Double Take (31 page)

He brought Ruth against him, momentarily distracted with her warm breath on his neck. “It's hard,” he said. “Now my mind jumped to David Caldicott. I know if he left willingly it was because he was involved in Christie's disappearance and our visit scared him badly.”

“So you think he took off, maybe left the country?”

“Or he didn't leave willingly,” Dix said. “He told someone that you and I had been to see him. You know it had to be Pallack, there's simply no one else. And Pallack panicked? About what?”

“David's been missing only a day and a half. You spoke to the Atlanta detective who's on the case.”

“Yeah, the cops blew off Whitney Jones's pleas for help yesterday, stating the party line—a day hadn't even passed, and did they have a fight, was there another guy, another girl? But then, bless her heart, Whitney was bright enough to tell them about David meeting with the FBI.”

Ruth grinned down at him. “That sure woke them up, and a very good thing. You know they're digging to locate him since the FBI is involved, for whatever reason. What did you tell the detective?”

“A bit of the truth, enough to whet his curiosity.”

Ruth said, “Well, if they can't find him, I know we will, Dix.”

He chewed on his misery for a moment, then Ruth said, “What did you think of our séance this evening?”

What he'd felt had been stark moments of anger—at being there wasting his time, having to deal with what he couldn't explain, couldn't see, didn't want to begin to accept, but he said only, with some contempt in his voice, “I was too tense even to be entertained by Tammerlane's show. It was a waste of time. On the other hand, I finally got to meet a couple of crackpot psychics. ” He added, “They were interesting characters, I'll have to admit that.”

"So you think it was all B.S.?”

“No,” he said, “that's oversimplifying it. But all the discussion about telepathy, Wallace Tammerlane sitting over there, humming, for God's sake, trying to communicate to another psychic, and all of us sitting on the sofas, holding hands like a bunch of dummies, with the light dimmed.” He sighed. “All so Tammerlane could reach Kathryn Golden with his mind.”

And he snorted his disgust. Ruth was so charmed she kissed him. She raised her head, touched a fingertip to his mouth, and said, “You certainly have a way of cutting right to the heart of things, don't you? Haven't you told me how you sometimes felt Christie close by and you told her things about what was happening with you and the boys?”

“That's nothing more than my subconscious self trying to find some comfort.”

“Yeah, maybe you're right. Go to sleep, Dix.” She kissed him again, settled back against his side, her head on his shoulder, and about thirty seconds later she was down for the count herself.

In the last room down the hall, Savich quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock over Sean's head. He was snuggled between them, his toy Porsche Carrera tucked against his chest, snoring lightly. “I like the bright red,” Savich said, sighing. He could still see his own beloved Porsche exploding in a raging ball of flame in the midst of utter chaos that black night at the Bonhomie Club, leaving nothing to salvage but a single shiny hubcap that had rolled down the sidewalk. The hubcap was hanging on the wall in his garage.

Sherlock said, “It's been what, three months? I'm thinking you've mourned your Porsche long enough. Maybe it's time for you to graduate from driving my Volvo. My Volvo feels your pain, and it lowers her self-esteem when you compare her to the Porsche, and find her so lacking. I heard one of the agents say driving the Volvo was going to break your spirit.”

Savich very nearly shuddered whenever he had to drive the stalwart Volvo. He fondly recalled the sheer power of his Porsche, its temper when another car got too close, its spurt of insane speed when he needed it. He sighed. “It always seems like we're up to our ears in something—like now. Here we are in San Francisco dealing with psychics and assassins.”

“We'll get through it, we always do. Hey, maybe by this weekend.”

“That might not be so crazy. Things are coming together fast now.”

“I know, they are.” Sherlock kissed him, then leaned over to kiss the back of Sean's small head. “He's got so much black hair, just like yours.” Beautiful smooth shiny hair, not a single twisty curl or kinky wave, not like hers. “He's out,” she whispered, and settled in. “I'll take him back in a moment.”

“After his nightmare last night, I'm thinking maybe he should stay with us tonight. It's the strange-house-and-bed syndrome, no one his age does all that well with it.”

“Did my mom tell you that after she and Graciella took Sean to the zoo, they hit the crooked block of Lombard Street? Sean was so excited he wanted her to drive it three times.”

“Graciella told me. Your dad is taking him down to the courthouse tomorrow, introducing him to some of the clerks, interns, and judges. He even promised him he'd show him a crook or two—I think he meant a defense lawyer, but I'm not sure.”

She smiled as she reached out to touch his face. “Are you still freaked out about what happened at Tammerlane's?”

“No. Sweetheart, I don't want any of the others to know about what happened, okay?”

“Nor should they,” Sherlock said, and yawned. “I can't begin to imagine what Director Mueller would say if he heard you'd cell-phoned a kidnapped psychic without the cell phone.”

Despite the strange bed and all the excitement, all three were soon asleep, Savich the last to fall.

Toward morning he dreamed of Kathryn Golden. She was alone again, in a closet, bound to a chair, her hair hanging over her face. She seemed to be asleep. He wanted to speak to her, but somehow no words came from his mouth or into his mind. She never stirred. He came abruptly awake, his heart pounding. What had that been about? He looked at the digital clock next to the bed. It was nearly five o'clock.

He knew there'd be no more sleep. He quietly left the bed, tucking in the covers around Sean's neck, lightly touching Sherlock's shoulder. She was smiling in her sleep. He looked down at the two most important people in his life and felt overwhelming gratitude.

He pulled on his pants, picked up MAX, and headed downstairs to the Sherlock gym. He drew up short, seeing Cheney sleeping on the narrow cot, sprawled on his back, arms and legs over the sides of the bed, deeply asleep. No way was he going to wake him. He went to his father-in-law's study, and set to work. He wanted to know more about the Pallacks' murder in 1977 and all about the man who'd butchered them, Courtney James. He frankly didn't think he'd find anything useful, but who knew what might pop up?

CHAPTER 47

Savich handed Sean a piece of his freshly baked croissant, which he'd smeared with a big dollop of strawberry jam. Sean grinned up at Isabel and said, "My mama says you make the best croxants in the known world.”

“Yes, indeed I do,” Isabel said and ruffled the little boy's dark hair. “You look just like your daddy and that's a fine thing. He's so handsome one of the neighbor women said she wanted to take over my job for a while so she could get close to him, maybe steal him away from my little Lacey.”

“Who's little Lacey?”

“That's your mama, sweetie.”

Sean shook his head. “No, Isabel, Mama's name is Sherlock. Everybody calls her Sherlock, except me, and I call her Mama.”

Ruth frowned as she stifled a yawn. “I didn't even know her name was Lacey. Well, how about that, speak of the sweetie and Sean's mama. Dix, meet Lacey.”

Dix looked up from his cereal bowl. He looked tired, his eyes dark with shadows. “Hi, Lacey. No, that doesn't feel right—it's got to be Sherlock.”

“Or Mama,” Sean said.

Sherlock was wearing her usual FBI uniform of black pants, white blouse, short black boots, her SIG clipped to her belt. Her curly hair shone brightly in the morning sunlight flooding through the kitchen windows, thick and red as Isabel's lipstick. Her blue eyes were as bright—a soft summer blue. She kissed Sean's cheek, nipped her husband's earlobe.

Ruth said, “Hey, where are Cheney and Julia?”

Isabel said, looking down at the fork in her hand, “Julia told me she had to talk to Cheney, so she went down to the gym. I took down a big plate of croissants and a pot of coffee a half hour ago and from the sound of it, they were having a nice full-bodied, loud, ah”—Isabel shot Sean a look—“discussion.”

“What are they fighting about?” Sean wanted to know.

“Well, nothing really, Sean,” Isabel said. “It's more a discussion, like I said.”

“A full-bodied discussion,” Ruth said.

Isabel cleared her throat. “Maybe they're going to work out a bit.”

Dix smiled into his orange juice.

Sean said, “When Mama's mad at Papa, she jumps on him.”

“Ah, well, yes, sometimes,” Sherlock said. She grinned at her husband and poured herself some tea from her mother's prized Edwardian teapot.

Sean said, “Julia told me about her little boy. She said he died.”

“I didn't know that,” his father said.

“Do you think Julia and Cheney are working out with Grandpa and Grandma?”

Isabel poured Dix and Ruth more coffee. “Could be, Sean, but first I think they wanted to be alone for a little while, you know, talk things over.”

“The discussion,” Sean said. “But, Isabel, I don't understand. What—”

“Oh my, Sean, I believe some toast just popped up.” And Isabel escaped to the other side of the kitchen.

Sean said to Dix, “Rob and Rafe told me how their mama, Christie, died a long time ago, Uncle Dix,” and he slipped his hand into his mother's.

Dix said, tightening all over, “Yes, she did, Sean.”

“I don't want my mama to die and leave me.”

“She won't,” Dix said. “That's a promise from a big bad sheriff, okay?”

Sean nodded.

Dix rose. “That reminds me. I need to speak to my sons, see what they're up to and hope they're telling me the truth.”

“Say hello for me,” Ruth called after him. She added, “Hey, Sean, I hear you're going to go check out the courthouse with your granddad this morning.”

Cheney and Julia appeared in the kitchen doorway. They looked well-rested, and relaxed, and Julia's eyes were shining.

Nothing like full-bodied discussions to jump-start a person's day, Ruth thought.

Cheney's cell phone rang, and he turned away.

When Cheney walked back into the kitchen, he took a quick look at Sean, and said, “That was Makepeace. He told me where Kathryn Golden is. He told me to come get the worthless idiot, she's of no use to him at all. She's at the Mariner Hotel in Palo Alto, Room 415.”

“It's obviously a trap,” Savich said.

“Yes, but it doesn't matter,” Julia said. “We have to go get her. Let me get my jacket, Cheney.”

Savich said, “Wait. Neither of you is going anywhere. You know very well that Makepeace is probably waiting there with a scoped rifle. No, you're staying right here.” Savich went into command mode. “Ruth, Dix, you guys head down to Palo Alto. Sherlock and I will follow once I've made some calls and gotten as much protection as I can.”

Ten minutes later, Dix and Ruth were on 280 South headed to Palo Alto.

In the Sherlock home entrance hall, not a foot from the front door, Julia stood toe-to-toe with Cheney. “I'm not staying all snug and hidden in the Sherlocks' damned gym. I'm coming with you and Sherlock and Dillon.”

“No, you're not, Julia. And don't even think about comparing yourself to Sherlock. You're a woman like she is, I'll go along with that, but she's a professional, and she's trained to kick butt. It would be incredibly stupid for you to show up at that hotel. He's after you, he wants to kill you. I'm not about to take the chance. Forget it.”

“He's after you too, Cheney,” Savich said mildly. “I would be if you'd stuck your nose in my business as many times as you have and beaten me. No, both of you are staying right here. Captain Paulette just pulled up. You two tell him what's going on. I've got phone calls to make.”

Cheney and Julia continued to argue. “He's down in Palo Alto, waiting for us to show.”

“For all you know, he's off trying to kill the mayor.”

“Don't be cute. Look, Julia, if I have to tie you down, I will.”

“Or the two of you could pay a nice visit to the gym downstairs again,” Sherlock said.

Savich said, “Listen, when we've gotten Kathryn Golden back, all of us need to meet at Julia's house. We need to find August Ransom's journals. Just be patient. Sherlock, we're outta here.”

A minute later, they were on the road in the judge's black Beemer.

Frank said to Cheney, “If they get the psychic safe and everyone's back up here, I'll get everything ready to go—I'm thinking a couple of undercover cops, no SWAT, that's overkill, what with Makepeace in Palo Alto.”

“You know the available resources better than I do,” Cheney said.

Forty minutes later, Savich dialed Dix's phone from the car. “You there yet?”

“Yeah, we just drove up.”

“Okay, you're going to meet a Lieutenant Ramirez of the Palo Alto PD. I told him a good bit, but not all of it.”

Dix said, “It's obvious Ramirez has already set things up here. He's got plainclothes cops searching around the hotel. We were talking—what if Makepeace is setting a trap in some other way?”