The Cove

much. She couldn't imagine talking about it. If she did, he'd know she was paranoid, delusional.

    "I'm not crazy," she said, staring at him, knowing he was in the shadows and so was she, and neither of them could read the other's expression.

    "Well, I just might be. I still haven't found out what happened to Harve and Marge Jensen, and you know what? I'm not all that interested anymore. Now, I called a friend at the FBI. No, don't look like you're going to dive for the door again. He's a very good friend, and I just got some information from him." Lies mixed with truth. It was his business, his lies having to be better than the bad guy's lies.

    "What's his name?"

    "Dillon Savich. He told me that the FBI is looking high and low for you, but no sign as yet. He said they're convinced you saw something the night of your father's murder, that you probably saw the person who killed him, that it was probably your mother, and you ran to protect her. If it wasn't your mother, then it was someone else, or you.

    "Your dad wasn't a nice man, Sally. Turns out he was being investigated by the FBI for selling weapons to terrorist countries on our No Way List, like Iraq and Iran. In any case, they're convinced you know something." He didn't ask her if it was true. He just sat there on the other end of that chintz sofa with its feminine pale-blue and cream flowers and waited.

    "How do you know this Dillon Savich?"

    He realized then that she might be scared half out of her mind, but she wasn't stupid. He'd managed to say everything that needed to be said without blowing his cover. But she hadn't responded. She still didn't trust him, and he admired her for that.

    “We went to Princeton together in the mid-eighties. He always wanted to be an agent, always. We've kept in touch. He's good at his job. I trust him."

    "It's difficult to believe he just spilled all this out to you."

    Quinlan shrugged. "He's frustrated. They all are. They want you, and you're gone without a trace. He was probably praying that I knew something and would tell him if he whetted my appetite."

    "I didn't know about my father being a traitor. But on the other hand, I'm not surprised. I guess I've known for a very long time that he was capable of just about anything. ''

    She was sitting very quietly, looking toward the door every couple of seconds but not saying anything. She looked exhausted, her hair was ratty, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek from her jump and a huge grass stain on the leg of her blue jeans. He wished she'd tell him what she was thinking. He wished she'd just come clean and tell him everything.

    Then, he thought, it might be a good idea to take her to dinner.

    He laughed. He was the crazy one. He liked her. He hadn't wanted to. He'd only wanted to see her as the main piece to his puzzle, the linchpin that would bring it all together.

    "Did you tell this Dillon Savich anything?"

    "I told him I wouldn't go out with his sister-in-law again. She's always popping bubble gum in her mouth."

    She blinked at him, then smiled-a small, tight smile, but it was a smile.

    He rose and offered her his hand. "You're exhausted. Go to bed. We can deal with this in the morning. The bathroom's through there. It's a treat, all marble and a water-saver toilet in pale pink. Take a nice long shower, it'll help bring down the swelling in your ankle. Thelma even provides those fluffy white bathrobes."

    He had let her off the hook, even though he guessed he could have gotten more out of her if he'd tried even a little bit. But she was near the edge, and not just with that damned phone call.

    Who the hell was the dead woman they'd found being pulled in and out by the tide at the base of the cliff?

8

    THEY WERE EATING breakfast the next morning, alone in the large dining room. The woman who'd checked in the day before wasn't down yet, nor was Thelma Nettro.

    Martha had said as she took their order, "Thelma sometimes likes to watch the early talk shows in bed. She also writes in that diary of hers. Goodness, she's kept a diary for as long as I can remember."

    "What does she write in it?" Sally asked.

    Martha shrugged. "I guess just the little things that happen every day. What else would she write?''

    "Eat," Quinlan told Sally when Martha placed a plate stacked with blueberry pancakes in front of her. He watched her butter them, then pour Martha's homemade syrup over the top. She took one bite, chewed it slowly, then carefully laid her fork on