Split Second

I could afford them.”

“A motorcycle?”

He led her to a big overstuffed chair, lightly pushed her down. “Nah, motorcycles are too dangerous.”

“I suppose you speak Italian?”

“A bit. I wave my arms around a lot while I talk, makes me more fluent. I’m getting you a glass of orange juice, that’s what Dr. Mom recommends for anything from a sprained ankle to a bullet in the head.”

He spoke Italian, he had great taste, he wasn’t a playboy—she fell asleep.

She felt fingers lightly stroking over her forearm, and heard a low voice. “Lucy?”

Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed for her SIG.

He touched her hand. “No, it’s okay. It’s only me. Here.”

Once she took a pain pill and drank half the orange juice, she laid her head back against the chair. She watched him walk to one of the windows and stand silently, looking out, his arms loose at his sides. Time passed, and she realized she was beginning to feel better, except for the light throb where the bullet had kissed her scalp. She suspected her other aches and pains would get worse as the day went on.

She said, “Dillon told me Kirsten dumped the Chevy Cobalt. Now she’s driving a motorcycle.”

“Hopefully the cops will see it and report it.”

“She’ll drive it in some bushes soon, anyway, and steal another car.” Lucy drank the rest of the orange juice.

“Probably. Bedtime for you now.”

She slept throughout the afternoon. When she awoke, she smelled Chinese, and smiled.

She walked to his kitchen, yawning. He was laying out plates and silverware. “Thanks, Coop, for taking care of me.”

“You’re pretty easy. Sit down, and we can eat.”

“I guess you’re right, going home wouldn’t be such a good idea.”

“I wanted you to see my place, anyway,” he said, and handed her the carton of fried rice. Lucy saw there was Szechuan beef, her favorite moo shu pork, pot stickers, everything she liked. While she spooned up hot-and-sour soup, Coop said, “While you were asleep, Savich and I discussed who could have tried to kill you. Forensics is still at that van we left on Country Route Thirty-five. You know we’re going to trace the van, and sooner or later ID the driver. Then we’ll be able to find the other van and the guy driving it. The two men have a history, that’ll make it easier to find him.”

“I agree they were pros, Coop. They knew what they were doing.”

“Can you think of anyone from a former case who could be behind this attempt on your life?”

She slowly shook her head.

He took her hand. “Hard as it is to think about, there’s always family. We have to start there. We’re thinking your uncle as well as your cousins, Court and Miranda, would stand to inherit a big chunk of money if you died, wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose so, since I don’t have a will. But I could make a will tomorrow, leave everything to an animal shelter if I want. Listen, Coop, my uncle is very rich. I can’t believe it’s about my money.”

He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “The gorilla in the room, Lucy, is that you found your grandfather’s murdered remains in your attic five days ago. Could someone be trying to hide something about that murder, something they don’t want you to find, or something they think you could possibly know? And what about that strange ring your grandfather left you?”

So, it’s obvious, even to Coop, Lucy thought as she slowly chewed a moo shu pork pancake. She knew to her soul the ring had to be the key. Someone knew she had the ring, and they knew it was important enough to kill her for it. How could she hope to prove that; how could she protect herself or anyone else around her if she kept the letter a secret from everyone, even Coop? She had to tell him some of it; it was the only way to move forward. The letter, then, and what it said. But she wouldn’t tell anyone now about what she could do when she held the ring and said that word; maybe she never would.

“Coop, there’s something I haven’t told anyone yet, something I thought was private, between my grandfather and me. There was more than the ring in that safe-deposit box, there was a letter written to me by my grandfather, probably not long before he was killed. I think it’s time for us to speak to Uncle Alan.”

Ten minutes later, Coop followed Lucy out of his condo, his hand beneath her elbow, just in case.

CHAPTER 51

Washington, D.C.

Thursday evening

Huge yard, Coop thought, when he pulled into the Silverman driveway. Way too much work. Evidently, Mr. Silverman agreed, since the yard as well as the flagstone walkway were covered in six inches of sodden leaves left to rot from the last rain.

At least it wasn’t raining now.

Coop scraped wet leaves off his boots on the front porch.

Lucy rang the doorbell. She waited nervously, knowing Coop had told them only that she’d had an automobile accident, but they shouldn’t worry, she was okay and wanted to come by to visit. Even Savich had agreed that an impromptu visit with her aunt and uncle might knock loose a lead or two, if Lucy felt up to it. More important, he wanted the Silvermans to know the FBI were looking at them and knew about the ring. He thought it might protect her. She hated this, hated that it had to be done, that her family’s involvement had to be faced.

They heard the click of heels. Her Aunt Jennifer opened the door. “Lucy, my poor child!” And she enfolded Lucy in her arms and rocked her. “Agent McKnight promised us you were all right, but I’ll tell you, we’ve still been worried sick. Oh, you’ve got a bandage on your head!”

“I’m all right, Aunt Jennifer, really.”

“Come in, sweetheart, sit down, and I’ll get you some hot tea. And you are Agent McKnight?” A lovely arched dark brow shot up. “Oh, yes, I remember you from Josh’s funeral. It’s hard to believe he’s gone, but Lucy, you’re what’s important now. Come in, come in. Thank you, Agent, for calling us before we heard it on the news.”

Lucy’s cousin Court was standing in the living-room doorway, smiling toward her.

Lucy had told Coop about Court Silverman—that he was thirtysix, had never been married, owned vitamin stores, and was quite successful. He was tall, buff; he looked sleek. Yes, that was the word, sleek—like a freaking otter, Coop thought, and nearly smiled. He looked closely and saw the arrogant tilt to Court’s head that seemed to go naturally with his soft white shirt and expensive gray wool slacks. With his hands in his pockets, jiggling change, he looked sort of bored and weary, as though it was no big deal his cousin had almost been killed this afternoon. You’re a conceited little prick, aren’t you, Court?

Coop saw Mrs. Silverman was beaming at her son. He shook Court’s hand after he extended it, almost unwillingly, Coop thought, as if Coop wasn’t worth the trouble.

Coop said, “You guys aren’t first cousins, you’re what, once removed or something?”

Court said, “Something like that, but unfortunately never kissing cousins, right, Lucy?”

“I’m too staid and boring for you, Court; always have been.” She turned to Coop. “Court likes to play on the wild side—bungee jumping, skydiving, skiing the Alps, you name it. If there’s a chance he can break his neck, he’ll try it.”

When they were all seated, Court opposite the rest of them in a beautiful French antique chair, swinging an Italian leather loafer, Jennifer Silverman said, “I’d hardly say you’re boring, Lucy. I mean, you’re a federal agent and all. But tell us what happened today! Agent McKnight said you lost control of your car and you were hurt? I told your Uncle Alan when you bought that monster that it wasn’t for a single girl, it didn’t make sense.”

Lucy smiled. “Actually, my Range Rover was a hero, Aunt Jennifer, executed an amazing U-turn to save me. Unfortunately, he was totaled, so I am now officially without wheels. I was thinking about buying something really