The Chase: A Novel by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online

taken before the advent of color photography. If she did not miss her guess, she was staring at a photo taken during World War II. Two army officers were standing side by side, smiling at the camera. It wasn’t a clear shot, so Claire squinted and finally realized the uniforms were British, that one of the officers was of a higher rank than the other, and that both men were very young—no more than their early twenties. They were standing in front of a granite or stone building, so close to it that the building could not be identified. Claire turned the photo over and saw two names scribbled on the back: George Suttill and Lionel Elgin. Also written there were the words “probably the spring of 1944.”
    Claire was thoroughly perplexed. She was looking at a photograph of two British army officers taken during World War II. This couldn’t possibly have anything to do with whatever David had gotten himself involved in, could it? Claire did not think so. But it was still so odd. David was not a World War II buff. In fact, he wasn’t a history buff at all.
    Claire was about to dismiss the photo when she realized that another sheet of paper was stuck to its underside. She separated the photograph and the second sheet. For the second time in a minute or so, she blinked in real surprise.
    It was a fax from an investigative agency in London.
    Enclosed photo of Suttill and Elgin. Possible dead end. Please advise—WC.
    Claire stared at the fax. What was going on? Who was Suttill? Who was Elgin? Then she looked at the date—it had been sent just two days ago. What the hell was this about? Why had David hired the Thompson Cantwell Investigative Agency, a firm based in London?
    Bewildered, she put the fax and photo back on David’s desk. Maybe she was so dazed that her mind was failing her; perhaps there was an obvious explanation for David’s sudden interest in two army officers from World War II. Claire realized she was too tired to dwell on the subject. But of course, she must mention to Murphy what she had found.
    Claire took both items in hand and went to find the detective.
    David’s lawyer came to her the following day.
    Claire sat stiffly and unfeelingly in the wide-open living area of her father’s vast Tiburon home, which overlooked the bay from the top of a hill in a very exclusive neighborhood of multimillion-dollar redwood homes. Jack Thorne, a tall, lanky, bald lawyer, sat on a chair beside the glass coffee table, where the housekeeper had placed two cups of coffee, a sugar bowl, and creamer. Neither one of them drank the coffee. He opened his briefcase and removed documents. He had come to read the will.
    Jack Thorne coughed. “Claire?”
    Claire wore a straight skirt and short-sleeved turtleneck with stockings and mid-heeled pumps; everything black. She was devoid of makeup, her hair pulled severely back in a twist. Claire knew she looked like a grieving widow, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction.
    She felt like burning everything colorful in her closet. Soon she probably would. She also felt like throwing out all of her makeup—every single lipstick, blusher, and eye shadow.
    She felt like rampaging through their home, turning over chairs and knocking over the furniture.
    But nothing would bring David back or absolve her of the guilt for her role in his death. Nothing would take away the ball of fear she was trying to keep buried deep inside.
    “Claire? I’d like to read the will.”
    Claire looked at him—he was actually a family friend. She kept her hands clasped in her lap. “Is it really necessary? I assume I’ve inherited any assets David held singly.”
    Thorne nodded. “There weren’t many, the estate is held jointly. There’s the car, the sailboat, a few minor stocks, and it’s all yours.” He smiled a little at her.
    Claire shrugged. She did not give a damn about David’s Mercedes, Sunfish, or some small stock portfolio. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here just to tell me