The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (46 page)

Mahoney headed for the kitchen again. He took a chicken out of the refrigerator and began hacking it up with a cleaver. Phyl grimaced, and he grinned at her. “Don’t worry. I’m just fixing us some soup. Meanwhile, just so you don’t think things are all bad, here’s a bit of good news. Bea has got her memory back.”

Phyl’s jaw dropped. “Oh, God,” she cried. “And I wasn’t there to help her. Again.”

“She didn’t need you,” Mahoney said, searing the chicken in a copper-bottomed sauté pan and throwing in a fistful of chopped vegetables. “Nick was there.” He told her what Nick had said.

“So there it is,” he said finally. “Bea is Marie-Laure Leconte Jones. And by some strange stroke of fate, she flew from Honolulu to San Francisco the night she was attacked.”

Phyl’s eyes widened. “Of course it’s a coincidence,” she said.

“You know I’m a great believer in coincidence. Especially where crime is concerned.” He handed her a glass of red wine.

“Poor Bea. Marie-Laure, I mean,” she said sadly.

“She loses her parents, and then she’s attacked by some madman. No wonder she blocked it all out of her memory.”

“No wonder,” he agreed, adding chicken stock.

“I’m going to France,” Phyl said, heading determinedly for the phone. “I’m calling the airlines and getting the first flight out to Paris tomorrow.”

“Of course you are, Doc,” he said calmly. “But first you eat, then you call the airlines. The soup will be ready in ten minutes, and I bet you haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.”

He was right. Mahoney booked her on a flight to Washington with a connecting flight to Nice. She realized with relief that the trip to see Bea would put thousands of miles between her and Brad.

Phyl looked at Mahoney. He was leaning against the window frame. Behind him was a panorama of brightly lit vessels skimming across the bay and the twinkling lights of the bridges hung like garlands in the sky. His arms were folded, and he was humming along with a Mozart aria playing in the background. He looked relaxed, at ease with himself and his surroundings, and Phyl thought of the contrast with Brad, pacing in her apartment like an enraged animal.

“What are we going to do about him?” Mahoney asked, reading her mind.

“Tomorrow I’ll be gone,” she said firmly. “I’ll send him a letter and tell him I can’t see him anymore. I’ll recommend a therapist in Hawaii. Perhaps by the time I get back he will have come to terms with it.”

Mahoney glanced at her skeptically. “You really think so?”

Wearily she reached for her jacket. “Let’s hope.”

He drove her home in tired silence. “I wish I were coming with you tomorrow,” he said as he dropped her off.

“Me too.” She looked at him wistfully.

“Remember to take care of yourself as well as Marie-Laure.

I’m not sure which of you needs looking after more.” He kissed her lightly on each cheek and watched until she disappeared through the doors. Then he gunned the Mustang down the empty street.

Riding up in the elevator, Phyl wished she had the cat with her. She hated the idea of the empty apartment, but Coco was staying at Mahoney’s until she got back from France. As she unlocked the door, she remembered how she used to treasure her privacy. Now she recognized it as loneliness.

The apartment was in darkness, and she hesitated. She could have sworn she’d left a lamp on. She always did. She felt a prickle on her neck as she peered into the darkened foyer, sliding her hand along the wall to the light switch. And then her hand connected with someone else’s warm flesh.

His arms were around her, and one hand was clamped across her mouth as he kicked the door shut. “You left me again, Rebecca,” Brad whispered harshly. “Why did you do that? When you know how much I love you?”

He switched on the light. She spun around, staring at him in horror. “How did you get in here?” she demanded.

He smiled coolly, holding up a key. “I had yours copied when you were in Hawaii,” he said calmly. “I wanted to make sure I could reach you anytime. Day or night.”

His eyes held hers like a stoat mesmerizing a rabbit. He was immaculate in a blue cashmere blazer and chinos and tasseled loafers—the perfectly turned-out gentleman. But behind the gold-rimmed glasses, his pale eyes were not smiling. They were icy and withdrawn, and she knew he was living out the fantasy in his head.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said. “God, look at you, you’re shaking.” He stepped toward her, arms outstretched. Instinctively she backed away. “Oh, come on, Rebecca. You know I’m no good at saying I’m
sorry. I came here to take you home, that’s all. You know you’re always happiest at Diamond Head. And I want you with me. I don’t ever want you to leave me again.”

Phyl edged toward the bedroom. Her terrified eyes were fixed on his. “Don’t walk away from me,” he said with a puzzled smile. “You know you love me. I just want to hear you say it.”

She was almost at the bedroom door now. Her heart was pounding like a marathon runner’s. If she were quick enough, she could shut the door and lock him out. She thought longingly of the bedside telephone and Mahoney….

“Say it, Rebecca,” Brad said, walking toward her. “Say it, my darling. Say you love me. Tell me you will never leave me.”

Her limbs had turned to stone. She was frozen with fear as he came closer. The smile had gone, and his eyes were cold.

“Brad,” she said desperately, “this is no good. Of course, I care about you. You are my friend.” She took a quick step backward, holding up her hands to ward him off. He was as tense as the Doberman, and she was afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid to trigger his madness.

“More than friends,” he said as she took another cautious backward step toward the bedroom. “A love like ours is forever, Rebecca. You know that.”

She could see the door handle from the corner of her eye.
One more step
, she thought,
just one and I’m safe. Then I’ll call Mahoney.
She leaped suddenly for the door and slammed it behind her, sobbing with fear. But it would not close. She looked down and saw his foot in its expensive tasseled loafer, and she heard him laugh as his hand, then his shoulder came through the gap.

The door flew open, and she crumpled to the floor. She put her head in her hands, sobbing great gasps.

She could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing.

Finally she peeked through her fingers at him. He was looking at her; his arms were folded, and his face was expressionless. Suddenly he knelt on one knee next to her and took her hand. “I can’t let you reject me again, Rebecca,” he said gently. “Not again.”

He pulled her to her feet, looking sadly at her. “Poor girl,” he said softly, “poor beautiful girl.” He smoothed her wild hair gently back from her face, gazing intently at her. Then he took both her hands in his.

“Brad,” she said desperately, “you mustn’t call me Rebecca. I’m Phyl. Remember? I’m the doctor. The one you like to talk to.”

“The witch doctor,” he said. “I remember.”

“Rebecca was your mother, Brad. You told me everything about her.”

“Not
everything
,” he said levelly, and his voice sent shivers down her spine.

He was still holding on to her hands. His grip was like a vise, and she imagined his hands on her throat, squeezing the life out of her.
Killing Rebecca.
She fought back the wave of terror, fighting to keep her wits about her. The only way she could win was to try to talk him out of it.

“We have to talk about this, Brad,” she said, speaking slowly, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. She had to let him know that she was in control, that she was the one who called the shots. It was her only chance.

“You told me I was your confessor, and now I want you to tell me everything about Rebecca. I am here to help you, Brad, you know that.”

“You betrayed me,” he said, gripping her tighter. “You promised you would stay. You know you should not have done that, Rebecca.” He bent his head and kissed her on the lips, drawing her passionately to him.

Phyl went limp in his arms; she trembled with the urge to scream, to push him away. He lifted his face from hers and stared into her eyes.

“Brad, please, I have to talk to you,” she said quickly. “I’m just so tired … I feel so awful….”

He swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He gently laid her down and sat beside her. There was a puzzled frown between his brows as he picked up the pillow and turned to her.

She stared at the pillow in his hands and knew what he meant to do. Her eyes were dark with terror.

“Why do you look so frightened, Phyl?”

She gasped as she realized he had called her by her own name; he had remembered who she was. She cast around frantically for a way to get him out of the apartment. “I’m so hungry, Brad,” she said quickly. “Why don’t we go out for a bite? You must be starving, too. We could go to Il Fornaio. You know you like their tiramisu. We could talk this over sensibly. I want to help you, Brad. I promise I’ll do everything I can.”

She saw the doubt in his eyes. “You promise you won’t leave me again?” he said, stroking her arm rhythmically.

“Yes, yes. I promise.” She stared breathlessly at him, waiting, praying for him to say yes.

The telephone suddenly shrilled, shattering the silence. Phyl’s eyes fastened on the phone. Her lifeline. “I’d better answer it,” she lied quickly. “I was expecting someone to call. My—my colleague. If I don’t answer, he’ll wonder why.”

Brad held up his hand. He shook his head as he looked at the telephone, still ringing on her bedside table. She was overcome with frustration and fear. She’d almost had him convinced, almost got him out of there…. Oh, God, who the hell was calling her?

The ringing stopped, and they sat motionless in the deepening silence. Brad was still staring at the night table, and she wondered if he was going to pull the phone from the wall. Instead he picked up the photograph of Marie-Laure. It was the one Phyl had taken
before she left for New York, looking sweet and pretty, with her cropped head and wide, scared eyes.

Brad held the photograph under the light, studying it for a long time. “How do you know her?” he asked in that “other” voice.

“She’s my patient. The one I told you about, with the lost memory. I told you she had become a friend.”

“What is her name?”

His eyes were hooded, and she saw the tremor in his hand holding the picture. She said, puzzled, “Her name is Bea French.”

“French?” He glanced at the girl in the picture and then back at her. “Are you sure?”

“Well … no. I forgot she just got her memory back. She’s Marie-Laure Leconte Jones.” Phyl began to laugh hysterically. She knew she wasn’t making sense….

Brad stood up. He put the photograph in his pocket, and then he looked at her, lying on the bed, sobbing and laughing at the same time.

That remote look was back in his eyes. “Poor darling. You are overwrought and tired. Why don’t you get some sleep now?”

She lay, frozen with fear, as he strode to the door. He looked back at her and smiled his old, confident smile. “There’s something I have to do. Then I promise you everything will be all right. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Why don’t you plan on coming to Kalani with me this weekend? We can continue our discussion there. After all, Kalani is the center of my life, the soul of the Kane family. And I want to share it with you, Phyl. I want to share my whole life with you.”

He was still smiling as he walked away. She heard his purposeful footsteps and then the click of the door latch. And then nothing.

Phyl lay still, too afraid to move. She strained her ears. Maybe he was trying to trick her. Maybe he was waiting for her behind the door, ready to grab her by
the throat as she emerged…. She swung her feet cautiously to the floor. She listened again.

She tiptoed barefoot across the room, then flattened herself against the wall and peered around the door. She slid through, looking nervously around. He might still be hiding, waiting to grab her, waiting to kill her, finally. Her nerve suddenly cracked, and she screamed, running like a madwoman from room to room, flinging open doors. “You crazy bastard,” she yelled, “come out, come out….”

Finally she slid the bolts on the front door and sank, sobbing, to the floor. “Oh, dear God,” she sobbed, “help me, help me….” She dialed Mahoney’s number, clutching the phone to her ear. It rang and rang. “Answer it, goddammit, Mahoney,” she groaned, “answer, please, please answer….”

Mahoney swung the Mustang around the corner onto Phyl’s street in a squeal of rubber, cursing as he saw the black Porsche speeding down the middle of the road toward him. He threw the Mustang quickly right, mounting the sidewalk and narrowly missing a fire hydrant.

“Jesus Christ, man,” he snarled, staring angrily over his shoulder at the Porsche’s disappearing taillights. Then he groaned as he realized he was looking at Brad Kane’s car.

He leaped from the Mustang and ran across the road to Phyl’s building. He put his thumb on the bell and left it there until the doorman, red-faced with anger, confronted him.

He flipped him his badge and said, “Dr. Forster. Is she home?”

“She is,” the doorman retorted. “And one ring would have done.”

“Not tonight,” Mahoney said, striding across the soft carpet to the elevator.

“Wait, I have to tell her you’re here,” the doorman yelled. “It’s the rules.”

“No rules tonight, fella,” Mahoney said. “Don’t you dare pick up that phone.”

He pushed the elevator button and then waited impatiently for the doors to slide shut. When he had called Phyl and she had not answered, he had been worried. He knew she was home, and he let it ring. When she still didn’t answer, he wondered uneasily what was up. Something was wrong, he knew it. He wondered if Brad Kane had shown up, but Phyl had said he had been on his way to the ranch. He should have been back on Diamond Head. Then he had remembered. Brad Kane had a Gulfstream IV. He could be anywhere he wanted before anyone else had time to buy a ticket.

He strode from the elevator and rang Phyl’s bell. He put his head to the door, listening. There was no sound, and he banged on the door. “Phyl,” he yelled. “It’s me, Mahoney. Open up.”