Whistler's Angel (48 page)

“Look…Mrs. Ragland.”

“It’s Olivia, Adam.”

“Olivia…”

“You still don’t remember me, do you?”

A helpless shrug. “You do look familiar. I thought that you looked familiar last night. I’m still not able to place you.”

“Well, it’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure either. You’ve filled out and matured quite a bit.”

As she said that, she reached and touched a hand to his chest. She said,
“In fact, you’ve gained weight since I saw you last night. What’s that under your
sweatshirt? A vest?”

Whistler backed away. “Mrs. Ragland…”

She said, “Claudia, too. She seems a little top-heavy. I tried to get Philip to wear one, but he wouldn’t. How good are those things? Would one have helped him at that range?”

“Mrs. Ragland…”

“Olivia.”

“Where have we met?”

“Sixteen years ago, Adam. It was at your mother’s funeral. We spoke for a few minutes afterward.”

“Wait a minute. You’re saying…”

“Yes, I did know your mother. I knew her quite well. We met in Chamonix two years before that. Do you still have the place in Chamonix?”

“My father does. Would he know who you are?”

“Harry would have known me as Olivia Torrey. This was long before I met and married Philip. But he might not remember me. It’s been all these years. And I really only spoke to him three or four times. He didn’t like having me around.”

“Why was that?”

“Because of my job. BBC correspondent, Paris Bureau at first, then Geneva. No, Adam, it wasn’t a personal dislike. He warmed up toward me some when he saw me at the funeral. He heard me sobbing aloud when Leo Belkin tried to speak and again when Paul Bannerman had to finish Leo’s eulogy.”

That last part had certainly happened, thought Whistler. But she didn’t have to have been there to know it.

“You call Belkin ‘Leo’ as if you were friends. How well did you know Leo Belkin?”

“Not well. He said call him Leo, so I did.”

“And you knew who he was?”

“Then? A KGB general. And you were in your third year of college, I believe. You were going to school somewhere out west. Colorado?”

Whistler still couldn’t place her. That’s assuming this was true. There’d been dozens who’d offered their condolences to him. He said, “I wasn’t aware that there were journalists at the service.” In fact, they’d been told to stay away.

“I wasn’t there as a journalist. I was there as a friend. I was sitting with some of Paul Bannerman’s people.”

“Now you’re saying you knew Bannerman? How?”

“Through your parents, of course. He often came to Chamonix. After he spoke, or rather after the service, Molly Farrell and I walked with you for a while. Molly said that she’d send you a book. Do you remember?”

He began to. “Yes,” he said, “and she did. Can you tell me what sort of a book?”

“A small volume of poems that she got from your mother. That was my book, Adam. My poetry. I wrote it.”

It came seeping back. He remembered it, some of it. He did not recall hearing her name at the time, or else he’d heard it but hadn’t retained it. He did, however, remember the name that was on the jacket of that slim little volume. He’d looked at it many times since. Olivia Torrey. The book’s title was ‘Shimmerings.” This woman was telling him the truth.

He said, “Your hair was longer. You were wearing…the same dress?”

“Hardly the same, but close enough. Basic black.”

“You had lilacs pinned to it. I remember the lilacs.”

“Your mother loved lilacs. That’s why I wore them. I sent a bouquet to your house a year later after I heard about your sister. I’d have come to her service, but I wasn’t invited. Your father kept that one very private.”

“Yes, he did.”

“I think I’d better tell you how I came to know your mother. We did meet in Chamonix, as I’ve said. We did become friends. We skied together quite a lot. But I went there contriving to meet her, get close to her.”

Whistler made a mental shrug. A great many people did. But he asked, “To what purpose, Mrs. Ragland.”

“The old story…young reporter looking for her big break. Writing poetry didn’t put my name up in lights. Most of us had heard of your infamous father, but nobody knew much about him. I’d hoped to do a feature on him, followed by one on Paul Bannerman, Leo Belkin, and maybe a book about all three of them later. I thought it would have made a heck of a book. Molly Farrell, alone, would be worth a whole chapter. Then there were the twins, and the crazy one, Carla. Oh, I had a ton of anecdotal material. Men like John Waldo and Anton Zivic and that monster, the silent one…what was his name?”

“I would guess you mean Billy McHugh.”

“Are they still with Paul Bannerman in Westport, do you know?”

“I’m…told that they’ve all settled down. Even Billy. I would leave that alone, if I were you.”

She said, “Oh, believe me. I have no intention.”

“
This book,” he asked. “You never wrote it, I assume?”

“I couldn’t. Your father found me out very quickly. I’m sure he warned your mother, but she didn’t avoid me. Far from it, she took me under her wing
and suggested other subjects more worth writing about. I took her advice and it worked out very well. In fact it led, much later, to my meeting Philip and collaborating with him on few. We shared a Pulitzer Prize. Did you know that?”

“Your report on enlightened drug policies,” he said. “I just saw that on TV this morning.”

“Some of the others fed me subjects as well. They were using me, of course, but I couldn’t complain. I went from being a stringer to a featured reporter on the strength of some of the material they supplied. I heard stories from them that could have brought down whole governments. They wouldn’t let me use them, but they told them.”

“They were…probably just having some fun with you.”

She smiled. “Oh, no. I checked a few of them out. They seemed to have something on everyone.”

Yes, they did. And still do. Selective extortion. An essential tool of the trade.

Her expression became wistful. “Those were heady days, Adam. You all lived in a very rarified world.”

“One that seems to get smaller by the minute.”

“They allowed me to penetrate the outskirts here and there. Do you want to know something? I was never once afraid. But of course I had your mother to protect me.”

He shook his head. “They wouldn’t have hurt you.”

“You don’t think they might have if I’d written that book?”

“No, but you would have wasted your time. No publishing house would have touched that material.”

“I know. Your mother told me that. So did Molly.”

“And you met Molly Farrell through my mother, you say.”

She nodded. “And the poetry connection.”

“Did you know who Molly was and what she did by then?”

“I’d heard stories. I doubted them. She seemed too nice…and too young. She was only a few years older than you were. Me, too. I was only twenty-six at the time. By the way, how old is Claudia? Same age? Even younger?”

Whistler didn’t answer. He glanced at his watch. He looked down the corridor toward Ragland’s room, wishing that she would come out.

“Oh, and here,” she said, reaching into her purse. She produced the message slips that he’d seen in her hand when she stepped through the elevator doors. She sifted through several, then said, “Here, you see? It’s from Molly. She called twice this morning from a number in Connecticut. She’s asking what she can do to help.”

Oh, damn, thought Whistler. “You’ve spoken to her?”

“I only got her machine. This is her calling back.”

“When you…spoke to her machine, did you mention my name?”

“I was tempted, but no. It was clear that you wanted no part in this mess. Or that you wanted Miss Geller kept out of it.”

He said, “I do. At least until we’re gone. As for Molly, you’d do well to take her offer of help. You can’t get much better protection.” He gestured toward the private security guard who was leaning against the wall, his arms folded.

“For the moment,” she said, “I feel very safe. Is Claudia what I think she is, Adam?”

“A witch?”

“I was…going to say another Molly Farrell, for example. But since you bring it up…”

“She is neither of those.”

“If you say so.”

“And I do. There’s nothing special about her.”

She reached to touch his arm. She said, “Adam, believe me. I know that the two of you saved Philip’s life. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

He took a breath and nodded. “I believe you.”

“Would you like to see Philip?”

“No, we have to be going.”

She kept her hand on his arm. She didn’t want him to leave. “The one who shot him…Breen…isn’t here anymore. A helicopter took him an hour ago.”

“Really? Why and where, do you know?”

“To a hospital in Savannah. They’re better equipped for brain injuries, I’m told. I’ve also been told that his brain’s been sliced in two, so it’s hard for me to see why they’d bother. Mr. Breen, I’m sure, won’t be answering any questions as to where that other lunatic might be hiding.”

“And you’re…satisfied that it’s only those two? That they acted strictly on their own?”

She nodded. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

He said, “Not at all.” He knew he shouldn’t have asked. No use troubling her with the unlikely thought that Aubrey might be somehow involved. “And I’m sure they’ll find the other one soon. All he cares about now is getting away. I’m sure he won’t try again.”

Whistler said this more to ease Olivia’s mind than as a considered opinion. A fanatic might do almost anything. As he spoke, his eyes had been roaming the corridor. He’d have hoped that this floor would have been less accessible. Getting up here had been far too easy.

She seemed to have guessed what he had been thinking. She said, “I have a pistol. It’s here in my purse. I had it last night, but…you know, it was so quick.” She opened her purse to let him see it.