The Final Victim(69)

But she isn't about to bring up his name or voice her suspicion, however slight, to the police.

Not yet, anyway.

Dorado goes on, 'The soles in the footprints we found indicate that these were men's dress shoes."

"Dress shoes?" Charlotte echoes, frowning.

That doesn't fit her image of an anonymous sniper at all.

It's Aimee who asks Dorado, "What do y'all think that means?"

"We're looking into it."

"So you don't have a suspect in mind yet?" Charlotte asks. "That's all you have to go on? Footprints?"

Again, the two men exchange a glance.

"We did find something else, a few yards away from where the shooter was standing." Williamson reaches into his pocket and takes out a small envelope.

He opens it, removes a small object, and holds it out in the palm of his hand.

"Do either of you recognize this?"

Aimee, seated closer to him, leans over, then immediately shakes her head. "No."

Williamson swoops his hand forward, bringing it to rest directly in front of Charlotte. "How about you, Mrs. Maitland?"

She gazes in disbelief at the heirloom platinum cufflink emblazoned with the initials GXR.


"Yes, may I please speak to a Dr. Petra Von Cave?" Mimi asks the person who's come on the line at last, after a lengthy wait while the foreign receptionist apparently scrambled to find someone who speaks English.

"Dr. Von Cave has left for the day," the voice tells her in a thick accent, and Mimi is taken aback until she remembers that it's already midafternoon overseas.

Still, you'd think a world-renowned scientist would at least stick around the office-or is it a lab?-until five or six.

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Maybe y'all can just tell me where I can reach her?" she asks, remembering to keep her voice low.

Jed is asleep in the bedroom, and Cameron is completely absorbed in a Bob the Builder video-a gift from his grandmother-in the living room.

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Who is this, please?"

Mimi hesitates. "I'll… I'll call her back, if y'all will just tell me when I would be likely to find her at this number." 'That's hard to say. You might try her tomorrow, but Dr. Von Cave can be difficult to reach. Are you certain you wouldn't like me to take a message?"

"No, that's all right."

Mimi hangs up, frustrated.

What message could she possibly leave?

My name is Mimi and I live in America and I need you to save my dying husband out of the goodness of your heart.

She'd have a better chance if she knocked on the door of Trump World Tower and asked The Donald if he can spare a few million.

Still, she'll try again later. And tomorrow. For as long as she has to.

Because now that Gib will be behind bars, her only option is to give up and helplessly watch Jed waste away in agony.

Damn you, Gib.

How could you?

Restless, she paces the length of the small kitchen, then back again, and returns to refill her coffee cup. God knows she needs the jolt after yet another sleepless night.

She did the right thing, telling the police what Gib said…

Didn't she?

It's not as if she has any proof that he's the one who shot Royce.

Still, after what he said Saturday morning when they met on that bench in the square, after she asked-no, shamelessly begged-him to help her…

"I'd love to loan you some money, Mimi, and it's for such a good cause. But I just don't have it."

He was lying.

That's what she thought at the time, anyway. She thought he had to have money. He's a Remington, for God's sake.

"My trust fund is ancient history, I've got student loans, credit cards, borrowing against future earnings-all that, and nothing coming in."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't have a job yet," he claimed.

She should have stopped right there, but she couldn't. Not with Jed's life hanging in the balance, and money being the only way to save him.

She had to go and bring up the fact that Gib's grandfather had just died.

Well, who wouldn't assume he had inherited millions from the old man?

"No, he left everything to my cousin Charlotte," Gib informed her, so venomously that she realized he had to be telling the truth.

There was no mistaking the authenticity of that vengeful glare in his eyes as he went on, "So it looks like I'll be a pauper for at least a while longer, until Phyllida and I are successful in contesting the will-unless something god-awful happens to Charlotte and her husband and kid."

He said it carelessly, or so she thought, tossing the words from his tongue as easily as he asked her, in the next breath, if she was sure she didn't want to join him that evening for a night on the town.

"I'm married, Gib," she pointed out. "Remember?"

"Oh, yeah," he said flatly, in a tone that told her he hadn't forgotten, even for a moment. Far be it from Gib Remington to let a little thing like another man-or a. wedding ring-stop him from making a move.

She couldn't help but be reminded of that awful day back in high school, when she let herself into his dormitory room to find a live tableau of the world's oldest boarding school cliché: there was Gib, in bed with Miss Lucas, the blond, buxom young English teacher.