“But it would have raised questions,” Quinlan said. “I would have wondered and chewed on it. I’m a real FBI nerd when it comes to things like that. I wouldn’t have let it go. Sally’s right. That’s why you and her father wanted to keep her locked up. She was out of the way permanently. And her father still believed she knew he was a traitor, or at least suspected that he wasn’t a solid citizen.”
“Shut up. Come here, Noelle, or I’ll shoot your bloody daughter.”
“How much money are we talking here, Norman? A couple million? More? It just occurred to me why you wanted Sally so badly. She was your insurance policy, wasn’t she? With her, you didn’t have to worry that Amory St. John would kill you. Of course, he could have killed Sally too, but that would have raised questions inevitably.
“No, better for him to just keep paying you off until he came up with a bright idea to rid himself of you. Have I gotten anything wrong, Norman? I love real-life wicked plots. Novels can’t even come close.”
Dr. Beadermeyer waved the gun. “Come here, Noelle.”
Scott stirred on the floor, shook his head, and slowly sat up. He moaned and rubbed his ribs. “What’s going on here? What are you doing, Doctor Beadermeyer?”
“I’m leaving, Scott. If you want to come along, you can. We’ve got Noelle. The cops won’t take a chance of shooting because they just might hit her. Come here, Noelle.” He pointed the revolver at Sally. “Now.”
Noelle walked slowly to where he stood. He grabbed her left arm and pulled her tightly against him. “We’ll just go out through the French doors. Nice and slow, Noelle, nice and slow. Ah, Scott, why don’t you just stay put? I really never liked you, always thought you were a no-account worm. Yes, you just stay here.”
“What you’re doing isn’t smart, Norman,” Quinlan said. “Believe me, it isn’t smart at all.”
“Shut up, you bastard.” He kicked open the French doors and pulled Noelle through them. Quinlan didn’t move, just shook his head. Dillon said, “You did warn him, Quinlan.”
There were voices, two shots. Then dead silence. Dillon ran outside.
“Noelle!” Sally ran through the open French doors onto the patio, yelling her name over and over.
They turned to see Noelle stumble toward her daughter. The women embraced.
“I love happy endings,” Quinlan said, “Now, Scott, why don’t you tell us which woman is your lover—Jill or Monica?”
“Neither, damn you. I’m gay!”
“Jesus, that’s a kicker,” Quinlan said.
Dillon came back in. There was a huge grin on his face. “Poor old Norman Lipsy just got a nick in the arm. He’ll be just fine.”
“I’m glad about that,” Quinlan said.
“Scott is gay, James?” Sally stared at her husband. “You’re gay and you married me?”
“I had to,” Scott said. “Your father’s ruthless. I’d done just a little fiddling with some clients’ accounts, but he discovered it. That’s when he got me into the arms deals and told me I had to marry you. He also paid me, but believe me, it wasn’t enough to bear you for those six months.”
Quinlan laughed and pulled Sally against him. “I hope this doesn’t depress you too much.”
“I think I’ll kick up my heels.”
They heard Dr. Beadermeyer cursing outside, then moaning, complaining loudly that his arm was bleeding too much, that he’d die from blood loss, that the bastards wanted him to die.
They heard Dillon laugh and say loudly, “Justice. I do like to see justice done.”
Sally said, “There’s no justice yet. James, where is my father?”
He kissed her on the mouth and hugged her. “We’ll check first to see if his passport is gone. If it isn’t, we’ll have him soon enough.”
“Another thing,” Dillon said, “where is that bloody Roth-Steyr pistol?”
“I remember running after my father out the French doors. I threw it in the bushes.”
“The cops would have found it. They didn’t.”
“Then that means her father saw her throw it away and doubled back to get it,” Quinlan said. And he smiled. “That pistol ID’s him better than fingerprints.”
“That poor man Doctor Beadermeyer operated on. I wonder who he was?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know, Sally, unless Beadermeyer talks. He was cremated. Damnation, all the clues were there, staring me right in the face. Your father had made out a new will about eight months ago, specifying that he wanted to be cremated immediately. Norman Lipsy was a plastic surgeon. You were certain it was your father on the phone. I should have believed you, but I truly believed that what you heard was some sort of spliced tape recording of his voice. We’ll get him, Sally. I promise.”