Bloodlines (16 page)

Of course he did.

He did not have the slightest doubt that if he told the police Mitch Yeager had asked him these things, Mitch Yeager would deny everything. Yeager might even make it sound as if Warren planned it all. And since Warren was supposed to be the one who gained everything, he was the big suspect.

That was why there was a cop outside his door right now.

But what about Max? Why did the kidnapping have to happen now? He wondered if Yeager had done that as well, but it didn't make sense. He couldn't see that Yeager would gain anything by that. People lost at sea in a boating accident, something that couldn't be proved, wouldn't change how people thought of him--that was the sort of thing he would do.

God knows who all was at that party. Maybe someone there learned that Katy and Todd were going on the boat and decided it would be the perfect time to steal Max.

There would be a call. A demand. He just had to be patient.

He was so tired. Maybe he could fall asleep. Fall asleep and wake up, and this would all be over. Todd would be okay, and the police would apologize for their mistake.

If only he could talk to Todd. That thought started him crying again.

**CHAPTER 13

IT WAS PAST THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING NOW. O'CONNOR WONDERED if Lillian would still be awake and decided there was little possibility she would sleep until she knew Katy's fate. When he drove up to the Linworth mansion, he wasn't surprised to see lights on downstairs.

The rain was letting up. Maybe the Coast Guard would have better luck searching for the Sea Dreamer.

He scraped as much mud off his shoes as he could and made his way to the door. Hastings, Lillian's elderly butler, let him in, took his coat, and pretended not to notice how disheveled O'Connor looked. He escorted O'Connor to a library, where a fire burned brightly in a stone fireplace with a bench hearth.

O'Connor took a seat on it, hoping the fire would take some of the chill off and begin to dry his damp clothes.

Not long after Hastings left, Lillian Vanderveer Linworth entered the room. She was looking tired and grief-stricken, he thought, and wondered what possible comfort he could be to her.

Even with the strain of this day showing on her face, though, she was exquisite. He remembered thinking she was beautiful twenty or so years ago, but realized he had been mistaken. She had been pretty and petulant then, and was beautiful and in command of herself now--assured and elegant in a way she never could have been at twenty or even thirty. Tonight her skin was paler than usual, the area around her eyes a little swollen. He knew better than to expect to see tears from her--those would be saved for moments alone.

He rose to greet her, but she motioned him to be seated, saying, "I'd offer you a change of clothes, but you're larger than Harold, or any other man in this house."

"Brobdingnagian, that's me," he said, still waiting for her to be seated first.

She halted, mid-stride, halfway across the room, smiled a little to herself, then came forward, sitting down in the leather chair closest to him. "Gulliver's Travels."

"Yes. How are you, Lily?"

"More than any other of my friends and acquaintances," she said, "you must have an idea of how I am, Conn."

"It's never the same for anyone, is it? Maureen was my sister. I don't like to think how I'd feel about losing a child, or a child's child."

"And yet you've never seen your own boy, have you?"

"Not in person, no. I think it would only confuse him to have another 'daddy' in the picture at his age. But I know that Kenny is loved and well cared for--spoiled, if anything."

O'Connor also knew that Lillian's attitude toward him had changed when she learned of his child. He knew that she had long been involved in charitable projects for caring for unwed mothers and their children. Shortly after Jack had complained to her about O'Connor's "foolish marriage," she had contacted O'Connor to say that if he or Vera needed her help, she would gladly give it. O'Connor never took her up on it, but Lillian seemed to look at him differently from then on. Helen Swan had told him that he ought to stop thinking of Lillian as the brat she was at nineteen, that life had knocked her around a little since then, and he had realized that was true. He thought perhaps Helen had influenced Lillian's attitude toward him as well. Over the last seven years, O'Connor and Lillian had become close friends, even as she continued to become less and less friendly with Jack.

She asked about Jack now, though, and he knew he couldn't keep putting her off.

"Too early to say much with any certainty," he told her.

He turned at the sound of the library door opening. The butler entered with a bottle of expensive single malt scotch and two glasses.

"Thank you, Hastings," she said, and the butler nodded and left.

"Past Hastings's bedtime, isn't it?" O'Connor asked.

She poured the scotch and handed one to him. "Do you honestly believe he would retire for the evening if I asked him to? If I'm awake, Hastings is awake."

"Is that a blessing or a curse?"

"Mostly a blessing, although I never felt that to be the case when I was younger. But having a truly loyal person in your life is nothing to take for granted, so I'm more appreciative of him now."

"Just one?"

"There are others. If you are wondering if I doubt Jack's loyalty, stop wondering." She laughed softly. "Perhaps not faithful, but loyal."

"And you to him, in your way."

"Yes, always in my way, isn't it? Except now. Are you going to tell me the truth about what's happened to him?"

He sipped the scotch, felt its smoothness on his tongue.

"Harold doesn't mind you staying up all hours, drinking scotch with reporters?"

"Harold is supposedly in Dallas tonight, getting a good night's sleep before meetings. He took his private plane to Las Vegas early Sunday, to meet 'an associate'--or so he told me, which shows you just how dumb Harold thinks I am. At some point, someone may be able to discover which Nevada whorehouse he's in, and tell him his daughter is missing and his grandson has been kidnapped. It will be interesting to see how long it takes him to come home. He will come home for appearance's sake, of course. That will only make this all the more unbearable."

He said nothing. She sighed and said, "And you still haven't told me about Jack. The truth, Conn."

Talking to her about Jack was a tricky business even when things were going well. He had never believed that Lillian was really in love with Jack all those years ago, but he had faith in the adage about women scorned, and he had no doubt that Jack had hurt her pride. Jack thought this was nonsense, and told him so.

Helen Swan complicated the picture, because Lillian and Helen were the closest of friends, and no one who liked Helen could avoid Jack, so Lillian had never managed to sever all ties to him. And Katy's devotion to Jack was, Conn suspected, something Lillian envied.

And yet now, unmistakably, Lillian was worried about Jack. He wondered if he was too tired to have this conversation with her and remain aware of the pitfalls. He decided to risk it.

"I wish I knew the truth about what happened to Jack on Saturday night. He's beat all to hell. You know how many fights the two of us have come out of together, but this--no matter what you or Old Man Wrigley may think, this was not the result of a brief brawl at a party. Someone tried to kill him, Lily."

"What?" She set her scotch down with a thump. "What are you saying?"

"Just that. Someone literally tried to murder him. And there's still a good possibility that their attempt will succeed, because he's not a sure bet to survive this by any means. They beat him so badly he may lose an eye, left him in the marsh, and..." He took a deep breath, slowed himself down. "He was unconscious for a long time." Think of the good things, he told himself, the signs that he's not lost. "But this evening, he woke up a couple of times. He spoke. He's still got his temper and his sense of humor, so I'm hoping that means..."

"...that he'll recover without permanent brain damage." Lillian finished the sentence for him. She averted her eyes from his, looked into the fire. "Does he know who did this to him?"

O'Connor shook his head. "No, and I'm hoping you might help me find out."

"Me?" She looked back at him, surprised.

"Did you see Jack leave--the people who took him?"

"I'm afraid I was a little distracted at that moment. It was just as Katy and Todd were getting ready to leave with Thelma and Barrett. I tried one last time to talk Katy into staying. Useless. I blame Thelma. Thelma, damn her, enjoys spiting me, so she was going to make sure my party for Katy ended early. Thelma put pressure on Todd, Todd put pressure on Katy." She looked away for a moment, then said, "I only caught a glimpse of Jack being carried out. I didn't realize there had been a fight. Frankly, I thought he was drunk."

"Who invited the men who carried him off?"

"I don't know. I didn't invite them. Harold claims they weren't invited at all. However, Hastings tells me otherwise."

"Oh?"

"Hastings said he wanted to shut the door in their faces, but that the big blond man had an invitation card, probably one of the ones we gave the Ducanes. Thelma insisted on having three dozen or so to extend to their friends."

"Did Hastings recall his name?"

She hesitated, looking toward the library door, then said softly, "I worry that he may be getting a little deaf. It's such a ridiculous name, he can't have heard it correctly: Bob Gherkin. Like the pickle."

O'Connor rubbed his chin.

"Do you know that name?" Lillian asked.

"No. But it makes sense that I wouldn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't had time to really do any digging, but the way I figure it, what happened to Jack probably came about because one of the stories he's written in the last few months has angered someone. Jack works the crime beat, and he makes plenty of enemies. At the same time, because he works that beat, he's aware of almost every small-time hood in Las Piernas--sooner or later, most of them have been in a jail or a courtroom, if not both. Those are people I'd probably know, too, given the number of stories we work on together. But the networks these fellows establish can reach beyond the city limits, so if someone wanted to set Jack up, they'd use people he's never seen before--otherwise he'd know who to connect them to, or smell a setup from the start."

"But how could it be a setup? Jack wasn't invited."

"Yes, he was."

"By whom?"

"Katy."

Lily fell silent.

"Was something troubling her?" O'Connor asked.

"Many things," Lily said. "She told me she wanted to divorce Todd." In a bitter voice, she added, "Jack's advice. I told her to try to work it out, for the baby's sake. If she had divorced Todd, they never would have gone sailing..."

"Lily ...you can't blame yourself."

"You're wrong, Conn," she said. "Indeed I can. Not just for this, either."

"What are you talking about?"

She picked up her scotch and began sipping it. He thought she might not answer him, but then she said, "How much do you know about Jack's car accident? The one in 'thirty-six."

"I was just a kid. I didn't know much."

She laughed at that. "Right. You were the smartest little kid I had ever been around. You scared me. But I scared easily in those days, too easily."

"You never acted scared."

"Maybe a young boy couldn't see that kind of scared for what it was. Jack could. But that's not the point."

"You were in the car, I know that much. I don't think he would have told me you were, but I was such a shadow to him in those days, I suspected he was going to get together with you. So I came out here and waited over in your neighbor's yard and saw you leave the house and get in the car with him."

She smiled. "You were born to this business, weren't you?"

"That or a job in espionage. Jack didn't like my spying, but he also knew I wouldn't talk about his personal life to anyone else. He told me I was never to mention that you were with him that night. He felt terrible, and knows you've never really forgiven him for getting in that wreck--that much I know."

"Forgiven him? Conn ...I caused the accident."

He frowned.

"Not the way Jack tells the story?" she asked.

"No. He said he had been drinking."

"A safe claim to make, I suppose. No, it was my fault. I threw a temper tantrum, grabbed the wheel, and we crashed into a tree. Jack couldn't walk, was bleeding and in pain, but did I stay to help him? No."

"He said you were hurt, too."

"Treated at home. Discreetly." She stared into the fire for a long moment, then said, "No injuries I couldn't survive, obviously. I was young and stupid and so afraid that the report would leak out that the relatively new Mrs. Harold Linworth--whose husband had just gone to Europe, preparing to make more money out of the war--was involved in an automobile accident. The driver a single man, former lover--I think you see what I mean. I got out of the car and left him there. Went to a pay phone and called Hastings. He, at least, had the good sense to report the accident, so that Jack got help before he bled to death."