Split Second - Catherine Coulter [38]
“I’ll take questions now.”
A tsunami of loud questions rolled toward him. He pointed toward Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post.
Jumbo lumbered to his feet. He looked untidy and unwashed, as if he’d dressed to go out fishing on this fine Sunday morning, and had to hurry all the way back. “Is it true the mother of Bundy’s daughter is an artist who is married to George Bentley Lansford, a candidate for Congress?”
It never failed—Jumbo always had the best sources. Savich saw Lucy was surprised this information was out already.
Savich said, “That appears to be the case, though we are awaiting final confirmation.”
Jumbo said, right on the heels of Savich’s comment, “You interview Mr. Lansford yet?”
“No,” Savich said. “Not yet.”
There were several dozen more questions, most of them about Ted Bundy, not his daughter, and Savich answered each one honestly, until Mr. Maitland shut it down. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your cooperation. We will keep you updated. Let me emphasize that Kirsten Bolger is a very dangerous woman. Ah, I hope all you bartenders out there keep a sharp eye out.”
There was one lone laugh, a few more shouted questions, but there was no one to answer them. Coop said to Savich as they walked off the dais, “Are you going to ask Inspector Delion to interview Mr. Lansford?”
“Nope. You, Lucy, and I are going to do it. Turns out Mr. Lansford and two lawyers are here in Washington. I called. They grudgingly agreed to let us see him in a couple of hours.”
Lucy said, “The lawyers’ll hang over him like a couple of bats, won’t let him help us.”
Director Mueller nodded. “What about Lansford’s wife, Kirsten’s mother? What has she to say about her daughter being a serial killer?”
Lucy said, “We don’t know, sir; she’s refused to speak to us.”
Director Mueller was shaking his head. “There’s always something loony that finds you, whether you’re looking or not. I expect all of you to be careful. Keep me in the loop.” The director shook their hands, turned, and said, “Ted Bundy—I didn’t think I’d ever hear that name again in the context of an investigation. This will keep all the TV shrinks in business for a good long time.” He looked tired, Coop thought, watching him walk away surrounded by half a dozen agents and aides.
CHAPTER 20
Washington, D.C.
The Willard
Sunday afternoon
Coop thought the Abraham Lincoln Suite on the sixth floor of The Willard was a smart choice for a wannabe congressman. Was he sending the subliminal message that he was a trustworthy straight shooter? The Willard was only one block from the White House, another nice pointer.
A buff dark-haired thirtyish man in a dark blue suit, Lansford’s aide, Coop supposed, answered their knock, gave the three of them an emotionless look from behind very cool aviator glasses, and, without a word, ushered them into the sitting room with its trademark Prussian-blue-and-gold color scheme. The suite was large, about the size of his condo, Coop thought, maybe fifteen hundred square feet of gracious luxury.
George Bentley Lansford was a tall man, taller even than his aide, a nice plus for a budding politician. He was elegantly dressed in English bespoke that didn’t look too expensive but that any donor worth his salt would recognize for what it was. He was healthy, fit, fifty-five, not as darkly tanned as his aide, and blessed with a full head of silver-black hair that would no doubt help him with some of his women voters. He looked, Coop thought,