Double Take (15 page)

“Were you interviewed at the time of my wife's disappearance?”

“Yes, all the students were. I told the investigator what I told you. I'm really sorry, Sheriff Noble, I mean, she was your wife. You've got kids, right?”

“Right. Now, Mr. Caldicott, I understand you have a sister. She's what, four years older than you?”

“Oh yeah, Char—” His voice dropped off a cliff. He swallowed and looked ready to bolt.

Ruth pinned him with her voice. “Of course you knew that Christie Noble and your sister, Charlotte, looked practically like twins.”

“No, well, maybe. They're close in looks, but I never really paid all that much attention. You see, I really never saw that much of Charlotte while I was growing up. We weren't together, hardly ever. I do remember she used to call me a geek when I saw her. Your wife was always very sweet to me, Sheriff Noble. Charlotte's nice to me now.”

Neither Dix nor Ruth said anything.

“Yeah, okay, maybe they do look a lot alike, well, maybe a whole lot alike.”

“At the time of my wife's disappearance, Mr. Caldicott, you never mentioned this to anyone. Why?”

“Why should I? She's my sister. She wasn't anywhere around at that time.” He paused and looked to be concentrating hard. “It's really hard to remember now, Sheriff, how close in looks they were.”

Dix pulled a five-by-seven color photo out of his pocket. “Is this your sister, Mr. Caldicott?”

“Well, sure, that's Charlotte.”

“Actually, it's my wife, Christie Noble.”

David Caldicott began shaking his head back and forth. “Man, no, that's not possible. I swear I never realized—” He gulped, stilled, and Dix could see that he was scared now, and for good reason. What was it?

“Mr. Caldicott, when exactly did your sister marry Mr. Thomas Pallack?”

David Caldicott's head jerked up. “What? Mr. Pallack? You want to know about that old dude?”

“Yes,” Ruth said. “When did they marry?”

“About three years ago.”

“The date, Mr. Caldicott.”

“I don't remember—well, let me see.” He jumped to his feet, nearly ran to the fireplace and pulled down a photo album from atop the mantel.

“Here, Charlotte sent this to me.” He flipped it open. “They were married on August third, yes, almost three years ago.”

Ruth held out her hand, took the photo album from David Caldicott. She thumbed through it. There were only six photos in it. She paused. So this was Charlotte Pallack, Christie's twin, this vibrant beautiful woman standing next to a man twice her age. He was beautifully dressed, but even his Savile Row suit couldn't hide the belly growing there. Still, he looked fit, his color good, his once-black hair receding, and laced with white. No jowls, no bags beneath his eyes—good cosmetic surgery. She thought he looked smart and ruthless, like he could snap his fingers and make a small nation crumble. She said, “Mr. Caldicott, how did your sister meet Mr. Pallack?”

“How should I know, Agent Warnecki? I mean—”

Dix was looking at him as if he was ready to tear his heart out.

He swallowed, retrenched. “My sister has this thing for older guys. Well, not specifically older, but they had to be rich, really rich so she could have anything she wanted. She hated poverty— we were raised in foster homes after our mom died. I was lucky, but Charlotte wasn't, she couldn't fit, I guess, always wanted to get out. Mr. Pallack is very rich, he's powerful, and he adores her. So I guess it's all good with her now.” He shrugged, tried a smile. “Old, young—hey, I like Whitney and she looks like jailbait. She still gets carded, and she's over thirty. Now that makes me laugh.”

“You were telling us how your sister met Mr. Pallack.”

“I'm sorry. I really don't know, just that they got married shortly after they met. That's what Charlotte told me. Love at first sight, she said.”

“Did your sister ever visit you at Stanislaus, Mr. Caldicott?”

“No, Agent Warnecki, I don't think she ever did.”

He jumped to his feet, waved his hands around a bit. Ruth looked at those hands, the beautiful long thin fingers, the short buffed nails. She wanted to hear him play the violin.

“What's wrong, Mr. Caldicott?” Dix said as he too rose.

“Nothing, really. I have to go grovel, tell Whitney I'll barbecue the steaks tonight.” He looked desperate. “She won't let me touch her until she forgives me, that's what she does when she's really pissed at me.” He moaned.

Dix said, “Did you ever speak to my wife other than the time she complimented you after a recital?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. I went into Maestro to buy stuff, like every other student. She'd be around. I remember I saw her once with you. She kissed you and pushed you into the sheriff's office. I remember she was laughing. She was real pretty.”

Dix studied his face. Caldicott seemed too young, yet he wasn't more than three or four years younger than Dix himself. He seemed immature somehow, not yet fully adult. Who knew the roads he'd trekked, where they'd led him? He was a musician, evidently a very good one. Maybe that was it. Why not spend the night, go listen to him play? It would give Dix more time to think of another way to approach him.

“The symphony is playing tonight?”

“Yes.” He beamed. “I'm playing Rachmaninoff's 1890 Romance for Violin and Piano.”

“We would like to hear you perform.”

“Oh man, that'd be great. Please do. I really don't have anything else to tell you guys. I hardly ever speak to Charlotte, only the occasional e-mail, and never to Mr. Pallack. Please, I need to go find Whitney before she turns me into a eunuch.”

Dix shook his hand. Ruth nodded at him, smiled. “We might be seeing you this evening, Mr. Caldicott.”

Damned if his eyes didn't light up. Dix saw the first hint of resemblance between him and Charlotte and between him and Christie. It was the tilt of his eyes, how his smile widened and lightened them.

When Dix pulled out of the Caldicott driveway in the rented Taurus, Ruth said, “I'd wager my knickers he's lying. I just don't know about what and why.”

“I don't know,” Dix said. “I simply don't know.”

Dix and Ruth didn't get to hear David Caldicott play Rachmaninoff's 1890 Romance for Violin and Piano that night. At six o'clock, they got a call from Savich.

CHAPTER 23

It took Cheney twenty minutes to realize that the SFPD believed the two attempts on Julia Ransom's life were evidence of a falling-out between her and her partner in the murder of her husband. He'd talked to the inspectors, read the files Frank had given him early that morning at headquarters. The investigation hadn't been superficial, exactly, but neither had he seen any sign of real dogged grit—the kind of persistence that should have been there in the case of a murdered celebrity. The initial focus was on the widow, and it never wavered. There were several references to an “accomplice,” since the cops didn't believe she'd done it herself. Nope, she must have had a man do the deed, though they never found one. They still believed it, only they were smart enough not to come right out and say it to her face. Or to his face.

Cheney knew Julia hadn't killed her husband, hadn't had a partner, it was as simple as that. So while the police were trying to find the man they believed was her cohort and now her enemy, he had to start at the beginning to solve the murder of her husband.

He looked up when she came into August's study, where Cheney was seated at the desk, reviewing copies of the files. “Why were the cops so convinced you killed your husband?”

“Oh, they still are, you know that as well as I do.”

“Okay, yes. Why?”

“Because they believed—believe—I was tired of being tied to an old man, yes, a very rich old man, they thought, no matter his fame or the esteem in which he was held. And I wanted his money. There were rumors about a lover, of course, but I'm not telling you anything new, am I? You're reading all about that, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea where those particular rumors came from, who started them, or why.” She splayed her fingers in front of her. “The tabloids even tossed out names, one of them poor Zion Leftwitz, August's civil attorney, a very unassuming man who starts at his own shadow. And, naturally, most of the psychics in the area—Wallace Tammerlane, Bevlin Wagner, and Soldan Meissen. They didn't mention Kathryn Golden, I suppose because they didn't want to reach that far, and besides, she probably didn't have the strength needed to kill August. For a while they leaned toward Bevlin Wagner simply because in the entire lot of psychics in August's circle, he's the one closest to my age. I have to tell you, Bevlin was bewildered.” She actually laughed, hiccupped, and said, “Sorry.”

“Bewildered? He wasn't flattered?”

“Oh no. He worshipped August. He would have cut off his hands for August. He looked at me but didn't really see me, all he saw was his god. Well, not until after. As I told you, Bevlin proposed to me. I'm not sure if it was because of a newly discovered passion for me, or whether he wanted to protect August's widow, but I was as nice as could be when I turned him down. I'm glad the police didn't find out about the marriage proposal, otherwise they would probably have homed in on poor Bevlin again.”

“I've read there were also rumors August planned to divorce you—another motive.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know. Another part of the lover angle— but they didn't find a scintilla of evidence there was a lover. Still, even when they couldn't find anyone to fit the bill, they were still clinging to it when they came to the house Thursday night, and early Sunday morning.”

“Did you volunteer to take a lie detector test?”

“No. My lawyer advised me against it, said there was no benefit to me, just risk.”

“Maybe your lawyer believed you were guilty too.”

She said slowly, “No, I can't accept that. His name is Brian Huff. He and August had been friends for twenty-odd years, and I liked him. He liked me. When I told him I was innocent, he said, ‘Of course you are.' I can't imagine his insisting on representing me if he believed I'd killed his friend and client, the man who kept him on a nice fat retainer in case of litigation.”

“I've heard of him. He's a very big gun. Okay, would you take a lie detector test now? Get the cops focused on the here and now, and dump the baggage they've been mired in for the last six months?”

“Do you honestly think that would change their minds?”

“They're a cynical bunch, so probably not, but still, it couldn't hurt.”

“Then I'll do it.”

Cheney sat back in August Ransom's big leather chair, leaned his head back in his hands. “Julia, tell me about your boy.”

She looked as if he'd struck her. “The files,” she said. “That's in the murder files?”

“Yes, of course. Tell me about him, Julia.” He rose and walked to her, took her hand in his. “Please, Julia, it's important I know everything.”

She sighed, felt his hand squeeze hers. “It's hard.”

“I imagine it is, but you need to let me in, all right? You ready to do that?”

She gave him a long look, saw the concern in his eyes, felt the caring in him, the need—to help her? Yes, she thought, he really did want to help her. “Yes, I suppose you're right. Lincoln— Linc—was his name. He was six years old when one of his friends ran him over on his skateboard and knocked him into the sidewalk. He hit his head, fell into a coma, and never woke up.

“I stayed with him for the three weeks it took him to die.”

He frowned a moment, looking down at the files that hadn't included something important. He asked her, “His father was with you?”

“No, his father was dead.”

“Dead? What happened, Julia?”

All right, all of it. “Ben Taylor flew one of the Saud family's private jets. Only three months before Linc's accident, terrorists managed to plant a bomb on the plane. The plane exploded over the desert in a ball of flame. Ben, his copilot, two flight attendants, and all six passengers died.

“Dozens of people were apprehended after the murders, but then it sort of faded away, probably because it was distant cousins who were killed and not any of the royal family proper. I think if King Fahd had been on that plane, the Saudis would have joined hands with the U.S. to find bin Laden. King Fahd died shortly thereafter, and Abdallah took over.

“What really surprised me was that a week after Linc's funeral I received a check for half a million dollars delivered by special messenger from King Fahd, along with his regrets and condolences.”

“I'm sorry about your husband.”

“Thank you. The thing is, Ben was an ex-Army Ranger. I learned too late he wasn't a domestic sort of guy and never would be, even though he did try for a while. He loved flying, and most of all he loved his status as a pilot for the royal family. He loved being in the Middle East, practically lived in Saudi Arabia. He lived like a prince in Riyadh.” She stopped, sighed again. “I was disillusioned, of course. I was very close to asking him for a divorce. It wasn't fair to Linc to hardly ever see his father; it wasn't fair to me either. But then, all of a sudden, Ben was dead. And then Linc.”

Cheney wanted to comfort her, he really did, but what came out of his mouth, all matter-of-fact, was “How did you meet August Ransom?”

“I worked for the
Hartford Courant.
I wrote an article about him. When Linc was in the hospital, he came, every single day. When Linc died, he, well, he helped me, comforted me. I came to believe he could really speak to Linc sometimes, believed it to my soul. He spoke to Linc several times after we married. And now August is dead too.”