The Chase: A Novel by Brenda Joyce Page A

Ian’s black sports jacket, and Claire saw very clearly that he was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster.
    She gasped and ducked away from the door, sweating.
Why was he wearing a gun?
    Because a killer was on the loose.
    “What does that mean? I bought the painting, Marshall. It was just a long time ago.”
    “That’s my card. Fax me a copy when you can. I’d appreciate it—and I’m sure your son-in-law would, too.”
    He was leaving. Claire didn’t think twice. She ran across the gallery and ducked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Then she began to breathe.
    What was going on? Clearly Marshall was after David’s killer, but why ask her father if he knew Suttill? Why ask him for some stupid bill of sale that dated back fifty-three years? Somehow, the Courbet must be significant to Marshall, or linked to the killer, but Claire could not make heads or tails of it.
    But by damn, she would find out.
    Claire came out of hiding as rapidly as she had gone into it, unlocking the door and leaving the bathroom. Ian Marshall was nodding to Beth on his way out.
    Claire hurried across the gallery. Marshall was outside on the sidewalk, and he had paused, but briefly. Then he lifted an arm.
    He was flagging down a car and driver.
    “Mrs. Hayden?” Beth asked, stunned.
    Claire ran out of the gallery. Ian Marshall was climbing into the backseat of a dark Mercedes. He was about to shut the door. Claire got her hands on it.
    He looked up, startled. “Claire?”
    Claire leaped inside, mostly onto his lap. “We have to talk!” she said, pushing herself onto the seat on the other side of him.
    He looked at her, and he wasn’t smiling. “Christ.”
    Ian had directed the driver to take him back to his hotel, the Mandarin Oriental.
    Claire stared at him, thinking that the backseat of the Mercedes had somehow shrunk in size. It wasn’t big enough for the two of them.
    He faced her, and he was clearly annoyed. “Hello, Claire. How are you?”
    She crossed her arms. “My, so formal. You haven’t returned my calls. Let me guess. Answering machine broken?”
    His jaw flexed. “Do you always leap into cars with men you don’t know?”
    That gave her pause. He had a gun. Someone had murdered David and George Suttill. This wasn’t a silly game or make-believe. And until she understood why he had been so evasive, and why he had lied to her, she would consider him with suspicion. “Do you have a license for that gun?” she asked uncomfortably.
    “Yes, I do,” he said evenly.
    “Why? You’re not a cop.”
    “You know why. Murphy told me you made the connection between Suttill and David. By the way, I’d like to borrow that photograph and fax.”
    The gun was for protection. And he wanted the World War II photograph and the fax from the London investigators. “What is going on, Ian? Why was David killed?”
    But Ian was telling the driver to turn around, giving Claire’s home address.
    “Are you going to answer any of my questions?” she asked uneasily.
    “Yes, but not here, in the car. We’ll talk at your house while we get the photo and the fax.”
    Claire stared at him; he was staring directly ahead, as if past the driver. Did she want to get out of the sedan and walk into her home with him? They would be alone.
    She felt chilled. They would be alone, and David had been ruthlessly murdered in her house only a week or so ago.
    But Ian Marshall was one of the good guys. Wasn’t he?
    For the first time, Claire directly faced her worst suspicion—one she wished she’d never had. He was an expert on war criminals, on the Holocaust, and surely, on the subject of World War II. But he
was
one of the good guys. Wasn’t he?
    David had been hostile to him. Ian had been wary in return. The tension between the two had been unmistakable.
    And Claire knew that Ian Marshall had not been on the guest list. Murphy had made her go over it at length, discussing everyone present. Claire hadn’t been able to point the finger