Double Take (39 page)

It was the last entry.

Dix could barely breathe. Christie, he thought, you were that woman, and he wanted to weep with the knowledge of it. He'd known she was dead, but the proof of it was finally staring him in the face.

Dix pulled out his cell phone, turned on the camera, and took pictures of the last pages in Ransom's last journal. It wouldn't serve as legal proof, but it was the hard truth nonetheless. He wished he had time to photograph everything, but when he looked at his watch, he realized he had to leave. He closed the journal, placed it at the bottom of the dozen or so others. He placed them back in the accordion file, pulled the rubber band around it, and slid it in the safe, exactly where he'd found it, closed the safe, and put the Picasso over it, and began to set everything back in place.

Then he heard the front door open.

CHAPTER 58

Dix looked over Pallack's desk, prayed he'd gotten everything back in the right order, and locked the drawer again. Pallack would never know—but what if Pallack or Charlotte went into the living room and wondered why their gorgeous view was gone?

He heard the front door close, heard their voices and their footsteps. Dix looked at the long draperies on the far end of the study, a cliché, but there wasn't any other good hiding place he could see. He quickly moved across the study and slipped in behind the thick dark green brocade curtains that dragged to the floor. There was a chair in front of the drapes. Hopefully that would be enough. He made a small opening in the seam of the drapes and looked out onto the study. The Pallacks walked nearly to the study doorway and stopped.

Pallack said, his voice irritated, “Damned alarm system went off again, third time this month.”

Charlotte's voice sounded tired, on edge. “The neighbors have probably already called.”

Pallack grunted. “It just pisses me off. Could you believe the talk about Barbara being too far to the left?”

Charlotte's voice sounded indifferent. “They might be right. I'm surprised you can actually remember anything anyone said tonight. Thank God you got us out of there. I thought I was going to scream if I had to listen to any more of that claptrap. Thomas, what are we going to do?”

Dix heard annoyance in Pallack's voice. “No need to get hysterical. It's done, there are no more loose ends. Meissen is dead and we have the journals. It's over. Once Makepeace leaves town, we can forget about everything. Give me a minute to call Berenger Security, find out why the hell the security's out.”

“But they know!”

“Those ridiculous FBI agents? Julia Ransom? Who cares? Their beliefs will get them exactly nowhere.”

Dix heard Pallack's heavy footsteps, watched him step into the room and walk across the carpet to his desk phone.

Charlotte followed him in, but not all the way to Pallack's desk. She said in a weary voice, “I certainly hope you're right about the FBI. But we can't stop worrying about Makepeace— he's out of control, you know that. When he brought you the journals earlier, all he could talk about was killing Julia.”

Dix saw Pallack shrug. “It doesn't matter. Julia's not important. If Makepeace kills her, it's on his own dime, not ours. That's what I told him. Go to bed, Charlotte. I'll be up soon.”

He heard Charlotte's heels lightly tapping the wooden hallway, then muffled by the thick Persian runner on the stairs.

Pallack sat down behind his desk and pulled the phone close. Dix listened to him report the alarm failure to Berenger Security, nasty-bitch the individual on the other end of the line, and hang up. Then he booted up the computer, began to hum as he typed.

What was he typing at midnight?

The phone rang.

Pallack said, “Yes?”

Pallack listened for some time, said finally, “I don't care if she is staying at the Sherlock house, there's no reason to go after her now. Dammit, you shouldn't be calling me here. A public phone? Still—look, now that I have August's journals, our business is at an end. You should leave San Francisco as soon as possible.

“Dammit, Julia Ransom isn't important. I don't want to have to deal with any fallout from that. No, I don't want to see you tonight.”

Pallack's fingers tapped impatiently on the desktop as he listened.

“You've lost perspective, Xavier. Listen to me, go to Costa Rica, lie on the beach. Enjoy your money. It's over, do you hear me?”

Pallack jerked the phone away. Dix supposed he'd been hung up on. Pallack slowly put down the phone. Dix saw him stare at it, shaking his head.

Through the slit in the drapes, Dix saw Charlotte walk back into the study, wearing a nightshirt that read across the front
I Only Swing Left.
The shirt ended at the top of her thighs. Those weren't Christie's legs, not the same shape at all. “Thomas, was that David?”

Pallack said irritably, “No, it wasn't David.”

“I do wish he'd call. It's been over two days now.”

“Yes, I'm worried now as well. Maybe we should hire someone to look for him.” Pallack struck his fist on his desktop. “If only I could convince that psycho to simply leave San Francisco. But he's fixated on Julia. Makepeace just called and wanted to meet to discuss it again, but I said no.”

She started wringing her hands, pacing back and forth in front of his desk. “He won't stop, you know he won't. I don't think he can.”

“Look, as I told you, the police have only a whole lot of coincidences, bits and pieces, conjecture, but nothing to stick. If Makepeace kills Julia, he kills her. It won't matter, not in the long run. They still won't have anything on us.”

She didn't look like she believed him, but she stopped her pacing and crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself.

“What about the alarm system?”

“The guy at Berenger Security said they'd get the system up again, said they'd do a thorough investigation since it was most of the building this time. They got hold of three of our neighbors, two others weren't home, but none of them had even noticed. They said they couldn't understand how it happened.”

“It's going on midnight, Thomas. You're tired, come to bed. There's nothing more to be done tonight.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Dix heard the computer click off.

The lights went out. Their footsteps receded. Dix waited, listening, for another ten minutes. He'd heard enough, seen enough.

Dix heard no sound at all. The Pallacks were upstairs in the bedroom. And he was alone downstairs.

Dix eased out from behind the curtain and felt his way slowly around chairs, lamps, and a sofa until he got to the door. He looked out at empty darkness. He took several more steps, paused, listened intently again. He saw the red blink of the alarm system on the hallway wall. The security company had gotten the system running again. Thank the good Lord they didn't suspect a burglar yet. Maybe they would, once they investigated. All he had to do was disarm it and leave.

He stepped down the hallway.

“Stop right there or I'll shoot you!”

Dix froze. Thomas Pallack stood not more than three feet behind him. Dix knew he couldn't see him clearly, didn't know who he was. He pictured Pallack, about four inches shorter than he was, pictured him holding the gun in his right hand, about chest high, straight out. It was either run like mad and pray he didn't get shot in the back, or—

Dix whirled around, kicked out with his right foot, and clipped the gun in Pallack's hand. He heard it land hard on the oak floor and slide, until it finally hit the baseboard with a hard thud.

Dix was on him in the next instant, one clean shot to his jaw and Pallack was out. He leaped up, and stared down at the shadowy form of the old man who'd murdered his wife, and was fiercely glad he hadn't run. He heard Charlotte yell from the upstairs landing, “Thomas, what's wrong?”

An upstairs light came on. There was no time to deal with the alarm—Dix was out the door in a couple of seconds, the alarm ringing wildly in his ears. He knew that with the alarm system blaring, the cops would be there fast. He bolted down the stairs and out the front door.

He ran, hugging the trees and shadows. He heard a cop car. Not more than two minutes had passed. Yep, the cops were fast to a 911 from an upscale neighborhood.

He waited, listening to the doors of the cop car open and slam shut. He heard men's voices, running feet. He waited another minute. Just as he was ready to run again to his car, he heard a deep voice say close to his ear, “I don't think you want to move at all. I don't know who you are, but I'll find out soon enough, won't I?”

A cop, Dix thought, and relaxed a bit. This guy was good, moved as silent as the moon climbing up the sky. Without turning, he said, “Look, I can explain this. Call Captain Frank Paulette of the SFPD. He'll vouch for me.” He started to turn, to face the cop, let him see he wasn't a threat to him, but the man said, “Move again and you'll get a bullet through your ear, you got me?”

“Okay, I'm not about to move. I'm Dixon Noble, a sheriff from Virginia. I'm working with the local police. My wallet is in my jacket pocket. If you pull it out you can see my driver's license.”

“I have a feeling if I go hunting for your wallet you're going to come at me. You figure you're a big guy, strong, ready to go, ready to tune me up. With my luck lately, you just might manage it.”

Dix felt the gun muzzle press harder against the back of his neck. “That surprises you, doesn't it, that I can tell what you'd do by only looking at you? I don't have a silencer on my gun and I really don't want to risk the noise, not that you'd be around to hear it, of course.”

There was something in his voice, something faintly British, and Dix knew in that instant who it was.

The man behind him laughed. Dix felt the flutter of his breath in his ear.

“Imagine a cop breaking into a private citizen's house—and it's not just any house, is it? It's a penthouse owned by that distinguished gentleman Thomas Pallack. Now that doesn't look too good, does it, Sheriff?”

Dix said nothing.

“Ah, you finally figured it out, huh?” The butt of a gun came down hard behind Dix's right temple. Dix didn't hit the ground; he wasn't completely out. He felt the man lift him in a firefighter's carry, and he wanted to puke with his head dangling down. “Now, I'll take us back to Mr. Pallack's little house in the clouds.”

The cops, Dix thought, his brain nearly gone, surely the cops would see him.

But they didn't.

He passed out cold when Makepeace started climbing up the stairs to the sixth floor.

CHAPTER 59

Dix heard distant voices, then a woman's voice closer—it sounded a bit like Christie, but it was Charlotte Pallack's voice. He felt bile rise in his throat and wanted to gag, but he didn't. He swallowed and kept swallowing until it eased. No way was he going to vomit. He didn't move.

He heard Thomas Pallack's angry voice, then Makepeace's, but he couldn't make out the words. Slowly, his mind cleared. But it wasn't the time to raise his head and say hi to everyone. He didn't move, he just listened.

“Why the hell did you bring him here? Are you insane?”

“The cops had already been in here, I saw them leave. They were out front, not in back anymore. So I got the sheriff in through the service entrance to the stairs. I thought it was a good way to make a point, don't you think, Pallack? I thought you might want to pay me to take him away.”

“Do you have any idea who this is?”

“He said he was Dixon Noble, a sheriff from Virginia. Why did he break in here?”

“It doesn't concern you. Jesus, the damned man was carrying an arsenal,” Pallack said, and looked down at his desk, where Makepeace had piled the sheriff's weapons.

“He was ready for business. A cell phone, one big Beretta, one little derringer in an ankle holster, and a tough little five-inch Fällkniven, a fine knife.”

“It's a knife, so what?”

Dix wondered if Makepeace was going to take the knife his father had given him when he'd turned sixteen.

“One should enjoy fine tools, Pallack.”

Dix could hear Pallack prowling, back and forth, in front of him. “This is all we need, this fool sheriff playing vigilante. At least he didn't get into the safe.”

Charlotte asked, “But why did he break in? What could he have hoped to find?”

“Don't be stupid, Charlotte. The sheriff wanted to find the bracelet. If you hadn't worn the damned thing—”

“Then why did you give me that bracelet for a wedding present? Of course I'd wear it, for God's sake.”

“The sheriff broke in here to find a bracelet?” Makepeace said in a bemused voice. “What bracelet? Why should he want this bracelet so much?”

Charlotte ignored him. “Thomas, you didn't even bother to tell me it belonged to another woman until after the sheriff saw it on my wrist and recognized it. Why didn't you tell me that when you gave it to me?”

“Like you would have appreciated wearing another woman's jewelry. Look, it doesn't matter, Charlotte. I wasn't really the one who wanted you to have that bracelet, it was—never mind. What's done is done.”

But Charlotte wasn't buying it. “It was your little joke on me, wasn't it? Yours or that bitch mother of yours.”

“Don't call her that! She isn't—wasn't a bitch. Damnation, I should have known you'd never have my mother's heart, or her intelligence. You were supposed to find out what the damned sheriff knew, pretend you were interested in him, but did you manage it? Of course you didn't. And look what you've brought us now—the sheriff breaking into my home.”