The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [43]
“Listen to this, Bethie,” Tristan said. “I got it just for you.”
He pushed a silver panel on the dash. It rose to reveal a myriad of stereo buttons. Two more jabs with his finger, and Miles Davis’s “’Round Midnight” poured out of discreet Bose speakers and flowed all around her.
“You remembered.”
“Bethie, of course.”
Miles Davis’s trumpet began to wail. She found the proper rhythm for the gears, and the roadster began to purr. Tristan was right, she thought. Everyone should drive a little red sports car once in her life, and this car drove like a dream.
She took the on-ramp to I-76, feeling the roadster gather beneath her feet. First, second, third, pushing the tachometer all the way up into the red zone. The second turbo kicking in and pressing her back against her seat. Twenty, forty, eighty miles per hour, and still as smooth as silk.
“There you go,” Tristan said approvingly. “That’s how you drive, Bethie. Go after the road like a speed racer, don’t let anything hold you back.”
She smiled. She pressed on the gas. She hit one hundred miles per hour and let the wind gather up her dark blond hair and the sun beat down on her upturned face.
“We’re off like a herd of turtles!” Tristan roared over the rushing air.
She laughed, she drove faster, and she never bothered to mention that that was one of Mandy’s favorite expressions. I love you, she thought. God, I am so happy!
Tristan was still watching her with that intent look in his eyes. He had pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves. He ran one gloved finger down her cheek.
“Bethie,” he said after a moment. “Tell me about your second daughter. Tell me about Kimberly.”
11
The Olsen Residence, Virginia
It took Rainie four tries to find Mary Olsen’s house. The first time, she didn’t even notice the narrow driveway off the heavily wooded road. The second time, she spotted the driveway, but couldn’t see any sign of a house through the trees. The third time, knowing she had to be close, she drove halfway up the driveway, saw a freaking mansion perched on top of a circular drive, and hurriedly backed down before some butler loosed the Dobermans on her. The fourth time, she parked alongside the road, got out of her car, and went over to the discreet black mailbox on its ornate wrought-iron post to read the house number.
“You’re kidding me,” she said to no one in particular, then flipped open the file of background information she had gathered on Mary Olsen, and scanned the material one last time. “Huh. Who the hell is a twenty-five-year-old unemployed waitress sleeping with to get a house like that? And does he want a mistress?”
Who, turned out to be a neurosurgeon, which Rainie learned when she drove back up the driveway and made it to the front door. Dr. Olsen had already left for the day, but an oil portrait of his grandfather was the first thing she was shown when the butler—yes, the butler—led her into the cavernous marble foyer. He left her to stare while he went to fetch Mrs. Olsen.
Rainie amused herself by price-checking the interior. One gigantic round crystal table, centered in the middle of the foyer, bearing a Lalique stamp. She figured twenty grand. One highly polished side table constructed from bird’s-eye maple with black walnut trim and legs straight out of a Louis XIV wet dream—probably fifteen grand. Sixteen-foot draperies of peach velvet with gold satin lining and miles of gold cord. Twenty thousand, maybe even thirty; custom window dressings weren’t her strong suit.
At any rate, the room seemed to have a fifteen-grand minimum, which put Rainie way out of her league, as the last she knew her entire body was worth a whopping buck eighty-two, or something like that.
“Would you like some coffee?”
Mary Olsen stood at the top of the circular staircase, looking