Deadly Beloved(112)

Julianne Corbett was seated behind her big desk, papers spread out on the green felt blotter, pens and pencils strewn across the polished wood surface. When she saw them come in, she smiled, stood, and held out her hand.

“Mr. Demarkian,” she said. “Mr. Jackman. Come and sit down.”

“I’ll get some coffee,” Tiffany Shattuck said, dashing out again.

Julianne Corbett retracted her hand and reclaimed her seat. Gregor sat down in the larger of the two armchairs that faced the desk. John Jackman remained standing, looking uncertain of what he was supposed to do next.

“Well,” Julianne Corbett said, trying on a great big smile again. “I hope you’re bringing me good news. I hope Karla’s condition is at least somewhat improved.”

“Actually,” Gregor Demarkian said, “I came to tell you that I finally know where Patsy MacLaren is.”

“I know where Patsy MacLaren is,” Julianne Corbett said, “because I put her there. She’s in a grave in New Delhi.”

“Yes, I know she is,” Gregor said gently. “But just a week or so ago she killed her husband, and a little time after that she killed a harmless woman who cared too much about animals, and a little after that she killed an ICU specialist nurse named Liza Verity. For somebody who’s buried in New Delhi, she’s been very active.”

Julianne Corbett’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t know she killed Liza Verity. You don’t know she set the pipe bomb off at my reception. You’re just guessing because what happened did involve pipe bombs. Any number of people could know how to make a pipe bomb.”

“That’s true,” Gregor said. “Any number of people do. What’s more important, however, is that I know who was married to Stephen Willis.”

“You mean the woman who was calling herself Patsy MacLaren,” Julianne Corbett said. “That’s not the same thing. Unless she really was called Patsy MacLaren but she wasn’t the same Patsy MacLaren. My Patsy MacLaren is dead and buried and has been for longer than I care to remember.”

“I know who was married to Stephen Willis,” Gregor Demarkian repeated. “Do you want to know who that was?”

“All right,” Julianne Corbett said. “Who was it?”

“You.”





2.


Later, Gregor thought about how odd it was. He must have been in this situation a thousand times. He must have seen every different kind of person there was to see in the position Julianne Corbett was in now. It turned out not to matter much if he was dealing with a two-bit drifter or a United States congresswoman. There were only three or four ways for a perpetrator to react. They could run. They could fight. They could lie. Or they could just shut up.

“Remember,” the old man who had trained him at Quantico had said. “They all think alike, no matter how much money they’ve managed to make. They all act alike. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be perpetrators.”

Behind the green felt blotter, Julianne Corbett had gone very still. The skin of her face under her makeup had gone dead white. The pallor made it suddenly obvious just how thick that makeup was. There had been picture after picture of Patsy MacLaren Willis in the Philadelphia papers, but nobody had connected any of them to Julianne Corbett—because they couldn’t. There was no way to see under all that foundation and mascara and blusher. There was no way to tell what her eyes were like under the weight of those five pairs of false eyelashes. Gregor suddenly wondered how she could wear the stuff without scratching at it all day.

Gregor reached into his jacket and brought out a little stack of clipped photographs. He had gone at the Vassar College yearbooks with a pair of scissors for hours the night before. He put one photograph on the desk and tapped it with his index finger.

“This,” he said, “is the real Patsy MacLaren. She was five feet eight inches tall. She had very red hair, very blue eyes, and very white skin. She also had freckles.”

“I remember Patsy MacLaren,” Julianne put in harshly. “I knew her for years. I buried her. I told you.”

“Oh, yes,” Gregor said. “You quite definitely buried her. In New Delhi. In 1969. I checked.” He put another photograph down on the desk. “This is the Patsy MacLaren who murdered her husband a couple of weeks ago. The matron of Fox Run Hill. She was five feet four inches tall. She had slightly olive skin. She was on the sturdy and stocky side.”

“I don’t see why that has anything to do with me,” Julianne Corbett said. “That doesn’t look anything at all like me.”