Ernestine’s voice came abruptly out of the darkness. “Tha’s enough. Leave her alone.”
“Ernie, I’m bleedin’. I’m gonna fix her—”
“Do what the fuck I tell you.”
There was a long silence. Tracy heard the two women moving back to their bunks, breathing hard. Tracy lay there, tensed, ready for their next move.
Ernestine Littlechap said, “You got guts, baby.”
Tracy was silent.
“You didn’t sing to the warden.” Ernestine laughed softly in the darkness. “If you had, you’d be dead meat.”
Tracy believed her.
“Why di’n’ you let the warden move you to another cell?”
So she even knew about that. “I wanted to come back here.” “Yeah? What fo’?” There was a puzzled note in Ernestine Littlechap’s voice.
This was the moment Tracy had been waiting for. “You’re going to help me escape.”
8
A matron came up to Tracy and announced, “You got a visitor, Whitney.”
Tracy looked at her in surprise. “A visitor?” Who could it be? And suddenly she knew. Charles. He had come after all. But he was too late. He had not been there when she had so desperately needed him. Well, I’ll never need him again. Or anyone else.
Tracy followed the matron down the corridor to the visitors’ room.
Tracy stepped inside.
A total stranger was seated at a small wooden table. He was one of the most unattractive men Tracy had ever seen. He was short, with a bloated, androgynous body, a long, pinched-in nose, and a small, bitter mouth. He had a high, bulging forehead and intense brown eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses.
He did not rise. “My name is Daniel Cooper. The warden gave me permission to speak to you.”
“About what?” Tracy asked suspiciously.
“I’m an investigator for IIPA—the International Insurance Protection Association. One of our clients insured the Renoir that was stolen from Mr. Joseph Romano.”
Tracy drew a deep breath. “I can’t help you. I didn’t steal it.” She started for the door. Cooper’s next words stopped her. “I know that.”
Tracy turned and looked at him, wary, every sense alert
“No one stole it. You were framed, Miss Whitney.”
Slowly, Tracy sank into a chair.
Daniel Cooper’s involvement with the case had begun three weeks earlier when he had been summoned to the office of his superior, J. J. Reynolds, at IIPA headquarters in Manhattan.
“I’ve got an assignment for you, Dan,” Reynolds said.
Daniel Cooper loathed being called Dan.
“I’ll make this brief.” Reynolds intended to make it brief because Cooper made him nervous. In truth, Cooper made everyone in the organization nervous. He was a strange man—weird, was how many described him. Daniel Cooper kept entirely to himself. No one knew where he lived, whether he was married or had children. He socialized with no one, and never attended office parties or office meetings. He was a loner, and the only reason Reynolds tolerated him was because the man was a goddamned genius. He was a bulldog, with a computer for a brain. Daniel Cooper was single-handedly responsible for recovering more stolen merchandise, and exposing more insurance frauds, than all the other investigators in the organization put together. Reynolds just wished he knew what the hell Cooper was all about. Merely sitting across from the man with those fanatical brown eyes staring at him made him uneasy.
Reynolds said, “One of our client companies insured a painting for half a million dollars and—”
“The Renoir. New Orleans. Joe Romano. A woman named Tracy Whitney was convicted and sentenced to fifteen years. The painting hasn’t been recovered.”
The son of a bitch! Reynolds thought. If it were anyone else, I’d think he was showing off. “That’s right,” Reynolds acknowledged grudgingly. “The Whitney woman has stashed that painting away somewhere, and we want it back. Go to it.”
Cooper turned and left the office without a word. Watching him leave, J. J. Reynolds thought, not for the first time, Someday I’m going to find out what makes that bastard tick.
Cooper walked through the office, where fifty employees were working side by side, programming computers, typing reports, answering telephones. It was bedlam.
As Cooper passed a desk, a colleague said, “I hear you got the Romano assignment. Lucky you. New Orleans is—”