“Have you heard anything from Richmond about who might have hired Dempsey and Slater to kill me?”
“Not a thing from either the field agents or the Richmond PD. I’ll give Detective Morales a call, maybe promise him you’ll have dinner with him if he comes through. You like Italian, don’t you?”
Ruth grinned. “It’s a toss-up, Dix, between your stew and spaghetti Bolognese.”
ERIN BUSHNELL’S MEMORIAL was held in the large auditorium in Gainsborough Hall. A dozen lavish wreaths were set up around the stage, and a two-by-three-foot color photograph of Erin playing her violin hung from the ceiling. She looked so young, Ruth thought.
The auditorium was filled to capacity. Dix would bet every student and professor at Stanislaus was there. Those who couldn’t find seating were huddled against the walls and sitting on the steps in the aisles. He saw a lot of townies, too, sprinkled throughout the auditorium.
He and Ruth got lots of looks, some of them frowns, some tentative greetings. Erin’s parents were a conservative-looking couple, pale and silent, unable, he imagined, to come to grips with their daughter’s violent death. He’d met them, expressed his sympathy, when they first arrived. He had lost his wife, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. He thought of Rafe and Rob, and losing them would be the biggest hit life could dish out.
They would never find out exactly what was done to their daughter, if he could help it. Drugged and stabbed, that was horrible enough without adding the rest. Dix could only hope the half dozen people who knew the truth would never have to let it out.
He spent the memorial studying the faces around him, and knew Ruth was doing the same thing. There were half a dozen eulogies, including a very moving one by Gloria Stanford, and another by Gordon, who looked barely able to control his tears. The Presbyterian minister from Maestro focused on God’s providence and his belief in God’s own justice for Erin, an idea that seemed to resonate with the six-hundred-plus people in the auditorium.
Dix saw Tony and Gloria Stanford sitting on either side of Gordon, Gloria holding his hand. He saw Milton Bean from the Maestro Daily Telegraph.
No one acted unexpectedly. The fact was, Dix felt brain-dead. He was tired of seeing everyone as potential suspects, and though he mourned Erin Bushnell’s passing, he grew tired of hearing her praised beyond what most human beings would justly deserve at the age of twenty-two.
He thought of Helen, her body released by the coroner to her brother, who finally agreed to a memorial at Stanislaus the following week, and of old Walt, seemingly not important enough for a formal memorial, buried now in the two-hundred-year-old town cemetery on Coyote Hill. Dix had been surprised to see a small crowd of townspeople, his real friends, at the graveside service. Walt would have been pleased by that.
After the memorial Dix drove to Leigh Ann’s Blooms for All Occasions and bought a bouquet of carnations. He and Ruth drove to Coyote Hill, and together they walked to Walt McGuffey’s grave, a raw gash in the earth. Dix went down on one knee and placed the carnations at the head of the grave. “I ordered a stone to be carved for him. It should be here next week.”
Ruth said, “I would have come to his funeral with you yesterday if you’d only asked me.”
“You were on the phone to Washington. I didn’t want to disturb you. And you’re tired, Ruth, we both are. You’ve been through an awful lot. Now, it’s cold out here. I don’t want you to get sick. Let’s go home.”
She nodded, and it struck her that he’d called it home— for both of them. That was odd, and a little scary, yet it made her feel very good. She’d lived with him and his boys for a week now, and it felt more natural every day. Dix was an honorable man, and he cared—about his boys foremost, about his town, about doing the right thing. As for how that long, fit body of his looked in low-slung jeans, she didn’t want to think about that.
She wanted to talk to him more about Christie, but knew now wasn’t the time. Not yet. She might not have known him for all that long, but she knew in her soul that if Christie was at all like her, she would never have left him or the boys. Not willingly. Something very bad had happened to Christie Noble, and everybody knew it.
As they walked back to the Range Rover, Dix felt her looking at him, but he couldn’t see her eyes through the opaque black lenses of her sunglasses. She huddled in her bulky black leather jacket next to him on the front seat, her purple wool scarf around her neck, and pulled her matching purple wool cap nearly to her ears. Dix noticed she was wearing her own socks, not the nice thick ones Rafe had loaned her. He turned up the heat.
CHAPTER 30
THEY GOT HOME just before six o’clock. As Dix unlocked the front door, Ruth’s cell phone rang and she turned away to answer it. After a couple of minutes, she punched off. “That was Sherlock. Things are coming together. She and Dillon are going to stay in Washington, unless, she promised me, we needed them in any way. I told her we’re fine here.”
He hurried since Brewster’s nails were scraping madly against the front door.
“Brewster, hold on! Don’t forget, Ruth, if he jumps on you, hold him away.”
“Nah, Brewster won’t pee on the person who fed him some hot dog under the kitchen table last night.”
When Dix opened the front door, Ruth grabbed Brewster before he could climb her leg. She held him close, laughing and kissing his little face. He never stopped barking or wagging his tail.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Brewster, how could you?”
Brewster looked up and licked her jaw.
“We’ll get the coat to the cleaner’s tomorrow. They’ll be able to get the smell out—I happen to know this for a fact. And the leather won’t stain.”
Ruth laughed. “You little ingrate, what did you want that I didn’t give you? A bun with your hot dog? Some mustard, maybe?”
“Well, hang it up,” Dix said, pulled her against him, Brewster between them, barking his head off, and kissed her.
Dix pulled back almost immediately and pressed his forehead to hers. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—Well, yes I did.”
He pulled Brewster away from Ruth, hugged him, then set him on the floor. To his surprise, Brewster didn’t take offense. He sat looking up at them, his head cocked to one side, tail wagging.
Ruth felt a bit shell-shocked. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “Ah, I’m not sorry, either. Actually, I—”
“Dad!”
“What’s that smell? Oh, Brewster got you, Ruth?”
“Yeah, he did, Rafe. Hi, guys. What’d you make for dinner?”
Rafe and Rob looked at each other. “Well, we were sort of waiting for you.”
“Pizza,” Rob said. “I can put frozen pizza in the oven.”
“You mean,” she said slowly, looking back and forth at them, “you guys let your father do all the work?”
“Well, sometimes ladies bring us food.”
“We do laundry and clean our rooms.”
“He doesn’t have to cook so much, really. We’d be happy to eat pizza more often,” Rob said.
Dix said, “I’m going to broil some fish and bake potatoes. Rob, Rafe, finish up your homework in the next hour.”
“Oh yeah, sure, Dad.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Like I’m going to buy that one. I want you both in your rooms, studying. No TV, no earphones.”
“Dad?”
Dix heard a thread of something in Rafe’s voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. He wondered if the boys had seen him kiss Ruth. Better if they hadn’t; it was too soon. “What is it, Rafe?”
Rafe shot a look at his brother, then looked down at his sneakers. “Mrs. Benson, my math teacher, was crying today. You know, she knew all three of the murdered people.”
Dix picked up Brewster, stuffed him into his coat, zipped it halfway up, and brought both boys against him. “I know this is tough. You can bet it’s tough for Ruth and me, too. I told you straight last night—I will catch the per
son behind these murders, I promise you that.”
Rafe tried to smile. “By Tuesday.” He pressed his face against his father’s shoulder. “That’s what I told Mrs. Benson. She swallowed hard and said she sure hoped so since she voted for you.”
Dix said slowly, looking from one face to the other, “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
Rafe hugged his father’s waist. Rob was slower, stepped back so he could look squarely at his father. Dix saw, to his shock, that Rob looked no more than two or three inches shorter than he. When had he shot up like this? He was filling out, too, his shoulders less bony, his chest and arms thicker. “Tell me what’s wrong, Rob.”
Ruth stood silently, knowing she probably shouldn’t be there, but that didn’t help her feet move. She held still and kept quiet.
Rob stole a look at her. “I saw you kiss Ruth, Dad.”
Rafe jerked back, stared at his father then at Ruth. “You kissed her? When?”
“A minute ago,” Rob said.
“Yeah,” Dix said, “I did. Maybe I didn’t plan it, but I did.”
“Well, if you really didn’t mean to—” Rob said, and looked closely at his father.
“That wasn’t exactly the truth,” Dix said. “I wanted to, although I knew I shouldn’t, but I did anyway. Either of you got a problem with that?”
There was a moment of charged silence, then Rob whispered, “It’s Mom.”
Dix had known this moment would come, sooner or later, when a woman finally came into his life. In the days after Christie disappeared, Dix had wandered around in a fog of pain, too busy trying to find her to try to sort things out with the boys. When his brain began to clear some weeks later, he realized the boys very much needed to talk with him about their mother. He also realized he needed them as much as they needed him. What he gave them was as much honesty as he could. In return they got into the habit of always telling him what they were feeling. At least he’d believed that was the case. As for himself, he’d let his own pain stay buried, for the boys’ sake, and they slowly adjusted, accepted what couldn’t be changed. Until now, when his kissing Ruth had finished their unspoken agreement.
Dix ran his hands through his sons’ hair, love, pain, and guilt sweeping over him, nothing new in that. But now Ruth was added to the mix.
Rob said again, “It’s Mom.”
Dix said, “I know, Rob, I know. But your mom’s been gone for almost three years now.”
Rafe said, “Billy Caruthers—you know, that jerk on the baseball team I beat out as pitcher—he was shooting his mouth off about how he bet Mom ran off with a guy she met at the gym. I don’t believe it—but if that’s true, maybe she’ll come back.”
Hard, raw anger roiled in Dix’s belly. “You know that didn’t happen, Rafe.”
Rob’s eyes blurred with tears, but his voice was steady. “Yeah, I know. I told him Mom wouldn’t do that, and that’s when we got into a fight.”
Rafe said, “And Uncle Tony told us that maybe she got real sick and didn’t want us to see her die, and so she left. But if that’s true, Dad, why didn’t she write and tell us?”
“Your uncle Tony told you that? When was that, Rafe?”
“Maybe three months ago.”
Rob nodded. “I asked Uncle Tony if she had cancer, but he said he didn’t know, but it had to be something bad, something that couldn’t be cured.”
They simply didn’t want to accept that their mother was dead. Dix well understood denial because he’d felt the same thing many times himself. “Listen to me, your mother would never have left us, never. No sickness, nothing would have made her up and leave without a word. Why didn’t either of you tell me about this?”
Rob wouldn’t meet his father’s eyes. He shook his head, his eyes on Brewster. “It’s Ruth, Dad. We told you because of Ruth.”
“I see. I didn’t plan to kiss Ruth, but it happened. At some point I have to move forward with my life, with my feelings, hard as that is for all of us. Your mother would want that. I wish you’d come to me when you heard these things and not kept them hidden deep inside. I thought we were well beyond that.”
Rob whispered, “You believe Mom’s dead because that’s the only way she’d leave us for this long.”
There was silence in the entrance hall. Dix looked at his boys. He’d told them the truth since the beginning, but he knew they didn’t want to accept it, and he, because he’d hated their pain, hadn’t pushed it that hard. Well, only the stark truth would do now. And so he said, holding them both away so he could look at them, “Let me say it again, your mom wouldn’t have left us for a single day, you both know that. I pray every day that I’ll find out what happened to her because all of us need to know. I’ll never stop looking, never.
“I know she’s dead, Rob, know it in my head and in my heart. Since your mother left—No, let me be clear about it. Since your mother died, I’ve tried to love you with her love added on to mine, and believe me, that’s enough love to reach all the way to heaven. And that’s where your mom is. And every once in a while, I feel her close by, and I know she’ll always be here for us.
“You know I’ve searched and searched for any clue to help us find out what happened to her but there haven’t been any. I’m more sorry than I can say about that. Something bad happened to your mom, and I wish I’d been this straight with you sooner. I was dead wrong. I see now that we have been trying to keep the truth buried deep because it hurts so badly. We won’t do that anymore. It’s not fair to any of us. You’ve both been very brave, and I am so very proud of you.”
Dix straightened, looked over at Ruth, then down at his sons. “You saw me kissing Ruth and it upset you. I understand that. Truth is, I like Ruth very much. I have no idea what she thinks of me, but I do know she’s smart and nice and she really likes you delinquents. Can we keep things loose? Is that good enough for the time being?”
“Ruth isn’t Mom,” Rafe said.
“Of course not. Ruth isn’t anything like your mother, but the thing is, she doesn’t take a thing away from your mother, doesn’t make her any less special to you or me or anyone who knew her and loved her. Do you understand?”
The boys looked stony.
“Actually, Ruth is exactly like your mom in a couple of important ways. She’s tough and she’s good all the way through.” Dix handed Brewster to Rafe. “You don’t need to study right now. Here, take the Doberman out for a walk until I call you for dinner.”
Dix and Ruth watched them toe off their sneakers, put on boots, jackets, and gloves, and head out. The front door slammed behind them. At least that was normal for them. They heard them yelling to Brewster, and that was normal, too. He turned to Ruth. “Do you want to go sponge off that beautiful leather jacket?”
Ruth looked at him, bemused. “You really think I’m tough?”
“Maybe. Though I wouldn’t mind being caught in a dark alley with you.” He laughed. “When you get through with your jacket, you want to help me whip up a salad and save us all from a frozen pizza?”
CHAPTER 31
WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY NIGHT
SAVICH’S CELL PHONE played the opening lines of Bolero at 9:15 that evening. He was tucking Sean in for the night, reminding him again about what it was like to take care of a puppy. He kissed him good night, then walked into the hallway.
“Savich.”
“Savich, Quinlan here. An explosion just rocked the Bonhomie Club—might be the boiler, we don’t know yet. There’s lots of smoke, people are hurt, and panic’s going to hurt more.”
“Is Ms. Lilly all right?”
“Yes, but she’s not about to let a fire burn all her jazz records. I don’t know yet about Marvin and Fuzz.”
“Keep her out of the club, Quinlan. I’m on my way.”
Savich forced himself to be calm. He looked back into Sean’s room, saw that he was well tucked in under his favorite blanket, Robocop next to him. He quickly walked back in, kissed his boy again.<
br />
Sean gave a little snort in his sleep.
Savich found Graciella and Sherlock in the kitchen eating popcorn and drinking Diet Dr Pepper. When Sherlock saw him, she jumped to her feet. “What happened, Dillon?”
“James Quinlan just called from the Bonhomie Club. There’s been an explosion. Maybe the boiler blew, he didn’t know, but people are hurt. It sounds like a mess. Ms. Lilly’s all right, just really mad, I bet. I’ve got to go down and help.”
“It might not be the boiler, Dillon, and you know it. It might be Moses Grace.”
“It might be, but it doesn’t matter. Those are our friends there, Sherlock.”
“We’ll both go. And we’ll keep our eyes open. Graciella, we’ll be back when we can.”
They heard Graciella yell from behind them, “Be careful!”
They heard the sirens two blocks from Houtton Street, a “border” neighborhood five years before, now slowly gentrifying.
Emergency lights flashed, lighting the sky like Bat signals. They saw fire trucks parked sideways on the street and up on the sidewalks, firemen running toward the club, hoses and axes in hand. A media van screeched to a stop close to the police cars and fire trucks, hoping the cops wouldn’t have time to order them out. Houtton Street was blocked off, as well as the side streets. The first line of police was trying to hold back gawkers, reporters, and cameramen. Behind them, others were helping patrons streaming out of the club, stumbling, dirty, coughing, yelling for their boyfriends, their wives, whomever. Reporters stuck microphones in any face that came close enough. They blurted out their questions, happy and eager to ask about the disaster, maybe get their spot on the late news. There were a good hundred people jostling about, many of them dressed for a Friday night at the club, many of them bystanders who had gathered to look or to help. Savich pulled the Porsche directly in front of the club, where six cops had kept a space clear, probably for the chief of police, or maybe some politician who’d called ahead to do a sound bite showing his interest in and compassion for this largely black area. Before the cops could yell at him to move, Savich jumped out and flipped out his shield. “Agent Dillon Savich. What’s happening?”
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 148
