Split Second - Catherine Coulter [103]
Frank laughed.
Kirsten kept quiet, watched Ann Marie take them two mugs of coffee, these mugs not chipped, and the coffee was from a full pot in the back, nice and fresh, the little bitch.
The bald guy thanked Ann Marie. “Hey, I was telling Frank that the guy who was shacking up with Bundy’s daughter, you know, that crazy chick who’s killing women all over the country? He’s dead. The FBI shot him outside a bar in Baltimore. At least one of those crazies is dead and gone.”
Frank was stirring sugar in his coffee. “Talk about crazy—that guy had to be a lunatic to hook up with that nutty broad. As bad as her father, that’s what everybody says. Hey, what’s the guy’s name? The guy who was shacking up with her?”
Bald Guy said, “It’s something strange—I can’t remember.”
Kirsten said quietly, “His name was Bruce Comafield.”
“That’s right,” Frank said. “He worked for her step daddy, you know, that rich guy who wanted to run for Congress from California until it got out who his stepdaughter was?”
Bald Guy said, “Big surprise for him, I bet, both his stepdaughter and his aide. I’ll bet Stepdaddy’s glad the guy’s lights are out. What’s his name? Oh, yeah, Bruce.”
Kirsten couldn’t breathe. She watched the bald guy wag a skinny finger at Frank; why, she didn’t know.
She heard a soft keening sound, realized it was from her, from a wound deep inside her she thought she’d die of. Like Bruce had died.
She said to the two men, “That guy you’re talking about who was traveling with Bundy’s daughter? Bruce Comafield? Well, he wasn’t crazy.”
Both men were staring at her now. Ann Marie was, too. It came out of Ann Marie’s mouth in a wild burst—“I remember now, I’ve seen your photo. You’re her! Oh, sweet Jesus! You’re Bundy’s daughter! ”
Frank and Bald Guy froze.
Kirsten smiled at all of them as she rose slowly, reached into her leather jacket, and pulled out a small 340 S&W revolver. She shot Frank in the middle of his forehead; then, still smiling, she turned to Bald Guy, whose mouth was open to scream, but no sound came out, because she shot him in the heart. They both fell forward on the table, sending their coffee mugs flying, blood mixing with the coffee.
Ann Marie Slatter screamed and screamed, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, shock holding her frozen. Her eyes never left Kirsten’s face. She heard a whimper, didn’t even realize it was from her.
Kirsten studied her dispassionately. “Hey, kid, I left you a big tip. I hope you get out of this podunk town,” and she left.
CHAPTER 50
Wesley Heights, Washington, D.C.
Thursday afternoon
Coop pulled into a parking slot in front of an older three-story redbrick building, beautifully landscaped with grass, bushes, and trees, already hunkering down now for the coming winter.
He looked over at Lucy, felt a slap of anger seeing the bandage over her temple, knowing too well she could be dead if the bullet had slanted only a bit inward. Her eyes were closed. He hoped she wasn’t still in pain. “Lucy? You awake?”
She opened her eyes and slowly turned her head to face him. She smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry.” She looked around. “I’ve always loved this area. Did you know your neighborhood was developed in the 1920s, one of the first communities from a master plan in the country? So many beautiful properties here, you’re lucky.”
Coop said, “This building—I wanted to live here the first time I saw it four years ago.”
She said, “I want to go home, Coop.”
“One more time, kiddo—Savich ordered a guard for you until we get our heads around what happened. I’m not going to let you stay in that big house by yourself. Let me speak very slowly here, since your brain doesn’t seem to be plugged in—two guys, probably pros, tried to execute you today. Going home