Riptide

12

Adam said, “You mean they’re giving up trying to find her on the Outer Banks?”

Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched in a phone booth somewhere, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes caused eye infections. “Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all, they’re counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing this guy who shot the governor. That’s why they’re searching high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show down there. I hear he’s cursing up a blue streak, wondering where she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her and she just ain’t anywhere, just like smoke, he says, and the others grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you’ll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes that Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you who duped him, he’d want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to stick it on.”

“Thanks for sharing that, Hatch.”

“Knew you’d like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don’t you?”

That wasn’t the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, “Something like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra’s finally come to the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn’t anywhere near the Outer Banks?”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time has passed for them to find her now. I think we’re home free-well, at least for the moment.”

Silence.

“Hatch, I know you’re lighting a cigarette in a closed phone booth. Put it out right now or I’ll fire you.”

Silence.

“Is it out?”

“Yeah, boss. I swear it’s out. I didn’t even get one decent puff.”

“Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?”

“They’re talking to their counterparts all over the country, just like the Feebs are. But hey-nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective Morales is a wreck, probably hasn’t slept for three days. All he can talk about is how she called him, repeated to him that she’d told him everything, and he wasn’t able to talk her in. There’s this other detective, a woman name of Letitia Gordon, who evidently hates Ms. Matlock’s guts. Claims she’s a liar, a nutcase, and probably a murderer. Old Letitia really wants to bring her down. She’s pushing everyone to charge Ms. Matlock with the murder of that old bag lady outside the Metropolitan Museum. You know, the murder Ms. Matlock reported? The one the stalker did to get her attention?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, they told Detective Gordon to pull her head out of her armpit and try for a bit of objectivity. The woman’s really got it in for our gal.”

Adam made a rude noise. “Let Detective Gordon get hives over it for all we care. Neither Thomas nor I ever believed they were going to charge her with murder. But a material witness? That’s possible. And you know as well as I do that the cops couldn’t protect her from this stalker. Nope, that’s our job. Now, what do you have on McCallum?”

Adam wasn’t expecting anything, so he wasn’t disappointed when Hatch sighed and said, “Not a thing as of yet. A real pro spearheaded this operation, boss, just like you thought.”

“Unfortunately, it can’t be Krimakov because Thomas finally got him tracked down. He was living on Crete, and as of a week ago, he’s dead. I’m not sure of the exact date. But it was before McCallum was run down in Albany. I guess Krimakov could have been involved, but he certainly wasn’t running the show, and that’s not his MO. Anything Krimakov was involved in, he was the Big Leader. Thomas is willing to bet his ascot on that. But if Krimakov was somehow involved, it means he knew about Becca being Matlock’s daughter. Jesus, it makes me crazy.”

“Nah, the guy’s dead. This is a new nutcase, fresh out of the woodwork, and he’s picked Becca.”

Adam scratched his head and added, “No, I don’t think so, Hatch. It’s got to be some sort of conspiracy, there’s just no other answer. Lots of folk involved. But why did they focus on Ms. Matlock? Why put her in the middle? I keep coming back to Krimakov, but I know, logically, that it just can’t be. Someone, something else, is driving this. How’s the governor?”

“I hear his neck is a bit sore, but he’ll live. He doesn’t know a thing, that’s what he claims. He’s very upset about McCallum.”

Adam sat there and thought and thought. The same questions over and over again. No answers.

Silence.

“Put out the cigarette, Hatch. I know about your girlfriend. She loves silk lingerie and expensive steaks. You can’t afford to lose your job.”

“Okay, boss.”

Adam heard some papers shuffling, heard some mild curses, and smiled. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, of course there’s no positive ID on that skeleton that popped out of Ms. Matlock’s basement wall. For sure it was a teenage girl who got her head bashed in some ten or more years ago. I did find out something sort of neat, though.”

“Yeah?”

“It turns out there was an eighteen-year-old girl who leaves Riptide, supposedly eloping. Nobody knows who the boyfriend was though. Now ain’t that a neat coincidence?”

“I’ll say. When?”

“Twelve years ago.”

“No one’s heard from her since?”

“I’m not completely sure about that. If she’s still unaccounted for and they decide she’s a good bet, then they’ll do DNA tests on the bones.”

Adam said, “They’ll need something from her-like hair on a brush, an old envelope that would have her saliva, barring that, then a family member would have to give up some blood.”

“Yeah. Thing is, though, it wouldn’t be admissible in court if it ever came to it. It’ll take some time, a couple of weeks. No one sees any big rush on it.”

“I don’t like the feel of this, Hatch. We’ve got this other mess and now this damned skeleton falling out of Becca’s basement wall. It’s enough to make a man give up football.”

“Nah, you’ve always told me that God created the fall just for football. You’ll be watching football when you throw that last pigskin into the end zone in the sky, if they still have the sport that many aeons from now. You’ll probably lobby God to have pro football in Heaven. Stop whining, boss. You’ll figure everything out. You usually do. Hey, I hear that Maine’s one beautiful place. That true?”

Adam stared at the phone for a moment. He had been whining. He said, “Yeah. I just wish I had some time to enjoy it.” He suddenly yelled into the receiver, “No smoking, Hatch. If you even think about it, I’ll know it. Now, call me tomorrow at this same time.”

“You got it, boss.”

“No smoking.”

Silence.

Becca said very quietly, “Who is Krimakov?”

Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he’d spent his first night in Jacob Marley’s house. She’d opened the door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was losing it.

“Who is Krimakov?”

He said easily, “He’s a drug dealer who used to be involved with the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He’s dead now.”

“What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?”

“I don’t know. Why did you open the door without knocking, Becca?”

“I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going on. I knew you wouldn’t tell me. I also came up to get you for breakfast. It’s ready downstairs. You’re still lying. This doesn’t have anything to do with drug dealing.”

He had the gall to shrug.

“If I had my kitchen knife, I’d run at you, right this minute.”

“And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can’t you just accept that I’m here to do a job and that job is to make sure that you don’t get wiped out? Get off your high horse.”

He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him still. Hell, after seeing him all civilized that entire evening with four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn’t have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn’t gay, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.

“Who are you?”

He sighed and tucked in his shirt. Then he flipped the sheet and blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.

When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She’d heard Krimakov’s name. It didn’t matter. She’d never hear it again. The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free. To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn’t Thomas said anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and headed downstairs.

She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon, just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch’s fantasies, the fresh cantaloupe she’d sliced, ripe and sweet.

Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that much down.

He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, “What is this? No questions right in my face? No bitching at me? By God, could it be that you’re sulking?”

That got her, just as he hoped it would.

“How would you like that nice sticky syrup down the back of your neck?”

He grinned at her and saluted with his coffee cup. “I wouldn’t like that at all. At least you’re speaking to me again. Look, Becca, I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. Everyone is floating a lot of ideas, a lot of names. Now we have this skeleton.”

He was so slippery, she’d bet if he were a pig in a greased pig contest, no one could hold him down, but she was tenacious.

“Who were you telling not to smoke?”

“Hatch. He’s my main assistant. He has more contacts than a centipede has legs, speaks six languages, and is real smart except when it comes to cigarettes and loose women. That’s the way I can control his smoking. I pay him very well and threaten to fire him if he lights up.”

“But I heard you tell him to put out the cigarette. Obviously he’s still smoking. And he knew you were on the other end of the line.”

“Yeah. It’s more a game now than anything else. He lights up just to hear me blow.”

“Did he find out anything about the skeleton? What’s this about DNA testing? They think they know who that poor girl was?”

He stretched, drank down the last of his coffee, carefully set the cup on the table, then stood up.

She was on her feet in the next instant. Two fast steps and she was in his face. She was fast, he’d give her that, and she was mad. He was grinning down at her when she slammed her fist in his belly. Becca felt her face turning red. “Damn you, you will not treat me like a cipher, like I’m a moron who isn’t even important enough to talk to. Who are you?”

He grabbed her wrist. “That was a good shot. No, don’t hit me again or I’ll have to do something. I want to keep those pancakes happy.”

“Yeah, what?” She just didn’t care anymore. She smashed her other fist into his left kidney.

He held both her wrists now. He knew she’d bring up her knee next so he jerked her around so her back was pressed against his chest. He held her arms pressed to her sides. “You’d look better as a blonde. Usually a woman’s roots are darker than her hair. In your case, you’ve got all this baby-light hair at the roots.”

She kicked back, grazing his shin. He grunted. He sat back down on the chair, holding her on his lap. She was pinned against him and couldn’t move. “Now,” he said, “I’m sorry that we’re playing only by my rules, but that’s the way it’s got to be unless I’m told otherwise.”

“You need to shave. You look like a convict.”

“How do you know? You’ve got the back of your head to me.”

“You’ve got as much hair on your face as you do on your chest.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you did get an eyeful in the bedroom.”

“Go to hell.”

Adam’s cell phone rang. “Well, shit. Will you let me answer this without attacking me again?”

“Actually, I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

“Good.” He dropped his arms and she jumped off his lap.

He flipped open the small narrow phone. “Carruthers here.”

“Adam, it’s Thomas Matlock. Is Becca there with you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“All right, then, just listen. I sent an e-mail to Dillon Savich, a computer expert here at FBI headquarters in Washington. I knew his father very well. Actually, Buck Savich was the only other person who knew about all the mess with Krimakov. He’s been dead for a while. I e-mailed his son for help. His job is finding maniacs using computer programs. He’s good. He managed to track me down before I could even get back to him. That’s beyond good. He’s agreed to a meeting. I’m going to see him. We need all the help we can get.”

“I think that’s a mistake,” Adam said, thinking of the logistics. “I don’t think we need anyone else in on this. I’m worried about maintaining control here.”

“Trust me on this, Adam. We do need him. He’s got lots of contacts and is very, very smart. Don’t worry that he’ll talk and expose Becca’s whereabouts if he comes on board. He won’t. Have you learned anything more of value?”

“There’s nothing at all to be found in any of McCallum’s records. The governor says he doesn’t know a thing. I assume you’ve come up dry as well?”

“Yes, but I think that Dillon Savich will be able to help us there as well. Word is he’s magic with a computer and gathering information.”

Adam said, “We don’t need anyone else, Thomas.” The instant the name was out of his mouth, Adam jerked his head up. Becca was looking at him, her eyes narrowed, intent. He cleared his throat. “We don’t want more hands stirring this pot. It’s too dangerous. Too much chance of cracks and leaks. It could lead to Becca.”

“You slipped, Adam. Is she listening?”

“No, it’s okay.” At least he hoped it was. She was now simply looking wary and interested, both at the same time.

Adam said again, “Maybe you could just have this guy do some specific searches for you.”

“That, too, but he’s a specialist just like you are. All right. We’ll see. I’m meeting with him to see what he has to say. Maybe he won’t want to join up with us, or maybe he won’t have the time. I just wanted you to know. Keep her safe, Adam.”

“Yeah.”

Becca shook her head at him when he closed his cell phone. She knew there’d be downright lies or at the very least evasions out of his mouth. She was furious, frustrated, but, surprisingly, she felt safer than she had in weeks. When he looked like he would say something, she smiled at him and said, “No, don’t bother.”

The Egret Bar & Grill

Washington, D.C.

Thomas Matlock rose very slowly from his chair. He didn’t know what to say but he didn’t like what he saw. Damnation, Savich wasn’t alone.

Savich smiled at the man he’d never heard of before receiving the e-mail at four A.M. that morning. He extended his hand. “Mr. Matlock?”

“Yes. Thomas Matlock.”

“This is my wife and my partner, Lacy Sherlock Savich, but everyone calls her Sherlock. She’s also FBI and one of the best.”

Thomas found himself shaking the hand of a very pretty young woman, on the small side, with thick, curling red hair, the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, and he knew in his gut, knew without even hearing her speak or act or argue, that she was tough, probably as tough as her hard-faced husband, a man about Adam’s age, who looked stronger than a bull. Meaner, too. He didn’t look like a computer nerd. Whatever that was supposed to mean nowadays.

“So,” Thomas said, “you’re Buck’s son.”

“Yes,” Savich said and grinned. “I know what you’re thinking. My dad was all blond and fair, a regular aristocrat with a thin straight nose and high cheekbones. I look like my mom. You can bet that my dad was always pissed about that. I never had my dad’s smart-ass mouth, either. That pissed him as well.”

“Your dad could charm the widow’s peak off a fascist general and outwit a Mafia don. He was an excellent man and friend,” Thomas said, eyeing the man. “I wasn’t expecting you to bring anyone else.” He found himself clearing his throat when Savich didn’t immediately respond. “This is all rather confidential, Mr. Savich. Actually, it’s all extremely confidential, there’s a life at stake and-”

Savich said easily, “Where I go Sherlock goes, sir. We’re a package deal. Shall we continue or would you like to call this off?”

The young woman didn’t say a word. She didn’t even change expressions. She just cocked her head to one side and waited, very quietly, silent. A professional to her toes, Thomas thought, just like her husband.

Thomas said then, “Is your name really Sherlock?”

She laughed. “Yes. My father’s a federal judge in San Francisco. Can you imagine what the crooks are feeling when they’re hauled in front of him-Judge Sherlock?”

“Please sit down, both of you. I’m grateful that you came, Mr. Savich.”

“Just Savich will do fine.”

“All right. I understand you head up the CAU-the Criminal Apprehension Unit-at the FBI. I know you use computers and protocols you yourself designed and programmed. And with some success. Naturally, I really don’t fully understand what it is that happens.”

Savich ordered iced tea from the hovering waiter, waited for the others to order as well, then leaned forward. “Like the Behavioral Sciences Unit, we also deal with local agencies who think an outside eye just might see something they missed on a local crime. Normally murder cases. Also like the BSU, we only go in when we’re asked.

“Unlike the Behavioral Sciences, we’re entirely computer-based. We use special programs to help us look at crimes from many different angles. The programs correlate all the data from two or more crimes that seem to have been committed by the same person. We call the main program PAP, the Predictive Analogue Program. Of course, what an agent feeds into the program will determine what comes out. Nothing new in that at all.”

Sherlock said, “All of it is Dillon’s brainchild. He worked on all the protocols. It’s amazing how the computer can turn up patterns, weird correlations, ways of looking at things that we wouldn’t have considered. Of course, like Dillon said, we have to put the data in there in order to get the patterns, the correlations, the anomalies that can point a finger in the right direction.

“Then we look at the possible outcomes and alternatives the computer gives us, act on many of them. You said Buck Savich was an excellent friend. How did you know Buck Savich, sir?”

“Thank you for the explanation. It’s fascinating, and about time, I say. Technology should catch crooks, not let the crooks diddle society with the technology. Yes, Buck Savich was an incredible man. I knew him professionally. Tough, smart, fearless. The practical jokes he used to pull had the higher-ups in the Bureau screaming and laughing at the same time. I was very sorry to hear about his death.”

Savich nodded, waiting.

Thomas Matlock sipped his iced tea. He needed to know more about these two. He said easily, “I remember the String Killer case. That was an amazing bit of work.”

“It wasn’t at all typical,” Savich said. “We got the guy. He’s dead. It’s over.” Then he looked at his wife, and Thomas saw something that suddenly made him aware of the extraordinary bond between them. There was a flash of incredible fear in Savich’s eyes, followed by a wash of relief and so much gratitude that it went all the way to Thomas’s gut. He should have had that bond with Allison, but one stray bullet in a woman’s head had put an end to that possibility forever.

Thomas cleared his throat, his mind made up. These two were bright, young, dedicated. He needed them. “Thank you for explaining more about your unit. I guess there’s nothing more to do except tell you exactly what’s going on. My only favor-and I must have your agreement on this-is if you don’t choose to help me, you will not inform your colleagues about any of this conversation. It all remains right here, in this booth.”

“Is it illegal?”

“No, Savich. I’ve always believed that being a crook requires too much work and energy. I’d rather race my sailboat on the Chesapeake than worry about evading the cops. The FBI is, however, involved, and that does make for some conflict of interest.”

Savich said slowly, “You’re a very powerful man, Mr. Matlock. It took MAX nearly fourteen minutes to even find out that you’re a very well-protected high-ranking member of the intelligence community. It took him another hour and two phone calls from me to discover that you are one of the Shadow Men. I don’t trust you.”

Sherlock cocked her head to the side and said, “What are the Shadow Men?”

Thomas said, “It’s a name coined back in the early seventies by the CIA for those of us who have high security clearance, work very quietly, very discreetly, always out of sight, always in the background, and frankly, do things that aren’t sanctioned or publicized or even recognized. Results are seen, but not any of us.”

“You mean like the ‘Mission Impossible’ team?”

“Nothing so perfectly orchestrated as all that. No, I’ve never burned a tape in my life.” He smiled then and it was an attractive smile, Sherlock thought. He was a handsome man, well built, took care of himself. A bit younger than her father, but not much. Ah, but his eyes. They were filled with bleak, dark shadows, with secrets huddled deep, and there was pain there as well, pain there for so very long that it was now a part of him, burrowed deep. He was a complex man, but most important, he was alone, so very alone-now she saw that clearly-and he was afraid of something that went as deep as his soul. She didn’t think that being a Shadow Man was the reason for all that bleakness in his eyes.

She said, “It sounds like cloak-and-dagger stuff, sir, like it should have gone out of business when the Cold War ended.”

Thomas said, “Perhaps there’s a bit of cloak-and-dagger still in the mix. Actually, before the end of the Cold War things were a lot simpler. We knew the enemy. We knew exactly how the enemy operated, what to expect. However, now the projects we’re involved in are rarely so clean, so splendidly satisfying and clear-cut as that ‘Mission Impossible’ TV show.

“In my area, there is rarely an obvious and clean line between us and the bad guys, although Saddam and Qaddafi look like they’re going to be long-timers. An enemy of yesterday is a confederate of today. Unfortunately, the opposite is also true.

“This is more true today, of course. So many petty tyrants and greedy despots who want to rule, if not the world, then a larger portion of it than they do currently. China is the giant fist, more frightening than the USSR ever was. So many people, so many natural resources, such endless potential. Somehow we have to deal with all of them.”

Thomas looked off over Sherlock’s left shoulder, seeing into the past, into the future, she didn’t know. Then he said quietly, “There are always failures, mistakes, lives lost needlessly. But we try, Mrs. Savich. More often than not, thank God, we do succeed and perhaps make the world a bit safer. For the most part we’re not allowed to be nice people, so your husband is smart not to trust me. However, this is something entirely different. This isn’t business. This is entirely personal. I need help badly.”

She lowered her head and began weaving a packet of Equal through her fingers. Finally, she looked straight at him, picked up her iced tea glass, raised it toward him, and said, “Why don’t you call me Sherlock.”

Thomas clicked his glass to hers. Somehow, he knew, she and her husband had communicated, had agreed to hear him out. “Sherlock. It is a charming name. It goes very well with Savich.”

Savich sat forward then. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Matlock. We give you our word that nothing you tell us today will go beyond this booth. We will accept the possibility of a conflict of interest, at least for the moment.”

Thomas felt the same sort of loosening in his gut that he’d felt when Adam had told him he’d already begun to protect Becca. He smiled at the two of them and said, “Why don’t you call me Thomas.”