Had Rebekah’s grandfather actually been with his best friend fishing that long-ago afternoon? Had they argued? What about? Had Clarkson slammed him on the head, dumped him out of the fishing boat, and swum back to shore? It was so many years ago, but murder always left a stain and survivors who might want revenge or to get back what was theirs. Was that the reason Rebekah didn’t want to talk? Did she know something about Elderby’s murder and fear he’d find out?
8
If Zoltan was the key, the catalyst, perhaps the instigator, then to what end?
Savich wanted to meet this medium, Zoltan, a name both mysterious and exotic. He’d never really thought about mediums beyond the fact they made their living feeding off the desperate grief of others. Savich had dealt with gifted people over the years, and he thought he’d seen it all, but no, there was always something more, something beyond.
He turned to MAX and typed her name into his background search program. While he waited, he gave MAX another task: searching online images of coastal towns within a hundred-mile radius of Washington, D.C., that would match the partial puzzle picture. Had to be lots of possible towns, but maybe MAX could find it. While MAX worked, Savich studied the photos of the red box Lucy had forwarded to him. Why a red box? Does it have some symbolic meaning to the person who sent it?
MAX gave his sharp beep, and Savich saw a photo of Zoltan on the screen. Her birth name was Lorralynn Weatherspoon, born thirty-eight years ago in Willicott, Maryland. He drew back in surprise. Willicott was Chief Ty Christie’s town and home to Gatewood mansion, where he’d found Agent Sala Porto tied up and left to die in an upstairs closet. He and Sherlock and Sean had visited Ty and Sala in Willicott the previous month for a barbecue at Ty’s lake cottage. Sala had recently transferred to the Baltimore Field Office, much less of a daily commute for him since he was now living with Ty. And where would that lead? Life never ceased to amaze.
Weatherspoon had changed her name legally to Zoltan six years ago, a Hungarian man’s given name she’d adopted as her mononym. A good choice, he thought again, mysterious and mystical, more of a draw than Weatherspoon. He scanned the rest, made notes, and left MAX to his second task.
He saw Sherlock peel away from Ruth and Ollie and come over to him, grinning. He wanted to hug her, but didn’t, not here in his office in the CAU. She said, “I’m starving, didn’t have time for lunch. You?”
Savich realized he hadn’t eaten, either. They went to the seventh floor to have Indian food—dal, a lentil soup, was the touted dish of the day. Shirley warned them to beware of the peppers, the suckers would burn your tonsils.
When they snagged a table in a quiet corner and sat down with their dal and naan, Sherlock said, “Sorry to say we’ll probably have to go back to Norfolk again soon. I wish I could stay here with you after all that’s happened today. Tell me more about it. I’ll eat, you talk.”
Savich went through what had happened to Rebekah Manvers, beginning with the séance.
She whistled when he finished. “It never stops, does it?” She waved him back to his lentil soup. He wasn’t paying attention and bit into a pepper. Two glasses of water later, Sherlock still laughing, he decided he would survive. He chewed on a piece of warm naan to soothe his throat and told her about Chief of Staff Arlan Burger’s calling Mr. Maitland.
Sherlock listened closely as she dipped her own naan into the rich, thick soup and chewed slowly. She said at last, “Imagine, this medium, Zoltan, is from Willicott. You want me to give Ty a call, have her find out about her and her family? Get a feel for this woman before we go see her?”
“Good idea. Yes, check her out. MAX can give us the facts of her life, but not what she was all about growing up, what people thought of her and her family.”
She smiled at him. “So much has happened today, so many threads to follow, not even counting the red box and the puzzle. What I can’t understand is why Rebekah Manvers isn’t telling you everything, whether she thinks it’s important or not. That’s got to mean she’s hiding something.”
She sat back in her chair and patted her stomach. “But you’re not going to interview Rebekah Manvers again and try to convince her to talk to you, are you? You’re going to visit that medium, Zoltan, first. I can’t see a way she’s not involved, Dillon.”
He put his soup spoon down and smiled at her. Sherlock laughed. “At the very least, this Zoltan is bound to be entertaining.”
He spotted another hot pepper and gently spooned it onto the bread plate. “I haven’t done a deep run on Rebekah or Congressman Manvers, either. Do you know anything about her?”
“I know she’s much younger than her husband, late twenties to his mid-fifties. No kids together, but they haven’t been married long. I believe I heard he has two sons by his first wife, both older than his new wife.” She paused a moment, studied his face. “Makes you wonder if maybe there’s bad blood between the sons and their new stepmama.”
“That’s possible. Do you have any doubts Zoltan is a fake?”
“Now, there’s a strange question for a man with your gifts to ask.” She sat forward, took his hand. “All I’ve ever been certain of is there are things I don’t understand, that no one is able to understand, not really. If Zoltan is a charlatan, you’ll expose her. Can the chief of staff count on you figuring it all out by close of business today?”
Such faith she had in him. He managed to avoid another pepper. “We’ll see. At this point nothing would surprise me.”
“You’re planning to see Zoltan tonight?”
“You want to come with me? I’ll bet my sister and Simon would love to babysit Sean.”
Sherlock shook her head. “I’d be a third thumb.” She leaned across the table, took his hand, and squeezed it. “Listen to me, Dillon. You be careful. We have no idea what to expect.”
Back in his office, Savich called Zoltan’s private number and spoke to her secretary, Candy. Was that a punch of nerves in her voice when he identified himself? What did Candy know about any of this? She told him Zoltan’s last client would be gone by eight o’clock that evening.
9
HOME OF ZOLTAN
THURSDAY EVENING
Savich drove his Porsche to Cleveland Park, an old, established neighborhood in northwest Washington both he and Sherlock enjoyed driving through, especially when the fall leaves were at their most dramatic. There were beautifully kept older houses surrounded by mature oaks and maples, and it was quiet, not a single kid’s bike to be seen in the neighborhood. Zoltan lived in a hundred-year-old house with a wraparound porch, surrounded by a well-maintained yard. There was a porch light on, and both downstairs and upstairs lights were on. Savich could see the pale brown paint and sharp white trim were fresh. Fall flowers still bloomed from baskets hanging from overhead porch beams, and piles of fallen leaves had been swept up. He paused a moment in front of the dark-brown-painted front door. The neighborhood, the house, even the planted fall flowers seemed so normal, so expected. Who would guess a medium was holding séances in her living room? Why, he wondered again, hadn’t Rebekah wanted to talk about what happened here last night?
He fully intended to find out.
He pressed a button by the front door and heard chimes sounding a lovely deep Gregorian chant. He heard light footsteps, and Zoltan herself answered the front door. She’d looked formal in the photo MAX had shown him of her attending a conference in New York. Now she looked completely normal, wearing black leggings, whimsical moose-head slippers on her long, narrow feet, and a burgundy Redskins sweatshirt. Her thick black hair was pulled up and back in a ponytail, showcasing a face with sharp bone structure and a strong chin. She looked Black Irish with the dark hair, dark blue eyes, and very white complexion. She wore minimal makeup and small diamond studs in her ears. She did not look like anyone’s idea of a person who spoke to the dead and called herself Zoltan.
“Ms. Zoltan? I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich.” He automatically held out his creds, but she didn’t take them
. Instead she looked at his face and stilled. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. What did she think she saw?
Zoltan said in a deep, cream-smooth voice, like coffee with a dollop of Baileys, “Just Zoltan. Now, I have to admit I’m surprised. I find it hard to believe you’re an FBI special agent. Candy—she’s my secretary—told me your voice was dark and sexy, and she wished she could think of a bad deed she could confess to you.”
Savich said nothing, kept holding out his creds. Finally, she took them, gave a cursory look, and handed them back, all the while continuing to stare at his face. She stepped away and waved him in. “It’s fortunate for you I saw my last client an hour ago. I assume you wish to speak about Rebekah Manvers’s conversation with her grandfather last night?”
“Yes.”
“I am wondering why an FBI agent would have any interest whatsoever in a communication between a young woman and her dead grandfather. I do hope her husband, the congressman, didn’t send you to harass me.” She turned as she spoke and led him into a lovely high-ceilinged living room, long and narrow, with windows at either end covered in dark blue brocade draperies. A fire burned sluggishly in the fireplace, sending up an occasional spark. It was dim and cozy, the air soft with a light scent of night jasmine. It was a place to read a good book or maybe speak to a spirit. Savich said, “The Carrara marble looks original.”
“It is. When I bought the house three years ago, it was because of the eight fireplaces, all working and all Carrara marble. Luckily, it’s a chilly night, perfect for a fire. Do sit down, Agent Savich.” She gave him a look over her shoulder. “Candy has quite the ear—you do have a marvelous voice. Alas, from your wedding ring, I will have to tell Candy you’re unavailable.”
“Yes, I am.”
“At least for the moment.”
Savich merely smiled. He looked again around the living room. “You hold your séances in this room?”
“Yes. Another reason I bought the house. I’ve found calling to the Departed more natural when a house is older, when it’s lived through years of life and death and drama, of exquisite pain and flashes of joy. I find all that living human experience permeates the walls themselves.” She cocked her head at him. “If you’re wondering where my levitating table is, I’m afraid I don’t use one. I simply arrange the chairs in a circle when I have a small group, and yes, everyone holds hands. It’s not theater, although it certainly could be. No, it’s to pool everyone’s energy. May I get you tea, a nice Earl Grey, black?”
Savich raised a brow.
Zoltan said matter-of-factly, “The Earl Grey is nice and hot. No sugar or cream or lemon, straight-up black tea.” She poured him a cup from a bright red thermos on a side table, handed it to him, then poured herself a cup, added milk and two packets of fake sugar.
“How do you know I don’t care for anything in my tea, Ms. Zoltan? How do you even know I prefer tea? Did a visiting spirit mention it to you?”
She shrugged and looked away from him, toward the fireplace, and her eyes went vague and distant. He sipped his tea and enjoyed the performance. Had she read up on him already, in the few hours since he’d called?
The tea was delicious, the flavors deep and rich, better than his own, actually, and that surprised him. There was something else in the tea, some darker flavor. He let the thought go and studied Zoltan. “May I ask why you chose a Hungarian man’s name?”
She shrugged, the movement strangely compelling and graceful. She smiled at him. “Do you like your tea, Agent Savich?”
He nodded. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Should I satisfy your curiosity?” She paused, then nodded. “Zoltan was a man I met in the Village in New York. He played chess in Washington Square, played the violin in a sidewalk café, and made love to me like I was a Stradivarius. He taught me things, Agent Savich, so many things before he died from a curse he knew was coming for him. He awakened his powers in me before he died, in what he told me was an ancient ritual. His family was originally from Erdély, a part of Hungary before it was taken and given to Romania.”
Her voice was low and musical, mesmerizing. Savich found himself staring into the smoldering fire, the occasional sparking flame. Her words seemed to flow smoothly into his mind. Something wasn’t right. He pulled his eyes away from the fire and back to her face. “Zoltan died of a curse? Is that a tale for your clients’ benefit? And now mine? To give you credibility? To make yourself out to be a sorcerer’s apprentice?”
10
“Sorcerer’s apprentice? As vastly romantic as that sounds, I did not have to invent Zoltan. He was a living, breathing man, my mentor and lover, and he bestowed his gifts on me.”
Savich knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, which felt odd. He rose and walked to stand against the mantel, facing her, his arms crossed over his chest. He said very precisely, “There is no such thing as transferring psychic power. I’m surprised this claim would impress anyone, Zoltan, or should I remind you your name is Weatherspoon and you grew up in Willicott, Maryland?”
“Weatherspoon is my parents’ name. What a common name it is. Naturally you investigated me the moment Rebekah told you about our visit with her grandfather. If I had the resources you do, I suppose I’d have done such a check on you. As for Willicott, it’s a sad little town near Lake Massey, where I remember listening to my parents scream at each other, and where I learned to hug my secrets close. Ah, old history. I left for New York when I was eighteen, attended City College, and met Zoltan. There’s really not much more to say about my past, Agent Savich.
“I changed my name six years ago, after Zoltan died. I took his name to honor him, to show the depth of my love for him. And thank him for what he’d given me. Can we get on with it? You look rather tired. You’ve had a long day. Your saving Rebekah Manvers from kidnappers is all over the news, and of course that’s why you’re here. You believe I may have had something to do with her attempted kidnapping, since Rebekah was with me last night.”
Savich decided to take a shot in the dark. “It’s obvious her attempted kidnapping was precipitated by your having her here for a séance, telling her her grandfather had come, having him tell her things she didn’t want to hear.” He watched her closely.
Zoltan threw back her head and laughed. “A frontal attack, that’s good. If I were responsible, you’d have me quaking. But alas, I’m a simple medium, my only purpose to connect the Departed with the living, nothing more, nothing less. So Rebekah told you about what her grandfather told her. I’m surprised. She told me she wanted it to stop here, never speak of it again.”
“Evidently she changed her mind after someone tried to kidnap her. It wasn’t lost on her that what happened was only hours after her meeting with you. And that makes what she and her grandfather discussed a motive, doesn’t it?”
Zoltan fanned her hands in front of her. “Agent Savich, I had nothing to do with anything. I was only the conduit for her grandfather. It was he who told her about the Big Take that happened so long ago.”
Savich kept his face impassive. “Do you think her grandfather murdered his supposed best friend, Nate Elderby, because of the Big Take?”
“Well, it appears Rebekah told you everything. But not murder, that wasn’t ever discussed.” She frowned. “Although her grandfather’s words about his friend were somewhat ambiguous. A falling-out among thieves, then, that’s what you believe.”
Savich said, “I imagine Rebekah was quite surprised, didn’t want to consider her grandfather could have been involved in something like the Big Take, much less murder.” He took another sip of his tea.
Zoltan shrugged. “So who would care one way or the other? Rebekah, as you know, doesn’t want anything to do with the Big Take, even to consider returning it to the original owner. She doesn’t want her grandfather’s legacy tarnished in any way.
“I believe it makes more sense that whoever tried to take Rebekah today did so because her husband is a very rich man, not to mention Reb
ekah herself must have inherited a good deal of money from her grandfather.” She sighed. “I was still hoping Rebekah would agree to come back here tomorrow to speak again to her grandfather, if he was able to come through the Verge. But now? I doubt she will.”
Savich said, “You’re right. Rebekah won’t be back. She believes, as do I, that you gave a brilliant performance as her grandfather last night, that you somehow found out about the Big Take and that’s why you invited her here.”
“I am not a fake, Agent Savich.”
“Tell me then, Zoltan, how you got Rebekah to come to you in the first place. She wasn’t clear to me on why you called her.”
“It’s no secret. Her grandfather came to me three times during séances with other clients. He finally gave me enough information to identify both him and Rebekah and to find her. He told me a nickname he had for her, Pumpkin. There’s nothing more to it. He told her about this Big Take and that she knew where it was hidden. She didn’t want to know what they’d stolen, didn’t want to discuss it, as I’m sure she told you. I now realize her grandfather was right to warn her—he told her there’s a wolf in the fold, as he put it. Perhaps this wolf tried to kidnap her, and that would mean the wolf is someone close to her. If only she could come back, perhaps her grandfather would tell her who the wolf is.”
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