The Chase: A Novel by Brenda Joyce

found his room and went through the process of pretending to discover that she did not have a key. A hotel maid with a housekeeping cart approached. “I will call security,” she said in a heavily accented voice.
    “I am going to divorce the bastard,” Claire cried, beginning to weep. “He left me stranded—stranded—at the Embarcadero, and I have no money, no change, he has the bank card, he is such a shit! And he has the keys! I am divorcing him, I have had it, screw men!” She wept. It was amazing what fear could do. She had never been a good actress before.
    Someone banged on a wall or door and shouted, “Be quiet!”
    “I divorced my husband, and I am very happy, you will be happy, too,” the maid said, shaking her head. “Here, honey, go in.” She unlocked the door for Claire and smiled. “Just don’t tell anybody, I break the rules.”
    “You are so kind,” Claire said, giving her ten dollars.
    The maid stuffed it in her apron, and Claire decided she had better ease up on the bribes or payoffs or whatever they were. She was on a budget now.
    And then she was inside Ian Marshall’s room, and she double-locked the door. Now he would not be able to get in, not even with his electronic key.
    Claire collapsed against the door. And then she smiled, at once incredulous and disbelieving. God, she had done it. She had broken and entered into a hotel room. It was as if she had become someone else.
    She looked around.
    The room was state-of-the-art and modern. There was a king-size bed, two stark white stone bed tables, interesting iron wall sconces, and a desk. There was also an entertainment center, which probably housed a minibar. A laptop was on the desk.
    Claire sat down at the desk. As she booted up, she looked down at Ian’s briefcase.
    Claire didn’t hesitate. She bent and opened it. Inside were various folders and pads. She took everything out and began skimming over his notes. The problem was, they were illegible to her eye.
    She flipped pages, then frowned, because the one name that did leap out at her was Robert Ducasse.
    Robert Ducasse was her uncle, who had died in 1944, just before D-day. He had been a hero of the French Resistance.
    Claire did not like finding his name on Ian’s legal pad. She stared at it. Why was there a question mark next to his name?
    Windows ME came up. Relieved, Claire put down the pads by her feet. She hesitated, deciding to check his agenda first. She opened up his Task Scheduler and, with a click, found the second week of April, the week of David’s death.
    “Hayden” was entered for April 12, as was the note “Party, 7 P.M .” Her home address was there, and her home telephone number. Inhaling, Claire scrolled back to April 10, the day George Suttill had been murdered. His name was listed under the date.
    Claire didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she opened up his address book, and sure enough, David was listed under Hayden—all of his numbers, and his work address as well as that of their home. There was a notation that read “Wife—Claire.”
    Claire stared at the page. Why was she so uneasy?
    She turned to D. Instantly, she found her father’s name, address, and numbers, as well as those of the Dukes. What were the Dukes doing in Ian’s address book?
    Claire’s fear increased.
    Claire closed the scheduler and opened up the Documents folder. She saw a file named Elgin and clicked on it, her pulse racing with excitement. She quickly read that Lionel Elgin had been born in 1922 at Elgin Hall, his family home just outside of London. Claire stopped, stunned.
They were after an Englishman?
    She exhaled loudly and continued to read. He had come from an old and wealthy family. His father, Randolph Elgin, had been a baron; his mother had died when he was a young boy. He had attended Eton and was in his first year at Oxford when the war began. He inherited his father’s title and estates when his father disappeared in August 1940. By then, Lionel