The FBI Thrillers Collection(99)

“That poor man Doctor Beadermeyer operated on. I wonder who he was?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know, Sally, unless Beadermeyer talks. He was cremated. Damnation, all the clues were there, staring me right in the face. Your father had made out a new will about eight months ago, specifying that he wanted to be cremated immediately. Norman Lipsy was a plastic surgeon. You were certain it was your father on the phone. I should have believed you, but I truly believed that what you heard was some sort of spliced tape recording of his voice. We’ll get him, Sally. I promise.”

Quinlan took her home and made her promise to stay there. He had to go to the office and see how the investigation was going.

“But it’s after midnight.”

“This is a big deal. The FBI building will be lit up from top to bottom, well, at least most of the fifth floor.”

“Can I go with you?”

He pictured thirty men and women all talking at the same time, going over reams of paper, one group reviewing what they’d recovered from Amory St. John’s office, another group delving into Dr. Beadermeyer’s papers.

Then there was Dr. Beadermeyer to interview—ah, he wanted to get Norman in a room alone, just the two of them and a tape recorder and go at it. He nearly rubbed his hands together.

“Yes,” he said, “you can come, but agents will latch on to you and question you until you want to curl up in the fetal position and sleep.”

“I’m ready to talk,” she said and grinned up at him. “Oh, James, I’m so relieved. Scott is gay and my mother wasn’t in on anything. There is someone here for me besides you.”



Marvin Brammer, assistant director and head of the Criminal Investigative Division, wanted her examined by FBI doctors and shrinks.

Quinlan talked him out of it. Sally didn’t get to see him do it, but she just bet he was very good.

She ended up talking at length to Marvin Brammer. He, without realizing it, was positively courtly with her.

By the end of the hour-long interview, he’d gotten even more details of that night from her. Brammer was one of the best interviewers in the FBI, an organization known for its excellent interview skills. Maybe he was even better than Quinlan, but she doubted if James would admit that.

When she came out of Marvin Brammer’s office, Brammer behind her with his hand lightly holding her elbow, there was Noelle sitting in the small waiting area, asleep. She looked young and very pretty. She looked, Sally thought, just like she should look. But she was worried about her father. What if he got to Noelle again? What if he got to her? She’d said all that to Mr. Brammer, but he’d reassured her again and again that they would have guards on the two of them. There was no chance Amory St. John would get near either of them. Besides, he couldn’t imagine the man being that stupid. No, everything would be all right.

“That’s my mother,” Sally said. “Isn’t she beautiful? She’s always loved me.” She gave Brammer a smile that would have disarmed even a more cynical man.

Brammer cleared his throat. He ran his fingers lightly through his thick white hair. The word was that his interview skills had increased exponentially when his hair had turned white overnight after a shoot-out five years before in which he’d nearly been killed. You looked at him and you trusted him.

“From what Quinlan told me—he insisted on talking to Scott Brainerd—it seems that Scott did indeed embezzle client funds on a very small scale. But your father caught him, and that was it. He did some of your father’s dirty work, so your father really had him. Ah, you were right, he did have a lover, a guy named Allen Falkes, in the British embassy. I’m sorry.”

“Actually, all of this comes as quite a relief. I’m not hurt, Mr. Brammer,” she said, and it was true. “I’m just surprised by all of it. I’ve really been used, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but a lot of people are used every day. Not as grossly as you’ve been, but manipulated by those who are more powerful, those who are smarter, those who have more money. But as I said, that won’t be a problem anymore, Mrs. Brainerd.”

“Call me Sally. After all this, I don’t think I ever want to have the Brainerd name attached to me again.”

“Sally. A nice name. Warm and funny and cozy. Quinlan likes your name. He said it was a name that made him feel good, made him feel like he’d always get a ready smile, and probably a good deal more, but he didn’t add that. Sometimes Quinlan has discretion, at least when he’s on the job—or rather, when he’s talking to me, his boss.”

She said nothing to that.