The Cove

be doing what he was doing. Besides, he'd already stuffed her to the gills with spaghetti, lots of Parmesan on top, and hot garlic bread that wasn't nearly as good as Martha's.

    "James?"

    "You're supposed to be asleep."

    “Mr. Brammer was very nice to me. He told me a thing or two about you, too."

    Quinlan stared at her. "You're kidding. Brammer is the biggest closed-mouth in the FBI. If they gave awards for it, he'd win hands down."

    "Not tonight. Maybe he was tired or excited, like you were. Yep, he told me lots of things. You've got a big family. You're a lot like your father, just for starters."

    This was interesting. Quinlan cleared his throat against her hair. "Urn, was all he talked about-it was all the case and the players?"

    "Most of it, but not all." He felt her fingers playing over his bicep. He instantly flexed the muscle. A man, he thought, he was just a man who wanted his woman to know he was strong. He nearly laughed aloud at himself.

    "What was the 'not all'?"

    "You. He told me about you and your father and Dil-lon."

    "Brammer and my father go way back. I wish you could have known my old man. He was a kick, Sally. I wish he hadn't died-just last year. It was a heart attack, all of a sudden, so he didn't suffer-but still, he was only sixty-three. He'd make you so mad you wanted to punch his lights out and then in the next second you'd be clutching your stomach, you'd be laughing so hard."

    "A lot like you. That's what Mr. Brammer said."

    She was caressing his bicep again. He flexed again. A man was a man. He guessed there was just no getting away from it.

    "He also said that you liked to play a lone hand but that he always knew what you were doing even if you would swear he didn't know a thing."

    "I wouldn't doubt it, that old con man. He's got moles everywhere."

    "Maybe now he's got a mole who's living with you."

    "That's okay," Quinlan said and kissed her.

    She was soft and giving, but she wasn't with him, not yet, and he couldn't blame her at all for that. He said against her warm mouth, "There's only your father left, Sally. We'll get him. He won't get away. There'll be a huge scandal, a big trial. Can you deal with that?"

    "Yes," she said, her voice suddenly very cold and hard. "I can't wait, actually. I want to face him down. I want to tell the world how he beat his wife. I want to tell the world what he did to me. James?"

    "Yeah?"

    "Was there another woman in my father's life? Someone he was going to leave the country with?"

    "Not that we know of, but that's a good thought. We'll have to keep an eye on it. It's early, very early. As I said, we have people going through every scrap of paper in your father's house and at his office. Everything will be scrutinized.

    "You ain't seen scrutiny until you've seen the FBI do it. As for our Norman Lipsy, the plastic surgeon, he won't be going anywhere even with the best lawyers he can buy. He'll be questioned by agents until at least next Wednesday. It doesn't mean a thing that he hasn't talked yet. He will. Already they've found more than enough evidence to convict him on innumerable counts-kidnapping, collusion, conspiracy, that's just the beginning. Now, Sally, you're still withdrawn from me. What is it? What's going on?"

    "James, what if I was wrong? What if I was still drugged up so that I saw things that weren't really there? What if it wasn't my father running out those French doors? What if it was someone else? What if I didn't see anybody? What if I did shoot him and all the rest-well, it's games being played in my mind."

    "Nah," he said and kissed her again. "Not in a million years. If there's one thing I know, it's crazy. You aren't crazy. I'll bet you don't even get PMS."

    She hit his arm-he flexed the muscle-and she giggled.

    "Now that's a wonderful sound. Just forget all that crazy stuff, Sally. You saw your father. There's not one single doubt in my mind or in Brammer's mind or in Dillon's or, I'll bet, in Ms. Lilly's, when we tell her.

    "Your father must have stopped, seen you throw that prized pistol of his away and gone back to get it. That in itself is convincing, don't you see? If he didn't go back for the gun, then where is it? When we find him I'll bet you a Mexican meal at the Cantina that he's got that Roth-Steyr."

    She leaned up and kissed his mouth. “Goodness, I hope so. You were so sure I'd remember."

    "I prayed harder than I did when I was seventeen and afraid Melinda Herndon might be