Free The Chase: A Novel by Brenda Joyce Page B

two-bedroom apartment in Mill Valley, which was just over the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually, she was leasing half of a home that had been divided into two apartments. The house was charming, set back in a rustic wooded area, and it had a yard for the dogs. Her neighbors were a young professional couple who owned the house. Claire had liked them both instantly.
    She would be moving her things next week; she had a ton of packing to do. In the past, the few times she had moved, she had hired movers to do everything. Now she would pack up what she wanted, to cut back on the expense of the move. She was intending to sell her San Francisco home mostly furnished.
    Claire was glad to be so busy now. She planned to go back to work full-time—to throw herself into it completely. She was sleeping about four hours a night; she had also lost eight pounds.
    And Ian Marshall had not returned her calls.
    He was avoiding her. Her every instinct told her that.
    She had reported to Murphy; he told her Marshall was being helpful, and politely, he told her not to worry about the investigation.
    Now Claire double-parked her Land Rover in front of her father’s art gallery on Maiden Lane, just a few blocks from Union Square. She was about to begin packing, but she dreaded the time it would entail. Claire was hoping to drag Jean-Léon to lunch. She would also offer to return the valuable painting. Even if he would not take it back, she could never sell it. In her heart, she felt that the painting belonged to her father.
    Clad in a black jersey shirtdress and a black leather belt with a silver buckle, Claire slipped down from the big four-wheel-drive vehicle. She wore dark sunglasses, her hair was pinned back in a twist, and she had a print scarf knotted around her throat. A chic outfit, but Claire knew damn well that she looked haggard and hard. She had been slender to begin with. She could barely afford to lose more weight.
    The receptionist smiled at her as she walked inside the spacious front room, filled with paintings and sculptures. Claire smiled back and asked Beth how she was. Voices drifted to her from her father’s office, which was just behind the showroom. She could see from where she stood that the door was ever so slightly ajar. “I guess Jean-Léon is with a client?” she asked, realizing that she should have called.
    “Yes, he is, but there was no appointment,” the receptionist said, glancing down at her pad. “So I can’t begin to tell you how long he will be.”
    There was no reason to become alert. But Claire walked over to her desk. A walk-in potential buyer was not unusual. Still . . . Claire glanced down at the receptionist’s pad. Even though she was reading it upside down, she saw his name as clearly as if it were right side up.
Ian Marshall.
    Claire gasped. “Ian Marshall is with Dad?”
    “Yes, he is,” Beth said.
    But Claire was staring at the door to Jean-Léon’s office, the vast expanse of the gallery between her and the doorway. Her pulse had accelerated.
    Claire’s feet carried her rapidly across the room. When she was inches from the slightly open door, she slowed. She was agitated and breathless.
    Claire looked back at Beth, who was on the telephone and not even looking at her. Claire inhaled, then stepped closer—as close as she dared.
    “So you do not recognize this man?” Ian Marshall was saying.
    “I’ve told you twice, I do not,” Jean-Léon returned very calmly.
    “And the name George Suttill does not ring a bell?”
    “What’s this about?” her father asked, with no loss of composure whatsoever. “I have a busy day, Mr. Marshall. I do not have time to spare. Besides, the police already asked me these questions.”
    Claire almost fell against the door. Why was Marshall asking her father about George Suttill? Why had the police spoken with her father?
    “George Suttill was murdered on April tenth. His throat was slashed. It was not a mugging—there was no apparent motive.”
    Claire