Double Take ft-11

by Catherine Coulter

  “Thank you, Captain Paulette. I fully plan to keep sleeping with my SIG.”

  Julia and Cheney watched Captain Paulette detour to a patrol car parked at the curb. She said to Cheney, “Thanks for volunteering to stay. Even with officers right outside, I’m scared down to my bones. I want to say I can take care of myself—I mean, I sure did tonight, didn’t I? But, well, still, I appreciate it. Follow me, I’ll show you to a guest room.”

  She paused a moment, eyed him up and down. “I don’t think the bougainvillea room is quite in your style. It’s too girly-girl. I’ll take you to August’s room.”

  It was a large bedroom with a big window that gave onto the bay, with wallpaper that reminded him of the middle of a forest in the deep fall. It was soothing, as mellow as a good massage. “There should be birds chirping.”

  “They hibernate with the bears. There are toiletries in the bathroom, even two different bristle strength toothbrushes.” She showed him more of her dead husband’s clothes and left him to the forest with its magnificent view.

  Cheney called after her, “Leave your bedroom door open.”

  “I’m not about to sleep in my bed tonight. I’ll be right down the hall—with the door open. You can count on it. Thanks again for staying, Cheney. I guess I’m a little spooked.”

  “You’re allowed.”

  She nodded, gave him a tentative smile and walked down the wide corridor away from him. He could tell she was dragging. He hoped she’d be deeply asleep before too long.

  As for himself, he was out as soon as he pulled the thick duvet to his chin.

  CHAPTER 18

  Cheney awoke with a start to the sound of a woman’s voice singing an aria from Madame Butterfly, one of the few operas he liked. He lay with his eyes closed, and listened. It was a beautiful voice, with good range. He didn’t move until she finished.

  He cleaned himself up, brushed his teeth with the extra-firm-bristle toothbrush, and went downstairs to the kitchen to see Julia Ransom bending over to pull muffins out of the oven.

  He drew in a deep breath. Blueberry, his favorite.

  He didn’t want to startle her so he waited until she set the pan onto one of the top burners.

  “Smells great.”

  She whirled around, nearly lunged for the gun sitting on the end of the counter. “Oh. Good morning, Cheney. It’s still early. I wanted to—”

  She was wearing jeans, ballet flats, and a white shirt, her hair in a French braid. And she was wearing lipstick, he saw, a pretty pale peach color, and some makeup to cover her bruise. She wore no jewelry except for small silver hoops in her ears.

  He said, “I was sleeping in my forest bed when the most incredible music began playing in my head. Madame Butterfly, right?”

  “Yes, it’s my favorite. I’m sorry if I woke you up. Sometimes the songs come out of my mouth and I don’t realize, that is, usually I’m alone and I guess I didn’t think—”

  “It’s all right, Julia. You have a beautiful voice.” The microwave pinged. “Thank you. Please sit down. I’ve got breakfast going here.”

  He looked at his watch. “The forensic team will be back soon.”

  “I was looking at some of the bullet holes, so much of the beautiful old wood gouged out. They’ll get his DNA from the blood, won’t they?”

  “Yes. Did you study voice? Sing professionally?” She shook her head as she poured him a cup of coffee, then moved to the stove to scramble some eggs. “Well, for one semester in college I practiced for hours every day, but then—”

  “Then what?”

  She shrugged. “Then things changed.”

  He wanted to ask her to explain, but he didn’t. Her past could wait.

  She was fast. Six minutes later they were eating eggs, blueberry muffins, and crispy bacon, just as he liked it.

  Something pressed against his leg and he nearly leaped off the chair. As it was, he sent his fork flying.

  “I’m sorry. Hey, Freddy, you scared Cheney. Come here, little prince, and have some turkey bacon.”

  A large muscular tabby, more white than orange, jumped lightly onto the chair next to Julia’s and begin talking. The desperate meows didn’t stop until he had his face in a pile of turkey bacon crumbled on a paper plate. Freddy chewed loudly and he purred even louder. Cheney listened for a moment, then laughed.

  “That guy’s got an incredible engine.”

  “Yes, he does. Even when he was a kitten you could hear him from two rooms away.” She sighed. “I think I was the only neighbor willing to watch Freddy so Mrs. Minter had no choice but to ask me. Like everyone else, she’s not quite sure whether I killed my husband. And now this.” She sighed. “I wonder what my neighbors are going to think now?”

  Cheney said matter-of-factly, “When the media does a number on someone, it stays done for a good long time. Now that you’re the target, the media will jump on that and people will change their minds, your neighbors included. I didn’t see Freddy Thursday night or last night.”

  “Freddy was hiding beneath the sofa in the library. I’m keeping him for a week while Mrs. Minter and her new husband explore the Greek Islands. They’re due back pretty soon. It’s a good thing Freddy doesn’t sleep with me. That creep might have hurt him last night. I sure hope you’re right about my neighbors changing their minds about me.”

  Freddy meowed loudly. She laughed, petted his head, and crumbled up some more bacon. “Freddy did finish out last night with me, though. I woke up this morning and there he was lying flat on my chest. It was tough to breathe.”

  Freddy suddenly froze. The hair on his back stood straight up and he hissed.

  “Get down, Julia!” Cheney shoved her under the table, drew his SIG, and made his way from the kitchen toward the front of the house.

  CHAPTER 19

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Sunday

  Dix said, “It was her eyes—not quite Christie’s— but so close, for a moment I couldn’t breathe. I kept wishing I hadn’t gone.”

  Ruth closed one of her hands over his. “You had to go, Dix, you had to see her, you had to be sure. Now you know, and it’s over.”

  “But it isn’t over, Ruth, not with that bracelet Charlotte Pallack was wearing. There’s no coincidence that great in the universe.”

  Savich said, “Since you called yesterday, Dix, I’ve checked out Charlotte Pallack. That’s why I asked you guys to come over today and sent the kids off to the movies with Lily and Simon. Dix, did Charlotte tell you she was from money?”

  Dix thought back. “Well, not really, but she certainly gave me that impression, sort of like she was the poor little rich girl, rebelling, and so she ran off with a German guy as a young girl, but she didn’t marry him, she came back. She said her parents were dead. She’s got one brother—there was maybe something there, but I didn’t pursue it. I just wanted to leave.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Let me say first that it took even MAX a good amount of time to find out much about Charlotte Pallack’s past. Seems Thomas Pallack went to great lengths to keep it obscure—or perhaps she did it herself. But MAX was able to start from their marriage license.” Savich paused a moment. “We found the girl, Charlotte Caldicott, in the North Carolina Department of Health and Human Services database. She didn’t lie about her father, he’s dead sure enough, shot by police while he was attempting to rob a liquor store about two months after he’d abandoned his family. Charlotte was five years old.

  “Like you said, Dix, she has a brother, younger by four years, David Caldicott. She, her brother, and her mother lived in Durham, true enough, but there wasn’t a dime. Her mother, Althea Caldicott, worked two jobs to support her kids, then she died of runaway breast cancer when Charlotte was eleven, David seven. The children were sucked into the foster care system until they were eighteen. Then MAX lost her for a while.”

  Dix said, “No college?”

  Savich shook his head. “It’s interesting, though. She did tell the truth when sh
e could. About her brother, David Caldicott— he’s now thirty-three and plays the violin for the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. He was evidently taught as a boy by one of his foster parents, a Maynard Lee Thornton, who played the fiddle like a dream. David had a truckload of talent. Maynard Lee managed to wrangle a violin for him, and was apparently an excellent teacher. Maynard Lee died when David was seventeen. When David turned eighteen, he took off for Europe, Prague, to be exact, then Paris, then London. According to his bio with the Atlanta Orchestra, he played his violin in clubs, in parks, in cafes, wherever.

  “Now I have another unbelievable coincidence for you, Dix, something I’m afraid throws a new light on everything. When David Caldicott got back to the U.S. he applied to and was accepted by your very own favorite music school—Stanislaus.”

  Dix could only stare at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Ruth said, “Come on, Dillon, you made that up.”

  Savich shook his head. “Nope.” He drew a deep breath. “Dix, he was in Maestro, at Stanislaus, when Christie disappeared.”

  Dix nearly fell off his chair. He rose, paced the length of the living room and back again. He felt like a fist was squeezing the life out of his heart. He sucked in a deep breath. He said as he turned to face them, “I mean, really, Savich, this is nuts, some sort of a vicious cosmic joke. The bracelet, Christie’s bracelet, it was on Charlotte’s wrist. Everything ties together now, but how? Did David realize his sister Charlotte was Christie’s twin? Did he murder her? Or was it Charlotte who murdered Christie? But why? Dammit, why?” He slammed his fist against the mantelpiece and winced.

  He rubbed his knuckles as he said, “And then there’s Thomas Pallack, bloody rich, hooked up through David Caldicott—it had to be—because Thomas knows Chappy, he was in Maestro. But how would David Caldicott meet Pallack? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m going to shoot myself.”

  “It’s a head slammer, all right,” Sherlock said.

  “Lots of pieces flying around,” Ruth said. “But maybe they’ll come together, somehow.”

  Dix looked from one to the other. “Why, if Charlotte is innocent, if her husband is innocent, if it’s all a mad coincidence, why then didn’t she simply tell me her brother attended Stanislaus Music School? Like ‘Hey, you’re from Maestro, Virginia? Gee, my brother attended Stanislaus, and isn’t it a small world?’ Doesn’t that seem like the natural thing to say?”

  Savich said, “It’s certainly a question to ask her, but a believable answer would be easy, like ‘I forgot, it simply didn’t occur to me at the time,’ or ‘It didn’t seem important.’ “ He handed them a bowl of popcorn. “It’s well salted just as you like it, Ruth.”

  “The bracelet, Dix,” Sherlock said, “in your gut, how sure are you really that it’s Christie’s bracelet.”

  Dix said, “I was very certain when I first saw it, but all I can truthfully say is that it’s very similar. She even took it off so I could see it. That doesn’t bode well for her guilt, does it? Hooked at the back, where I’d had Christie’s bracelet engraved, but it was as clean as the day the bracelet was purchased. There was nothing there, no sign of the jeweler’s etchings.”

  Sherlock said, “We’ve got a guy in forensics who could scrub the queen’s name off her crown and no one would know. Platinum is easy.”

  Dix sat back, folded his arms over his chest. “If it could have been removed leaving no sign, then yes, I’m sure. Maybe if we could get ahold of that bracelet your forensics guy could check it out. But the only way I can see of getting ahold of the bracelet is to steal it.”

  Ruth said without pause, “I could arrange that. Not you, though, Dix, you don’t have enough experience. I’m sure my snitches have some friends on the West Coast who are into breaking and entering.”

  Savich laughed. “It’s true your informant network is top of the line, Ruth, but I’d prefer you didn’t contract out a robbery just yet.”

  Sherlock said thoughtfully, “It’s still not a bad idea. If we had that bracelet, we could check out where it was made, and that’d be one unknown down.”

  Savich said, “Let’s hold off a while on that. If there is indeed a connection, I can only imagine what the two Pallacks felt when they walked into the Sherlock’s house and saw you, Dix. They had to know they’d been ambushed. At least one of them had to know it was about Christie, probably both.”

  “Neither of them showed any signs of recognition at all, and believe me, I was watching their faces closely.”

  Sherlock said, “You know, Dix, I’m wondering why Charlotte called you yesterday morning.”

  Savich said, “Maybe she and her husband discussed the situation, knew Dix’s sudden presence had to be because of Jules Advere, and decided she should try to get some information out of you.”

  “But the bracelet—” Dix said. “I don’t think she knew about it, where it came from, I mean. Or else, why would she wear the thing? It was like waving a red cape in front of a very pissed bull.”

  Savich said, “I’m thinking you need to come at it from another direction. Maybe you and Ruth should take a trip to Atlanta.”

  Dix slowly nodded. “Very nice idea.”

  “But don’t strangle David Caldicott yet, all right?”

  “Oh boy, this is getting wild very quickly,” Ruth said. Her cop’s eyes were alight with excitement and anticipation, but they quickly clouded with worry for Dix. She managed to smile at him, patted his arm. “Good. We’ve got a plan. So, are you all ready for this? Rob pitched five straight innings without a hit yesterday against the Crescent City Panthers.”

  Dix laughed, letting the tension go for a minute. “He talked nonstop last night until Rafe finally punched him and I had to pull them apart.”

  Sherlock said, “Do you know that was the first thing Rob talked about with Sean when you guys got here? Now Sean worships him.”

  Savich looked at his watch. “Lily, Simon, and the boys won’t be back from the movies for another half hour at least. I’m betting the boys will talk her and Simon into some ice cream.”

  “I think it was an action movie,” Sherlock said. “They’ll come back wired, count on it. I only hope Sean didn’t get too excited when the hero got into trouble. At home he starts jumping up and down yelling out advice in his father’s voice. Not mine. Go figure.”

  Ruth said, “Sean will take his cues from what Rob and Rafe do, which is to sit there, eyes glued to the screen, shoveling in buckets of popcorn.”

  Dix jumped up and began pacing. “Sorry, guys, I can’t help it. I need to get more information on David Caldicott before Ruth and I go to Atlanta.”

  Savich said, “You can sit down, Dix, MAX has already checked him out. There were no red flags, no criminal record, nothing questionable. He’s thirty-three, as I said, more a loner than not, he keeps to himself, no wife—presents himself to the world as a talented geek.

  “He’s played violin with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra for nearly three years. Word is he’s very good.”

  “Sounds straightforward,” Dix said. “But all of you know it isn’t, it simply can’t be.”

  Sherlock chewed more popcorn. “Dillon will let you know if anything else pops. Now, what did Thomas Pallack say to Jules Advere when he was lying on the floor?”

  Dix didn’t have to consult his notebook. “He said, ‘My wife’s name is Charlotte. Do you understand? Don’t forget it.’ “

  Sherlock hummed. “Seems a mite of an overreaction, doesn’t it? Rather than showing concern about Mr. Advere’s collapse? Surely that’s odd.”

  Savich said, “To us, sure, but to them? Who knows? Okay, Thomas Pallack and Charlotte Pallack have been married two years and eleven months, not that long a time after Christie disappeared.”

  “Other than a big-time politico,” Dix said, “what else is Thomas Pallack?”

  “There’s no shortage of information on him. Pallack made a huge fortune in oil—drilling, refining, distributing, had his fingers in every slice of the p
ipeline pie. Like Chappy told you, he’s invested broadly now.

  “When he got out of the oil business in the early nineties, he went big into private equities. It wasn’t all that risky for him because he knew a whole lot of powerful financial people who probably owed him. He’s made several killings in those ventures working with his high-roller cronies. The SEC has wanted to chat with him over the years, but they haven’t gotten past his phalanx of lawyers yet. The lawyers plow the IRS under every couple of years too, when they have the gall to audit him.

  “Recently he’s expressed an interest in an ambassadorship, not to Chad or Slovenia, but a major country in Europe. That may be why he’s raised such big bucks on the national political level. On the surface he’s like any number of other wealthy individuals looking for a payoff from a sitting president, but there’s quite a snag—” Savich gave them a manic grin.

  Ruth finally threw popcorn at him. “Talk, boss.”

  Savich said, “Well, the thing is, Thomas Pallack speaks to his parents.”

  Sherlock said, “That’s a big crime?”

  “Well, the thing is—they’re long dead, more than thirty years dead.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Everyone stared at Savich. Dix said slowly, “You’re telling me this wealthy ‘old guy believes in spirits? Believes he actually speaks to them?”

  Savich nodded. “I was looking into another case for Agent Cheney Stone in San Francisco, and Pallack’s name appeared on a client list of a psychic medium who was murdered six months ago. Pallack has been seeing one since his parents’ deaths in 1977, every Wednesday and Saturday. I assume he’s still doing it. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  Dix said, “Why would anyone do that?” Savich said, “Well, that info led to something else about Pallack that could explain a great deal. Pallack’s parents were brutally murdered in their Southampton estate on February 17, 1977.”

  Ruth sat forward, hands on her knees. “Whoa—bad ending. That makes the spirit deal more understandable, I guess.” Dix asked, “Was the murderer caught?”