell me where your husband is.”
Caroline tried to shake him off, but Mitch tightened his grip. As he did so he noticed her chin jut forward defiantly and her pupils start to dilate. He thought, This is turning her on. She likes power games. Although physically she repulsed him, he forced himself to pull her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Don’t make me hurt you. I’ll give you one last chance. Where. Is. John.”
Caroline ran her eyes lasciviously over Mitch’s butch, masculine physique. Here was a man she could respect. A man who was worth giving in to.
“He’s at Newark airport.” She breathed huskily. “He’s on his way to Mustique.”
MITCH DROVE LIKE A MADMAN. PULLING up outside departures, he leaped out of the car, leaving the engine running. An official yelled at him.
“Hey! HEY! You can’t leave your car there, man.”
Ignoring him, Mitch kept running and didn’t stop till he got to the Delta desk.
“Flight 64 to St. Lucia,” he panted.
“I’m sorry, sir. Boarding’s completed.”
“Well, reopen it.” Mitch pushed his police badge across the desk.
“I’ll go get my supervisor.”
An older woman with thick, black-framed glasses emerged from a back office. “How can I help you?”
“There’s a passenger on Flight 64. J. Merrivale. I need to speak to him. I need him off the plane.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Flight 64 already left. Two minutes ago.”
Mitch groaned and put his head in his hands.
“Let’s have a look, though. What did you say the passenger’s name was?”
“Merrivale. John.”
The woman typed something into her computer. “If need be, we can alert the cabin crew and ground staff. They can hold him until—” She broke off.
“What?” asked Mitch.
“Are you sure it was this flight? There’s no J. Merrivale on the passenger list.” She spun the screen around so Mitch could see it.
He had a bad feeling about this.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S DEAD?”
The director of the FBI lost his temper. “What do you mean ‘what do I mean’? He’s dead! What part of ‘dead’ do you not understand, Harry?”
Harry Bain held the phone away from his ear and waited for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind the door. He was being “punk’d.” He had to be.
“But, sir, Gavin Williams is on leave. He has been for over a month.”