Double Take

CHAPTER 11

SAN FRANCISCO

Friday morning

Evelyn Sherlock said to her husband, “I saw Charlotte Pallack last month at a fashion show at the Hyatt Embarcadero. She’s beautiful—no, better than beautiful, she’s got style and intelligence and a very interesting face. She was on the standoffish side. Actually, she’s always been somewhat reserved since I met her some two years ago.

“I remember Mazie Wallace told me—you know, that nasal voice of hers lowered, but not enough—that Charlotte spent a bundle on clothes Mazie said she wouldn’t even want to see off the hanger, but who really knew about her background? Mazie’s mean-spirited so I ignored what she said.”

“What did that mean—her background? I thought she came from Boston money, something like that.”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“I don’t suppose Thomas Pallack was around?”

“Thomas? No, that day it was all women.”

Corman said, “I’ve got to go in about five minutes. Oh, here you are, Isabel. I’m sorry for the short notice, but we’re going to have a houseguest tonight and perhaps tomorrow night as well. It will all depend on how the dinner goes tonight. His name is Sheriff Dixon Noble. He’s a friend of Savich and Sherlock. And we’ll be having dinner for five tonight.”

“I hadn’t realized you’d already called Thomas,” Evelyn said. “Oh yes. Do you know I didn’t even wake him up. He’d already been through the Wall Street Journal. All I had to do was intimate that I might be mellowing toward his newest political candidate—what’s his name? Whatever, he’s running for district attorney.” At his wife’s laugh, he smiled back at her. “And that did it. He and his wife will be here at seven o’clock.”

“That was clever,” Evelyn said, saluting him with her coffee cup.

“My roast pork with my special mint sauce, Judge Sherlock?”

“Yes, and apple pie.”

Isabel nodded. “We haven’t had guests in at least a month. This’ll be fun,” and she left the dining room, humming and making lists in her head.

Forty-five minutes later Judge Sherlock reached his chambers on the sixteenth floor of one of the ugliest gray buildings in San Francisco, the U.S. Government Federal District Court on Golden Gate Avenue. He dealt with his clerks in record time, closed his door, and booted up his computer. He had twenty-three minutes until he had to be in court. He typed in Julia Ransom’s name and began reading. After seeing that morning’s newspaper article about the attempt on her life and the involvement of a local FBI agent, he’d bet his newly crowned molar that his son-in-law knew a lot about it. Savich was likely up to his ears in it. The judge was rarely a step ahead of his son-in-law, but this time perhaps he’d dig up something before Savich did with his damned computer, MAX.

Dix landed at SFO right on time. He pulled his single carry-on from the overhead bin and walked out of the airport into a chilly, sunny day. He’d asked a flight attendant about a hotel and had just climbed into a taxi when his cell phone played some New Orleans jazz.

Five minutes later, the taxi was headed to Pacific Heights, where it pulled up some forty minutes later in front of a beautiful three-story Art Deco house with views of the whole bay.

“Nice big money house,” the Russian driver said, his accent thick.

Nice big money house indeed, Dix thought. It was like the Tara of San Francisco, only with better views.

A cup of rich Kona coffee in his hand, Dix sat in the formal living room across from Evelyn Sherlock and looked at his watch.

“Yes, it’s five o’clock,” Evelyn said. “Dix, dear, it occurred to me that you might not have brought a suit. Such a fast, in-and-out trip. Did you?”

He smiled at the beautiful woman who was Sherlock’s mother and who didn’t look a thing like her. She looked soft and elegant, graceful and smooth, her blond hair in a stylish straight cut that skimmed her jawline. Where had Sherlock gotten her incredible wild red hair?

“Actually, ma’am—”

“Do make that Evelyn.”

“Yes, Evelyn. And call me Dix. Well, since this Thomas Pallack is a bigwig, I had the brains to bring a decent suit so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. I don’t know if it’s up to snuff, but—”

Evelyn patted his big hand, so like her son-in-law’s, she thought, a firm, strong hand she imagined could pull you out of the deepest mire. “I’ll ask Isabel to have a look at it. She’ll tell us if it will be appropriate. If it is, she’ll press it for you.”

Isabel deemed Dix’s dark blue wool suit quite lovely for the occasion. His shirt, however, didn’t make the cut. He found himself buttoning one of Judge Sherlock’s handmade white shirts, slipping on simple gold cuff links, and Windsor-knotting a red and white Italian silk tie. Dix stepped back to study himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, a large airy space about the size of his dining room. Then, drawn to the window, he looked out toward the beautiful hillside town of Sausalito, and the Marin Headlands. With all the rain, Evelyn had told him, it was nearly Irish green, but that wouldn’t last. Just wait until July, and she’d sighed. His room was filled with English antiques Christie would have loved—Ruth’s tastes leaned toward the bright and colorful, the whimsical, like the ceramic rooster sitting on alert just inside her front door. He stilled, stared at himself in the mirror, not seeing anything. Could he do this? How would he face this woman who couldn’t be Christie because Christie was dead?

But what if she is Christie?

He realized his hands were sweating, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He couldn’t think straight because his brain was leapfrogging around too much. This woman, this Charlotte Pallack, no, she wasn’t Christie, but—What’s wrong with you, moron? Christie’s dead, long dead. Deal with it. His brain turned around again and went a different direction. Since this woman couldn’t be Christie, maybe she was some long-lost sister? Had Chappy had an affair and not known his lover was pregnant? It went around and around as it had throughout the day. If he’d had his Beretta, he’d have shot himself.

He was terrified of what he wanted, of what he didn’t want, of what he’d find out. He admitted he was a basket case, couldn’t help it. But he had to get himself together enough to face this woman tonight and he had to be calm and rational and clearheaded. He would know, the instant he saw her, he would know, and then it would be over.

He shook his head at himself in the mirror, brushed his dark hair. He had to get a grip, just face this: Be the ultimate cool, dude, as Rafe would say. He continued to stare at himself and slowly nodded in satisfaction. He looked sophisticated, he realized, like a guest should look, a guest polite enough and rich enough to have dinner with society snoots. He had poise, he had confidence, he was ready. He would not fall apart, no matter what happened.

Ten minutes later in the living room, Evelyn Sherlock agreed with his assessment. She patted his sleeve. “If Charlotte isn’t your Christie, she still might try to run away with you,” she remarked, rising to straighten his tie, though it didn’t need it.

That gave things a different perspective, Dix thought, staring down at her a moment, and marveling again how very different she was from her daughter. Then she tilted her head to the side and said, “I do love a man in French cuffs.” He’d seen Sherlock tilt her head in exactly the same way.

“In that case,” he said, “I’d rather run away with you.” She sighed, her voice low and throaty, quite sexy really. “Ah, so many elegant cuff links, so little time.”

He laughed. “Do you know I think I’ve worn French cuffs maybe three times in my life?”

Judge Sherlock, calm and aloof, looking like an aristocrat—a lot like a younger Chappy, Dix realized—walked into the living room, kissed his wife’s cheek, told her she was gorgeous, and shook hands with Dix. He looked him up and down, examined him the way a father might a son who was bent on impressing a future boss. He nodded. “You’ll do just fine, Dix. You’ll get through this. Now, you want something to drink?”

“No, thank you, sir—”

“Call me Corman.”

Dix nodded. “I don’t think my stomach can handle it. Thank you for the loan of the shirt and tie. And the cuff links.”

The doorbell chimed and Dix felt his belly fall to his newly polished shoes. If he’d been holding a drink he would have dropped it. Evelyn patted his arm as she said easily, “I do believe the Pallacks are here. Dix, you will be all right. You already know everything that’s important to know, and they don’t. You’ll see immediately if she’s your Christie and then it will be over. If she is Christie, naturally, you’ll both know it.”

Dix supposed that advice fit well, but he stopped thinking altogether when he first saw Charlotte Pallack come into the entry hall. Her smile was Christie’s smile, lighting up every corner, her teeth were straight and white, Christie’s teeth. Jules Advere was right—it was Christie, down to the pale peach nail polish he liked on her long thin fingers. He swallowed, tried to keep a hold of himself, be the polite stranger being courteous to guests, nothing more. He had to get closer to the woman whose hair was darker than Christie’s, but that didn’t mean much. She was as tall as Christie, big-boned, but thinner—no, that wasn’t important either. He had to look her in the eyes, then he’d know. They had to see each other close.

Judge Sherlock lightly touched Dix’s sleeve, drawing him forward. “Dixon, do meet our friends, Thomas and Charlotte Pallack.”