Paul took the luggage from the porch and put it in his car; then he walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell.
Dishler answered, his face like stone. "As I told Sloan Reynolds a few minutes ago, she is not welcome here. Neither are you."
He started to close the door, but Paul stopped it with his right hand and removed his credentials case with his left. He knew damned well Dishler knew he was FBI by now, but the showing of credentials was a necessary formality before Paul pressed his authority. He held the open case at eye level in front of the assistant. "Now that the formalities are over," Paul snapped wearily, "get Paris Reynolds down here."
"The FBI has no authority here."
"A crime was committed here that involves someone working for the FBI. Now, do you want to get Paris down here, or do you want me to walk out to that car, pick up my telephone, and have this place crawling with agents in an hour?"
"Wait here," Dishler snapped, and closed the door with a bang. When it opened again, Paris was standing on the threshold in a pale brocade dressing robe, her face a cold, beautiful mask. "Haven't you done enough damage to everyone?" she demanded.
Unperturbed, Paul handed her a card with his cell phone number written on the back. "Call me at that number if you decide you want to talk."
She looked down her patrician nose at him. "About what?"
"About why you killed your great-grandmother."
For the second time that night, Paul was caught off guard by a woman. Her open hand crashed against the side of his face; then the door slammed in it.
45
"Are you going to try to see Maitland before you go back to Bell Harbor?" Paul asked Sloan the next morning. She looked as pale and haunted as she had last night, and he felt even guiltier because she didn't seem to have the strength left to be angry with him.
She put a case containing her toiletries into her suitcase and zipped it closed. "Yes, but it won't do any good," she said without looking at him. She hadn't looked at him at all, except when she opened the door to let him in.
"Would it make you feel better to know that I feel lousy about this?"
"I don't care how you feel about anything."
Paul couldn't believe how bad that made him feel. She had trusted him and done her job, and he liked her tremendously. "Okay, would it make you feel better to know why I'm after Carter and what brought me here?"
"Why tell me now when it was 'classified' before?"
"I want you to know now."
She glanced at him for the first time; then she looked away and shrugged.
Paul took her arm and forced her to sit on the bed; then he sat down in a chair across from her. "I know Carter is laundering money for a South American drug cartel that deposits cash at Reynolds Bank and Trust. The cash is accepted, credited to bogus accounts, and the IRS forms are bypassed. The money is wire-transferred by Reynolds Bank into the cartel's offshore bank accounts, where it becomes nice, clean money. Ready for spending."
She looked him right in the eye, and what she said was painfully astute. "You don't know Carter is involved in any of that; you think he is; that's all. If you had any proof, you'd have wiretaps and search warrants."
"Our informant met with a strange accident the day he was going to hand us some proof. The cartel we're dealing with is a pack of animals, but they're more cunning than most of their competition. They've hired prestigious law firms to represent their legitimate business interests here, and they're slowly acquiring political clout. Senator Meade is a particular friend of theirs. I want to take Carter down, but even more, I want to find his contact with the cartel."
"What does any of that have to do with Noah?"
"Maitland is Reynolds Bank's biggest depositor; he has an astonishing number of bank accounts there. He also has nice big boats that periodically go to Central and South America—"
"So does the Holland America cruise line," Sloan mocked bitterly.
Paul ignored the sarcasm. "Maitland has some questionable 'business associates' in those ports."
"Known criminals?" Sloan countered.
"No, but lets not argue about that Let's stick to the issue: Someone has to smuggle the cartel's cash into the States and into Reynolds Bank and Trust. I think Maitland is the one. I also think he brings in drugs with the cash from time to time."
She nodded slightly and got up; then she picked up her suitcase and purse.
"You don't believe any of that, do you?" Paul said.
"About Noah, no. About Carter—I don't know."
She turned at the door. "I've been released under your authority, but I haven't been cleared of the murder charge yet. I'd appreciate it if you'd handle that."
Paul stood up and looked helplessly at her. She had so much quiet dignity and she was so disgusted with him that he felt like one of the creeps he'd been talking about.
"Good-bye," she said.
He nodded silently because he couldn't think of anything to say.
46
The problem with Palm Beach estates was that many of them, including Noah's, had electric gates at the street that prevented unwelcome visitors from getting to the front door.
As Sloan feared, she had become one of those visitors. Mrs. Snowden informed her of it as Sloan waited in her rented car outside the gates. In a tone as frigid as her last name implied, Noah's secretary said, "I am to tell you that if you ever come near this house or anything else belonging to the Maitland family, Mr. Maitland won't bother with the police. He will deal with you himself." She paused, as if uncertain that a personal warning was necessary, and then obviously decided it was: "I wouldn't put him to the test if I were you. Good-bye."
Unwilling to cry where Mrs. Snowden could see her on a closed-circuit monitor, Sloan started to put her car in reverse; then she saw Courtney bounding down the front steps toward her.
Sloan got out of the car and walked over to the gates. Courtney stopped on the other side and raked Sloan with a contemptuous glance. "How could you!" she demanded with bitter fury. "How could you do this to us when we were never anything but nice to you!"
"I know how it looks," Sloan said achingly. "I don't expect you to believe this, but I had no idea any of that was going to happen." She swallowed before she could go on. "I—I loved your family, every one of you."
Courtney's gray eyes were so like Noah's that Sloan was unconsciously memorizing the color of them in the sunlight, even though they were glaring at her with cold animosity. "I'm not stupid enough to believe any of that."