Point Blank

PHILADELPHIAWEDNESDAY

SAVICH AND SHERLOCK sat opposite Elsa Bender in the starkly modern living room of Jon Bender’

s home on Linderman Lane on the Main Line. Although it was very warm in the living room, a cashmere afghan covered her legs, a thick wool sweater draped over her hunched shoulders. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face, fastened in a clip at the base of her neck. Her hands clasped and unclasped ceaselessly in her lap. Savich saw that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The room was brightly lit, but Elsa Bender seemed to sit in the midst of shadows.

Her eyes weren’t bandaged now, but she wore dark glasses. She was too thin, and unhealthily pale, as if she never went outside. However, they saw her smile up at her ex-husband, who stood at her side, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. According to the papers, Jon Bender was a successful real estate developer who had traded her in for a younger model, namely his personal assistant, two years before, but didn’t marry her. And he was here now, a big man, stocky, tough jawed, his blind ex-wife again living in his house.

Savich introduced himself and Sherlock. He said without preamble, “The old man and the young girl who bragged to me about taking you—their names are Moses Grace and Claudia. We don’t know her last name yet, or her relationship to the old man. They’re the same ones who buried my friend Pinky Womack in a grave in Arlington National Cemetery.”

Mr. Bender looked from Savich to Sherlock, obviously wondering if he should be alarmed. He nodded slowly. “We heard about that. We had no idea until you called this morning—Well, now there are actual names attached to their faces. I assume you’ve spoken with the local police?”

“Yes, we did. We’re here because we need your help, Mrs. Bender. You’re the only one who can provide us with a description.”

Mr. Bender answered for her. “Elsa still can’t remember what happened, so she can’t help you.”

Savich sat on the hassock at Elsa Bender’s feet. He took her left hand between his two large ones, felt the chill of her flesh. She’d turned inward, he thought, and that was the wrong direction. He said, “I appreciate your agreeing to speak to us on such short notice. Do you mind if I call you Elsa?” At her faint nod, he continued. “We know how badly these people hurt you, Elsa. We don’t need to focus on that. I know you want these monsters caught and punished for what they did to you. They’ve done terrible things to other people, too. You’re one of the lucky ones; you survived. We need your help so that other people can survive, too.”

“I wouldn’t call this surviving,” Elsa said, and Savich continued to hold her hand as the bitterness flowed through her.

He said, “I would. There’s something else, Elsa. These people who hurt you, they’re calling me, they want to kill me. They’ve also threatened my wife, and my little boy. I desperately need your help to protect them.”

Her hand fluttered a moment, then settled again. “It’s been a horribly painful time for me, Agent Savich. I don’t know if I can ever think about what happened. I don’t want to face those monsters again.”

“Elsa doesn’t need to be tortured with this again, Agent Savich,” Mr. Bender looked ready to muscle Savich out the door. He said, “Listen, she’s gone through enough. We’re sorry about the threats to you and your family, but Elsa can’t help you. We’d like you to leave now.”

Savich didn’t look away from Elsa. “I imagine the doctors told you that when you begin to remember what happened, it’s important not to block it out again. Remembering it, talking about it, will only lessen the pain. Tell us about it, Elsa, tell us and you can send it into the past, where it belongs. You survived. Never forget that you survived.”

To Savich’s surprise, Elsa said, “Jon was in the past. And yet he’s here now. Isn’t that strange?”

Savich saw Mr. Bender flinch, heard him say, “I’m not going anywhere,” but Savich had no idea if she understood his words.

“We have children ourselves, Agent Savich, Jon and I. But I can’t talk about what they did to me, I simply can’t.”

“I don’t need you to, Elsa, although I’m convinced it would help you.”

Elsa said, “The fact is, I’ve remembered almost all of it.” She heard her husband’s quick indrawn breath, but didn’t pause. “The girl Claudia called him her sweet pickle. He was a filthy old man with a hacking cough. She tied my hands behind my back in that dirty old van, told me that he wanted to see her with a woman and that he picked me because she’d told him I looked like her, like I could be her mama and wasn’t that the coolest thing? Then he told her to pretend she was diddling her own mama. The old man blindfolded me and then the girl started.” She began to cry quietly. She swallowed hard and whispered, “

The oddest thing is that I didn’t feel the pain in my eyes until later, in the emergency room.”

“You were in shock, a good thing.”

“I suppose it was.” She lifted her glasses only enough to lightly daub the edge of a monogrammed white handkerchief to her eyes. She straightened her glasses again and said, “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore when I cry.”

Jon Bender said, “Tell them about the farmer, Elsa.”

“The farmer who found me. He visited me in the hospital every single day, brought me roses. He’d sit by my bed and tell me about how he grows barley and oats. Jon came late that night, and three days later, he brought me back here, to our old home, only I can’t see what they’ve done to it since I left.”

“Ask him, Elsa. Simply ask him.”

Jon Bender looked like he wanted to burst into tears. He said, “I didn’t do anything, Elsa.”

“Good.” For the first time she smiled a little. “I hate fussy things. I’m glad you left it clean.” She let Savich ask her questions for several minutes and gave the best description she could of Moses and Claudia. She agreed to talk to a sketch artist later in the day. She told Savich about how Claudia did indeed look like her daughter. She smiled toward her ex-husband. “Jon, give them that photo of Annie throwing the beach ball. Remember, I sent you a duplicate? The resemblance is really quite striking.”

While Mr. Bender was gone, she said, “Tell me more about your boy, Mr. Savich.” Her hand still rested comfortably between his.

“His name is Sean, and he’s a pistol.” He watched her face as he told her about Sean’s birthday party, where Savich’s sister Lily chased around twenty small children, her feet in gigantic clown shoes. He told her how Sean loved to barrel at him the moment he walked through the front door every evening. Hearing this, she was smiling, breathing easily.

Jon Bender broke in when he returned. “I’ve been trying to talk Elsa into giving me another chance, Agent Savich.”

The hand in Savich’s stiffened a bit, then relaxed. She wasn’t ready to let go of him yet, and that was fine.

“I’ve promised her over and over I won’t ever be an ass-hole again.”

And glory of glories, Elsa Bender laughed. She looked up in the direction of her ex-husband’s voice. “

Perhaps you won’t,” she said. “The kids seem to think you won’t. Perhaps.”

Sherlock looked closely at Jon Bender’s face, studied his eyes as he looked at Elsa. “You know what, Elsa? I think this guy of yours has learned what’s important to him.”

Ten minutes later, Savich clasped Elsa’s hands in both of his and pulled her slowly to her feet, letting the afghan pool at her feet. She wasn’t quite steady.

He said, “You’re going to be fine, Elsa. Jon is going to bundle you up and take you for a nice walk, maybe make some hot chocolate when you get back. It’ll put color back in your cheeks.”

IT WAS NEARLY nine o’clock Wednesday night when Savich knocked on Sheriff Noble’s front door. They heard Brewster’s big-dog bark, footsteps running to the front door before it was flung open, Rob and Rafe elbowing each other to be front and center.

“Hello, Special Agent Savich. Hello, Special Agent Sherlock. Did you shoot anyone today?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said immediately. “It was all blood and gore. Took me forever to wash it all off.”

“Dude! Really, tell us everything you did. Not just the boring stuff like Dad does, but the cool stuff?”

Savich smiled for the first time since leaving Washington hours before. He hugged both boys quickly, breathing in their excitement, their teenage love of anything gruesome. In ten years or so would Sean be asking the same things?

Rob said, “We waited dinner for you until Dad said he was going to gnaw on his elbows if he didn’t eat. We had bouillabaisse, Ms. McCutcheon brought it over because she knows Dad likes it. It was okay if you like fish.”

“Dillon, come on in the living room,” Ruth called out, before appearing in the doorway, Dix at her shoulder. “We’ve got some delicious tea, some scones that Millie of Millie’s Deli made herself, just for the Feds, and Dix and I had something really interesting happen today, but never mind that just now. Boys, bring in the Federal agents and let’s eat.”

“So how was your day?” Dix asked as he handed out scones.

Sherlock smiled as she took a cup of tea from Ruth. “Actually, our afternoon was great. We took Sean out to build a snowman, poured hot chocolate down his gullet, and listened to him talk nonstop about his grandmother’s new puppy.” She rolled her eyes. “I have a feeling there’ll be barking in our house very soon now.”

“Dogs are good,” Dix said as he gave Brewster a pat. “This little guy keeps my neck warm at night.”

Rob and Rafe finally went off to bed after nearly an hour and four more scones, Savich and Sherlock having filled their ears with horrifying, thoroughly fictional tales of mayhem in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Dix waited another couple of minutes until he was sure it was quiet upstairs, then nodded. “Okay, they’re down for the count. Tell us what really happened in Philadelphia. Could that poor woman tell you anything about Moses Grace and Claudia?”

Savich said, “Yeah, she did. Her name’s Elsa Bender. She’s going to be all right. I mean, I think the future looks pretty good for her.” Savich looked over at Dix and Ruth, who were sitting on the sofa opposite him and Sherlock, Brewster sleeping between them. He pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket. “

This is the Bender daughter, Annie. She’s seventeen in the photo—tall, slender, nearly white-blond hair, big blue eyes. Elsa Bender says she looks like Claudia.”

Ruth studied the photo. “She looks like a cheerleader whose biggest problem is deciding who to go out with after the football game on Saturday night. You’ve already got this photo out all around the Beltway, haven’t you, Dillon?”

“Oh yeah.”

Sherlock said, “Elsa said Moses Grace is as old as he sounds, at least seventy. His face is all leathery from too much sun, which suggests he could have spent a good deal of his life on a farm, an oil rig, a chain gang—take your pick. Elsa said he’s lean and wiry, but he didn’t look fit, he looked sort of gray. She said Claudia’s voice was sweet one minute, shrill the next, with a midwestern accent. As for Moses, we’ve heard his deep drawl, the excessive bad grammar that simply doesn’t feel right. Elsa also said he had a hacking cough, and was always spitting up. That was two months ago. He sounds much worse now.”

Dix sat forward, cuddling Brewster in his arms. “You had a productive day—”

Ruth cut in, the enthusiasm bubbling out of her. “But maybe not as exciting as ours. You’re going to love this. I’ll start you off with Ginger Stanford, and then move on to lunch with Chappy and the little rascals.”

“Then,” Dix said, “our pièce de résistance—Helen Rafferty.”

CHAPTER 21

“…WHEN WE GOT to Stanislaus, we took Helen Rafferty into the employee lounge. Ruth didn’t give her a chance to settle, to get herself ready. She asked her point-blank about Dr. Holcombe and Erin Bushnell.”

Ruth smoothly took up the tale, as if they’d worked as a team for a very long time. “She actually started crying, and only got ahold of herself after I reminded her how important it all is, now that Erin is dead.”

Dix said, “After she dried her eyes, the first thing she did was ask us if we’d like some coffee. I said yes to give Helen some time to collect herself.”

Ruth said, “She apologized to Dix because she knew Dr. Holcombe was his uncle, but she had thought about it, and had to let it out. The bottom line is, Helen Rafferty admitted she and Dr. Holcombe—that’s how she always referred to him—were lovers for perhaps three months about five years ago. She said it was in the summer, when there weren’t many students around. He broke it off, told her that being with her drained him. You’re going to like this—he said being with her had been sort of like attaching himself to an ancient blessing that had lost its power over the years, and now it was suffocating him and he couldn’t continue to be intimate with her. Fact was, she told us, Dr. Holcombe had this compulsion—she

’d known about it since before their affair. He’d slept with a number of very talented young women at Stanislaus over the years, and he seemed not to want to stop. She confronted him with it, and he said he supposed that deep inside his spirit he needed their nourishment, their innocent love of music and life, or he couldn’t create, couldn’t compose his own music, didn’t think he could go on at all. She smiled a little and said she knows what that sounds like, but that he believed it, she was sure of that.

“Helen still thinks of him as a great man with a sickness, a harmless infirmity, not an old lech. So she bought into it. Because she had to, I guess, because she still loves him and admires him tremendously. She said Erin Bushnell was just another girl in a steady stream of talented young students who found themselves ministering to Dr. Holcombe’s spiritual needs. Again, her words.”

Dix sat forward on the sofa, clasped his hands between his knees. “Then she frowned, said maybe she was wrong, maybe Dr. Holcombe had felt more about Erin than about the others. It was creepy, guys, the way she spoke of him and his philandering, as if it was all right as long as it inspired Uncle Gordon’s music. She forgave all of it.”

Ruth picked up the story. “She said Dr. Holcombe had incredible energy, he composed the most amazing music in the past few months. But now, she said, he is destroyed, a shell of himself, and she is very worried about him. I mentioned he didn’t seem all that destroyed when we told him about Erin’s murder, and she told us he would never want to burden others with his pain.” Ruth snorted. Sherlock asked Dix, “Did you get the names of the other young girls who ‘ministered’ to Dr. Holcombe over the years?”

“Whoa—” Dix pulled out his notebook, thumbed through the pages. “Okay, over the period of time that Helen has worked for Dr. Holcombe—fourteen years, four months—she thought he had affairs with about eight female students—that is in addition to Helen—both graduate students and undergraduates. I believe that would be up to the advanced age of twenty-three or -four. She gave me some of the names

—none of them are at Stanislaus anymore—and said she’d look up the rest.”

Ruth marveled aloud, “Imagine, a man my father’s age believing I was too old to sleep with. She said that when Dr. Holcombe ‘disengaged’—her word—from a student, they didn’t leave Stanislaus, except when they graduated. They all seemed happy to remain, somehow simply taking it as part of their educational experience. Maybe they even enjoyed themselves, knowing they had made the great man shine again, who knows?”

Savich said slowly, “It would seem Dr. Holcombe had very good judgment about whom to pick, an excellent talent for self-preservation. It must also have helped over the years that as director of Stanislaus, he had great influence over their professional futures. I’m surprised other people in the school didn’t know about Dr. Holcombe’s predilections, then certainly there would be gossip, some bad feeling from students who couldn’t compete, maybe even a bit of huff from colleagues who found his behavior inappropriate.”

Ruth said, “Helen told us she actually thought no one except the girls involved over the years knew about it. She certainly never heard any rumors.”

Savich shook his head. “That’s hard to believe. Usually if more than two people know about something illicit, particularly something as juicy as this, it starts coming back to them in embarrassing detail.”

“Helen told us she herself had helped him quite a bit to protect his privacy,” Ruth said. “Translate that to ‘

helped him keep his dirty little secret.’”

“He lives alone,” Dix said. “And I know he’s owned a place outside of town for many years, converted it into a studio. He may have spent time with them there. And another thing: If Chappy were aware of this, every single soul within a hundred miles would know about it. And the way Chappy would tell it, his brother wouldn’t have had a chance of staying on at Stanislaus. Maybe some of the students know, some of the professors, but no one outside Stanislaus.”

“He must be the smoothest talker around,” Sherlock said. “I hope all those other girls are all right.”

“Yes,” Dix said, “we wondered that, too. We already located two of them, and they’re fine. As soon as we get the rest of the list, we’ll track them all down.”

Ruth said, “We asked Helen not to speak to anyone about our conversation, particularly Dr. Holcombe. We asked her for Dr. Holcombe’s schedule on Friday, and when she last saw Erin. At that point her eyes nearly bugged out of her head—she realized that we might be thinking he killed Erin Bushnell. She started babbling, saying over and over he didn’t have that kind of illness. Dear Dr. Holcombe wouldn’t even bang down hard on a piano key, there was no way he’d hurt anyone, particularly a Stanislaus student. She was sure of that, only told us all this because she didn’t want to lie to the police, and it was probably better for Dr. Holcombe that it come out right away. She knew he didn’t tell us when we talked to him on Monday, and assumed he hadn’t even thought of it because he was so distraught. Then she went on with this sappy spiel about how Dr. Holcombe’s precious students play all over the world, and inspire beauty and understanding, maybe even world peace.”

Sherlock said, “Is she nuts?”

Dix said, “I think she’s got a big blind spot when it comes to Uncle Gordon. She said he hasn’t eaten since he found out about Erin, stopped composing and playing his instruments, is silent, unable to deal with the world or his job. She felt terrible for him. As to what he did on Friday, Helen claimed he was closeted in student meetings all afternoon and he never left the campus. Then she gave us a look of triumph because she’d given him an alibi. Is she telling the truth?” Dix shrugged.

“What did Dr. Holcombe say when you asked him about his whereabouts?” Sherlock asked.

“We haven’t talked to the man today,” Dix said. “Helen had convinced him to attend a rehearsal he had scheduled. We’ll talk to him, and Helen again, in the morning.” Dix turned to Ruth and said suddenly, “

Ruth, how are you feeling? Do you have a headache?”

She blinked at him, smiled. “A tad of pounding behind my left ear. It’s nothing, Dix.”

“Let me get you some aspirin. Better to cut it off before it digs in.” He walked quickly from the living room.

The phone rang, but only once. Dix must have grabbed it. Savich looked at Ruth, an eyebrow raised. To his surprise, Special Agent Ruth Warnecki, tough, seasoned, and sharp as a tack, blushed. Life was sometimes unutterably cool, Sherlock thought as she took Dillon’s hand and rose. “It’s getting late and we’re both pretty tired. We can get an early start in the morning.”

Dix came back into the room, handed Ruth two aspirin and a glass of water, and stood over her while she swallowed them. Then he turned to Savich and Sherlock. “You’ll want to hear this before you go. I just this minute got a call from a Detective Morales in the Richmond PD. He told me that two known lowlifes didn’t turn up where they were supposed to. No one’s heard a thing from them. One of them, Jackie Slater, is wanted on suspicion of auto theft. The other one, Tommy Dempsey, has a girlfriend who

’s been badgering the police since Sunday morning, claiming he’s missing, that someone must have hurt him.

“Detective Morales heard what happened here Saturday night—about the stolen Tacoma exploding, and the two guys who were killed, and wondered if it could be them. My deputies faxed him the descriptions and a picture of a ring one of the men was wearing, and the girlfriend identified it. It was Tommy Dempsey.”

Savich said, “Detective Morales said they were lowlifes? Does that mean incompetent, or cheap to acquire?”

“Slater got out of the Red Onion State Prison four months ago, was probably trying to build up his business again. Dempsey was a wannabe. They think he might have been involved in some local burglaries, but can’t be sure.”

Ruth asked, “What was Slater in for?”

“Felony assault on a police officer and resisting arrest on a grand theft auto charge. About ten years ago he was arrested for felony homicide in the course of a robbery, but the evidence wasn’t there and they had to drop the charges. So Detective Morales thought Slater was fully capable of planning what happened here and drafting Dempsey to help him. Both were violent and reckless. I asked him to see if he could find out who they worked for recently.

“When I told him they tried to kill an FBI agent, he nearly fell off his chair. He told me, ‘I never thought the two of them were that stupid.’”

Ruth rubbed her hands together. “Hurray for Detective Morales. I’m putting him on my Christmas card list.”

Savich said, “Our local field office can give Detective Morales all the help he needs, Dix. They can start at the prison, talk to Dempsey’s girlfriend, track down their associates.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that. It would save us having to drive over to Richmond ourselves.”

“When would you like us to be here in the morning?”

Dix said, “The boys leave pretty early, so breakfast will be on by dawn. You’re welcome to join us.”

“That was pretty good, Dix,” Ruth said. “Okay, guys, anytime after eight. I’m making scrambled eggs.”

“Oh, I forgot, Dix,” Sherlock said. “You mentioned Dr. Holcombe has a daughter?”

“Yes, her name’s Marian Gillespie, lives in a little bungalow in the Meadow Lake section, teaches music theory and clarinet at Stanislaus. Christie always liked her, said she marches to a different drummer. Yes, you’re right. We should talk to her tomorrow, once we’re done with my uncle.”

Savich asked thoughtfully, “Have you ever noticed anything off between father and daughter, Dix?”

“No,” Dix replied. “Not that I remember.”

DIX’S PHONE RANG a little before six-thirty Thursday morning. He jerked up in bed, afraid it was something bad.

It was. Helen Rafferty had been found dead by her running partner and brother, Dave Rafferty.

CHAPTER 22

WOLF RIDGE ROAD MAESTRO,

VIRGINIA EARLY THURSDAY MORNING

DIX COULDN’T SEEM to stop muttering to himself. He felt like an idiot for not seeing that he’d placed Helen Rafferty in danger. Was she dead because someone knew that she’d spoken to them or was afraid of what she knew?

He and Ruth arrived five minutes after Savich and Sherlock had streaked in, Savich at the wheel of his Porsche. They found Dr. Himple and the Loudoun County forensic team in the bedroom where her brother had found her.

After Dix and Ruth spoke to Dr. Himple, they joined Dave Rafferty in the kitchen with Savich and Sherlock, drinking a cup of black coffee. He was somewhere in his late forties, with a runner’s lean build and thinning light brown hair. His face was covered with stubble since he hadn’t yet shaved. He was badly shaken.

To help ground him, Savich asked, “Mr. Rafferty, what do you do for a living?”

“What? Oh, I teach science at John T. Tucker High School in Mount Bluff. It’s maybe twelve miles from Maestro.”

“Why were you here so early?”

Dave Rafferty motioned to his sweats and running shoes. “Helen and I run three days a week. She didn’t answer the door when I rang at six. I really didn’t think anything about it—you know, she overslept, maybe she was tired. Oh Jesus, I was calling out for her to get her butt out of bed, come on, time’s a-passing, but she couldn’t hear me, couldn’t talk. This is going to bury Mom. She and Helen were so close.”

He swallowed, drank some coffee, and took a deep breath. Sherlock laid her hand on his shoulder, and he raised his head. “When I saw her in bed, I still thought she was sleeping, you know? ‘Hey, lazy bones,

’ I yelled out, ‘you’re done sleeping, Nell. Come on, move your butt.’ But she didn’t move. She was lying on her back, the covers to her waist. She was wearing that blue flannel nightgown. Her eyes were open and she was staring up at me. I tried to wake her, but of course she didn’t move, her eyes just kept staring. Then I saw the marks on her neck. It’s crazy. She never hurt a soul.” He shuddered, dropped his head to his folded arms and sobbed. “She’s dead, dammit, my sister is dead.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rafferty. We’ll find out who did this.” Savich knew she’d take care of things. He, Dix, and Ruth left the kitchen.

Dix was muttering again under his breath. “I’m dumb as that fence post on Moose Hollow Hill. It’s my fault, no one else’s, mine.”

Savich said matter-of-factly, “None of us realized Helen Rafferty was in any danger. You told her not to talk to anyone. You think someone overheard you and Ruth with her in the employee lounge?”

“I’ve got to say it out loud,” Dix said. “Helen might have called Gordon to warn him about what she told us.”

Savich said, “And maybe about what she didn’t tell you. It’s certainly possible. And it’s certainly true both of them—Erin and Helen—had been intimate with Dr. Holcombe. I’d say that puts him squarely at the top of our list.”

“If he’s not at Stanislaus this morning, we’ll have to find him and bring him in,” Dix said. “Now we can’t break Helen’s alibi for him on Friday.”

He saw Sherlock speaking with Dr. Himple. She nodded, shook his hand, and walked over to them. “

The doctor says she was strangled. There are no defensive wounds because whoever killed her probably crept up on her while she was asleep, garroted her, and it was over quickly. I’ll bet she called Dr. Holcombe, Dix. Out of love or loyalty?”

Savich nodded. “That’s what we were saying. We need to trace her movements, Dix, after you left her yesterday. You got a couple of good people to put on this?”

Dix nodded. “When we saw her at Stanislaus, Uncle Gordon wasn’t there, as I told you. He was over in Gainsborough Hall, the big performing auditorium, listening to some pieces to be played at the concert next month. We’ll find out who saw her before she left the campus. We can check her phone records—

maybe she called him at the auditorium.”

Ruth said, “Maybe Helen called someone else, maybe she couldn’t remember all the names and she knew of someone else who knew, or she called one of the women.”

Dix pulled out his cell and punched in his office. He said to his dispatcher, “Amalee, get Penny, Emory, and Claus in. I’ll meet them at the office in twenty minutes.” He paused for a moment, listening, then flipped his phone shut, and pocketed it. “Amalee already knew,” he said. He shook his head. “Of course she knew.” He scuffed the toe of his boot against the living room rug and cursed under his breath. They searched Helen Rafferty’s small three-bedroom house thoroughly. There wasn’t much to see because she’d simplified her life some time ago, according to her brother, preferring to have few possessions. But she loved photos. They were everywhere, on every surface. Mostly family. They did find some five-year-old notes Dr. Holcombe had written to her in a little box with a ribbon tied around it in her underwear drawer. Not hot and heavy love notes, but things like Dinner tonight, at your place? or Meet me at my house at six o’clock.

It was all incredibly sad, Ruth thought.

Helen Rafferty’s empty desk at Stanislaus was pristine, not a loose paper anywhere. Her computer screen looked polished. Since Dr. Holcombe wasn’t there, they took the time to go through all her desk drawers, but found nothing of interest. Soon everyone on campus would want to know what had happened. Everyone would be upset and confused—first Erin Bushnell, now the director’s personal assistant. Soon, Dix thought, everyone would be scared.

Dix was starting up the Range Rover when his cell phone rang. He hung up a moment later. “That was Chappy. He said Twister is at Tara, drinking his Kona coffee, eating Mrs. Goss’s scones, and is of no use to anyone at all. He said Twister told him about Helen being strangled, and now Twister is crying and sniffling. Chappy sounded disgusted.”

The sun wasn’t shining. The sky was steel-gray, heavy snow-bloated clouds dotting the horizon, and it seemed as cold as the South Dakota plains Dix had visited years ago with Christie and the boys. Dix kept to the back roads and pushed the Range Rover well beyond the speed limit. Seeing Ruth hug herself, he turned the heat on high. “Snow,” he said to no one in particular. “Probably by afternoon.”

They pulled into Tara’s long drive twelve minutes later. “I wonder where my law enforcement officers are,” Dix said. “I was over the limit the whole way. Usually if there’s someone speeding, they know it.”

“You’re the sheriff,” Ruth told him. “They gonna pull you over? I don’t think so. When was the last time one of your deputies came after you for speeding?”

“Point made.”

As Dix pulled the Range Rover to a stop, he said, “If you guys will bear with me, I want to hold off asking my uncle about his affairs with Erin and the others in front of Chappy. He’d probably howl with laughter, say he thought Twister was impotent or something, and go on forever. We really can’t interrogate him here. I want to confront him about Erin and Helen when he’s away from his brother.”

“He’s your uncle, and it’s your investigation, Dix,” Savich said. “Your call.”

Chappy answered the doorbell again, wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater, black wool slacks, and loafers.

“Is Bertram still sick?” Dix asked him.

“Yeah, he’s still sniffling around her house, his sister told me, complaining he hurts all over when he gets out of bed. Not a good patient, is Bertram. It’s about time you got here, Dix. I know Twister killed Helen. Come in and handcuff this pathetic wuss, get him out of here, he’s making me sick. I see you’re still towing the Feds around.” He stepped back, waved them all in.

Gordon Holcombe was standing by the fireplace, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked like an Italian fashion plate in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a perfectly knotted pale blue tie. He looked sad and also somehow stoic, a strange combination, Ruth thought. Was he really sorry Helen was dead? Or relieved?

Gordon didn’t say a word when they walked into the living room, and merely stood watching them. Dix said, “Gordon, I’m very sorry about Helen.”

“Why are you telling him you’re sorry?” Chappy bellowed, waving his fist in his brother’s direction. “This mewling little psychopath probably killed her. I already told you he did. Go on. Ask him!”

Ruth asked, “Did you kill Helen Rafferty, Dr. Holcombe?”

Gordon sighed, set his coffee cup on the mantel. “No, Agent Warnecki, I most certainly did not. I was very fond of Helen. I’ve known her since I first came to Stanislaus. She was a remarkable woman. I don’

t know who killed her.” Suddenly, he looked spiteful. “Why don’t you ask Chappy while you’re at it? He

’s the loose cannon around here. How do you think he got so rich? He’s stepped over some bodies. Ask him!”

“Ha! That was weak, Twister, real weak. As if I’d kill your former mistress. The good Lord knows you’

re the only one with a motive, not me. Er, what was your motive?”

Dix said, “How did you know she was dead, Gordon?”

“I called Helen because I wanted to ask her about some details concerning Erin Bushnell’s memorial service. I got her answering machine, and I thought that was strange because everyone knows Helen is always at her desk by seven-thirty, so I called the reception desk in Blankenship and asked to speak to her. Mary said she hadn’t seen her. When I called her home, her brother answered. He was crying, poor man. He told me she was dead, that she’d been murdered, said you guys had just left.

“I was upset, bewildered. I didn’t know what to do so I came here.” He shot his brother a vicious look.

“Am I an idiot or what? No sympathy from Charles Manson here, the cold-blooded old bloodsucker.”

Savich stepped right in. “When did you last see Helen, Dr. Holcombe?”

“Yesterday afternoon, for only a moment after I got back from Gainsborough Hall. I was upset because they’d had to replace Erin with another student who simply isn’t in her league. Usually Helen would stay if I did, but this time she didn’t. She left, barely spoke to me at all. Naturally, I thought she was troubled over Erin’s murder.

“I remember watching her walk to where her Toyota was parked, thinking she’d gained a little weight. I watched her get in and drive away.” His voice broke. “I never saw her again.”

Chappy made a rude noise. “That was real affecting, Twister, gloomed my innards right up.”

Mercifully, Mrs. Goss appeared in the doorway carrying a large silver tray. Sherlock found herself staring at the lovely Georgian silver service, so highly polished she could see her face in the surface. When Mrs. Goss left, she turned to Chappy, who looked as satisfied as could be, sprawled in his chair, his long legs crossed. “Why did you say your brother was crying, Mr. Holcombe? I don’t see a single tearstain.”

Chappy only shrugged. “Because he was crying before you showed up, croc tears. Twister never cries about anything in his useless life unless it’s over something he wanted and didn’t get.”

“Well, I didn’t want Helen dead,” Gordon said, his voice flat and too calm. “And well you know it, Chappy. You’re trying to cause trouble for me, nothing new in that, but this isn’t a joke. You little sadist, Helen’s dead, Erin’s dead. Even Walt’s dead. Someone tried to kill Special Agent Warnecki. Don’t you understand, you old geezer—everything’s gone to hell!” His voice had risen steadily until he was shouting. Chappy merely grinned at him.

Ruth asked, “Dr. Holcombe, where were you last Friday afternoon?”

“What? What is this? Erin—You think I had something to do with her murder, too? God almighty, this can’t be happening.”

“What were you doing Friday afternoon?” Savich repeated.

Gordon waved his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t remember—Wait, wait. I was stuck counseling a procession of idiot students all afternoon. They were driving me wild.”

Gordon turned on Dix. “I didn’t kill anyone! You’re the bloody sheriff. Who is going to be next? What are you doing to catch the monster who’s doing these things? I’ll tell you, it’s someone who hates me, who wants to destroy me and Stanislaus.”

Ruth asked, “Did Helen call you last night, Dr. Holcombe?”

“Helen call me? Why, no, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, I considered calling her, but I didn’t, more’s the pity.”

“Why did you think to call her?”

Gordon shrugged. “I was depressed. I suppose I wanted her to cheer me up, but I didn’t call. I don’t remember why I didn’t.”

Dix waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know Jackie Slater, Gordon?”

“Jackie Slater? No, I don’t. Why should I? Who is he?”

“How about Tommy Dempsey?”

“No, dammit. I don’t recognize either name. Why are you asking me?”

“They’re very likely the men who tried to murder Special Agent Warnecki Saturday night.”

“Wait, Dempsey—that name sounds familiar…”

“Jack Dempsey was a famous boxer, you ignoramus.”

“Shut up, Chappy. Why are you asking me these idiot questions? For God’s sake, Dix, get out there and do your job!”

Savich said, his voice suddenly hard as nails, his face as hard as his voice, “Tell us where you were last night, Dr. Holcombe.”

Gordon stopped in his tracks at that voice. He looked at Savich, turning even paler. “You want me to give you an—alibi? Me? That’s ridiculous, I—I—Very well, I’m sorry, it’s just—Okay, I understand, this is standard procedure and I did know her very well. I had dinner with my daughter, Marian Gillespie, at her house. We dined alone, I stayed until around nine o’clock, played the piano while she tried to sight-read a clarinet solo composed by George Wooten, a musician from Indiana who sent it to her yesterday. She got through it before I pulled out my fingernails. It was perfectly dreadful.”

“Marian plays like a dream,” Chappy said. “Twister here is a snotty perfectionist. No one can do anything well enough to suit him.”

“The music was dreadful, you fool, not Marian’s playing. Wooten believes anything dissonant means genius—you know, like those modern artists who smear anything at all on a canvas. Before you croon to me about being a perfectionist, Chappy, look how you treat Tony, who’s doing so well running your bank.”

Sherlock cut him off. “What did you do then, Dr. Holcombe?” She pointedly ignored Chappy, looking intently at Gordon.

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. I went home, that’s what people usually do when they’re ready for bed. They go home. Like I said, I was depressed and angry because some maniac murdered Erin. I kept thinking of her, couldn’t get her out of my mind. It really hit me that I’d never see her again, and never hear her play again.”

Savich’s voice sharpened even more. “Please tell us what time you got home and what you did.”

“Okay. All right. I got home at around nine-thirty. I looked through my mail since I didn’t have time to do it before I went over to Marian’s. I watched the news on TV, drank a scotch, went up to bed. I tried not to think about Erin. I had trouble sleeping so I watched a bit more TV, but I couldn’t get Erin out of my mind. And now Helen is dead, too.”

“Can anyone verify this, Gordon?” Dix asked.

“No, I live alone, as you well know. The help isn’t waltzing in and out after five o’clock in the afternoon.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by Ruth as she looked from one brother to the other. “The two of you look remarkably alike. Bear with me, but I’m new here, and I’ve never seen two brothers treat each other the way you do. Why, Chappy, are you accusing your brother of murder? Can you explain this to me?”

Chappy laughed, clutching his hands over his belly. “Come on, Agent Ruth, look at that pompous, affected academician. Can you blame me? The pathetic liar’s never done a decent thing in his life, except play the fiddle.” He hiccupped, slapped his hand over his mouth, and hiccupped again. Gordon said flatly, “Please disregard that jealous baboon, Agent. After our parents died, he decided he’

d be my daddy, and did he ever do a job of it, until I could get away from him. The only thing that means anything to him is money.” He jerked his head in his brother’s direction. “I plan to bury you in a casket filled with one-dollar bills, Chappy, let them keep you company.”

“Now, make that thousand-dollar bills and you might have something, you cheap bastard,” Chappy said, kicking the toe of his loafer toward his brother.

Ruth cleared her throat. “Yet you came here, Dr. Holcombe, when you didn’t know what else to do.”

“Even though I’ve had to put up with this overbearing jackass all my life, the fact is, I like his coffee.” He saluted his brother with his coffee cup.

CHAPTER 23

MARIAN GILLESPIE DIDN’T answer the knock on her door, a young man did. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with STANISLAUS across the front.

“Yeah? Who are you?”

Dix smiled as he stepped forward, pushing him back into the house. “I’m Sheriff Noble. Who are you?”

“Hey—”

“Who are you?”

“Sam Moraga.”

“This is Professor Marian Gillespie’s house. What are you doing here?”

“Marian is giving me private tutoring,” the young man said, and yawned so wide his jaw cracked.

“In what?”

“I play the clarinet, among other instruments. I had to come over late last night because Dr. Holcombe—

he’s her father—was here and she couldn’t get rid of him before nine o’clock.”

“You saw Dr. Holcombe leave?”

“Yeah, that’s right. He drives this stuck-up silver Mercedes, thinks he’s better than all the peasants. Thing is, though, he’s got the talent to pull it off.”

“Where is Dr. Gillespie?” Dix asked him.

“She left a little while ago, said she had to e-mail this composer who sent her some clarinet music. She thought it was great. She’s at her office at school.”

Dix continued, “You must be the only sentient human being in the area who doesn’t know. Helen Rafferty was murdered last night.”

Sam Moraga nearly fell over. Dix grabbed his arm. “You knew her, I gather.”

“Oh man, sure I knew Ms. Rafferty. Man, everyone is dying. I can’t believe this. She was nice, wouldn’t hurt anyone, always great with Marian’s dad—Murdered? She was like a mother to Marian, to all the students. Who killed her?”

“We’re working on it,” Dix said. “I gather you and Dr. Gillespie are sleeping together?”

Sam Moraga nodded absently. “Helen is dead. I can’t get my brain around that. It’s horrible. First Erin, and now Helen. What’s happening, Sheriff?”

“Come into the living room.”

They spoke with Sam Moraga for another thirty minutes. He was nervous about the FBI agents, stammering the answers to their questions. Sherlock thought he might be spooked about having some marijuana in the house. They left him at the kitchen table, a mug of cold coffee between his beautifully shaped hands.

Dix and Ruth walked toward the Range Rover ahead of Savich and Sherlock, who’d slowed to confer.

“Sam was frightened about you Feds, and he probably thought I was a joke,” Dix said. “You guys got to see me bumbling around.”

“Dix, you realized as well as I did that Sam’s not a player in this. Whoever’s doing this is smart, and so far he’s playing us like a pro.”

He called out to Savich and Sherlock, “Let’s go track down Dr. Gillespie.” Suddenly he smiled at Ruth. “

Hey, wanna go skating when this is over? Honeyluck Pond’s been frozen for the past two weeks.”

“Skating? Well, sure, I’d like that. I haven’t skated in years but I used to be pretty good.”

They ran Marian Gillespie to earth in the faculty lounge on the second floor of Blankenship Hall. She was alone in the plush, dark wood–paneled room, sipping from a mug as she stood at one of the multipaned windows, staring at the snow-covered hills in the distance. It was easy for Ruth to see she was her father’

s daughter and Chappy’s niece. She was tall, slender, dressed in a beautifully cut dark blue suit, stiletto boots on her long, narrow feet. She had thick, light hair and dark eyes, like Tony’s.

“Marian,” Dix said to her from the doorway.

Her head came up fast, a long hank of hair falling forward. “Dix! Oh goodness, you’re here about Helen, aren’t you? Oh God, what’s happening?” She set her mug on a table and ran to him, threw her arms around him. “I simply can’t believe it; no one would want to hurt Helen. She was almost like a mother to me, always so sweet, listened to all my troubles. She wrote me when I was at Juilliard, did you know that?”

“Yes, Christie told me how close you two were. We need to talk, Marian.” Dix introduced the three FBI agents.

She motioned them to join her. Once seated, Marian said, “I heard about those men trying to kill you, Agent Warnecki. Then there was poor Erin Bushnell and poor old Walt McGuffey. Now Helen. Who’s responsible, Dix? Who is killing our friends, ruining everything we’ve worked for?”

“We’re close to finding that out, Marian, but we need your help.”

Savich said, “We spoke with Sam Moraga at your house earlier.”

She didn’t look embarrassed, not even much interested, only shrugged. “Well, Sam’s a talented boy who has a brilliant future, if he can keep himself focused on what’s important. We’ll see. He learns quickly, I’ll say that for him. And he’s eager.”

No one was about to touch that morass of double entendres, and Savich wondered if she knew about her father’s affairs with students. Was she throwing this back at him?

Sherlock said, “We’re very sorry about this, Professor Gillespie. We spoke to your father as well. He was over at Tara with Chappy.”

“So my father knew and didn’t bother to call me. That’s par for the course. I’m not surprised he was with Uncle Chappy. I’ll bet they were fighting, right?”

Sherlock said, “It seems to be the only way they communicate.”

She shrugged again. “It’s been that way forever. I never pay attention to their dramatics anymore. Sometimes the yelling breaks through, but usually not.”

Savich brought her attention back to him. “Dr. Gillespie, did you know that your father and Helen Rafferty were lovers at one time?”

“Sure, she told me. It was no big secret. I would have thought you knew, Dix. I’m sure Christie did. Now, you’re not thinking Dad had anything to do with this, are you?”

Dix held silent, continued to look at her.

Marian flipped her hand. “Listen, that’s nuts. Dad needed Helen, probably more than any other human being in the world. He didn’t love her, like sexually, but he needed her. She used to play the piano while I played my clarinet. She never tried to drown me out like some pianists do, she—”

Dix patted her hand. “I know it’s hard, but let’s try to stay on track, okay? Please tell me what you know about it.”

“All right, all right. Dad and Helen. When Dad broke it off, Helen nearly went round the bend. I was really mad at him. I called him on it, told him she was already like a mother to me so why didn’t he just make it official? I told him he was being cruel to her, and selfish.” She sucked in a big breath, gathered her control together. “Do you know what he did? He laughed, actually laughed. He was tired of her as a lover, told me her talents were in administration, not in bed. When I asked him what his point was since he wasn’t such a young rooster anymore himself, he walked out of the room. Later, after I apologized—

yeah, I know, still trying to please Daddy—well, he told me she was too clingy, and just plain too ordinary, that was the word he used.

“I tried to help Helen get through it, I really did, but you know what? Whenever I told her what I thought of his behavior, she defended him. Can you believe that? She actually defended him!”

No one said a word. Marian drew a deep breath. “She left her job for about six months, but didn’t tell anyone at Stanislaus why. I thought, good, Helen’s ready to move on, ready to leave my father behind her, but you know what happened? He got to her, convinced her to come back as his personal assistant. I would have fed him his balls, but Helen bowed her head, let him walk all over her, and went back.”

Marian shook her head and drank more tea. “She told me she still loved and admired him, that his genius set him apart, made up for everything else, and he still needed her. Can you believe that?” She paused and looked at each of them. “You want to know what the sad thing is? I’m thirty-eight years old and even I still want him to notice me, tell me he admires me, tell me how talented I am. Am I pathetic, or what?”

Ruth looked puzzled. “It is a little hard to understand. Why, if you feel as you do about him, do you want to work for your father, and continue to live in the same small town?”

Professor Marian Gillespie didn’t act defensive. What she did was give them all a big smile. “I told you, Agent Warnecki, I’m pathetic. To balance it all out, there’s a love pool of nice young men here.”

“What became of your mother, Professor?” Sherlock asked, steering the subject back.

“Please, call me Marian.”

Sherlock nodded.

“My mother? Oh, Dad divorced her when I was a baby. After that, she left and I never heard from her again. From then on it was only Dad and me.”

“Do you know where she lives?” Dix asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Uncle Chappy knows, but I wouldn’t count on him to tell you anything close to the truth. All I remember is Uncle Chappy didn’t like my mother. I guess my dad didn’t either, since he divorced her.”

Savich said abruptly, “Did you know your father was sleeping with Erin Bushnell?”

She was shocked and clearly appalled. She was either a remarkable actress or this really was news to her. “That’s a stupid lie.” She jumped to her feet, her palms flat on the table. “Why would you say such a thing? It’s ridiculous. Sure he slept with Helen, but she was closer to his age. A student? Erin Bushnell?

No way.”

Savich said, “It’s true, Marian. Ginger Stanford knew about it, and so did Helen Rafferty.”

“Helen told you that? Are you sure, Dix? Erin was much younger than I am, for goodness sake. She’s Sam’s age. No, I can’t accept that, I simply can’t.”

“You’re going to have to accept it,” Dix said. “Helen told us everything. What I find interesting is that you knew all about your father’s affair with Helen Rafferty, but you didn’t know about Erin Bushnell.”

Marian slowly shook her head. “Not a clue. On the other hand, I doubt my dad knows about Sam Moraga. But for heaven’s sake, he’s my father!”

Dix said, “Sam Moraga was really upset about Helen’s murder, more so than I thought a student would be about the death of an administrative assistant. Why?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he thought of her as his mother, too, I don’t know. We never spoke about her. Actually, it was Helen who introduced Sam to me. He was in one of my music theory classes, but I hadn’

t really paid much attention to him. Then at one of those interminable professor and student get-togethers my father insists on throwing every couple of months, she introduced us.”

“Does anyone know about Sam?”

She shook her head at Dix, worried at a fingernail. “We’re discreet.” She finished her tea. “If Sam hadn’t been at my house, you wouldn’t have known I was anything but the celibate everyone believes me to be. There were a couple of others before Sam, both of them out in the world now. My father called me a shriveled-up prude last year. I remember I’d gotten only two hours’ sleep the night before, so I simply laughed at him. He couldn’t understand that laugh and I didn’t enlighten him.” Her voice turned bitter and low. “Maybe I should have told him. It looks like we could have compared notes. We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

Dix saw the tears in her eyes, and waited for her to recover. He’d known her since he and Christie got married, and yet…He shook his head. Who ever really knew what another person was about?

Marian looked at the rest of them, her lips twisted at their carefully expressionless faces. “Were there others? Others besides Erin Bushnell?”

Dix said, “You need to talk to your father about that, Marian. We’re going over to see him now. If you think of anything else, give me a call right away. I’ve got the same cell number.”

“Is there some sort of serial killer on the loose here, Dix?”

“What we’re thinking is that whoever tried to kill Ruth probably killed Erin Bushnell, and that opened Pandora’s box. He may be trying to do damage control.”

“But why Helen? Does that make any sense to you?”

Dix said, “Tying it together will be the key to all of this.”

Marian walked to the window, turned, and looked back at them. “So much pain to bear now. I suppose I’ll have to deal with Sam’s pain, too. How can he possibly have loved her as much as I did? I wonder, Dix. Do you think my father cared at all?”

“Yes, Marian. I think he did.”

CHAPTER 24

DIX CALLED THE deputy assigned to follow Gordon Holcombe when he left Tara.

“Where is he, B.B.?”

“Weirdest thing, Sheriff. When Dr. Holcombe left Tara, I thought he was going to Stanislaus, then he seemed to change his mind. He drove straight out to the Coon Hollow Bar. He’s been in there nearly two hours. You told me I shouldn’t try to keep out of sight and I didn’t. He knew I was following him, and it didn’t seem to bother him. Right now I’m tucked in a mess of pine trees across the street.”

Dix told him to stay put, they’d be there shortly. He punched off his cell. “Gordon calls this place his sanctuary. It’s a pre–World War Two relic, all weathered wood, dark glass in the windows, and a rutted parking lot in front.”

Coon Hollow Bar was only a mile or so out of Maestro.

“It looks like a treat,” Sherlock said, admiring the old dark charm of the place. “A good number of customers,” she added, waving at four other cars in the parking lot. There was no sunlight inside Coon Hollow. It smelled of beer and salty pretzels and cigarettes. There was one glowing sign for Bud Light above the bathroom door on the far wall. Gordon Holcombe was bellied up at the bar, head down, shoulders hunched. There were maybe six other folks at the bar, either talking in low voices or as silent as Gordon.

Gordon glanced up when the front door opened and sunlight poured in. He watched the four of them approach. Fact is, Ruth thought, he didn’t look the least bit interested in anything except the drink he was sloshing around in his glass.

“Gordon,” Dix said.

Gordon glanced at Dix briefly before looking back down. “Since you’re all cops, I doubt you know what this is.” He held up the glass, swirled the scotch around. “This is The Macallan, Highland scotch whiskey, eighteen years old. It’s considered the Rolls-Royce of single malts. Our barkeep’s father orders it special for me. My last bottle is low so I can’t offer you any. Dix, if you find out who murdered Helen, I’ll buy you a bottle of The Macallan for Christmas. Any of you want a beer?”

“No, Gordon.”

“Then perhaps, Dix, you can tell me why you’ve got B.B. following me? He’s sitting in his cruiser right across the street. Afraid I was going to take off since I’m so damned guilty?”

Dix said, “Tell us what Helen said to you when she called you last night.”

“Helen called me often.”

“Last night, Gordon, or do you want me to get a warrant for the phone records?”

Ruth thought she saw Gordon flinch, and then he stared down into his glass again and swished the scotch around, watching it film the sides of the glass.

“All right, so she called me. I didn’t tell you in front of Chappy. He would have laughed his head off while promising to visit me in jail. He’d also volunteer to stick me with a lethal injection.”

“Helen’s call, Gordon.”

He suddenly looked old, and somehow smaller. He sighed so deeply it made him cough. “It was only a short phone call, Dix, nothing more. God in Heaven, I can’t believe she’s gone. There’s some maniac out there, some crazy man who hates me, who hates Stanislaus, who wants to destroy everything.”

Ruth said, “How very odd, Dr. Holcombe. You believe it’s all about you, and no one else. Don’t you think that’s a rather narrow view? After all, you’re sitting here drinking your fine single malt scotch, quite alive, while Erin Bushnell, Walt McGuffey, and Helen Rafferty are dead.”

Dr. Holcombe looked confused for a moment, then said, “Of course I care, dammit. I didn’t mean—Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”

Savich said, “No, thank you, Dr. Holcombe. Why don’t we all go over to that booth?”

There were half a dozen ancient booths lining two sides of the room. The vinyl was slippery and cold, the cracks so large one could easily lose a wallet. Ruth allowed Dr. Holcombe to scoot in first, then essentially locked him in by sitting next to him on the outside. He didn’t appear to notice.

“It’s going to start snowing soon,” he said into his glass. “I’m wondering when I leave here with all this scotch in me whether I’ll be able to get back to Stanislaus. You know the media are there, Dix. Soon our donors will be on the line, asking to talk to me. What am I going to tell them? That their director is a murder suspect? I can’t even imagine Helen being gone, much less dead.” He raised pain-glazed eyes to Dix’s face. “She’s always been there for me, my guardian angel. After I left Tara, I was going to my office, but I couldn’t stand the thought of it. Helen wasn’t there, you see. You’ve got to believe me, I didn’t kill her.” He lowered his forehead to the table.

Savich went to the bar and asked for four coffees and a cup of tea.

“If that’s true, Gordon, you’d best start convincing me you didn’t. Tell us about Helen’s phone call.”

“I want another drink first.”

When Savich came back to the booth, he heard Dix say, “No more, Gordon. You need to stop with that stuff. Here’s Agent Savich with some coffee.”

Savich handed him a cup. Gordon stared at it, gave a little shudder. He picked up his scotch glass, tipped it, but it was empty.

“Talk to me, Gordon. Don’t even consider lying, or I’ll give Chappy a free pass to have a field day.”

“All right. Helen was whispering on the phone—it was absurd, really, her whispering like that. She told me she was worried for me, that I had to be careful. She told me you and Agent Warnecki and the other two FBI agents were snooping around, asking her about our affair.”

No one spoke: They simply waited. Gordon sipped at his coffee, unaware of what he was doing. Ruth finally said, “This is a nice quiet place, Dr. Holcombe. I can see how you could view it as a sort of sanctuary, a place where you can be by yourself, away from students and colleagues. Do you always come here alone?”

“Sure, always alone, Agent Warnecki.”

Dix asked him, “What else did Helen tell you, other than to be careful and that we’re snooping around?”

“She said you told her that you knew about my relationship with Erin and some of the other students, that she’d already given you some names but you wanted all of them. She said she didn’t have a choice but to help you. She started crying, begging for my forgiveness.”

There was only the soft sound of Dr. Holcombe’s palms rubbing the sides of his scotch glass.

“That’s a pretty sturdy motive, Gordon,” Dix told him. “Your ex-lover spilled the beans, starting a scandal that might get you fired from your prestigious job, and giving parents an excellent reason to yank their kids out of Stanislaus. I could arrest you right this minute.”

Gordon nearly knocked over his glass. He grabbed it, righted it. His breath was coming hard and fast. “I didn’t do it, Dix, I swear to you. I couldn’t kill Helen. I loved her, in my way.”

“What is your way, sir?” Ruth asked.

“She was my anchor. She knew people, understood them in ways I couldn’t begin to; she gave me comfort and advice. I’ll never forget how I was interested in this viola student, and Helen told me she wasn’t stable, that she’d cause scenes and probably hurt me, so I stayed away from her. A couple of months later, she accused a boy from town of rape.”

“I remember that,” Dix said. “Kenny Pollard, but he had a rock-solid alibi. Seems clear to me now, Gordon, that Helen actually helped you seduce your own students.”

He shook his head back and forth, obviously shaken.

“When you realized she had told us about you, you killed Helen for revenge, didn’t you? That, and you couldn’t stand the world knowing you’re a philandering old fool.” Savich’s voice was so hard, so brutal that Gordon froze like a deer in headlights. Savich sat forward, grabbed Gordon’s wrist and squeezed. “

You will tell me the truth, you perverted old man. Why did you kill Erin Bushnell? Did she of all the music students see through you? Did she threaten to tell the world what you are, want to see you humiliated and run off campus, stripped of your power and prestige?”

Suddenly, the man who’d hunched over his drink, desperate and pleading, was gone. In his place was Dr. Gordon Holcombe, director of Stanislaus, back in all his dignity, his patrician face set in arrogant lines again. He looked at each of them in turn with disdain and a superior’s patience. “I will tell you the truth about Erin. I first became involved with her on Halloween when she showed up at my house to trick-or-treat, dressed like Titania from Midsummer Night’s Dream. She called me her Oberon later that night.”

The expression on Ruth’s face never changed, although Dix fancied he saw her shudder.

“Erin was the most talented violinist I’ve heard in a very long time. Gloria Stanford was convinced she’d be known the world over someday. She had glorious technique, could make you weep listening to her play. The three violin sonatas composed for Joseph Joachim by Brahms—she was transcendent. I was blessed by her company, I reveled in it. But I did not kill her, there was no reason. I didn’t kill Helen Rafferty, either. I loved both of them, in different ways.

“Whatever you may believe about my personal ethics and behavior, none of it concerns you unless I did something criminal, which I did not. Dix, you are the sheriff of Maestro. Everyone says we are lucky to have you. Well, prove it. Find out for all of us who killed two citizens of our town in under a week.”

“You forgot Walt McGuffey, that kind old man who never harmed a soul in his life.”

“I heard about him. You want to lay the old man’s death at my door, too? Fact is, I didn’t know him well, he meant nothing to me. Why would I kill him?”

“His house is on the way to Lone Tree Hill and the other entrance to Winkel’s Cave. Ruth’s car was hidden in his shed. That’s why someone murdered him.”

“I don’t know anything about her car! I haven’t seen Walt in months.”

Dix said, “When did you last see Erin alive?”

“On Thursday afternoon, at Stanislaus. She was working hard rehearsing for the upcoming concert, and we had no plans to see each other over the weekend.”

“But you did see her on Friday, didn’t you, Gordon? You took her to Winkel’s Cave, to murder her.”

Gordon looked like he might faint. He paled, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Ruth stuck her coffee cup under his nose. “Drink.”

Gordon was babbling now, waving his hands at them like a drunk conductor. “I didn’t, really, there’s no way I could do anything like that. I didn’t—”

Dix splayed his hands on his seat cushion and leaned toward his uncle. “Let me tell you what you’re going to do for us, Gordon. You’re going to give us written permission to search your home, your office, and your studio. If you cooperate, we’ll do it discreetly as part of the investigation. If not, we’ll get search warrants and post flyers on every tree on campus about the women you slept with, then subpoena each of them to come back to Stanislaus and talk to us—and the board of directors.

“You know now that you can’t expect to keep your affair with Erin under wraps for long, but they might let you keep your job, or help you get another one somewhere, if you tell them yourself. Think about it.

“And you’re going to tell us all about your other affairs—the names of the students and how we can reach them. We can turn the records at Stanislaus upside down to find them if we have to. Don’t make us do that, Gordon.”

Ruth pulled out a pen and a small notebook. “All right, I’m ready, Dr. Holcombe. Tell us about your talented Lolitas.”

“It wasn’t like that! You make them sound like teenagers, and they weren’t. They were all accomplished musicians. No, it was never like that. I loved all of them, in their time.”

“In their time,” Savich repeated slowly, his eyes steady on Gordon’s face. “Who lasted longest, Dr. Holcombe?”

Gordon froze. “I don’t want to talk about this. Dix, make them stop. I haven’t done anything.”

“Ruth has her pen ready, Gordon. Give her names. Who was before Erin Bushnell?”

There was a moment of tense silence. Gordon drew in a deep breath and said to Ruth, “Before Erin, there was Lucy Hendler, pianist, lovely long reach, incredible technique and passion, perfect pitch.”

A litany of attributes, nothing about Lucy Hendler the woman, the individual. “What were the dates?”

“What do you mean, dates?”

Ruth said, “Dr. Holcombe, surely Lucy wasn’t all that long ago.”

“She performed Scarlatti exquisitely in a recital a year ago February. She got a standing ovation, difficult to do, let me tell you, in an audience of accomplished musicians. She told me later she actually hated Scarlatti, that he was dated and boring, far too predictable. I thought it amusing and sweet, her lack of historical context. I mean, how could anyone dismiss Domenico Scarlatti, for God’s sake? She was only twenty-one. What did she know?”

Ruth said, “So you booted her because she wasn’t a Scarlatti aficionada?”

“No, of course not. Our relationship deepened. I remember we got a little cross with each other before she graduated. It was May Day and we had a Maypole on campus. I thought it would be lovely if we had a choral group seated around the Maypole singing Irish folk songs, and other students could dance around the pole, dressed up in peasant costumes. She laughed at me. Can you imagine that?”

“Where is Lucy Hendler, Dr. Holcombe?”

“She graduated in June. She was accepted into our performing graduate program, but she didn’t stay.”

“Let me guess, she changed her mind after the Maypole.”

“No, I’m sure that had nothing to do with her decision to leave Stanislaus. She had a friend up in New York she went to visit and decided to stay. Last I heard she was enrolled at Juilliard.”

Ruth nodded. “And do you feel responsible for Stanislaus losing a graduate student?”

Dix kept his mouth shut. Ruth was handling this like a pro, reeling Gordon in, getting him to spill information Dix doubted he’d ever be able to get out of him.

Gordon went on to tell them about Lindsey Farland, a student about two and a half years ago, a soprano with incredible range he met when she sang the role of Cio-Cio-San, the betrayed young wife in Madama Butterfly. She hardly looked the part, since she was black, but when he heard her sing and she hit the high C in “Un bel dì,” he fell in love.

“That is one of my favorite arias,” Ruth said, and everyone at the table knew she meant it. She paused, then asked, “Where is Lindsey now?”

“I don’t know. She graduated two years ago. She hasn’t kept in touch.”

“It won’t take us long to find her.”

Ruth got six names out of him but he remembered few facts about the women. His recollection of the dates was also sketchy. “I can’t remember anymore, Agent Warnecki. Wait, wait, there was one more. Her name was Kirkland. Her first name was unusual, something like Anoka. And then, there was…No, that isn’t at all relevant. Look, I’ll need to look through some school records, find out what her first name is exactly.”

It was Sherlock who nailed him. “Tell us who you’re leaving out, Dr. Holcombe. Why don’t you want to tell us about her? Who is she?”

Dix shook his head. “I know why he doesn’t want to tell us. She’s local, isn’t she, Gordon? She’s from Maestro.”

“No, there isn’t anyone else. Now, Dix, I assume you’ll be calling these ladies to verify what I’ve told you. May I contact them first to make it less alarming for them?”

“Not yet, Gordon. I’ll be with you when I decide it’s the right time to make any calls.

“Now, I want you to stay here and think about the woman whose name you’re not telling us. Of course she’s local. Is she married? Did she swear you to secrecy? I want her name, Gordon. You’ve got until tomorrow morning or I’m coming after you.”

“There isn’t another damned woman!”

Dix said flatly, “You give me her name or I’ll arrest you.”

“How can you say that, Dix, for pity’s sake, I’m Christie’s uncle!”

Dix slowly straightened. “Maybe that’s why I’m making the mistake of not arresting you right now, Gordon, and taking your Italian-suited self to my nice warm jail. As for now, B.B. will keep an eye on you. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

CHAPTER 25

BUD BAILEY’S BED & BREAKFAST MAESTRO, VIRGINIA LATE THURSDAY

AFTERNOON

“I NEED A shower and a shave before we head over to Dix’s house.” But Savich didn’t move to get up. He nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, loving the feel of her hair against his face.

“Since I don’t have any bones, you can go first.” She bit him lightly on his shoulder, kissed him, then breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of him. “I’m thinking maybe I’m not through with you yet.”

“You think?”

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was doing stretches, her mind automatically working the angles, thinking about the people they’d interviewed, wondering if Gordon Holcombe had told them everything. She smiled when she heard Dillon singing “Baby, the Rain Must Fall” in the shower in his beautiful baritone. She was about to join him, to see if he was interested in some more quality time, when his cell phone played “Georgia on My Mind.” She picked it up.

“Hello?”

No answer, only the sharp sound of breathing.

“Who is this?”

“My oh my, what an unexpected surprise this is. My lucky day.”

A woman—no, a girl, a bouncy young voice. “Claudia? Is this Claudia Grace?”

“You win the prize, girlfriend. I was actually calling to speak to your man—you know, get him all hot and bothered with some of my great phone sex, but hey, I can do him later. It’ll be fun talking to you. Cool name, Claudia Grace, don’t you think? Maybe I should go ahead and marry Moses and make it legal. He’s a cutie, no doubt about that, but the thing is, he has a tough time getting it up, even when I walk around in the buff for him. I fed him some of that Viagra, but even that didn’t stiffen him up. So he got bored and went out and got this phone to call you guys with. I figured why should he have all the fun?”

Sherlock heard voices in the background. So they weren’t driving around this time. Her fingers tightened on the phone. “Where are you, Claudia?”

Sherlock heard the shower turn off. She walked to the bathroom door, opened it to see Dillon stepping out of the shower stall. He frowned at the phone at her ear.

She mouthed, Claudia.

He nearly dove at her, his hand out to take the phone, but she shook her head and mouthed, Not yet. Dripping, he walked past her to MAX, pressed several keys, and plugged a wireless earphone into his ear.

“Where am I? Question is, where are you guys? Moses says you’re hiding from us. Are you?”

“No, Claudia, not in this lifetime.”

“Come on now, sweet cakes, how is Moses going to give you the business if you disappear, and we can’

t find you? Hey, is your man there? We could get together if you’re close by.”

“Sure, my man’s right here.”

“Well now, that’s good because Moses wants him close. Did Moses tell you what he’s planning for you?

”

“I really don’t care, Claudia. Where are you and Moses, by the way? Under an extra-big rock so you can hide together?”

“We don’t do no rocks, you little bitch. We’re in a nice big Hilton, in a suite. I can hardly throw a football across the living room it’s so big. I’m going to make you scream through that smart mouth of yours. I told your gorgeous husband that I’d have you watch while I screw his brains out. Then he can watch what I do to you, that brain of his all mushy. Every man I do ends up grinning like his brains have melted.”

“I’ve got to tell you, Claudia, I’m surprised you’re that experienced with men at your tender age. Shouldn’t you be in school learning how to read? How old are you, fifteen?”

“I can read, bitch, and I’m eighteen.”

“Yeah, right. From what I’m hearing you sound barely fifteen. I’ll bet your mama had you when she was real young, and you ended up on the street, and that’s where Moses found you. And here you are, a little girl acting all grown up, hooked up with that creepy old man.”

“Shut up! You won’t think you’re so smart when Moses gets to you.”

“Okay, if he didn’t find you shooting up on the street, then how’d you meet him, Claudia? He follow you home, maybe butcher your mama?”

“I’m not fifteen and my mama was over forty when she died, you hear me? She was smart, a schoolteacher, but some tattoo-tongued gangbangers raped and beat her because she wouldn’t screw their leader. She died.”

“I’m really sorry about your mother, Claudia. You said she was a schoolteacher?”

“Yeah, a math teacher, and she was real smart. I was sorry when she died, I really was. I mean, she could have flushed me down the john, right? But she didn’t. You hear me, bitch?”

“You’re screaming so of course I hear you. You’re out of control, like a little kid throwing a tantrum. Why would she have flushed you? Where was your daddy?”

“My mama slept with this jerk who left her. There wasn’t any daddy.”

“Where’d you learn to talk so dirty, Claudia? From your mama or from that saliva-dripping old man you’

re with now?”

“My mama didn’t cuss!”

“After she died, what did you do?”

“I took off. I wasn’t going to let those freak social service people take me. And I picked up Moses, not the other way around. He was standing over this filthy old tramp, blood all over his hands and his old army fatigues, and those black boots he wears, and he was laughing his head off. I asked him why he beat the bum like that, and he told me the guy wouldn’t share his Ripple. I figured someone like that could protect me, so I offered him some of my bourbon. All I remember is waking up in a motel room in the morning.”

“What were you doing in Atlanta, Claudia? Running from juvie?”

“Nah, it wasn’t Atlanta, but what do you care? I’m going to hurt you, lady, more now for dissing me and my mama.”

Sherlock laughed. “Sure you are, Claudia. You sound like one of those playground bullies who’s all mouth. Why don’t you tell me where you are, and we can get together and talk things over before Moses gets you killed, or you end up in a state prison until your hair turns gray?”

“Next time we get together, I’m going to pull your tongue out.”

“Now there’s a real grown-up threat. You’re young enough to still have a chance, Claudia. Stay out there and you’ll end up a drugged-out hooker. All that booze will make you look as old as Moses in a few years. Is that what you want for yourself?”

“I’ll tell you what I want, bitch. I’ll tell Moses to do you first, to do whatever he wants, just for me. And I

’ll be there to watch.”

Sherlock heard a man’s voice, and a scuffle. “What are you doing, Claudia? Who is that?”

“Don’t you hit me, Moses!”

There was a crackling sound, and the phone went dead.

Savich looked at her, watched her punch off the phone. “I’m going to call the Hoover Building, see if they’ve located these two specimens.”

“I heard noise in the background. Lots of voices. Maybe they were in a restaurant.”

Savich nodded. He was talking with the communications chief a few seconds later. “We did much better this time, Savich. It was a third-party provider, using a wireless prepaid card, but Sprint was able to track down the directory number and get us a location about twenty seconds before you lost the connection. It was a good, fixed signal from a GPS-equipped phone, so we have his location within ten meters. It’s a Denny’s on Atherton Street in Milltown, Maryland. Units should be there any minute.”

Savich punched off the phone. “Cops are on their way to Moses’s location. You were right, it is a restaurant, a Denny’s. We’ll know soon if they arrived in time. It sounded like Moses didn’t know she was using his new phone. You can bet they headed right out.” Savich sighed. Sherlock gave him a long look. “You didn’t tell me Claudia plans to screw your brains out.”

“She’s certifiable, and what makes it worse is that she’s so young. Why would I tell you something that disturbing?”

“Marlin Jones was disturbing, Tyler McBride was disturbing, Günter Grass was disturbing. But Claudia?

I feel sorry for her, because of her age. But you should have told me.”

“You feel sorry? She and Moses dug out Elsa Bender’s eyes, Sherlock. She helped pose Pinky’s body over that skeleton at Arlington National Cemetery. She’s a psychopath. The thought of her anywhere near you scares the sin out of me. There was no reason to tell you about their ridiculous fantasies. You shouldn’t have talked to her, Sherlock. It was unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional? Me? This ought to be good. Do tell me what you mean, Dillon.”

“First of all, you answered my phone, knowing full well it could be Moses. That phone is our only link to him, and you should have asked me first. At the very least, you should have given me the phone when I stepped out of the shower.”

“I happen to be a Federal agent who’s on the case with you. You could treat me like a partner, like I’m someone you respect as a fellow agent. Hey, on a good day, maybe even all of the above.”

“Dump the sarcasm. Of course we’re partners. Well, actually, I’m your boss, and I’m your husband.”

Whenever she got angry, Sherlock’s face turned as red as her hair. She could feel the heat rising from her neck, that miserable red stain creeping over her skin, and that made her even angrier because she knew he could see it. “Oh, you want to protect the helpless little wife? The meek little thing who should keep her precious ears unsullied by prurient threats from a crazy teenager?”

“Stop, Sherlock, and listen to me. You are my wife and I would protect you with my life.”

“And you’re my husband, you moron, I’d protect you with my life, too. What does that have to do with this?”

“Because you enraged her, you baited her, and you have her promising to come after you. How could you do that? I can’t believe you would pull something like that without discussing it with me first.”

“Oh, I see. I was to say, ‘Excuse me, Claudia, but I’ve got to ask my husband what to say before we talk.’ That is so infuriating.” She shoved him hard on his bare chest, muttering under her breath, “The old double standard. That garbage coming out of your mouth burns me, Dillon. Stop being a macho ass.”

“Well, if I’m a macho ass, you’re just going to have to live with it.” He gave her a look of frustrated dislike, then stomped back into the bathroom.

She yelled through the door, “Because I’m a good cop, I goaded her into telling us about her mother, how she hooked up with Moses. You were listening, boss. And I would have kept her talking longer if Moses hadn’t grabbed the phone from her.”

Towel wrapped around his waist, Savich stomped back through the door, stopped right in front of her, and crossed his arms over his chest. He was doing it because he knew he looked tough and intimidating, something he was very good at. “I never said you weren’t a good cop, but you crossed the line on this one. This was an ill-advised stunt. I’m saying that as your boss, so suck it up. Let’s get dressed and get to work.”

She fluttered her hands. “Goodness, do you think I can manage that without fainting dead away? Maybe I should have a glass of water first, put my head between my knees, maybe call Dix so the two of you muscle-bound yahoos can go out and chop some wood while you decide what to do.”

He dashed his hand through his wet hair. “This is ridiculous. Sherlock, close it down or I’ll beat your butt.

”

She assumed a martial arts position and beckoned him with her fingers. “This is no time to mess with me, macho boy. Try it and I’ll flatten you.”

She was wearing a thick oversized hotel bathrobe, wrapped nearly twice around her. Her feet were bare and her hair curled wildly around her head. Her face was red with rage. And she wanted to fight him. How had it come to this? He laughed even as he wrapped his arms around her waist, threw her over his shoulder, and tossed her onto the bed. He fell on top of her, pulled her arms over her head, and held her down.

He said an inch from her nose, “Stop sneering at me. I know threats don’t work with you, so I won’t bother. Why don’t you tell me where you think we should start with all the info you extracted?”

It was terrible that she couldn’t indulge her anger at him, but she recognized the olive branch—really more of a twig—and the fact was, business was business. She saved her anger for later.

“Get off me, you baboon, so I can breathe.”

Savich rolled off to the side, but kept one leg on top of her.

“All right. My guess is that all that stuff Claudia told me probably happened in the past year or two. We have a number of details about Claudia’s mother that must have led to an investigation. And maybe Claudia is her real name. So you need to fire up MAX and get on it. Now let me go before I get seriously upset and hurt you.”

He leaned over and kissed her, still angry and frustrated, then rolled off the bed. He looked down at her for a long moment, brooding, before he walked back into the bathroom and shut the door. He heard her laugh and yell, “Hey, Dillon, maybe you should call Director Mueller, fill him in on what I got Claudia to tell me.”

Savich stood in front of the bathroom mirror, a razor in his hand. He’d heard every word quite clearly; Sherlock had a piercingly clear voice when she wanted to. But beneath that laughter, he thought, she was still angry at him, perhaps as angry as he was with her. He sighed as he soaped up his face. He was not in a happy place. He cut himself twice.

His phone rang again ten minutes later with the news that Moses and Claudia were no longer at the Denny’s.

Savich called Jimmy Maitland to give him a report, then Dix to say they wouldn’t make it for dinner. They had a lot of work to do.

CHAPTER 26

SHERIFF NOBLE’S HOUSE MAESTRO, VIRGINIA THURSDAY EVENING

RAFE MOWED ACROSS his corn on the cob without stopping. Rob, not to be outdone, managed an even wider swath of his own, four rows of kernels at a time. For a moment, Ruth thought he was going to choke. She clapped him on the back and handed him a glass of water, then gave him a thumbs-up when he sat back and smiled contentedly at his brother.

“Neither of you took a single breath,” Ruth said. “That’s remarkable. Next time I’m going to find really, really big ears of corn and test your limits.”

Dix looked up from his own corn at his boys, then over at Ruth. The boys acted natural around her, not at all prickly, as they often did when they thought a woman was threatening to take their mother’s place. She’d known them since Friday night. It was amazing how comfortable they all were. Dix said, leaning back in his chair, “Do you know I can’t remember ever felling an ear of corn in under six seconds?”

“We did it faster, right, Ruth?”

Ruth laughed. “I wasn’t timing you but I bet you beat that. My older brother and I always competed to see who could be the grossest as well as the fastest. Drove our parents crazy.”

Rob said, “Grandpa Chappy usually laughs when we do a gross-out for him, like stuffing chewed-up green beans in front of your bottom teeth and peeling down your lip. Uncle Tony gets all uptight and Aunt Cynthia looks like she wants to lock us in a closet.”

“How about your uncle Gordon?” Ruth heard the words come out of her mouth before she even realized what she’d asked.

“Uncle Gordon? Hmm.” Rob looked over at Rafe, then said, “Fact is, we’ve never been gross around Uncle Gordon. He always looks so perfect, you know?”

“So does your grandpa Chappy,” Ruth said.

“It’s not the same,” Rafe said, shaking his head. “And when the two of them are together they’re so busy fighting we might as well not even be there.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Ruth said.

“How about you, Ruth? What did you and your brother do that was real gross?”

“Well, my favorite gross-out was chugging a Coke while I was ice skating. You come to a fast stop in front of one of your friends and belch really loud right in their face.”

The boys laughed. Dix knew that until tonight his sons had been putting up a brave front, trying to act as natural as they could while all hell was breaking loose around them—three people murdered in their town in less than a week while their father was the one responsible for finding out who killed them. Rob stopped laughing first. He looked down at the pile of baked beans on his plate. Well, impossible to ignore reality forever, Dix thought. He said easily, “Thanks for the visual, Ruth. When we go skating, no soft drinks allowed,” but the boys looked thoughtful. Rafe said, “I saw Uncle Tony scratch his armpit once, and when we were playing baseball, he was standing out in center field and he scratched—”

Rob cut his brother off. “Not in front of Ruth.”

“You’re right, Rob, too much information,” Ruth said, and saluted him with her glass of tea. Dix scooped another spoonful of green beans onto his son’s plate. “Eat and don’t smash them in front of your bottom teeth.”

Rafe shot his father a wary look and said faster than Brewster could swing his tail, “I went to see Mr. Fulton, you know, see where we might stand with his hiring me, you know, when my report card comes out.”

“This is a hardware store, right?” Ruth asked.

Rafe nodded. “Mr. Fulton said only six days had passed and nothing was any different at his store, and when would I have proof that my grades are up in English and biology.”

Brewster was trying to climb Ruth’s leg. She leaned down to pet his head and slipped him a bit of hot dog. But Brewster wasn’t hungry, he wanted attention. He rubbed the hot dog on her shoe until she had to lift her feet off the floor to avoid him. The boys laughed until she scooped Brewster up and hugged him against her chest. “What are you up to, smearing hot dog all over my shoe, making everybody laugh at me? I thought you were my hero.”

“Some hero,” Rob said, piling more potato salad on his plate. “Brewster was so small when he was a puppy we were afraid we might roll over on him during the night and squash him.”

Dix chuckled, one eye on Brewster. “He was hero enough to find Ruth. I’ve rolled over on Brewster myself and he’s survived. Now, Rafe, what did Mr. Fulton say about the job?”

Rafe swallowed a mouthful of hot dog bun. “Mr. Fulton asked me to spell ‘valedictorian.’ That wasn’t fair, Dad.”

“Did you even attempt it?” Ruth asked.

“Yeah, I did. I missed the e in the middle. It wasn’t fair,” he repeated. His father said, “I gather Mr. Fulton didn’t hire you?”

“He told me to bring him my next report card. Then he’d speak to you again.”

“Stup Fulton is full of surprises,” Dix said to Ruth.

“Ah, he asked me what you’re doing about all this violent stuff, Dad. I told him you and the three FBI agents are working real hard on it. He just harrumphed.” He looked down at his plate. This time his voice was as thin as the kitchen curtains. “And there’s the kids at school. They’re saying that you’re not as good as everyone says you are, that everyone in town’s getting murdered.”

“Well,” Dix said, “you don’t look banged up so I guess you didn’t get into any fights.”

“It was close,” Rafe muttered.

“I understand. But you managed to walk away?”

It was Rob who said, “Sure, Dad. Right.”

Ruth had noticed the bruise on Rob’s knuckles. It couldn’t have been all that bad a fight if his knuckles weren’t skinned. She smiled brightly. “Hey, I saw a baseball and glove in the hallway. Who’s the Barry Bonds?”

Rob said eagerly, “Me. Didn’t Dad tell you I’m going to be the starting pitcher on the high-school team?”

“Sorry, Rob, I didn’t, but I sure intended to.” Not that Rob really cared whether he had, Dix thought as Rob rushed on. “The thing is, Ruth, I’m only a sophomore. Billy Caruthers started last year as a junior, and he’s totally pissed the coach picked me.”

Dix gave his son a long look.

Rob cleared his throat. “Ah, Dad, everyone says it. Okay, Billy Caruthers was being a jerk—”

Dix said, “Rob, remember how your mom once washed out your mouth with soap? That real strong soap that could peel the skin right off your hands?”

Rob stared down at his plate. “Yeah, I remember. It burned off all my nose hair.”

“You got the soap twice, Rob,” Rafe said, poking his brother’s arm.

“You should have, too,” Rob said, and lifted his fist toward his brother. Dix said, “Boys?” in a quiet voice, and they stopped dead in their tracks. “Good. Rob, finish it up now.”

“Okay, he was so mad he looked like he was gonna burst.”

Dix gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll give that a pass.”

Ruth raised her glass. “Here’s to the next Derek Lowe.”

“Hear! Hear!” Dix drank down the rest of his tea. “You guys ready for some bread pudding?”

Ruth perked up. “Bread pudding? When did you have time to make that, Dix?”

Rafe snickered. “Nah, Dad didn’t make it, it was Ms. Denver, the physics teacher. She’s been after Dad since the beginning of the school year. She’s a really good cook, so Rob and I don’t mind except—”

“That’s enough, Rafe.”

Rafe subsided, slouching back in his chair.

Rob said, “Dad, you are going to catch the killers, aren’t you?”

Dix looked at his eldest son. “What do you think?”

Rob didn’t hesitate. “I told the kids you’d have them in jail by Tuesday.”

“Well, that’s a motivator,” Dix said, with a rueful glance at Ruth. Ruth leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “I agree with you, Rob. I’m thinking Tuesday is about right. But you and Rafe both know it’s not quite that easy.”

“I’m thinking Monday, myself,” Dix said, and folded his arms over his chest. Ruth thought the boys would burst with pride at this macho display. Rob said, “Dude! Dad, we’re not kids. You can talk stuff over with us, really. Everyone at school is talking about Ms. Rafferty being killed in her bed, about how you found that student buried in Winkel’s Cave.” He paused for a moment and cleared his throat, but his voice was unsteady. “And about Mr. McGuffey. Oh man, that was really bad.”

Dix’s own voice wasn’t all that steady, either. “Walt was a fine man. I really liked him.”

Rafe said to Ruth, his voice still quavering, “Mom always liked Mr. McGuffey. Last Thanksgiving he said Dad’s turkey was as good as Mom’s, but he couldn’t do stuffing worth a damn. I told him you couldn’t find Mom’s recipe.”

“I’ll give you one, Dix,” Ruth said, knowing they were skating on very thin ice. The boys seemed both hyper and scared, and trying not to show either. “Corn bread with water chestnuts and cranberries.”

“I like water chestnuts,” Rafe said. “But I like lots of sausage in my dressing, too.”

Ruth beamed when Rob said, “Maybe we can try it your way, too, Ruth.”

DIX’S DOORBELL RANG not long after the boys went to bed.

“You missed a great corn-on-the-cob gross-out,” Dix said by way of a greeting.

“Let me get your coats,” Ruth said, peeling off Sherlock’s leather jacket. She paused, then took a step back. “What’s wrong, guys? What happened?”

“Sorry,” Savich said shortly. “Lots on our minds, no excuse.”

He and Sherlock followed Dix into the living room. Savich held up his hand when Ruth opened her mouth. “No, Ruth, Sean’s all right, we spoke to him earlier. He’s already decided he wants a Yorkshire terrier whose name is going to be Astro.”

Sherlock was still acting a bit stiff, but she tried, giving Ruth and Dix big smiles. “Last summer we talked about putting down Astroturf in the backyard for a very miniature miniature golf course. I guess Sean fell in love with the word.”

But it had nothing to do with Astroturf or anything else, Ruth thought, glancing at the two of them. She looked from one carefully expressionless face to the other, saw the strain in Dillon’s eyes, the red creeping up Sherlock’s cheeks, which meant she wanted to kick someone—Dillon?

Dillon and Sherlock were the anchors of Ruth’s professional life. She was immensely grateful to Dillon for bringing her into the Criminal Apprehension Unit eighteen months earlier. He was an intuitive, natural leader, tough as a rock, honorable to the core. Sherlock was funny and insightful, sharp and focused, and you could count on her no matter what. She had only one speed—full steam ahead. Ruth had never seen them like this before.

Then the light dawned. She said slowly, “I don’t believe this, you guys have had a major argument, haven

’t you. Even if I told everyone in the unit, they’d demand I take a lie detector test, which no one would believe because they know I can cheat lie detectors in my sleep.” She looked at the ceiling. “I’m ready to pass over, Lord, since I’ve now seen it all.” She wagged a finger at Sherlock. “What did you do, Sherlock, drive the sacred Porsche?”

“Very funny, Ruth,” Sherlock said. “You know, every time I’ve driven that car I’ve gotten a speeding ticket.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Savich said, his voice too loud. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve got some serious stuff to talk about.”

Sherlock nodded. “Here’s the deal. We have to take off early tomorrow for Quantico because—”

“Before we go there,” Savich interrupted her, “we need to tell you what MAX found out about Moses Grace and Claudia. Her last name is Smollett, emphasis on the last syllable.”

Ruth sat forward, serious as could be now. “That’s an English name, isn’t it?”

Savich nodded. “Of all things, her mom was English. Her name was Pauline Smollett. She came to the United States when she was twenty-two. She was a high-school math teacher in Cleveland, and never married, at least in this country. From the police reports, she had a pretty colorful personal life, but she managed to keep it separate from her job. She raised a child, Claudia, out of wedlock by herself.”

“What happened to her?” Ruth asked.

“She was raped and murdered by a gang.”

Dix leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Police reports? How did you find the connection, Savich?”

“When I called, I told you we had more work to do,” Savich said matter-of-factly, then added, his voice dropping ten degrees, “and that meant following up some information Claudia gave Sherlock.”

Dix said, “Don’t you mean—You actually spoke to Claudia, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s chin went right up, a fire burned in her eyes. “Yes, for quite a while. She called on Dillon’s cell while he was in the shower.” She looked at her husband, eyes narrowed, as if daring him to comment.

“She did indeed,” Savich said smoothly. “After her mother’s death, Claudia ran away from home. We had enough details for MAX to pull up a half dozen open cases with a similar profile, and that’s how we found Pauline Smollett. It all fit.

“Claudia has a juvenile record of her own, and we matched her ID photo with the picture of Annie Bender her mother Elsa gave us. Claudia looks just like her.”

Sherlock continued. “Claudia Smollett was nine years old when she started shoplifting cigarettes and booze from the local 24/7. She got thrown out of school twice, once when she burned a boy with a cigarette, and again when she broke another kid’s arm. Then there was the usual juvenile rage, throwing a textbook at a teacher, cursing out another, threatening her mother. She was a wild kid who probably wouldn’t have made it even if her mother had lived.

“She ran into Moses Grace moments after he murdered a homeless man. They got drunk on bourbon in a motel, and the rest is history. Claudia said the word ‘bourbon’ with a Southern accent, and it seemed to me she ran into him somewhere in the South.” She paused. “And Claudia isn’t eighteen. She turned sixteen three weeks ago.”

Dix pushed his fingers through his hair. “She’s about Rob’s age.”

Savich, fiddling with one of the sofa pillows, nodded. “She’s a child, a crazy, unrestrained child. It turns out my wife was right about the murdered homeless man. We found a report of a man beaten to death in an alley about eight months ago in Birmingham, Alabama. The police never found the assailant, but another homeless man said he saw an old buzzard in bloodied army fatigues, so my bucks are on Moses.

”

“Claudia told me Moses wears army fatigues and old black army boots, so it fits,” Sherlock said. “We notified the Birmingham police, gave them what we’ve got. Unfortunately, they didn’t have anything to give us in return.”

“Did you trace the call, Dillon? Do you know where they are?” Ruth asked. Savich said, “It’s good news, bad news. Claudia called from a prepaid cell phone Moses purchased for cash at a Radio Shack this morning. He activated it from a pay phone in the parking lot. It’s anonymous that way since there’s no registered owner, but the signal was loud and clear. And since they were calling from a set location, we located them dead-on.”

“Where?” Dix asked.

Sherlock said, “At a Denny’s on Eighth Avenue and Pfeiffer Street in Milltown, Maryland. Even though the local cops got there in under five minutes, Moses and Claudia were gone. Evidently Moses had left Claudia alone with the cell phone. When he came back she was still talking to me. I heard his voice, could tell he was angry at her for using it. So that means he knew we could find him. He hit the road fast.

” Sherlock sighed. “If only he’d spent a bit more time in the men’s room, we could have joined them for dinner.”

“Please tell me where the good news is in all of this?” Ruth asked them. Sherlock said, “Good news is we’ve got great descriptions, down to Moses’s old black lace-up army boots, and Claudia wasn’t exactly undercover. She had on low-cut plumber jeans, a skimpy hot-pink top, and a fake fur jacket. They made quite an impression on their waitress, who said Claudia was pretty but she wore too much makeup, and that the old guy looked like he’d spent a hundred years staked out in the sun.

“But the best information is from a waiter who was outside smoking a cigarette when Moses and Claudia left the restaurant. He was yelling at her, shaking the cell phone in her face before he shoved her into a van.

“The waiter had Claudia in his sights until the van disappeared from view. She waved at him from the passenger-side window. He doesn’t remember much about the van—thinks it was a Ford, real dirty. He was focused on Claudia. We might get something more from him. I’d bet my next paycheck on it.”

Savich said, “Our Denny’s waiter is all set up to have Dr. Hicks hypnotize him tomorrow morning at Quantico, and we need to be there. I’m not certain if we’ll be back tomorrow evening, depends on what shakes loose.

“Moses isn’t stupid. He might have figured we could locate them even with a prepaid cell phone, as long as Claudia stayed on the line.”

Sherlock picked it up. “And that would mean we’d speak to people at the restaurant who saw them. So they might lie low for a while. Still, every squad car in the area will have Claudia’s picture by morning.”

Ruth clapped. “Dillon didn’t tell us what you’d managed to do when he called earlier. This is great, Sherlock. Keep it up and you’ll break the whole thing wide open.”

Sherlock said to Ruth, “Claudia wanted to talk to Dillon, Ruth. She wants to have sex with him, actually. Dillon was upset because he thinks I’m too delicate to hear the dirt Claudia dishes out.”

Two pairs of female eyes went to Savich.

“There’s more to it than that, Ruth, and Sherlock knows it.”

“Ah,” Dix said, sat back on the sofa, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Ah, what?” Savich asked him, never looking away from his wife.

“So maybe all of this boils down to the fact that you want to protect her.”

Sherlock turned on him. “From a crazy child on a cell phone? Dillon has no right—”

Dix spoke over her. “I’d probably feel the same way if Ruth were my wife. It’s simply the nature of the beast—both of you must know that by now. It’s just instinct.”

Sherlock went on point, and Dix felt lucky Savich was sitting between them. “Women have the same instinct, macho man.”

Dix cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up without bloodshed. Would everyone look at the time. Is it late, or what?”

There was a sprinkling of laughter, most of it from Ruth, Dix thought, then a pound of silence. Ruth jumped in to tell them she and Dix had spent the rest of their afternoon with Gordon Holcombe. “

We searched every space in his office, house, and studio, every record. He was cooperative, I’ll say that for him. We even spoke to three of his former lovers on the phone. They were fine, all of them elsewhere at the time of the murders.”

Dix said, “I’m going to talk to Gordon again tomorrow.” He frowned down at his clasped hands. “I can’t get past the fact that two of the victims were his lovers. Maybe he’s told us all about the students, but Helen wasn’t a student, now was she?”

CHAPTER 27

QUANTICO FRIDAY MORNING

AT TEN O’CLOCK Dr. Emmanuel Hicks walked into Savich’s small office in Quantico’s Jefferson Dormitory and sniffed. “Pepperoni.” He looked at the young black man slouched in a chair beside Savich. “From the Boardroom?”

The young man nodded. “Double pepperoni, Doc.”

“Ah, my favorite, sometimes even for breakfast. My name is Dr. Hicks and I’m harmless.” He shook the young man’s hand. “This will be very easy for you, Dewayne, no discomfort at all as I’m sure Agent Savich has told you. We’re simply going to help you remember all the details you’ve already got stored away on your hard drive.” Dr. Hicks tapped his head, to which Dewayne answered, “Cool.”

Ten minutes later, Savich pulled his chair closer to Dewayne’s and laid his hand lightly on the young man’

s forearm. “I’d like you to think now about the first time you saw the old man and the young girl in Denny

’s yesterday, Dewayne. You have them in your sights?”

Dewayne nodded.

“Good. Tell me what you see.”

“She’s taking off those big sunglasses and looking around. She’s something—pretty, real pretty, and she knows it. She’s flirting with everybody.”

“What about the old guy?”

“He’s sitting back in the booth, his arms crossed over his chest, and he’s grinning. I don’t think he does anything but grin. He’s real old, you know, his face is all seams and wrinkles. She’s maybe his great-granddaughter, I’m thinking, he’s that old. She’s looking through the menu, taking her time. The old guy, he doesn’t even open the menu, just orders a hamburger.”

“Melinda waited on them?”

“Yeah, that’s right. When she came to the kitchen to place the order, she told us we should check her out. All us guys already had.

“She knows all the guys are talking about her. Man, it’s nearly freezing outside and she’s wearing this tiny top, showing off her belly button.”

“She have a ring in her belly button?”

“Oh yeah, a little silver ring. And boy, her belly’s sweet, a little baby fat, but sweet.”

“Do you ever get close enough to hear them speak to each other?”

Silence, then a slow nod. “Yeah, I’m taking a combo meal, a surf ’n’ turf thing, to this couple sitting two booths down from them. I sort of slow down, you know, because she winks at me, really winks, and gives me a big grin, tosses her head. She’s got four gold earrings up her right ear.”

“Do you hear anything they say before she notices you and winks?”

Dewayne nodded. “Something about a redhead—that was the old guy talking. He looks crazy, you know? Those army fatigues and those stupid army boots, all scuffed up, muddy, like he’s been out on a battlefield, you know? I didn’t know who this redhead was they were talking about, but I wanted to hear her talk some more so I walked slower. She says something like, ‘I’m thinking the next stop should be a bank, Moses. What do you think?’ And the old guy grins some more and shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so, sweetcakes.’ Yeah, that’s what he called her. I nearly laughed to hear that old buzzard call the little chick that. Then the folks hollered at me to get them their food, so that’s all I heard. No, wait a second. I think he said something like, ‘He’s probably got himself all staked out like a goat, waiting for me to call.’”

Savich waited a beat, but there wasn’t any more. He said, “That’s excellent, Dewayne. Okay, now you go outside for the cigarette break. You’re smoking when you see that pretty girl walk out of Denny’s, right?”

Dewayne jiggled the change in his pocket. “Yeah, there she is.”

“Tell me exactly what you see.”

“She’s pulled that fluffy jacket back on but it isn’t long enough to cover her butt. Man, she’s got a fine butt, really nice, and she’s swinging it all over the parking lot. She knows I’m watching, even looks in my direction and smiles at me, but she’s really not paying me much attention because she’s talking on her cell phone, real intense now. Then the old guy comes roaring out of the restaurant, maybe because he sees her on the cell phone. He starts yelling at her. I thought he was going to hit her for a moment, and she says something like ‘Don’t hurt me.’ He grabs the phone, still yelling, and pushes her into the van.”

“Look at the van, Dewayne. Do you see it?” At the young man’s nod, Savich continued, “That’s it. I want you to look at the van now, not the girl. Tell me what you see.”

“It’s hard, man.”

Savich waited.

“I’m still looking at her, hoping the old guy doesn’t hit her. I watch her put those big sunglasses back on. Then she turns to look at me and blows me a kiss. Do you believe that chick? Okay, the van. It’s an old Ford Aerostar, filthy white, makes me wonder what kind of slob that old man is to let his wheels get that dirty. It’s one of those cargo vans—you know, windows on one side but not on the other. It’s got a roof rack and sliding side doors.”

“Is there anything on the side of the van except dirt?”

Dewayne frowned at Savich, jiggled his change. Savich said, “It’s okay, take your time. Look closely, Dewayne.”

Dewayne Malloy scratched his ear, began beating his right foot heel to toe on the floor, and continued to jiggle his change. He had incredible coordination, Savich thought.

“Yeah, Agent Savich, there’s a picture of something, maybe a lawn mower. Yeah, that’s right, a lawn mower.”

Dr. Hicks thought for a moment that Savich was going to leap to his feet for some high fives, but instead he asked carefully, “A lawn mower—like it’s some sort of gardener’s van?”

“Yeah, maybe. There’s some writing under the lawn mower, but it’s real dirty, I can’t read it.”

“You’ve got great eyes, Dewayne. Keep looking, don’t think about anything except those letters. What color are they?”

“Black.”

“Words?”

“Yeah, there are words, I think.”

“Are they positioned right beneath the lawn mower?”

“No, they’re kind of on a diagonal, you know, like they want to be a little bit different. And the letters are thick, with all those curlicues hanging off them.”

“That’s great, Dewayne. You’ve got fine eyes, you took everything in. Okay, now look at the first word. Can you see it?”

Dewayne shook his head. “Man, I’m sorry, but I can’t read the words.”

Savich patted the young man’s arm. “That’s okay, Dewayne. Keep looking at the van. Tell me what else you see, anything unusual.”

“There’s nothing else, only lots of dirt.”

“Okay, the guy is driving out of the parking lot. Can you see a license plate?”

“The old guy’s really burning rubber, man, you can smell it. I didn’t have time to look at the plates if I’d even thought of it. They’re all dirty, too, just like the van. Wait a second. White. The license plate is white.”

Savich questioned Dewayne for several more minutes, but Dr. Hicks finally laid his hand on Savich’s arm. “His hard drive has crashed, Savich. That’s it.”

Savich nodded to Dr. Hicks, who told Dewayne how great he was going to feel in a moment, and woke him up.

Dr. Hicks shook the young man’s hand, told him the Boardroom also served an incredible sausage pizza. Savich said, “You were a tremendous help, Dewayne. Thank you. How would you like to meet the director of the FBI and have him thank you himself?”

“Cool.” Dewayne Malloy grinned up at Savich. “When can I meet him?”

“I’m calling right now,” Savich said. “Then I’d like you to meet with our sketch artist.”

TWO HOURS LATER, Savich, Sherlock, and four agents sat around the table in the CAU conference room.

“One week ago, Moses and Claudia left an old stolen Chevy van at Hooter’s Motel as a decoy, as a lure to make us think they were in that motel room. They were trying to kill cops.”

Sherlock said, “Bottom line, Dillon, Moses wanted to kill you. Killing anyone else was gravy.”

“And you, too, Sherlock,” Dane Carver said, “only a few hours later at Arlington National Cemetery.”

“But I was the one who got lucky,” Connie Ashley said. She looked good, Sherlock thought thankfully, even with her arm in a sling.

“My point is that they’ve probably been driving the Aerostar since then, and obviously had it in place near the motel. We now know from Dewayne’s description that it has an out-of-state license plate. They could have left the area to buy or steal the van a few days before they took Pinky.”

Ollie said, “Dewayne said the plates were white, right?”

At Savich’s nod, he continued, “I’m thinking Ohio plates; they’re the closest.”

Savich said, “Pursue that, Ollie, would you? I doubt they drove farther than that for the van. Dewayne also told us there’s a lawn mower on the side of the van, with some lettering, like a gardener’s van.”

Dane said, “They stole it then. I sure hope no one else is dead.”

Sherlock said, “So we have the color and make of the van, and a big lawn mower on its side that might as well read ‘Arrest Me.’ That, and an old man who doesn’t seem to change his clothes paired with a flashy blond teenager. How hard can that be?”

“You know what amazes me?” Ollie pointed to a glossy picture of a Ford Aerostar Savich had tacked to the board. “Moses didn’t even bother painting over the lawn mower or the writing on the side of the van.

”

Dane Carver said, “The behavioral science folks have a take on that. They don’t think Moses Grace believes anyone can touch him. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone and can do as he pleases. Steve also said he may not be planning to get out of this alive. They think from the recordings he might be very ill, even dying.”

Savich shrugged. “I hope he doesn’t find out we made Claudia, that we have her picture.”

Ollie said, “Maybe I’m pushing it here but I don’t think Moses can read. The waitress said he ordered a hamburger, didn’t even look at the menu.”

“Good point, Ollie,” Savich said. “The thing is, though, he rigged a pretty sophisticated bomb at the motel. It’s true Claudia nearly brought it all down on him this time, but he just doesn’t seem that ignorant to me.”

Sherlock said, “Along with Claudia’s old ID photo, we have the sketches our artist put together with Dewayne Malloy. The three waitresses recognized them immediately when we faxed them the sketches so we know they’re right on.”

The agents studied the drawings again.

“He looks like a cold old buzzard,” Connie Ashley said. “Like no one human lives there. The real question is, who is Moses Grace? Where has he been for the past fifty years? We already know there’s never been a felon by that name, or even a driver’s license issued that fits him, so it’s probably an alias. What do we know about him?”

Ollie said, “She’s right. Someone who looks as old as Moses Grace ought to have a record. We can’t find one, so that leaves decades of his life unaccounted for.”

“Which brings us to his motivation, again, Savich,” Dane said. “He wants to kill you because of this woman you supposedly hurt. She must be somehow connected to him, a relative, maybe. We’ve been through sixty-two cases of yours so far, even some that you were only marginally involved with. There were plenty of people who got hurt, including women, but there’s not a trace of any connection to Moses.”

Sherlock said, “Another question. Was there anyone else before he picked up Claudia?”

“Had to have been,” Dane said.

Ollie said, “Look at Claudia—those eyes, cold and blank as the calculus blackboard in high school.”

Savich handed around computer-scanned copies of Annie Bender’s photo that Elsa Bender had given them. “Compare the photo to our artist’s sketch of Claudia.”

Ollie said slowly, “I know Elsa Bender told you and Sherlock Claudia looks like her daughter, but I don’

t see it. General coloring, yes, but that’s it.”

“That’s because the photo of Annie Bender shows a real live person, one who feels and thinks and cares. This girl—” Dane Carver shrugged.

Savich said, “Maybe it’s just time for us to get lucky, and the cops will spot the Aerostar. I’ve called Detective Ben Raven with the Washington PD. He’s instructed them not to bring Moses and Claudia in by themselves. They might be the most dangerous individuals they’ll ever see on the street.” Savich fell silent. “I can’t think of anything else to do except continue going through my old cases. The key is there, I know it. We’ll give it a couple more days, and if we don’t spot the Aerostar by Sunday morning, Mr. Maitland will call a press conference and give the media the sketches of Moses and Claudia.”

Ollie said, “One more call to your cell might help. Wouldn’t it be a gift from the Almighty if it ended that way?”

Agent John Boroughs laughed. “We should be so lucky. Ain’t nothin’ ever easy, that’s what you told me when I joined the unit, Savich.”

There was some laughter, which felt good to everyone. The meeting broke up. As Savich stuffed papers into his briefcase, Ollie asked him, “So what did Dewayne Malloy think of meeting Director Mueller?”

Savich grinned. “He said he was pretty cool, for an old guy. He was so juiced about helping us solve this crime, he asked if he should consider becoming an FBI agent. I told him to go for it.”

Sherlock stood at the door of the conference room with the other agents, one eye on Savich and Ollie. “

Listen to me, guys. I can take care of myself, even though Dillon doubts that. It’s him these people are after. Please don’t let him go off on his own. We have to keep him safe.”

“That’s enough, Sherlock.” Savich spoke very quietly. The other agents glanced at him, nodded to Sherlock, and left them alone.

Sherlock knew this was as important to her as breathing. She looked him straight in the eye. “I told them the truth, nothing more. I intend to discuss this with Mr. Maitland as well. I’m thinking this is winding down, Dillon. I’m thinking we should stay in Washington, together, with all our people. I have this feeling that Moses and Claudia are going to try something very soon, and it’s going to be directed at you. We want to be here and we want to be ready.”

It was odd how often their instincts meshed. He closed his hand around her arm and said quietly, “You don’t need to speak to Mr. Maitland about this. I was thinking the same thing.”

She pulled away from him, started walking down the wide hallway before turning back to say, “Let’s go get Sean. I spoke to Graciella before the meeting. She wants to come home.”

“All right. I’ll call Ruth, tell her what’s going down here. We’re only two and a half hours away if something happens in Maestro.”

She gave him a crooked grin. “Much less by helicopter.”

Dane Carver came trotting up to them, his cell phone still in his hand. “Interesting news, guys. The police found an abandoned white van with a lawn mower and the words ‘Austin’s Gardening Service’ on its side in front of a warehouse on Webster Street. It looks like Moses didn’t just ditch it—he set it on fire.”

Savich sighed. “He knew we probably tracked that call Claudia made and might have a description of it. No point in waiting now. It could be they headed out of town.”

Dane said, “But you don’t believe it.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, twisting a lock of curly hair around her finger, a habit when she was thinking hard. “No, Moses isn’t about to leave, not until he takes his final shot at you.”

Savich nodded. “Then we’d better get ready.”

CHAPTER 28

MAESTRO, VIRGINIA FRIDAY MORNING

AT TEN O’CLOCK, Dix called Gordon’s office at Stanislaus.

“…I don’t know why I need to tell you that, Dix. She’s not a student here. I don’t see the point in involving her. Listen, it was nothing, a brief fling, nothing to make the earth move for either of us.”

“I can keep you nice and warm in my jail, Gordon, until you tell me what I want to know. Is the woman you left out Cynthia, Tony’s wife?”

“Cynthia,” Gordon said. If Dix wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of distaste in Gordon’s voice.

“Well, good for you,” Dix said. “That’s a relief. Talk to me, Gordon.” The silence dragged on. Dix said, “

I’m thinking handcuffs would make a nice visual for all your professors and students—”

“No, Dix! You can’t do that. I’m simply trying to protect a woman’s reputation, nothing more. You think I would sleep with Cynthia?”

“A woman’s reputation?” Dix asked. “Not a girl’s? Could it be there was maybe even a thread of gray in her hair?”

“No, she’s gorgeous and she’d sue me—”

Dix shook his head. “And here I thought Ginger would have the good taste not to sleep with a man her father’s age. You never know, do you? At least it wasn’t Cynthia. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Gordon finally gave it up. He told Dix he’d slept with Ginger Stanford two years ago, and all right, her mother, too, if they were interested, but the two of them lasted only a couple of months, hardly enough time to even regard it in the grand scheme of things.

When he paused to take a breath, Dix asked, “Who broke things off?”

“We ended up not liking each other very much. Ginger told me she’d expected more from me because she’d heard I was experienced, and that I didn’t give her what she wanted. She told me to take myself to a sex education class. Can you imagine the gall? Sex education! Me!”

“And Gloria Stanford? Was she unreasonable in her demands, too? Like mother, like daughter?”

A ruminative pause, Dix thought. “She’s immensely talented, you know that, Dix, but the fact is we were never really that attracted to each other. She never criticized me like her bitch of a daughter.”

Before he punched off, Dix warned Gordon, “Don’t even think about calling Ginger, Gordon. If you do I won’t give you an extra blanket in your cell.”

“SHERIFF, AGENT, WHAT are you doing here?” Henry O was on his feet, the question out of his mouth the moment Dix and Ruth came into the office. “Oh, I see. You don’t know anything more than the last time you were here, do you?”

Good, Dix thought, Gordon hadn’t called. Henry O looked natty in a crisp white shirt and well-made dark gray wool trousers, belted high.

“Actually, Henry, we’re here to arrest Ms. Stanford,” Ruth told him. She gave him a little wave and kept walking, Dix behind her.

“Are you nuts? You don’t arrest a lawyer; she’ll sue your socks off. Wait, wait! Oh, lordie, Ms. Ginger, they rolled over me!”

“Hard to believe,” Ginger Stanford said, rising slowly, dropping her beautiful black pen on the desktop. “

It’s okay, Henry. They’re not going to snap on the cuffs, I don’t think, are you, Dix?”

Dix gently shoved Henry out and closed the door. “Good morning, Ginger. Time for you to tell us about your short, uninspired affair with Gordon Holcombe.”

Ginger laughed. “Oh, sit down, both of you. You pried it out of him, did you? Yes, I slept with Gordon, and what a colossal mistake that was. No, simply a waste of my time. I really thought he’d be good. I can’t tell you how many times he gave me this intense, hungry look, but he was just a fumbling old man. I gave him a couple of chances, then kissed him off. End of story. You don’t actually think I had anything to do with those horrible murders, do you?”

Ruth asked, “Did you tell your mother about it?”

“Actually, I did. She only laughed and said she slept with him a couple of times herself, and agreed with me. Men of a certain age, she told me, usually aren’t adventurous or innovative, just happy if everything goes smoothly. She told me she lost her rose-colored glasses long ago, that there are very few men who know anything, and if they do, they usually don’t care, just hope for a fake orgasm to let them off the hook. She said the only thing she got from Gordon was a good interpretation pointer on Bartók’s Sonata for Solo Violin.” Ginger laughed.

“Why do you call your mother Gloria?” Ruth asked.

“What? Oh, Gloria. Well, the thing is she was gone practically all of my growing-up years, touring, you know. My dad checked out when I was ten, couldn’t take his wife being gone, couldn’t deal with me anymore, whatever. I was raised by two nannies, both of whom I still call Mom. She’s always been Gloria. Don’t get me wrong, I love and admire her, and she is my mother, when all’s said and done. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Why did you move to Maestro when she did? What was it? Six months after Christie and Dix moved here?”

She cocked her head at Ruth, poured some water out of a Pellegrino bottle into a crystal glass and sipped. “Christie and I went to school together. We were close.”

Dix pointed out, “But you had a very nice practice in New York City, didn’t you?”

Ginger said at last, “You’re a bulldog, Dix. Okay, there was a man in New York. It didn’t work out. Yes, he was married and I was stupid enough to believe him when he swore the marriage was over. He set the fool’s cap right on my head. I thought moving far away would make everything better—and it did, for the most part. May I ask why Gordon told you about me and my mother? Why is that any of your concern?”

Dix asked, “Were you angry that he slept with your mother?”

“Good heavens, no. Look, Dix, Gloria didn’t see that many men after my father went walkabout. Gordon is a talented man, and he can be a real charmer. I had no reason to mind. It might even have turned out well for her if he’d been different. He probably slithered out the door because Gloria didn’t fawn over him like he wanted her to, and why should she? She’s not twenty-two years old and ignorant as a stump. She’s more talented, more famous, and far richer than he’ll ever be.”

Ruth said, “You don’t think Gordon broke it off because he thought your mom was too old for him?”

“Hmm, I never thought of that. What a thought, Gordon dropping her because she was too old? He said that? Talk about the pot and kettle.” She grinned. “Well, duh.”

Dix and Ruth left her office ten minutes after they’d entered it. Dix said to Henry O on their way out, “

We forgot our handcuffs. Can you believe that? You keep an eye on Ms. Stanford for us, all right, Henry? Make sure she doesn’t try to make a break for it.”

Henry O stood tall. “You’ve got to pay me more if you want me to be your deputy, Sheriff.”

CHAPTER 29

MAESTRO, VIRGINIA FRIDAY AFTERNOON

DIX AND RUTH could hear Cynthia Holcombe’s voice a good fifteen feet from Tara’s front door. Dix placed a finger to his lips, stepped off the flagstone walkway before they reached the Gothic columns, and walked over the snow-covered lawn toward the side of the house. “The only person she yells at is Chappy. Well, usually. I’m betting they’re in the library. Let’s go see if I’m right.”

It was forty-one degrees under a sunless, steel-beam sky, fat snow clouds huddled over the mountains in front of them. A library window was cracked open and Cynthia Holcombe’s voice boomed out, loud and clear.

“You miserable old codger, there’s nothing wrong with me, and Tony would never divorce me! We’ve been trying for a year to have a grandchild for you. And stop talking to my mother, she doesn’t know anything about it. Another thing, I don’t sleep with other men. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“She knew enough to tell me you don’t like children. As for my poor son, he’s at his wit’s end, said you were lying to him, taking the pill on the sly and telling him you’re all excited about getting pregnant.”

“I’m not on the bloody pill! Why do you keep making these things up? Are you that bored? Why don’t you consider getting yourself a life? At least go spew your venom on someone else for a change.”

“Your mother insisted I couldn’t trust a thing you said, she—”

There was the sound of glass crashing against a wall, then Chappy chuckling. Cynthia was panting as she yelled, “Anyone who listens to my mother deserves what they get, you hear me? You want the truth, old man? I’m beginning to wonder if I want to have a child with your weak-willed son! I can’t believe he’s even able to walk since he has no backbone. He lets you kick him around until I want to scream.”

“Oh dear,” Ruth said.

Dix said, “Not quite what I expected. Time to break it up before she connects a vase to Chappy’s head. Then I’d have to arrest her, and that thought scares me.”

Ruth put a smile on for Cynthia when she jerked the front door open. “Well, what do—Dix, hello. Do come in. Oh, you. So you’re still here? Sorry, but I don’t remember your name. You’re some kind of police officer, too, aren’t you?”

“Some kind, yes,” Ruth said agreeably. “Agent Ruth Warnecki. I believe we had lunch together, what was it, two days ago? They say memory is the first to go.”

Cynthia said, “Yes, I’ve heard that, too. But why would I even want to remember you?”

“Good one,” Ruth said.

Dix said, “Ruth and I heard you and Chappy fighting from outside. You should have closed the library window.”

Cynthia shrugged, looking completely unconcerned. “Well?”

Dix walked right at her, and she moved at the last instant so he wouldn’t mow her down. He headed toward the library, Ruth at his side, Cynthia reluctantly trailing after them. The thing about the library, Ruth thought, looking around, was that it wasn’t a room for books, it was a room for CDs, hundreds of them, scrolled labels categorizing them—jazz, blues, three or four dozen classical composers listed by name. What books there were appeared to be the oversized coffee table sort. Dix waved her to a deep burgundy sofa. He sat on a hundred-year-old pale green brocade chair next to her. Cynthia sat opposite them, looking like she’d rather be in a dentist’s chair. Chappy wasn’t in the room. Dix said to her, “You and Chappy developed some new material. I never heard you insult Tony before. I

’m sorry it’s come to that, Cynthia.”

“You’re not married to him, Dix. You don’t see him fold whenever Chappy so much as frowns at him. He can’t imagine losing his position at the bank, as if that would ever happen.”

“What’d you throw at Chappy?”

“Just some stupid blue bowl someone sent him from China.”

Chappy said from the doorway, “The blue bowl was a very valuable ceramic fashioned during the Kangxi period of the Qing Dynasty, circa 1690.” He strolled in as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. “She shattered a three-hundred-year-old work of art that cost me more than a divorce from this viper would cost Tony.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell him what I said,” Cynthia said, her expression a study of anger, frustration, and something Dix couldn’t pinpoint. He pictured the bowl in his mind, remembered how exquisite it was. If he were Chappy, he’d be cussing mad about it. He said only, “Was the bowl insured?”

“Sure, but who cares about the money?”

Cynthia jumped out of her seat, waving her fist at him. “That’s the only thing you do care about, Chappy

—money and control over everyone you know. Don’t pretend to be a martyr and a victim.” She turned to Dix. “He wants me out of Tony’s life and away from here.”

Dix shrugged. “So why don’t you and Tony leave? You have alternatives, Cynthia. Do you really want to raise a child here at Tara?”

Cynthia shuddered as she said, “No, of course not, but what I want doesn’t matter. Tony won’t leave.”

Chappy said, “No, my son isn’t going anywhere, Cynthia.” He turned to Dix and Ruth. “If this harpy won

’t give him a child, she can take off herself as far as I’m concerned, maybe screw Gordon’s brains out on her way out of town.”

“I don’t think Gordon has the time,” Ruth said. “He’s pretty much occupied right now.”

“Twister was never too busy for sex.” Chappy studied his fingernails. “Do you know Gordon can tell you the name of any perfume a woman wears, his nose is that sensitive? Always amazed me.” Chappy shook his head. “Tony’s going to attend that memorial at Stanislaus, said it wouldn’t look good if the local bankers didn’t pay their respects.”

Dix said, “We’re going as well.”

“Well, I’m not. Why should I? Twister will be there, some young sweetie sitting beside him, I’ll bet, holding his hand and squeezing it while he cries. He can cry on demand, which always pissed me off.”

Cynthia said, venom as thick as cream in her voice, “You’ve got to have a heart to cry, Chappy.”

Chappy ignored his daughter-in-law. He said to Dix, “Are you going to take Twister off to jail?”

“We’ll see.”

“If I thought you were serious, I’d get him a lawyer.” Chappy rubbed his hands together. “Twister wouldn’t mind having some deep pockets in the family then, would he? What do you think, Dix? One of those O.J. lawyers? What about that little Shrek guy from Boston? Hmm, I could start checking this out, tell Twister what I’m doing.” Chappy walked from the room whistling. He turned in the doorway and gave Ruth a little wave. “I’m going to find a new vase, maybe Japanese this time. Hey, Agent Ruth, I hear Twister asked you out to dinner. You going to go?”

“Depends on the restaurant,” Ruth said easily.

“Wear pants,” Chappy said. “It’s your best defense.” He strolled past the shards of the ceramic bowl without a glance.

“He’s insane,” Cynthia said. “Really, Dix, the old fool is quite mad. Imagine claiming I’m taking birth control pills when Tony and I are trying to have a baby. Imagine me sleeping with Gordon. Hasn’t Chappy looked at his own son? Tony is very handsome, don’t you think?”

“Handsome and weak?”

“I guess I shouldn’t have said that, but Chappy makes me so mad and I mouth off just to get back at him. The reason he won’t let Tony go is that he’s Chappy’s only ticket to immortality now that Christie’s gone

—” Cynthia shrugged, looked away from Dix.

“She’s not merely gone, Cynthia, as in off finding herself or on an extended vacation. She’s dead. And you know it.”

Cynthia nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose she is.”

“As I said, the two of you should move away from this house and from Chappy.”

“The thing is, I really don’t want to leave Tara. Maybe Chappy will kick off soon and Tony will inherit all this.”

“Don’t hold your breath. I’d give him another twenty years. You and Tony should move to Richmond. Tony could head the bank there, hire a manager for the bank here in Maestro, and let Chappy torment him. When Chappy’s out of the picture someday, you can move back to Tara, if you like.”

Cynthia strolled over to the front windows, pulled back the heavy brocade curtain and looked out. Cold air flooded the room. She closed the window as she said over her shoulder, “Tony’s afraid to leave, afraid he’ll fall on his face if he does, or that Chappy will disinherit him.”

She shrugged. “Christie could have talked him into leaving, but I can’t. I wish she wasn’t dead, Dix, I really miss her.”

“You didn’t appear to appreciate her all that much when she was here, Cynthia. Why the change of heart now?”

“I know better now, I guess.” Cynthia turned away from the window and paced the full length of the twenty-five-foot library before she turned back again. “Are you here for lunch? Mrs. Goss didn’t say anything to me.”

“No, we’re not here for lunch. For one thing, I wanted to ask you some questions about Chappy’s whereabouts last Friday night.”

“Goodness, that was when you found Ruth, wasn’t it? Chappy was here late, that’s all I know. What did he tell you?”

“That he was here, working in his office,” Dix said. “How about Tony? Where was he?”

“Making me a very happy woman, at least after about ten o’clock Friday evening. He was at the bank all day, I suppose. He usually is. He left for a couple of hours after dinner. He didn’t say where he was going and I didn’t ask. When he came back, he had a bottle of champagne under his arm, a big smile on his face. He wanted to be with me right away, so we went upstairs to bed. I remember Chappy was home because he knocked on our bedroom door about eleven o’clock, demanding to know what I was doing to his son. I was glad I’m always careful to lock the door. That wasn’t the first time he did that.”

Dix didn’t think Chappy had been interested in sex since his wife died so many years before. “He probably wanted to give the two of you grief. Tony didn’t tell you where he went after dinner?”

“He probably went back to the bank. He tries to be anywhere his father isn’t. I’d had another fight on the phone with my mother and I was fuming, not really paying attention to anyone.” She yawned. “Fighting with Chappy always exhausts me. Maybe I’ll drive to Richmond, do some shopping; it’ll help me forget.”

“You’re not going to Erin’s memorial?” Ruth asked.

“I really didn’t know her all that well, now did I?” Cynthia yawned and rose.

“I DON’T KNOW why I bother,” Dix said some minutes later as they walked to the Range Rover. “Oh yes, Tony did work late at the bank last Friday evening, according to the security guard, and he was there all day, according to the employees and Tony’s secretary. As for Chappy, Mrs. Goss claims he was gone during the day on Friday, but she doesn’t know where he went. He never explains anything to anyone. I’ll ask him about it directly.”

“Have you heard anything from Richmond about who might have hired Dempsey and Slater to kill me?”

“Not a thing from either the field agents or the Richmond PD. I’ll give Detective Morales a call, maybe promise him you’ll have dinner with him if he comes through. You like Italian, don’t you?”

Ruth grinned. “It’s a toss-up, Dix, between your stew and spaghetti Bolognese.”

ERIN BUSHNELL’S MEMORIAL was held in the large auditorium in Gainsborough Hall. A dozen lavish wreaths were set up around the stage, and a two-by-three-foot color photograph of Erin playing her violin hung from the ceiling. She looked so young, Ruth thought. The auditorium was filled to capacity. Dix would bet every student and professor at Stanislaus was there. Those who couldn’t find seating were huddled against the walls and sitting on the steps in the aisles. He saw a lot of townies, too, sprinkled throughout the auditorium.

He and Ruth got lots of looks, some of them frowns, some tentative greetings. Erin’s parents were a conservative-looking couple, pale and silent, unable, he imagined, to come to grips with their daughter’s violent death. He’d met them, expressed his sympathy, when they first arrived. He had lost his wife, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. He thought of Rafe and Rob, and losing them would be the biggest hit life could dish out.

They would never find out exactly what was done to their daughter, if he could help it. Drugged and stabbed, that was horrible enough without adding the rest. Dix could only hope the half dozen people who knew the truth would never have to let it out.

He spent the memorial studying the faces around him, and knew Ruth was doing the same thing. There were half a dozen eulogies, including a very moving one by Gloria Stanford, and another by Gordon, who looked barely able to control his tears. The Presbyterian minister from Maestro focused on God’s providence and his belief in God’s own justice for Erin, an idea that seemed to resonate with the six-hundred-plus people in the auditorium.

Dix saw Tony and Gloria Stanford sitting on either side of Gordon, Gloria holding his hand. He saw Milton Bean from the Maestro Daily Telegraph.

No one acted unexpectedly. The fact was, Dix felt brain-dead. He was tired of seeing everyone as potential suspects, and though he mourned Erin Bushnell’s passing, he grew tired of hearing her praised beyond what most human beings would justly deserve at the age of twenty-two. He thought of Helen, her body released by the coroner to her brother, who finally agreed to a memorial at Stanislaus the following week, and of old Walt, seemingly not important enough for a formal memorial, buried now in the two-hundred-year-old town cemetery on Coyote Hill. Dix had been surprised to see a small crowd of townspeople, his real friends, at the graveside service. Walt would have been pleased by that.

After the memorial Dix drove to Leigh Ann’s Blooms for All Occasions and bought a bouquet of carnations. He and Ruth drove to Coyote Hill, and together they walked to Walt McGuffey’s grave, a raw gash in the earth. Dix went down on one knee and placed the carnations at the head of the grave. “I ordered a stone to be carved for him. It should be here next week.”

Ruth said, “I would have come to his funeral with you yesterday if you’d only asked me.”

“You were on the phone to Washington. I didn’t want to disturb you. And you’re tired, Ruth, we both are. You’ve been through an awful lot. Now, it’s cold out here. I don’t want you to get sick. Let’s go home.”

She nodded, and it struck her that he’d called it home—for both of them. That was odd, and a little scary, yet it made her feel very good. She’d lived with him and his boys for a week now, and it felt more natural every day. Dix was an honorable man, and he cared—about his boys foremost, about his town, about doing the right thing. As for how that long, fit body of his looked in low-slung jeans, she didn’t want to think about that.

She wanted to talk to him more about Christie, but knew now wasn’t the time. Not yet. She might not have known him for all that long, but she knew in her soul that if Christie was at all like her, she would never have left him or the boys. Not willingly. Something very bad had happened to Christie Noble, and everybody knew it.

As they walked back to the Range Rover, Dix felt her looking at him, but he couldn’t see her eyes through the opaque black lenses of her sunglasses. She huddled in her bulky black leather jacket next to him on the front seat, her purple wool scarf around her neck, and pulled her matching purple wool cap nearly to her ears. Dix noticed she was wearing her own socks, not the nice thick ones Rafe had loaned her. He turned up the heat.

CHAPTER 30

THEY GOT HOME just before six o’clock. As Dix unlocked the front door, Ruth’s cell phone rang and she turned away to answer it. After a couple of minutes, she punched off. “That was Sherlock. Things are coming together. She and Dillon are going to stay in Washington, unless, she promised me, we needed them in any way. I told her we’re fine here.”

He hurried since Brewster’s nails were scraping madly against the front door.

“Brewster, hold on! Don’t forget, Ruth, if he jumps on you, hold him away.”

“Nah, Brewster won’t pee on the person who fed him some hot dog under the kitchen table last night.”

When Dix opened the front door, Ruth grabbed Brewster before he could climb her leg. She held him close, laughing and kissing his little face. He never stopped barking or wagging his tail.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Brewster, how could you?”

Brewster looked up and licked her jaw.

“We’ll get the coat to the cleaner’s tomorrow. They’ll be able to get the smell out—I happen to know this for a fact. And the leather won’t stain.”

Ruth laughed. “You little ingrate, what did you want that I didn’t give you? A bun with your hot dog?

Some mustard, maybe?”

“Well, hang it up,” Dix said, pulled her against him, Brewster between them, barking his head off, and kissed her.

Dix pulled back almost immediately and pressed his forehead to hers. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to

—Well, yes I did.”

He pulled Brewster away from Ruth, hugged him, then set him on the floor. To his surprise, Brewster didn’t take offense. He sat looking up at them, his head cocked to one side, tail wagging. Ruth felt a bit shell-shocked. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “Ah, I’m not sorry, either. Actually, I

—”

“Dad!”

“What’s that smell? Oh, Brewster got you, Ruth?”

“Yeah, he did, Rafe. Hi, guys. What’d you make for dinner?”

Rafe and Rob looked at each other. “Well, we were sort of waiting for you.”

“Pizza,” Rob said. “I can put frozen pizza in the oven.”

“You mean,” she said slowly, looking back and forth at them, “you guys let your father do all the work?”

“Well, sometimes ladies bring us food.”

“We do laundry and clean our rooms.”

“He doesn’t have to cook so much, really. We’d be happy to eat pizza more often,” Rob said. Dix said, “I’m going to broil some fish and bake potatoes. Rob, Rafe, finish up your homework in the next hour.”

“Oh yeah, sure, Dad.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Like I’m going to buy that one. I want you both in your rooms, studying. No TV, no earphones.”

“Dad?”

Dix heard a thread of something in Rafe’s voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. He wondered if the boys had seen him kiss Ruth. Better if they hadn’t; it was too soon. “What is it, Rafe?”

Rafe shot a look at his brother, then looked down at his sneakers. “Mrs. Benson, my math teacher, was crying today. You know, she knew all three of the murdered people.”

Dix picked up Brewster, stuffed him into his coat, zipped it halfway up, and brought both boys against him. “I know this is tough. You can bet it’s tough for Ruth and me, too. I told you straight last night—I will catch the person behind these murders, I promise you that.”

Rafe tried to smile. “By Tuesday.” He pressed his face against his father’s shoulder. “That’s what I told Mrs. Benson. She swallowed hard and said she sure hoped so since she voted for you.”

Dix said slowly, looking from one face to the other, “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

Rafe hugged his father’s waist. Rob was slower, stepped back so he could look squarely at his father. Dix saw, to his shock, that Rob looked no more than two or three inches shorter than he. When had he shot up like this? He was filling out, too, his shoulders less bony, his chest and arms thicker. “Tell me what’s wrong, Rob.”

Ruth stood silently, knowing she probably shouldn’t be there, but that didn’t help her feet move. She held still and kept quiet.

Rob stole a look at her. “I saw you kiss Ruth, Dad.”

Rafe jerked back, stared at his father then at Ruth. “You kissed her? When?”

“A minute ago,” Rob said.

“Yeah,” Dix said, “I did. Maybe I didn’t plan it, but I did.”

“Well, if you really didn’t mean to—” Rob said, and looked closely at his father.

“That wasn’t exactly the truth,” Dix said. “I wanted to, although I knew I shouldn’t, but I did anyway. Either of you got a problem with that?”

There was a moment of charged silence, then Rob whispered, “It’s Mom.”

Dix had known this moment would come, sooner or later, when a woman finally came into his life. In the days after Christie disappeared, Dix had wandered around in a fog of pain, too busy trying to find her to try to sort things out with the boys. When his brain began to clear some weeks later, he realized the boys very much needed to talk with him about their mother. He also realized he needed them as much as they needed him. What he gave them was as much honesty as he could. In return they got into the habit of always telling him what they were feeling. At least he’d believed that was the case. As for himself, he’d let his own pain stay buried, for the boys’ sake, and they slowly adjusted, accepted what couldn’t be changed. Until now, when his kissing Ruth had finished their unspoken agreement. Dix ran his hands through his sons’ hair, love, pain, and guilt sweeping over him, nothing new in that. But now Ruth was added to the mix.

Rob said again, “It’s Mom.”

Dix said, “I know, Rob, I know. But your mom’s been gone for almost three years now.”

Rafe said, “Billy Caruthers—you know, that jerk on the baseball team I beat out as pitcher—he was shooting his mouth off about how he bet Mom ran off with a guy she met at the gym. I don’t believe it—

but if that’s true, maybe she’ll come back.”

Hard, raw anger roiled in Dix’s belly. “You know that didn’t happen, Rafe.”

Rob’s eyes blurred with tears, but his voice was steady. “Yeah, I know. I told him Mom wouldn’t do that, and that’s when we got into a fight.”

Rafe said, “And Uncle Tony told us that maybe she got real sick and didn’t want us to see her die, and so she left. But if that’s true, Dad, why didn’t she write and tell us?”

“Your uncle Tony told you that? When was that, Rafe?”

“Maybe three months ago.”

Rob nodded. “I asked Uncle Tony if she had cancer, but he said he didn’t know, but it had to be something bad, something that couldn’t be cured.”

They simply didn’t want to accept that their mother was dead. Dix well understood denial because he’d felt the same thing many times himself. “Listen to me, your mother would never have left us, never. No sickness, nothing would have made her up and leave without a word. Why didn’t either of you tell me about this?”

Rob wouldn’t meet his father’s eyes. He shook his head, his eyes on Brewster. “It’s Ruth, Dad. We told you because of Ruth.”

“I see. I didn’t plan to kiss Ruth, but it happened. At some point I have to move forward with my life, with my feelings, hard as that is for all of us. Your mother would want that. I wish you’d come to me when you heard these things and not kept them hidden deep inside. I thought we were well beyond that.”

Rob whispered, “You believe Mom’s dead because that’s the only way she’d leave us for this long.”

There was silence in the entrance hall. Dix looked at his boys. He’d told them the truth since the beginning, but he knew they didn’t want to accept it, and he, because he’d hated their pain, hadn’t pushed it that hard. Well, only the stark truth would do now. And so he said, holding them both away so he could look at them, “Let me say it again, your mom wouldn’t have left us for a single day, you both know that. I pray every day that I’ll find out what happened to her because all of us need to know. I’ll never stop looking, never.

“I know she’s dead, Rob, know it in my head and in my heart. Since your mother left—No, let me be clear about it. Since your mother died, I’ve tried to love you with her love added on to mine, and believe me, that’s enough love to reach all the way to heaven. And that’s where your mom is. And every once in a while, I feel her close by, and I know she’ll always be here for us.

“You know I’ve searched and searched for any clue to help us find out what happened to her but there haven’t been any. I’m more sorry than I can say about that. Something bad happened to your mom, and I wish I’d been this straight with you sooner. I was dead wrong. I see now that we have been trying to keep the truth buried deep because it hurts so badly. We won’t do that anymore. It’s not fair to any of us. You’ve both been very brave, and I am so very proud of you.”

Dix straightened, looked over at Ruth, then down at his sons. “You saw me kissing Ruth and it upset you. I understand that. Truth is, I like Ruth very much. I have no idea what she thinks of me, but I do know she’s smart and nice and she really likes you delinquents. Can we keep things loose? Is that good enough for the time being?”

“Ruth isn’t Mom,” Rafe said.

“Of course not. Ruth isn’t anything like your mother, but the thing is, she doesn’t take a thing away from your mother, doesn’t make her any less special to you or me or anyone who knew her and loved her. Do you understand?”

The boys looked stony.

“Actually, Ruth is exactly like your mom in a couple of important ways. She’s tough and she’s good all the way through.” Dix handed Brewster to Rafe. “You don’t need to study right now. Here, take the Doberman out for a walk until I call you for dinner.”

Dix and Ruth watched them toe off their sneakers, put on boots, jackets, and gloves, and head out. The front door slammed behind them. At least that was normal for them. They heard them yelling to Brewster, and that was normal, too. He turned to Ruth. “Do you want to go sponge off that beautiful leather jacket?

”

Ruth looked at him, bemused. “You really think I’m tough?”

“Maybe. Though I wouldn’t mind being caught in a dark alley with you.” He laughed. “When you get through with your jacket, you want to help me whip up a salad and save us all from a frozen pizza?”

CHAPTER 31

WASHINGTON, D.C. FRIDAY NIGHT

SAVICH’S CELL PHONE played the opening lines of Bolero at 9:15 that evening. He was tucking Sean in for the night, reminding him again about what it was like to take care of a puppy. He kissed him good night, then walked into the hallway.

“Savich.”

“Savich, Quinlan here. An explosion just rocked the Bonhomie Club—might be the boiler, we don’t know yet. There’s lots of smoke, people are hurt, and panic’s going to hurt more.”

“Is Ms. Lilly all right?”

“Yes, but she’s not about to let a fire burn all her jazz records. I don’t know yet about Marvin and Fuzz.”

“Keep her out of the club, Quinlan. I’m on my way.”

Savich forced himself to be calm. He looked back into Sean’s room, saw that he was well tucked in under his favorite blanket, Robocop next to him. He quickly walked back in, kissed his boy again. Sean gave a little snort in his sleep.

Savich found Graciella and Sherlock in the kitchen eating popcorn and drinking Diet Dr Pepper. When Sherlock saw him, she jumped to her feet. “What happened, Dillon?”

“James Quinlan just called from the Bonhomie Club. There’s been an explosion. Maybe the boiler blew, he didn’t know, but people are hurt. It sounds like a mess. Ms. Lilly’s all right, just really mad, I bet. I’ve got to go down and help.”

“It might not be the boiler, Dillon, and you know it. It might be Moses Grace.”

“It might be, but it doesn’t matter. Those are our friends there, Sherlock.”

“We’ll both go. And we’ll keep our eyes open. Graciella, we’ll be back when we can.”

They heard Graciella yell from behind them, “Be careful!”

They heard the sirens two blocks from Houtton Street, a “border” neighborhood five years before, now slowly gentrifying.

Emergency lights flashed, lighting the sky like Bat signals. They saw fire trucks parked sideways on the street and up on the sidewalks, firemen running toward the club, hoses and axes in hand. A media van screeched to a stop close to the police cars and fire trucks, hoping the cops wouldn’t have time to order them out. Houtton Street was blocked off, as well as the side streets. The first line of police was trying to hold back gawkers, reporters, and cameramen. Behind them, others were helping patrons streaming out of the club, stumbling, dirty, coughing, yelling for their boyfriends, their wives, whomever. Reporters stuck microphones in any face that came close enough. They blurted out their questions, happy and eager to ask about the disaster, maybe get their spot on the late news. There were a good hundred people jostling about, many of them dressed for a Friday night at the club, many of them bystanders who had gathered to look or to help. Savich pulled the Porsche directly in front of the club, where six cops had kept a space clear, probably for the chief of police, or maybe some politician who’d called ahead to do a sound bite showing his interest in and compassion for this largely black area. Before the cops could yell at him to move, Savich jumped out and flipped out his shield. “Agent Dillon Savich. What’s happening?”

Officer Greenberg, one meaty fist aimed at a reporter who’d managed to break through his line, panted,

“An explosion of some kind in the club. Not a big one, I don’t think, but there’s lots of thick black smoke, which helped feed the panic. You know what happens when folks try to stampede out of a club like this. So far I’ve counted maybe a dozen injured. Almost everyone is out, but there’s still the fire to contend with and making sure no one is trapped in all that poisonous smoke. Hey, get that guy with the microphone back! Sorry. It’s taking a while, Agent Savich, but we’re getting things under control. I know it still looks like pandemonium but you should have been here ten minutes ago. Stay back!” he yelled at three reporters who’d seen Savich and were trying to get to him.

“Blowhard sharks,” he added when their flashes went off. “You’ll probably be on the news, Agent Savich, everyone knows who you are. You need to talk to Detective Millbray. He’s in charge along with Detective Fortnoy. I’ll get you to him, otherwise you’ll never find him.”

“Savich!”

Agent James Quinlan ran to him, grabbed his arm. He was filthy, his suit jacket ripped, and he had a small cut over his eye. “Glad you got here so fast. I shouldn’t have scared you. It’s not as bad as I first thought. More smoke than anything else. But that explosion was so bloody loud, it shook the whole building. Ms. Lilly’s all right, frothing at the mouth about the club, as you can imagine, and about her white dress. Fuzz the bartender is okay, just inhaled some smoke. He’s helping get people out. An ambulance took Marvin the bouncer to the hospital. I think he went down in the panic to get out of the club. The paramedic said he’ll be all right.”

“Where’s Ms. Lilly?”

“I saw her and a fireman hauling out boxes, probably her records and accounts. There she is, over by the firemen, telling them what to do.” He grinned, his teeth very white against his smoke-blackened face. Savich almost didn’t recognize Ms. Lilly. Her beautiful white satin dress was ruined. But she was yelling, and that was a huge relief. He waved to Officer Greenberg. “Hold on a moment, I’ll be right back.”

Savich grabbed Sherlock’s hands and pulled her close so she could hear him. “I want you to hang back, keep your eyes open for Moses and Claudia. Maybe we’re being paranoid, but you know what I think about coincidences. I’m going to ask the detective to have three officers surround you, just in case. If you spot Moses and Claudia, yell at the top of your lungs, okay?”

She nodded. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about being trampled trying to get through the throngs of people. He left her leaning against the driver’s side of the Porsche, her SIG held loosely at her side, looking through the jostling crowd. She watched Officer Greenberg lead Dillon and James Quinlan through the hordes of clubgoers, cops, and firemen to where a bull of a man was closely studying a device in his big hands, his back to the chaos. He was wearing a long wool coat, one of those big Russian fur caps on his head.

Savich tapped Detective Millbray on the shoulder. He turned quickly, started when he saw Savich, then studied his shield. He looked faintly puzzled, then, “Hey, I know who you are, Agent Savich. Ben Raven’

s worked with you, right? He’s around here somewhere. That girlfriend of his, the reporter with the Post, she’s been bugging everybody. At least she got some blood on her, pulled somebody out from under a chair. I’m Ralph Millbray.”

Savich introduced Detective Millbray to Agent James Quinlan. “Quinlan isn’t just an FBI agent. He performs here one night a week on his saxophone.”

“That’s some combination, Agent Quinlan.”

Savich said immediately, “Please send a few of your guys over to guard that redheaded woman standing against the Porsche at the curb. It’s critical. I’ll explain later.”

Quinlan and Savich watched Detective Millbray quickly assemble four cops and dispatch them to surround Sherlock.

“Thank you, Detective. What have you got?”

Detective Millbray handed Savich the device. “Would you take a gander at this harmless-looking little gadget. It’s a piece of a cell phone, used as a homemade detonator. It’s a pretty popular item in the Middle East, as you probably know. Turns out the blast didn’t cause all that much damage, but it created enough of a rumble and spewed out enough thick black smoke to scare the crap out of everybody. Whoever went to the trouble and tossed the bomb could have put a much bigger charge on it. It was just enough to set off the mad stampede. It almost looks like some kind of sick stunt, like someone wanted to close the place down.”

“It wasn’t about closing this business, Detective,” Savich said. “When Agent Quinlan called me, I knew it could have been Moses Grace. He knows I perform here on occasion and am friends with Ms. Lilly. That’s why I asked for protection for Agent Sherlock. She’s my wife.”

Detective Millbray grew very still. “You mean that crazy old guy every cop in the city is looking for? And that teenage girl?”

Savich nodded.

Detective Millbray shouted for his sergeant and stepped away for a moment. When he returned, he said,

“I’ve told him to tell everyone the perpetrators might still be here. And I’ve told him who it might be. If he knew this place, knew the owner was important to you, then why did he just flirt with this pissant little bomb and not make it a full-bore disaster?”

Another plainclothes detective stepped up. “I’m Detective Jim Fortnoy. I’ve called for more police. We’

re going to do a sweep for those two.”

Savich nodded, then turned back to Detective Millbray. “You asked me—”

He heard Sherlock yell. She was swinging her SIG upward, to a point beyond his right shoulder. She yelled, “Dillon, get down!”

She fired off two shots as she ran toward him, the four cops running behind her, their guns out, firing up at the two-story building.

But Savich wasn’t looking over his shoulder, he was looking at his Porsche. He thought of the bomb Moses had left at Hooter’s Motel. There were a dozen people milling around the Porsche, and he knew as surely as he knew his name what Moses had planned. He cupped his hands around his mouth, yelled as loud as he could, “Run! Get away from the Porsche! There’s a bomb! Run!”

Fortnoy and Millbray shouted with him even though they didn’t understand. Wasn’t Moses Grace in the building behind them? But there was no return gunfire.

No one hesitated. Nerves on hair triggers from the terror in the club made them scatter fast. Detective Millbray grabbed Savich’s arm. “Why do you think there’s a bomb there? Your wife and the police have been shooting up at that building. What’s happening, Savich?”

Savich heard the roar as his Porsche exploded into a ball of flame. There was an incredible concussion and a wave of heat that sucked up all the air. The power of the blast flung the dozen people closest outward, forcing them to the pavement or hurling them into one another. Savich heard screams, and a policeman yelling for everyone to stay down and remain calm. Savich, flanked by half a dozen cops, ran toward them. He fell to his knees in front of a young woman lying motionless on the sidewalk, and touched his fingertips to the pulse in her throat. Thank God, she was alive. He yelled for a paramedic. After an eerie moment of quiet, firemen started to rush toward the burning Porsche, some pulling their fire hoses, others pulling people to safety, carrying those who couldn’t walk. It was a nightmare landscape—the screams, the moans, the weeping, the roaring orange flames that gushed into the night air, the struggle to control panic and fear.

Savich whirled around, yelling Sherlock’s name. He’d seen her for only an instant when she ran toward him, looking up, firing her SIG. He saw her then. Her wool cap was gone, her hair streaming about her shoulders looking like it was on fire in the surreal glow of the orange flames. Then she was there, right in front of him, her face black, her heavy coat ripped. “I thought I saw him up in a window on the second floor. He was aiming down at you. Some of the cops went up there to look.”

She hugged him close, her hands patting him all over. “You all right?”

He nodded against her hair.

She pulled back, studied his face. “He blew up your Porsche. He wanted me to go out with it. Do you think he could have detonated it from that window up there?”

“We’ll find out soon.” For a moment, he couldn’t speak. It had been so very close. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you saw someone up there. It saved your life.” That actually sounded calm, he thought, as he stared down at the most important person in the world.

Then she grinned up at him, filthy and beautiful. “You were the psychic about the car bomb. Where do you think Moses went?”

“Millbray and Fortnoy have half the cops in Washington on it.”

After fifteen minutes of chaos, people began to sort themselves out, growing calmer once their loved ones were close and safe. Many simply left, grateful to be alive, afraid of more explosions. Paramedics went from group to group, leading the injured to waiting ambulances. Television cameras were everywhere, the spectacular footage of the explosion’s aftermath already on the airwaves.

“Savich!”

Savich looked up to see Ben Raven running toward them, Callie Markham behind him, her coat flapping around her boots. “I’m here with Sherlock. We’re okay.”

Ben was panting, sweat running down his face. “All right. Good. What an unholy mess. I just put a man, probably with internal injuries, into an ambulance. A kid, here to check out the scene, got hit in the head with a piece of metal. I think he’ll be okay. Damn, Savich, your Porsche. Your beautiful Porsche.”

“You sound like you’ve just lost your best friend,” Callie said and punched him in the arm. “Get a grip here, Ben, it’s only a car. What’s important is that Dillon and Sherlock are okay. I’ve never seen anything like this, but the cops are dealing. It’s amazing how well they’re dealing.”

“But I never got to drive it.”

Savich said, “Moses Grace and Claudia might still be close by, but I doubt it. Too risky. He had to be close enough to set up the Porsche, and Sherlock spotted him up in that window. He must have picked the moment to drop the bomb in the car and walked away, not that difficult with all the people milling about. He must have been waiting for me to walk back to it. Until Sherlock spotted him.” It hit him again, a cold shot to the gut. He looked at Sherlock, pulled her so tight against him she couldn’t breathe. Her coat was still warm, and her hair smelled like dirty smoke.

“I’m all right,” she whispered. “Really, I’m okay.” She relaxed against him, stroked her hands up and down his back.

“I’m an idiot. We shouldn’t ever have come here. You were right, it was a setup. If you hadn’t seen Moses and run toward me, you would have been killed, you and those cops with you.”

Ben and Callie looked at each other. Slowly, Callie pulled out her tape recorder and began speaking into it quietly.

“Please, Callie, off the record,” Dillon said.

He watched her until she nodded and turned off the recorder.

Savich turned to look at the smoldering ruins of his Porsche, his pride and joy since his dad had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday. Now it was nothing but twisted metal and black smoke. He saw a plate-size chunk of red metal sitting askew at the edge of the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry about your Porsche, Dillon.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Savich pulled her close to him. He felt something wet under his right hand, and his heart dropped to his feet.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong, what’s—”

“Oh dear,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “I guess maybe I didn’t clear the minefield.”

Savich jerked off her coat, saw blood staining her right arm.

Savich picked up his wife and carried her to the paramedics, who were packing their medical supplies away in the back of an open ambulance. John Edsel, not a day over twenty-five, tall and buff as a surfer, immediately snapped to. “Hey, what’s this? Hold on, Gus, we got more business.” John motioned for Savich to ease Sherlock down on a gurney. He lifted her legs.

“No, please, Dillon, let me sit up. The last thing I want is to be flat on my back.”

Savich sat her on the edge of the gurney, held her against him as he spoke to the paramedic. Edsel nodded. “Agent, you’re going to have to let her go. Take two steps back, that’s all the room I need. Let me take a look. You said she’s been wounded in this arm before?”

Savich nodded. “Yeah, a knife wound a few years back when she didn’t move fast enough.”

“Why didn’t you move fast enough?” John asked her as he cut away her sweater to see the wound. Sherlock knew he was trying to distract her, but sudden throbbing pain hit her so hard she nearly passed out. She’d forgotten how pain like this could slam down like a hammer on bone. She tried to keep focused on the present. “I guess I didn’t work out enough so I was slow. Dillon was really angry, took it out on me at the gym when I was well enough, worked me so hard I sweated off my eyebrows. Now I’

m so strong I could lift that ambulance. Don’t worry, I’m not going to pass out.”

“Oh I see, you’re an FBI agent, too. You guys sure lead exciting lives. Was that your Porsche that got blown up? Okay, this isn’t too bad, Agent, your coat really protected you. Whatever hit you wasn’t flying too fast. You’re going to need a couple of stitches. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

John paused to look over at the twisted, smoking ruin. “A real pity about your Porsche. Okay, you ready to lie down, Agent?” John turned her on the gurney and helped her to lie down, but he was looking over at the Porsche carcass, shaking his head.

CHAPTER 32

WASHINGTON, D.C. LATE FRIDAY NIGHT

IT WAS CLOSE to midnight when Ben Raven brought them home in his Crown Vic. Sherlock, full of pain meds, her right arm in a sling, was singing the theme to Star Wars, but she was so loopy it wasn’t coming out right. She said good night to Ben and let Dillon carry her inside the house. After they had told Graciella what happened, Savich carried her upstairs. He sat her on the side of the bed and started to undress her when his cell phone rang.

Sherlock stopped singing, whispered, “It’s midnight, right on the dot. He has a sense of timing, doesn’t he?”

She watched Dillon nod as he drew a deep breath, saw his control settle in. He let the cell phone ring three times, then nodded to her, and Sherlock dialed the Hoover Building on their land line to alert them that Dillon was on with Moses Grace.

Savich said, “Quite a splash you made, Moses.”

“Lit up the night, didn’t we? And there you and your little wife were. I like that, shows me how important I am to you. Claudia and I had a ball watching all those yahoos blast out of that club, screaming, pushing, knocking each other over. People are so rude, aren’t they? Good manners only on the surface. No such thing as right and wrong when it comes down to survival. I picked the Bonhomie Club just for you, what with all your friends there. I knew you couldn’t stay away.

“And sure enough, here you come roaring up in your shiny red car, just like I knew you would. Claudia saw you jump out and practically licked her lips.”

The old man cackled, hiccupped, and swallowed phlegm. Savich could almost see him rubbing his veiny hand over his mouth. “Hey, a pity about your pride and joy, boy. I believe I had a tear in my eye when it went up in flames.

“Claudia says we’re getting to know each other too well, you know that? Your little wife spots me up in that window. Surprised the hell out of me when she started yelling and firing her gun. She nearly got me, but Claudia pulled me away in time.” The old man sighed. “Then you had to guess what was going to happen.

“Claudia was bummed that your little cutie wasn’t plastered against your Porsche when it blew. She wanted to see her fly through the air, like the pieces of your car.”

Savich let the contempt blast out. “Yeah, you screwed up again, just like at the motel. But you’re an old man, Moses, lost your edge because you’re so sick and weak. You know something else? You’re a liar, a pathetic, twisted liar.”

“Huh? What’re you talking about, boy? We was playing games, we didn’t really want to blow your flesh away from your bones, not at Hooter’s, but if it happened, well then, fun time would have been over, wouldn’t it? What’s this about me lying to you? I ain’t never lied to you, boy.”

“Oh yeah you did. You claimed I tortured a woman, made her scream, and then you said I murdered her. That’s a lie. I never tortured anyone, never murdered anyone, man or woman. Only you and that psychopath Lolita you’re with do that. Why’d you make something like that up, Moses? Are you so pathetic you have to make up ridiculous crap like that to feel important?”

Savich heard the roll of phlegm, heard the old man’s breathing hitch and bubble, then his voice exploded through the phone. “I didn’t make up anything, you bastard! You showed her no mercy, and you’re not going to get any!”

Savich bore down, his voice snarly. “You’re a liar, Moses. Why are you lying?”

“You waited until she was free, and then you murdered her. I’m going to make you sorry for that. Tell you what, boy, I’ll be sure you know who she was before you die. Just before. Everything up to now was for fun, but not any longer. Now I’m going to get to you and I’m going to make you suffer like she did. You’re going to pay.” The phone disconnected, cutting off in the midst of an awful hacking cough. Savich slipped his cell phone into his shirt pocket and turned to his wife. “He sounds like he’s drowning. You called Agent Arnold, let me call Mr. Maitland so he can get enough cops out when we find out where Moses is. Then I’ll get you out of those clothes.”

She touched her hand to his cheek. “That was very well done, Dillon. Did he tell you enough?”

“Yes, I think I know everything I need to, and not only from what he told me. Moses repeated that I killed the woman he’s connected to. Think about it, Sherlock. Moses planted a bomb in my car tonight, right in the middle of dozens of police. No one saw him at the motel or at the cemetery, or anywhere near the Denny’s, though he had to have been near. Who have we ever known who could pull off something like that? Make people see what he wants them to see, not what’s really there, him included.”

She stared up at him. “Only Tammy Tuttle.”

“Bingo,” he said. “She may have learned at his knee.”

“But we looked at her file. We found no connection.”

“And we were wrong.”

She got to her feet. “Agent Arnold will call back in a minute, then we’re going to nail that crazy old man.”

She placed her fingertips against his mouth. “No, don’t undress me and don’t argue. We’re in this together. I’m not going to keel over on you. Hey, I might even sing you another song.”

AT TEN-THIRTY SATURDAY morning, Savich opened his front door to see Ruth with Brewster nestled in the crook of her arm, Sheriff Dixon Noble and his sons standing behind her, grinning.

“Well, this is a surprise. Now, Ruth, I told you guys last night everything’s all right. You shouldn’t have come, you—”

“Be quiet, Dillon, just be quiet. I’ve been so worried, I had to see for myself. Where’s Sherlock?” Then Ruth threw herself against him, Brewster between them, barking manically. “The news reports, Dillon, all those awful clips we saw on TV. It looked like a scene out of hell. Please tell me Sherlock is okay.”

“She’s fine, I promise.”

“Okay, okay. We couldn’t stand it. We had to make sure.”

“In other words,” Dix said, stepping forward to shake Savich’s hand, “you could have been lying to Ruth, could really have been stretched out in a hospital bed, riddled with bullets and burning metal.

“Truth is, we were as worried as Ruth. She was convinced you were being stoic, said she’d belt you one if you weren’t upright and smiling when we got here. Your Porsche—on the news they showed you pulling up in front of the club, panned to all the insane chaos, then they showed the Porsche burning. Some sight that was.”

“All right, Brewster, come here.”

“Be careful, Savich, you know how he is,” Dix said.

“Yeah, I will.” Savich let Brewster lick his chin, then held him slightly away. But Brewster didn’t pee. Rafe said, “We just walked him thirty minutes ago, so I guess his tank’s empty.”

“I’m convinced he has an auxiliary tank,” their father said.

Rafe said to Savich, “Rob says you can get any girl you like when you drive a car like your Porsche.”

“Yeah,” Dix said, “it’s all over for him now, boys. Tough break.”

Sean walked into the entrance hall, his mother behind him. He stopped and stared at Brewster, who was wildly licking his father’s face. He smiled.

Ruth saw the sling. “Ohmigod, Sherlock, Dillon said you hurt your arm, but just a little bit. What happened?”

Sherlock said, “I’m fine, really. It was a piece of flying metal, hardly touched me. Hello, Rob, Rafe, Dix. It’s great to see you guys. Come in, come in. Oh dear, Dillon, quick, move Brewster off the carpet, he’s peeing.”

Half an hour later, the four adults sat around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and tea and eating raisin-stuffed scones from the new Potomac Street bakery, Sweet Things. The three boys had consumed half a dozen scones and were now in the living room with Graciella and Brewster, who occasionally barked and butted his head against Sean’s hand.

Graciella sat on the sofa, mending a sweater, smiling at the boys and the most adorable dog she’d ever seen.

Ruth said to Savich, “You baited him again. You thought you could break him down.”

Savich shrugged. “I wasn’t getting anywhere finding out who he really is. There simply hasn’t been a case in which I had to kill a woman. But after the bombing and Moses’s call last night, Sherlock and I think we finally know.”

Ruth sat forward, her elbows on the table.

Savich must have seen something in Sherlock’s eyes because he rose, got a pain pill from the kitchen counter, and held it to her mouth. When she’d swallowed the pill, he sat down again, raised his teacup to toast Ruth. “Are you ready for this? The woman was Tammy Tuttle.”

Ruth froze, said to Dix, “That was before I came into the unit, but I heard all about her, how she had this power to make people see what she wanted them to see.”

“Mass hypnosis?” Dix asked, an eyebrow up. “You sure? That’s pretty out there.”

Savich nodded. “You’re telling me. But we had a real hard time tracking her down even though we had her in our sights on two occasions. Thank God Tammy Tuttle couldn’t trick everyone. When she got close enough to me, for whatever reason, I recognized her. Moses had only one fact right—I did nearly shoot her arm off. She was going to kill two teenage boys she and her crazy twin, Tommy, had kidnapped. I had to shoot her in the shoulder, which led to her losing an arm. She escaped from the hospital when she recovered and came after me. She wanted me real bad, like Moses.”

Sherlock said, “Dillon didn’t kill her, though. His sister was staying with us at the time. Tammy took her right out of our house and drove to the barn on the Plum River in Maryland where it all started. She managed to save herself, killed Tammy. We arrived when it was all over.”

“Your sister,” Dix said to Savich, “she’s all right?”

“Oh yes.”

Ruth took a bite of scone, savored it. “I want to marry the guy who made these.”

Savich said, “Arturo weighs three hundred pounds.”

Ruth grinned. “Okay, so maybe he’s not perfect. So Moses Grace is what? Tammy Tuttle’s grandfather?

”

“Maybe. It’s interesting. Moses hasn’t mentioned Tammy’s twin, Tommy. I wonder why not.”

Sherlock said, “The only family we know of is Tommy and Tammy’s cousin, Marilyn Warluski. She owns the barn on the Plum River, which is how MAX found the Tuttles. Marilyn wasn’t a criminal, simply a bit on the slow side, I guess, and malleable, or she’d simply been beaten down by her cousins. They used her, manipulated her, but she survived. We’re all praying she knows something about him, maybe can tell us what Moses Grace’s real name is.”

Savich said, “I remember asking Marilyn about Tommy and Tammy’s parents, and she told me their mom was dead. She didn’t know who their dad was. I didn’t ask for more because there was too much going on. It makes sense that Moses Grace might be their grandfather. They had to get their crazy genes from somewhere. Moses sure fits the bill.”

Dix asked Savich, “No luck tracking Moses after his call last night?”

“Our guys located where the call came from again—the parking lot of another Denny’s, this one in Juniperville, Virginia, about a forty-minute drive from here. It appears he and Claudia are fond of Denny’

s, but it took too long to identify the phone and triangulate the signal again. They were gone by the time the squad cars got there.”

Savich added, “I’m convinced Moses has a pretty good idea how long it takes us to track him through a cell phone. He keeps using them because it gives him a kick to have cops racing to a particular spot only to find he’s done a vanishing act.”

“Then you’ll have to find him another way,” Ruth said.

“I do have a couple of ideas,” Savich said, but he didn’t elaborate. Sherlock squeezed his hand. “Dillon asked Dane Carver to find Marilyn Warluski. Last we heard she was in the Caribbean, so Dane is checking all the islands first. Unless she’s in hiding for some reason we don’t know about, it shouldn’t be long.”

“There’s another thing,” Savich said as he drank more of his tea. “When I speak to Moses, his grammar can be appallingly bad, but other times it’s perfect. I’m thinking he’s playing a game with me, trying to make me think he’s illiterate, but then he forgets and speaks normally. His Southern accent fades in and out, too. I really doubt he’s the fourth-grade dropout he pretends to be.”

Rafe and Rob came into the kitchen with Sean running between them, Graciella behind them, grinning like a proud parent. Rob said, “Agent Savich, we heard you talking about this Marilyn Warluski person, how she owns a barn near the Plum River and you’re looking for her. We asked Graciella how to spell it, then we googled her on Graciella’s laptop. There’s a Marilyn Warluski who lives in Summerset, Maryland, at Thirty-eight Baylor Street. We called up a map of Summerset, and it’s about ten miles north of the Plum River. We could have dialed her number, but Graciella thought we’d better tell you first. She said it’d be nice of us to leave something for you to do.”

Savich rose, walked to the boys, and hugged them close. They heard him say over Graciella’s laughter, “

You guys better teach Sean everything you know, all right?”

Ruth looked at Dix. “If the boys heard that, then this isn’t exactly what you’d call a private conference. Maybe they’d like to go outside with Graciella. I’m thinking a nice bribe is in order. Okay, Sherlock?”

Ten minutes later, Graciella was out the door, three boys at her heels, headed for the ice cream parlor on Prospect Street.

“Okay,” Savich said, sitting down again, “it’s time for you to give us an update on your Maestro investigation.”

“We’ve had to back off the embalming angle,” Ruth said. “There’s no way to track it to a specific purchase. The fluid is available everywhere, even traded as a street drug. Some people are suicidal or stupid enough to soak marijuana in it as a replacement for PCP.

“As for the BZ gas, I found out that even though they load a chemical like that into conventional bombs for warfare, it’s easily available to the public. Rob and Rafe could order it online. I checked some scientific journals on MEDLINE, and the drug seems to be an industry standard for research on some types of neurotransmitters. Thousands of labs around the world have a supply. Like embalming fluid, trying to track down purchases of BZ to Maestro is daunting.

“I did find out that when I was in the cave I didn’t necessarily have to breathe it in. It’s a contact hazard, too. I could have easily absorbed it through my skin if enough had settled on something I touched.”

Sherlock asked, “So where are you guys going to take it from here?”

“We’re starting to look for evidence of an undiscovered serial killer. We’ve checked a fifty-mile radius around Maestro for persons reported missing over the past five years and found nineteen.”

Sherlock said, “That sounds like a lot. Did you check it statistically?”

Dix nodded. “Yes, it’s almost fifteen percent higher than average for a predominantly rural area in Virginia. Most of them were young, and some of them may have been runaways. We got ahold of Helen Rafferty’s calendars, all safely filed in her office, and tried to match the dates the people were reported missing with Gordon’s out-of-town appointments.”

Ruth added, “Naturally, these are short distances, no overnights really necessary, meaning Gordon could have simply driven to a neighboring town, spotted the victim he wanted, and taken her.”

Dix said, “But we did find half a dozen trips out of town that overlapped with the disappearance of teenagers and young women in their early twenties. Of course, they could be coincidences.”

Sherlock tapped her fingertips on the table. “If a killer traveled to those towns to take someone, he could have been observed, maybe even seen with a victim.”

“Yes, of course,” Ruth said. “Dix sent several deputies out of town today to speak with the police in the towns around Maestro. We want them to know all the details about what’s happened in Maestro and what happened to Erin. They need to take a fresh look at all those cases, and talk to the families again.”

“You think it’s Gordon?” Sherlock asked.

Dix said, “It’s a tough call, particularly since he was my wife’s uncle, but Helen’s death especially points to someone local, someone who knows all the players.”

Ruth said, “For all his protestations, all his tears about Erin and Helen, Gordon was the closest to them.”

“At this point, there’s still no smoking gun,” Sherlock said. “You accuse Gordon, he’d get all huffy, even laugh at you, and he’d never speak to you again.”

“We need to develop something else,” Dix said, “some physical evidence, maybe a witness.”

Savich said, “In other words, you’re talking about lots of good old-fashioned police work. We’ve got personnel to help you canvass those towns you mentioned. I can call the Richmond SAC, Billy Gainer, to coordinate it with you.”

“Yes, that would be great.”

When Graciella brought the boys back, all of them on a sugar high from triple-scoop ice cream cones, Ruth decided it was a good time to head out. Sean got it into his head that he would be going with them, which required ten minutes of distracting him before they could leave.

CHAPTER 33

SUMMERSET, MARYLAND SATURDAY AFTERNOON

THE DAY WAS sunny and cold. The weatherman swore there would be no more snow until Tuesday, but no one believed it. Savich and Sherlock arrived in Summerset, Maryland, at three o’clock, and ten minutes later found 38 Baylor Street. Savich pulled Sherlock’s Volvo into the small driveway of a single-level tract house in a subdivision that had been folded into Summerset thirty years before.

“She’s been renting this house for a little over two years, since she turned twenty-three,” Savich said, studying the small lot with its straggly oak trees hanging partially over the house. “The man who owns it is a big-time woodworker and furniture builder. He employs her, too.”

Savich knocked on the freshly painted front door, framed by pretty pansy-filled flower boxes. There was no answer, no sound of footsteps. Savich knocked again. After a moment, he stepped back. “Okay, let’s check the garage. She drives a ’96 Camry. If it’s not there, odds are she’s not home.”

There was a window in the electronic garage door so Savich didn’t need to try to raise it. No Camry. Sherlock scratched her arm through the sling. “She could be anywhere.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “she could. But you know what? I don’t think Marilyn’s an anywhere kind of person. I’ve got an idea. Let’s go see if I’m right.”

A short time later Savich pulled onto a two-lane pothole-riddled asphalt road. Sherlock looked at the forest of maple trees, their branches naked and waving in the cold wind. “This looks familiar. You know, I’ll be glad to revisit the barn. It ended right there, all of it.”

He remembered the long-ago afternoon like it was yesterday. “We won that day. Those two boys they kidnapped won, too.”