“How do you know that? Surely you had other things to talk about with her? Jesus, you had two murders in that damned little picturesque town, and the two of you found both bodies. Surely that's enough fodder for conversation for at least three hours."
"When I was in her bedroom I saw that the walls are loaded with awards for papers, short stories, essays, all sorts of stuff that she wrote. That credit card essay was one of them. She must have been all of sixteen when she wrote it."
"So she's a good writer, even a talented writer. She's still a rank amateur. She's scared. She doesn't know what to do. Everyone is after her, and we're probably the best-meaning of the lot, but it didn't matter to her. She still poked your own gun in your belly."
"Don't whine. She has around three hundred dollars in cash. That's not going to take her far. On the other hand, she got all the way across the country on next to no money at all riding a Greyhound bus."
"You don't keep your PIN number in your wallet, do you?"
"No."
"Good. Then she can't get out any more cash in your name."
Quinlan sat down in a swivel chair beside Dillon's. He steepled his fingers and tapped the fingertips together rhythmically. "There's something she said, Dillon, something that nearly tore my guts apart, something about no one she'd been around cared about anybody but himself. I think she trusted me so quickly because something inside her desperately needs to be reaffirmed."
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"You're sounding like a shrink."
"No, listen. She's scared just like you said, but she needs someone to believe her and care about what happens to her, someone to accept that she isn't crazy, someone simply to believe her, without reservation, without hesitation.
"She thought I did, and she was right, only, you know the answer to that. She was locked up in that place for six months. Everyone told her she was nuts. She needs trust, complete unquestioning trust."
"So who the hell would give her unconditional trust? Her mother? I can't believe that, even though Sally went
to see her first. There's something weird going on with Mrs. St. John. Sure as hell not her husband, Scott Brai-nerd, although I'd like to meet the guy, maybe rearrange his face a bit."
Quinlan got out her file. "Let's see about friends."
He read quietly for a very long time while Dillon put all systems in place to kick in whenever Sally used one of the credit cards.
"Interesting," Quinlan said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. "She had several very good women friends, most of them associated with Congress. Then after she married Scott Brainerd, the friends seemed to fade away over the period before Daddy committed her to Beader-meyer's charming resort."
"That cuts things down, but it doesn't help us. You don't think she'd go to her husband, do you? I can't imagine it, but-"
"No way in hell."
There was a flash and a beep on the computer screen. "Well, I'll be swiggered," Dillon said, rubbing his hands together. He punched in several numbers and added two more commands.
"She used a credit card for gas. The amount is just $22.50, but it's their policy to check all credit cards, regardless of the amount. She's in Delaware, Quinlan, just outside of Wilmington. Hot damn."
"Wilmington isn't that far from Philadelphia."
"It isn't that far from anywhere, except maybe Cleveland."
"No, that's not what I meant. Her grandparents live on the Main Line just outside of Philadelphia. Real ritzy section. Street name's Fisher's Road."
"Fisher's Road? Doesn't sound ritzy."
"Don't let the name fool you. I have a feeling Fisher's Road will wind up being one of those streets with big stone mansions set back a good hundred feet from the road. Gates too, I'll bet."
"We'll see soon enough. It's her mother's parents who live there. Their name is Harrison. Mr. and Mrs.
Franklin Oglivee Harrison."
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"I don't suppose Mrs. Harrison has a name?" "Nah, if the guy is rich and old, that's the way they do it.
I've wondered if sometimes they just make up that highbrow middle name for effect."
17
"I MEANT TO tell you why Sally used a credit card and not some of your three hundred bucks."
Dillon was driving, handling his Porsche with the same ease and skill he used with computers.
Quinlan was reading everything he had on the grandparents with a small penlight. He had to look up every few minutes so he wouldn't throw up. "I hate reading in a car. My sister used to read novels all the time-in the back seat-never bothered her for an instant. I'd look at a picture and want to throw up. What did you say, Dillon? Oh, yeah, why Sally used the credit card. While you were getting your coat, I checked the rest of the information they gave on the credit card check. The license plate number was different. She bought a clunker, probably used about every cent of that three hundred bucks."
Dillon grunted. “Hand me the coffee. Another hour and we'll be there."
"It took time for her to sell the Olds and buy the clunker. It cut down on her lead. Let's say she's got two hours on us. That's not too bad."
"Let's hope she doesn't realize you're anywhere in the vicinity, like you seem to believe she did last time at her mother's."
"She did know. Listen to this. Mr. Franklin Oglivee Harrison is the president and CEO of the First Philadelphia Union Bank. He owns three clothing stores called the Gentleman's Purveyor. His father owned the two largest steel mills in Pennsylvania, got out before the bottom fell out, and left his family millions. As for Mrs. Harrison, she comes from the Boston Thurmonds, who are all in public office, lots of old money from shipping. Two daughters, Amabel and Noelle, and a son, Geoffrey, who's got Down's syndrome and is kept at a very nice private place near Boston."
"You want to stop at that gas station in Wilmington? We'll be there in half an hour."
"Let's do it. Someone will remember the kind of car she was driving."
"If she got something for three hundred bucks, it would really stand out."
But the guy who'd sold her the gas had gone home. They drove straight on to Philadelphia.
Sally looked from her grandfather Franklin to her grandmother Olivia. She'd seen them two or three times a year every year of her life, except this past year.
Their downstairs maid, Cecilia, had let her in, not blinked an eye at her huge man's coat over the too tight blouse and jeans, and calmly led her to the informal study at the back of the house. Her grandparents were watching Seinfeld on TV.
Cecilia didn't announce her, just left her there and quietly closed the door. Sally didn't say anything for a long time. She just stood there, listening to her grandfather give an occasional chuckle. Her grandmother had a book on her lap, but she wasn't reading, she was watching TV as well. They were both seventy-six, in excellent health, and enjoyed the Jumby Bay private resort island off Antigua twice a year.
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Sally waited for a commercial, then said, "Hello, Grandfather, Grandmother."
Her grandmother's head jerked around, and she cried out, "Susan!"
Her grandfather said, "Is that really you, Susan? By all that's holy, my poor child, whatever are you doing here?"
Neither of them moved from the sofa. They seemed nailed to their seats. Her grandmother's book slid from her lap to the beautiful Tabriz carpet.
Sally took a step toward them. "I hoped you could give me some money. There are a lot of people looking for me, and I need to hide someplace. I only have about seventeen dollars."