“My name is only the slightest modification of the actual name my beloved parents bestowed on me at my birth.”
“What was that name, sir?”
But Soldan Meissen only waved his hookah at them. Cheney gave him a small salute, took Julia’s arm and followed Ancilla out of the pasha’s chamber.
CHAPTER 46
Tuesday night
Today has been one of the strangest days in my life,” Julia said. She yawned, stretched, and leaned against the wall of the Sherlocks’ upstairs hallway, her head resting just below a painting of a young girl repairing a fishing net.
“And one of the longest,” Cheney said, resting his hand against the wall beside her head.
Her eyes suddenly brightened, and she leaned close, whispered against his ear, “You want to know what would actually have been more fun, if I hadn’t been so terrified—car racing on the beach.”
He laughed. “Don’t forget that, it’s even better in a dune buggy.”
“You got him away from us, Cheney, that was a really good plan you had.” She sighed. “I only wish I’d been a better shot.”
“No, I was the one who should have nailed him.” He lightly trailed his fingers down her cheek. “Anyone else I know would have been scared stupid, but you were enjoying yourself.”
“Are you seeing me as some kind of maniac like you?”
“I’m thinking a maniac is a good thing in some settings. Actually, though, what I’m seeing right now, right in front of me, is a very beautiful woman.”
She gave him a brilliant smile, both exhaustion and excitement clear in her eyes, at least to him. Now wasn’t the time. He stepped back. She said, “Is that an example of a maniac talking?” Cheney shook his head. “No, that’s the plain truth.” He streaked his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
She laughed and smoothed it down, her hand resting a moment on his cheek. “Cheney—”
“You know, I was thinking Wallace sure read Dix right this evening. His frustration is building fast.”
“Poor man, I can’t say I blame him. The not knowing if his wife was alive or dead for over three years, I can’t imagine going through that. And he still doesn’t know where she is. You’ll find out, Cheney, I know you will.”
He could do nothing but stare down at her, and marvel at the utter certainty in her voice. He said, “That deal with Wallace—I have to say we got what I expected. Exactly nothing.”
She nodded. “But you know what I found fascinating? It was the way Wallace looked at Dillon—with acceptance, only it wasn’t really that, maybe some sort of recognition, no, that sounds absurd. I don’t know.” She gave a big yawn, clapped her hands over her mouth, and said through her fingers, “I’m sorry. Long, long day.”
He took her hands, looked at the length of her. “It’s time for you to get some sleep. Me too.”
He dropped her hands, opened the guest room door, and pushed her inside. “Nice room,” he said, looking around at the pale yellow walls and the white bedspread, and started to close the door.
“Hey, wait, don’t go just yet,” she said, holding the door open, but then she stalled. What was she to say? I’ve known you for all of five days and I want to jump you? She managed a smile. “So much has happened to me since Thursday night, it’s really set me to thinking about my life and what I was going to do with it.
“When I met Sean Savich, I saw Linc in him and I wanted to cry, and forget about the past and the future both. I was sucked right back into that black hole of grief. But then that adorable little boy took my hand, told me he beat his mama at computer games, and he began explaining the strategies of a game called Pajama Sam. And I laughed, couldn’t help myself, and I climbed right back out of that hole.” She paused a moment. “Do you know he told me his dad was giving him a skateboard for his next birthday? He said his dad had been a champ a way long time ago, and he was going to give him lessons. I wanted to yell at him never to get near a skateboard, but then I realized, perhaps for the first time, that what happened to Linc ... it had been a stupid accident, tragic and heartbreaking, but no one’s fault, and it was over, not forgotten, never forgotten, but over, no one to blame, certainly not the skateboard Linc loved so much.”
“So what did you say to Sean?”
“I told him when I came back east, I wanted to drop by and take a few skateboard turns with him and his dad. I told him I had a few moves that might astonish him. He told me that would be cool, and he high-fived me.”
He slowly drew her into his arms and held her, his hand against the back of her head, and pressed her lightly against his shoulder. “He’s a great kid. I’ll bet Linc was a great kid too. Did Linc look like you, Julia?”
She pulled back and he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. Then she swallowed and smiled. “Nope, Linc looked just like his father.”
“I think I heard Sherlock say the same thing about Sean.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Cheney, for getting sentimental on you—”
“No, no, shush, it’s okay.” He hooked her hair behind her ears and cupped her face in his palms. “There’s so much going on here, Julia, so much we still have no clue about. I hate not being in control and I know you feel the same. But everything will be resolved, you’ll see. Now, we’re both very tired. Do you think you can sleep?”
“Oh yes, but I’d probably sleep better if—well, never mind that. If you find you can’t sleep on your monk’s cot down in the Sherlocks’ gym, you can always lift some weights. You’re such a puny little guy, after all.”
He laughed. “Mrs. Sherlock told me the cot wasn’t too bad, she’d slept there once when she was so mad at her husband even three guest rooms away was too close to him. Don’t worry, Julia— Makepeace has no clue where you are. Even Frank Paulette doesn’t know, which means no leaks through the SFPD.”
“I’m not worried, at least not right this minute. Cheney—it’s odd, isn’t it? Look where we are on a Tuesday night, all that’s happened, how we met all of five days ago.”
“Nights,” he said, “it was five nights ago.” And Cheney couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and kissed her mouth, felt warmth and acceptance, and a leap of excitement that could have easily brought him down. He had to leave her but he didn’t want to. This was really bad timing. He pulled back, touched his fingertips to her nose, smoothed her eyebrows, and wanted to ask her to tell him all her secrets. But now wasn’t the time, dammit. “Good night, Julia.”
Julia felt suddenly so alive she could jump right out of her skin, and here he was saying good night to her? Five days—who cared if they’d met an hour ago? “Oh my. Well, good night, Cheney.”
“Don’t worry, Julia.”
He stood, unmoving in the hallway, until she closed her bedroom door. Earlier, Wallace Tammerlane had looked at the two of them and said something about life continually amazing him. Wallace didn’t know a single blessed thing about amazement.
Cheney walked slowly down to the gym, eyed the narrow cot, and sighed. It would be a long night, even if there were only a short number of hours left in it.
In the next guest room down the hall, Dix was lying on his back, his arms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, trying to ground himself, to order his squirreling thoughts, but it was difficult. They’d only arrived in San Francisco yesterday, and between then and now they’d done nothing but work and talk and talk. He supposed he’d agreed with Savich that he shouldn’t see Thomas Pallack, but he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to take that old man’s wrinkled neck in his hands and squeeze until he told the truth.
He still didn’t know a single thing. Bless Sherlock for recording their interview with Thomas Pallack. He’d played it twice. He wanted to face Pallack down, he wanted to find that damned bracelet. What he wanted, dammit, was the truth. What he wanted was to find Christie.
But all he could do was lie there, stewing, his problem-solving ability dead in the water.
He liked Julia Ra
nsom, didn’t want Makepeace to kill her. He wondered what had happened to the kidnapped psychic, but his brain just kept neon-flashing Charlotte and Thomas Pallack, and he wanted to know so badly he didn’t think he could stand it. Maybe he should force himself to finally call Charlotte, maybe make a date to meet at the Hyatt, although in his gut, he knew he wouldn’t find out anything useful. Charlotte was way too smart. The only thing he’d get from her was more syrup-sweet lies. It was very possible too she was using him to gain information just as he was her.
Ruth came up on her elbow beside him. “I miss the boys and Brewster.”
“I do too.”
“We’ll find out everything soon, Dix, have some faith. You know patience is one of a cop’s main virtues, so stop making yourself crazy. I know all this is complicated and Julia Ransom is now in the mix with this Makepeace character, but we’ll find out about Christie. Keep the faith.”
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 down-stairs 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
SHERLOCK HOUSE
Wednesday morning
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 h
andsome 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 look 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.”
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