“Just me and my ego.”
“I'm sure the two of you are very happy together.”
“Ecstatic.” I found a second cup and filled it, then took a carton of skimmed milk from the refrigerator and placed it between us.
“I'm sorry, I don't have any sugar.”
She reached into her bag again and produced some Sweet'n Low. She added it to the coffee and stirred it before tasting it carefully. Since she didn't fall to the floor clutching her throat and gasping, I figured it was probably okay. She didn't say anything for a time; she just sipped and smoked.
“Your house needs a woman's touch,” she said at last, as she took another drag on her cigarette. She held in the smoke until I thought it would come out her ears.
“Why, you do cleaning as well?”
She didn't reply. Instead, she finally released the smoke and dropped the remains of the cigarette into the coffee. Classy. She didn't learn that at the Madeira School for Girls.
“I hear you were married once.”
“That's right, I was.”
“And you had a child, a little girl.”
“Jennifer,” I replied, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.
“And now your wife and child are dead. Somebody killed them, and then you killed him.”
I didn't respond. My silence didn't appear to concern Mrs. Mercier.
“That must have been very hard for you,” she continued. There was no trace of sympathy in her voice but her eyes were briefly thawed by what might have been amusement.
“Yes, it was.”
“But you see, Mr. Parker, I still have a marriage, and I still have a child. I don't like the fact that my husband has hired you, against my wishes, to investigate the death of a girl who has nothing to do with our lives. It is disturbing my relationship with my husband, and it is interfering with the preparations for my daughter's wedding. I want it to stop.”
I noticed the emphasis on “my” daughter but didn't comment. For the final time, she took something from her handbag. It was a check.
“I know how much my husband paid you,” she said, passing the folded check across the table toward me, her red nails like eagle's talons dipped in a rabbit's blood. “I'll pay you the same amount to walk away.”
She withdrew her hand. The check lay on the table between us, looking lonely and unloved.
“I don't believe you're so wealthy that you can afford to turn down that kind of money, Mr. Parker. You were willing to take it from my husband, so you should have no difficulty in accepting it from me.”
I made no move for the check. Instead, I poured myself some fresh coffee. I didn't offer any to Mrs. Mercier. I guessed from the floating cigarette butt that she'd had enough.
“There's a difference. Your husband was buying my time, and whatever expertise I could offer. You, on the other hand, are trying to buy me.”
“Really? Then, under the circumstances, my offer is particularly generous.”
I smiled. She smiled back. From a distance-a really long distance-we might have looked like we were having a good time. It seemed like the right moment to put an end to that misapprehension.
“When did you find out that Grace was your husband's child?” I asked. I experienced a brief surge of satisfaction as her face paled, and her head rocked back a little as if she'd been slapped.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” she replied, but she didn't sound convincing.
“For a start, there's the breakup of your husband's partnership with Curtis Peltier seven months before her birth and his willingness to spend a significant amount of money employing me to investigate the circumstances of her death. Then, of course, there's the resemblance. It must have been like a kick in the guts every time you saw her, Mrs. Mercier.”
She stood up and grabbed the check from the table. “You're a mean bastard,” she hissed.
“That might hurt a little more if it came from somebody else, Mrs. Mercier, but not from you.” I reached forward suddenly and clamped her wrist tightly in my right hand. For the first time, she looked scared.
“It was you, wasn't it? It was you who told Grace about the Fellowship. Did you set her on their trail knowing what they would do to her? I don't believe that your husband said anything to her about it, and her thesis dealt with the past, not the present, so there was no reason for her to start prying into the organization. But you must have been aware of what your husband was doing, of the moves he was making against them. What did you say to her, Mrs. Mercier? What information did you give her that led those people to kill her?”
Deborah Mercier bared her teeth at me and her fingernails raked across the back of my hand, immediately drawing blood. “I'll make sure my husband ruins your life for what you just said to me,” she snarled, as I released her hand.
“I don't think so. I think when he finds out that you sent his daughter to her death, then it's your life that won't be worth living.”
I stood as she snatched up her bag and started for the hallway. Before she could reach the kitchen door, I blocked her with my arm.
“There's one more thing you should know, Mrs. Mercier. You and your husband have set in motion a chain of events that you can't control. There are people out there who are prepared to kill to protect themselves. So you should be glad that your husband is paying me because, as of now, I'm the best chance you have of finding those people before they come after both of you.”
She stared straight ahead as I spoke. When I had finished, I lowered my hand and she walked quickly to the door. She left it open behind her, and I watched as she started the Mercedes and turned it quickly onto the road. I looked down at my hand and the four deep parallel lines she had left on it. Blood ran down my fingers and pooled at the nails and I thought, for a moment, that they looked a lot like Deborah Mercier's. I cleaned the cuts under the faucet, then put on my jacket and a pair of leather gloves to cover the wound, grabbed my keys, and headed out to my car.
I should have asked her for a ride, I thought, as I followed the lights of her car all the way to Prouts Neck. I kept far enough back so as not to arouse her suspicion, but I was still close enough to make the security barrier before it closed behind her.
There were five or six cars in the parking lot when I pulled up. Mrs. Mercier had already disappeared into the house and the porn star with the mustache was lumbering forward from the porch. He was wearing an earpiece and he had a radio mike attached to his lapel. I guessed that security had been stepped up somewhat after Epstein's death.
“This is a private party,” he said. “You'll have to leave.”
“I don't think so,” I replied.
“Then I'll have to make you leave,” he said. He looked happy at the prospect, and poked a finger into my chest to emphasize the point.
I grabbed the finger with my left hand, gripped his wrist tightly with my right, and pulled. There was a soft pop as the finger dislocated, and the porn star's mouth opened wide in pain. I turned him around, pulling his arm behind his back, and shoved him hard into the side of the Mercedes. His head banged emptily against it and he collapsed on the ground, holding his uninjured hand against his scalp.
“If you're a good boy, I'll fix your finger on my way out,” I said.
A couple of other security guards were moving toward me when Jack Mercier appeared on the steps and called them off. They stopped and formed a loose circle around me, like wolves waiting for the signal to fall upon their prey.
“It seems like you've invited yourself to my party, Mr. Parker,” said Mercier. “I guess you'd better come in.”
I walked up the steps and followed him through the house. It didn't look like much of a party. There was a lot of expensive booze floating around on trays and a handful of people stood about in nice clothes, but nobody seemed to be having a very good time. A man I recognized as Warren Ober put down his champagne flute and started to follow us.