Sean gurgled very close to Savich’s ear.
He held his son back and smiled into that splendid little face that looked more like him than Sherlock. Sean had his dark hair, not Sherlock’s curly red hair. As for his eyes, they were as dark as his father’s, not that sweet, soft blue of his mother’s. “You want to know something? It’s four o’clock in the morning and here we are wide awake. Your mama’s going to think we’re both nuts.”
Sean yawned then and stuck three fingers into his mouth. Savich kissed his forehead and stood, gently laying his son over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re ready to pack it in again.”
He went to his son’s room and dimmed the light. He laid him on his back and pulled a yellow baby blanket over his light diaper shirt.
“You go to sleep now, hear? I’m even going to sing you one of my favorite songs. Your mama always laughs her head off when I sing her this one.” He sang a country-and-western song about a man who loved his Chevy truck so much that he was buried with the engine and all four hub-caps, special edition, all silver. Sean looked mesmerized by his father’s deep, rich voice. He was out after just two verses. One good thing about country-and-western music—there was always another verse. Savich paused a moment, smiled down at the precious human being that still jolted him when he realized that Sean was, indeed, his very own child, part of him. Just as Savich had been his father’s child. He felt a sharp pull somewhere in the region of his heart. He missed his dad, always would.
Who was this Thomas Matlock, who claimed to have known his father?
He went back to his study.
MAX beeped as he walked in. “Good for you,” Savich said, sitting back down. “What have we got on this Thomas Matlock guy?”
12
Adam said, “You mean they’re giving up trying to find her on the Outer Banks?”
Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched in a phone booth somewhere, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes caused eye infections. “Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all, they’re counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing this guy who shot the governor. That’s why they’re searching high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show down there. I hear he’s cursing up a blue streak, wondering where she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her and she just ain’t anywhere, just like smoke, he says, and the others grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you’ll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes that Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you who duped him, he’d want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to stick it on.”
“Thanks for sharing that, Hatch.”
“Knew you’d like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don’t you?”
That wasn’t the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, “Something like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra’s finally come to the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn’t anywhere near the Outer Banks?”
“That’s it.”
“I don’t think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time has passed for them to find her now. I think we’re home free—well, at least for the moment.”
Silence.
“Hatch, I know you’re lighting a cigarette in a closed phone booth. Put it out right now or I’ll fire you.”
Silence.
“Is it out?”
“Yeah, boss. I swear it’s out. I didn’t even get one decent puff.”
“Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?”
“They’re talking to their counterparts all over the country, just like the Feebs are. But hey—nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective Morales is a wreck, probably hasn’t slept for three days. All he can talk about is how she called him, repeated to him that she’d told him everything, and he wasn’t able to talk her in. There’s this other detective, a woman name of Letitia Gordon, who evidently hates Ms. Matlock’s guts. Claims she’s a liar, a nutcase, and probably a murderer. Old Letitia really wants to bring her down. She’s pushing everyone to charge Ms. Matlock with the murder of that old bag lady outside the Metropolitan Museum. You know, the murder Ms. Matlock reported? The one the stalker did to get her attention?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, they told Detective Gordon to pull her head out of her armpit and try for a bit of objectivity. The woman’s really got it in for our gal.”
Adam made a rude noise. “Let Detective Gordon get hives over it for all we care. Neither Thomas nor I ever believed they were going to charge her with murder. But a material witness? That’s possible. And you know as well as I do that the cops couldn’t protect her from this stalker. Nope, that’s our job. Now, what do you have on McCallum?”
Adam wasn’t expecting anything, so he wasn’t disappointed when Hatch sighed and said, “Not a thing as of yet. A real pro spearheaded this operation, boss, just like you thought.”
“Unfortunately, it can’t be Krimakov because Thomas finally got him tracked down. He was living on Crete, and as of a week ago, he’s dead. I’m not sure of the exact date. But it was before McCallum was run down in Albany. I guess Krimakov could have been involved, but he certainly wasn’t running the show, and that’s not his MO. Anything Krimakov was involved in, he was the Big Leader. Thomas is willing to bet his ascot on that. But if Krimakov was somehow involved, it means he knew about Becca being Matlock’s daughter. Jesus, it makes me crazy.”
“Nah, the guy’s dead. This is a new nutcase, fresh out of the woodwork, and he’s picked Becca.”
Adam scratched his head and added, “No, I don’t think so, Hatch. It’s got to be some sort of conspiracy, there’s just no other answer. Lots of folk involved. But why did they focus on Ms. Matlock? Why put her in the middle? I keep coming back to Krimakov, but I know, logically, that it just can’t be. Someone, something else, is driving this. How’s the governor?”
“I hear his neck is a bit sore, but he’ll live. He doesn’t know a thing, that’s what he claims. He’s very upset about McCallum.”
Adam sat there and thought and thought. The same questions over and over again. No answers.
Silence.
“Put out the cigarette, Hatch. I know about your girlfriend. She loves silk lingerie and expensive steaks. You can’t afford to lose your job.”
“Okay, boss.”
Adam heard some papers shuffling, heard some mild curses, and smiled. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, of course there’s no positive ID on that skeleton that popped out of Ms. Matlock’s basement wall. For sure it was a teenage girl who got her head bashed in some ten or more years ago. I did find out something sort of neat, though.”
“Yeah?”
“It turns out there was an eighteen-year-old girl who leaves Riptide, supposedly eloping. Nobody knows who the boyfriend was though. Now ain’t that a neat coincidence?”
“I’ll say. When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“No one’s heard from her since?”
“I’m not completely sure about that. If she’s still unaccounted for and they decide she’s a good bet, then they’ll do DNA tests on the bones.”
Adam said, “They’ll need something from her—like hair on a brush, an old envelope that would have her saliva, barring that, then a family member would have to give up some blood.”
“Yeah. Thing is, though, it wouldn’t be admissible in court if it ever came to it. It’ll take some time, a couple of weeks. No one sees any big rush on it.”
“I don’t like the feel of this, Hatch. We’ve got this other mess and now this damned skeleton falling out of Becca’s basement wall. It’s enough to make a man give up football.”
“Nah, you’ve always told me that God created the fall just for football. You’ll be watching football when you throw that last pigskin into the end zone in the sky, if they still have the sport that many aeons from no
w. You’ll probably lobby God to have pro football in Heaven. Stop whining, boss. You’ll figure everything out. You usually do. Hey, I hear that Maine’s one beautiful place. That true?”
Adam stared at the phone for a moment. He had been whining. He said, “Yeah. I just wish I had some time to enjoy it.” He suddenly yelled into the receiver, “No smoking, Hatch. If you even think about it, I’ll know it. Now, call me tomorrow at this same time.”
“You got it, boss.”
“No smoking.”
Silence.
Becca said very quietly, “Who is Krimakov?”
Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he’d spent his first night in Jacob Marley’s house. She’d opened the door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was losing it.
“Who is Krimakov?”
He said easily, “He’s a drug dealer who used to be involved with the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He’s dead now.”
“What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?”
“I don’t know. Why did you open the door without knocking, Becca?”
“I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going on. I knew you wouldn’t tell me. I also came up to get you for breakfast. It’s ready downstairs. You’re still lying. This doesn’t have anything to do with drug dealing.”
He had the gall to shrug.
“If I had my kitchen knife, I’d run at you, right this minute.”
“And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can’t you just accept that I’m here to do a job and that job is to make sure that you don’t get wiped out? Get off your high horse.”
He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him still. Hell, after seeing him all civilized that entire evening with four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn’t have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn’t gay, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.
“Who are you?”
He sighed and tucked in his shirt. Then he flipped the sheet and blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.
When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She’d heard Krimakov’s name. It didn’t matter. She’d never hear it again. The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free. To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn’t Thomas said anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and headed downstairs.
She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon, just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch’s fantasies, the fresh cantaloupe she’d sliced, ripe and sweet.
Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that much down.
He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, “What is this? No questions right in my face? No bitching at me? By God, could it be that you’re sulking?”
That got her, just as he hoped it would.
“How would you like that nice sticky syrup down the back of your neck?”
He grinned at her and saluted with his coffee cup. “I wouldn’t like that at all. At least you’re speaking to me again. Look, Becca, I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. Everyone is floating a lot of ideas, a lot of names. Now we have this skeleton.”
He was so slippery, she’d bet if he were a pig in a greased pig contest, no one could hold him down, but she was tenacious.
“Who were you telling not to smoke?”
“Hatch. He’s my main assistant. He has more contacts than a centipede has legs, speaks six languages, and is real smart except when it comes to cigarettes and loose women. That’s the way I can control his smoking. I pay him very well and threaten to fire him if he lights up.”
“But I heard you tell him to put out the cigarette. Obviously he’s still smoking. And he knew you were on the other end of the line.”
“Yeah. It’s more a game now than anything else. He lights up just to hear me blow.”
“Did he find out anything about the skeleton? What’s this about DNA testing? They think they know who that poor girl was?”
He stretched, drank down the last of his coffee, carefully set the cup on the table, then stood up.
She was on her feet in the next instant. Two fast steps and she was in his face. She was fast, he’d give her that, and she was mad. He was grinning down at her when she slammed her fist in his belly. Becca felt her face turning red. “Damn you, you will not treat me like a cipher, like I’m a moron who isn’t even important enough to talk to. Who are you?”
He grabbed her wrist. “That was a good shot. No, don’t hit me again or I’ll have to do something. I want to keep those pancakes happy.”
“Yeah, what?” She just didn’t care anymore. She smashed her other fist into his left kidney.
He held both her wrists now. He knew she’d bring up her knee next so he jerked her around so her back was pressed against his chest. He held her arms pressed to her sides. “You’d look better as a blonde. Usually a woman’s roots are darker than her hair. In your case, you’ve got all this baby-light hair at the roots.”
She kicked back, grazing his shin. He grunted. He sat back down on the chair, holding her on his lap. She was pinned against him and couldn’t move. “Now,” he said, “I’m sorry that we’re playing only by my rules, but that’s the way it’s got to be unless I’m told otherwise.”
“You need to shave. You look like a convict.”
“How do you know? You’ve got the back of your head to me.”
“You’ve got as much hair on your face as you do on your chest.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you did get an eyeful in the bedroom.”
“Go to hell.”
Adam’s cell phone rang. “Well, shit. Will you let me answer this without attacking me again?”
“Actually, I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”
“Good.” He dropped his arms and she jumped off his lap.
He flipped open the small narrow phone. “Carruthers here.”
“Adam, it’s Thomas Matlock. Is Becca there with you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“All right, then, just listen. I sent an e-mail to Dillon Savich, a computer expert here at FBI headquarters in Washington. I knew his father very well. Actually, Buck Savich was the only other person who knew about all the mess with Krimakov. He’s been dead for a while. I e-mailed his son for help. His job is finding maniacs using computer programs. He’s good. He managed to track me down before I could even get back to him. That’s beyond good. He’s agreed to a meeting. I’m going to see him. We need all the help we can get.”
“I think that’s a mistake,” Adam said, thinking of the logistics. “I don’t think we need anyone else in on this. I’m worried about maintaining control here.”
“Trust me on this, Adam. We do need him. He’s got lots of contacts and is very, very smart. Don’t worry that he’ll talk and expose Becca’s whereabouts if he comes on board. He won’t. Have you learned anything more of value?”
“There’s nothing at all to be found in any of McCallum’s records. The governor says he doesn’t know a thing. I assume you’ve come up dry as well?”
“Yes, but I think that Dillon Savich will be able to help us there as well. Word is he’s magic with a computer and gathering information.”
Adam said, “We don’t need anyone else, Thomas.” The instant the name was out of his mouth, Adam jerked his head up. Becca was looking at him, her eyes narrowed, intent. He cleared his throat. “We don’t want more hands stirring this pot. It’s too dangerous. Too much chance of cracks
and leaks. It could lead to Becca.”
“You slipped, Adam. Is she listening?”
“No, it’s okay.” At least he hoped it was. She was now simply looking wary and interested, both at the same time.
Adam said again, “Maybe you could just have this guy do some specific searches for you.”
“That, too, but he’s a specialist just like you are. All right. We’ll see. I’m meeting with him to see what he has to say. Maybe he won’t want to join up with us, or maybe he won’t have the time. I just wanted you to know. Keep her safe, Adam.”
“Yeah.”
Becca shook her head at him when he closed his cell phone. She knew there’d be downright lies or at the very least evasions out of his mouth. She was furious, frustrated, but, surprisingly, she felt safer than she had in weeks. When he looked like he would say something, she smiled at him and said, “No, don’t bother.”
The Egret Bar & Grill
Washington, D.C.
Thomas Matlock rose very slowly from his chair. He didn’t know what to say but he didn’t like what he saw. Damnation, Savich wasn’t alone.
Savich smiled at the man he’d never heard of before receiving the e-mail at four A.M. that morning. He extended his hand. “Mr. Matlock?”
“Yes. Thomas Matlock.”
“This is my wife and my partner, Lacy Sherlock Savich, but everyone calls her Sherlock. She’s also FBI and one of the best.”
Thomas found himself shaking the hand of a very pretty young woman, on the small side, with thick, curling red hair, the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, and he knew in his gut, knew without even hearing her speak or act or argue, that she was tough, probably as tough as her hard-faced husband, a man about Adam’s age, who looked stronger than a bull. Meaner, too. He didn’t look like a computer nerd. Whatever that was supposed to mean nowadays.
“So,” Thomas said, “you’re Buck’s son.”
“Yes,” Savich said and grinned. “I know what you’re thinking. My dad was all blond and fair, a regular aristocrat with a thin straight nose and high cheekbones. I look like my mom. You can bet that my dad was always pissed about that. I never had my dad’s smart-ass mouth, either. That pissed him as well.”