Everett was quiet for a moment. “Anger?” he finally suggested.
“Yes. I think that’s it exactly,” agreed Rachel. “I’ve just never seen it before.”
“Probably a long time coming,” said Everett. “At least since your mum died.”
Rachel felt the tears coming again. She linked her arm through Everett’s and they moved forward. “Did I tell you how happy I am to see you?”
“Yes, but I will never tire of hearing it.” He smiled and motioned toward the rear of the house. “Let’s see if we can cheer up the old man and keep him from burning down the house.”
“Oh God.” She managed a laugh. “He’s cooking?”
“Attempting.”
They took a couple of more steps. Then Everett stopped. “You do know that I’m very friendly with Mattie’s family.”
“I know you and her father teach together on occasion.”
“And that the whole family heads to Saint Moritz to ski each Christmas.”
Crap. So much for pulling stories out of thin air.
“You didn’t tell Dad, did you?”
Everett gave her a big grin. “Your secret—whatever it might be—is safe with me, darling.”
Rachel was glad to see some things hadn’t changed.
But as they resumed heading toward the kitchen, she knew she wasn’t ready to tell Everett about Detective John Frankel.
Not just yet.
“How is Matilda?” asked Grant as he set a plate down in front of Rachel.
“She sends her love.” Rachel glanced out the breakfast nook window at the narrow canal to avoid lying directly to her father or catch the gleam she knew had to be in her uncle’s eye. When she turned around, Everett was already digging into the eggs Benedict his brother had prepared and served them.
“Delicious as always,” Everett said. “The one good thing you know how to make.”
“The only dish I’d dare serve.”
“Reminds me of our childhood. Have I mentioned that before?”
“Only every time I make it,” Grant responded.
Rachel had often heard the story of her grandfather cooking up eggs Benedict for his wife and two boys every Sunday morning before they headed to church back in Liverpool. He had substituted buttered toast and real bacon for English muffins and ham, claiming that was how retired stockbroker Lemuel Benedict had ordered it in the late nineteenth century when he stumbled into the Waldorf in New York City seeking a hangover cure. Her father had continued the tradition when he’d married Allison. Sunday was the one day he didn’t leave for the Yard at the crack of dawn—he was happy to give Rachel’s mother a morning off. But Rachel always suspected her father just loved the dish and he knew he’d get it at least once a week this way.
“I fancy it wasn’t easy getting a flight this time of year?” Everett asked as he scraped his plate clean.
“It’s more common for Brits to flee for warmer climates or the ski lifts instead of staying put when the holidays roll around,” observed Grant.
Rachel wondered if her father was calling out her Mattie fib. She looked at her uncle and sure enough, there was that gleam in his eye.
“But we were lucky just the same,” her father continued.
Rachel felt her body relax. Safe. At least for now.
“I’m glad you’re both home for Christmas, though I’m sure we all wish it were under different circumstances,” said Everett.
“Agreed,” Grant concurred.
“If you’d care to come to the house for Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow night, it would be my joy to host you both.”
Rachel looked directly at her father for the first time. Grant took a final bite, then motioned with his fork. “Whatever Rachel wants.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “Of course, it totally depends on what’s going on with . . . everything.”
She wasn’t even thinking of John at that moment. Like Everett had said, the case was spinning in so many different directions.
The continued search for Prior Silver. Canvassing the streets of Esher and other nearby villages for possible witnesses. Jeffries performing autopsies on Liz Dozier, Jared Fleming, and the unfortunate Sergeant Stanford Hawley.
Not to mention a potential eighth victim arriving just in time for Christmas.
“Can’t imagine him missing an opportunity to make a splash on the holiest day of the year,” Grant said, discussing the case.
“Don’t forget that the Ten Commandments are from the Old Testament,” reminded Everett. “The celebration of Christ’s birth stems from the New.”
“I’m not sure Prior Silver, if it’s indeed him, is playing things that close to the Good Book any longer,” Grant countered. “The rules seem to have changed.”
“You’re talking about Sergeant Hawley, I presume?”
Grant nodded at his brother.
“From what you told me last night, Austin, that sounds more like bad timing.”
“I’m just thankful Stan’s father is dead and buried all these years. At least that was one call I didn’t have to make.”
All went quiet in the breakfast nook.
Rachel felt a tug at her heart as she realized how much this was tearing her father apart. She finally broke the silence with a thought she’d had ever since breakfast with him at the Surrey.
“Whoever is doing this—it would’ve been nice if they’d let you retire in peace.”
“But that’s exactly the point, isn’t it?” wondered Everett. “From what you’ve said, this whole thing seems directly pointed at you.”
“Certainly appears that way,” agreed Grant.
“So, what’s next?” Everett asked. “Besides the obvious manhunt you’ve got going for the elusive Mr. Silver?”
“We search for an unlucky thief,” answered his brother.
Rachel quoted the Eighth Commandment: “Thou shalt not steal .”
“Precisely,” said Grant.
“A born-again former thief killing another thief,” mused Everett. “There’s some sort of intriguing paradox in there somewhere.”
“Maybe Silver will just carve a Roman numeral eight on his own head, kill himself, and we can have ourselves a happy Christmas,” Rachel said.
Everett looked from his niece to his brother. “I think our Rachel might be spending a little too much time around you, Austin.”
An hour later, Rachel was glad she’d accompanied her father to New Scotland Yard. It was the first time that Grant had been there since Sergeant Hawley’s body was discovered. Rachel hoped her presence made it a little easier for him to accept the enormous outpouring of sympathy and condolences foisted upon him.
Rachel hadn’t been to the Yard since her mother had taken ill but wasn’t surprised to see her father’s office looked exactly the same as on her last visit. Upon further examination, however, Rachel noticed the place appeared more lived-in—and not in a good way. The carpet seemed a bit more worn, the books laden with dust, the slipcover on the couch frayed. It felt like a room where someone was biding time—all that was missing was a wall with chalk marks, counting the days until Grant no longer needed to come to the Yard.
There were only eight more until the end of the year.
She remembered how her mother used to stop by at least once a month under the guise of accompanying her husband to a restaurant they favored, but she’d always gotten there an hour early to tidy up the place, usually arriving with a houseplant in hand.
No foliage was in sight and Rachel could guarantee her father would only let the Yard cleaning crew do the absolute minimum—finding it too painful to be reminded of Allison’s personal touch.
Walking together in Hawley’s smaller adjacent office was no easy task either. Yellow tape stretched across the doorway, ordered by Grant the previous morning after receiving reports of “nothing of interest” from his colleagues conducting a search for anything that might shed light on the sergeant’s tragic end in Esher.
Grant told Rach
el he thought it a good idea if she sifted through Hawley’s computer and scribbles—figuring the two of them had spent the last few days together trying to narrow the suspects that produced Prior Silver.
“As the two of you were compiling lists of my old cases, now with Sergeant Hawley gone . . .”
Her father stopped midsentence. Rachel placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I’ll give it my best effort, Dad. I can’t promise I’ll recognize anything if I see it, but it’s certainly worth trying.”
“Thank you.” He reached over and patted her hand still resting there.
She motioned him back toward his office. “Go do whatever you need to do. I’m sure there’s plenty for both you and John when he gets here.”
Grant nodded and moved off. Rachel winced, realizing she’d just called Frankel by his given name. But her father hadn’t reacted and she was appeased by the fact the two cops had been using each other’s first names since the day they met.
No harm, no foul, thought Rachel, using one of her favorite NBA expressions.
She lifted the tape and entered Hawley’s office.
A little while later, John ducked his head inside the door. Rachel looked at the clock on the desk—it was past ten. “You’re just getting here?”
“Your father called and said he was running late. Something about breakfast with you and your uncle?”
Rachel quickly told him what had occurred when she’d returned to Maida Vale. John looked at the wall behind her. They both knew her father was working away on the other side of it.
“So?”
“So?” Rachel asked, genuinely confused. “You mean there at the house ‘so’ or here at the office ‘so’?”
Her eyes strayed to Hawley’s computer and paperwork.
“Oh, sorry.” John smiled, apologetic. “This really isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
“Probably not.”
“Oh.”
She sensed the sudden disappointment in his voice. “John . . .”
“Huh?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t regret anything that happened.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Yes, John. That’s a really good thing.”
She could literally see the tension drop out of his ruggedly handsome face. “Yes. Definitely.”
Rachel smiled. “At least we got that straight.”
John nodded. He started to exit the small office and Rachel turned back to the computer. She punched some buttons on the keyboard.
“So?”
She looked back up. John had reentered the room.
“So?” she wondered.
He pointed at the desk and computer. “Anything?”
“I’m just getting started. I’ll let you know when I find something.” She motioned behind her. “Now go see my father before he wonders what the hell is going on in here.”
This time, John took his leave and Rachel resumed working.
An hour later, she heard a ding and looked around for her phone.
A few minutes later she walked into the office next door.
She found her dad and John hovered over printouts—various lists compiled by the Yard, other agencies, and the ones she’d worked up with Hawley.
John was the first to catch her eye.
“You found something?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” replied Rachel.
She placed her iPhone on her father’s desk.
“What am I looking at?” asked Grant.
“The text I just got,” Rachel responded.
The two men read it together.
How come I haven’t heard from you since yesterday?
“It’s a continuation of the chat I was having with Sergeant Hawley.”
Her father looked up, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous.”
“One would think,” concurred Rachel. “But it was sent to me less than three minutes ago.”
21
Frankel took a step forward and picked up Rachel’s iPhone off Grant’s desk.
“I’m willing to bet this isn’t the sergeant’s ghost,” he said.
“It’s him,” Grant expressed with certainty.
Neither Rachel nor Frankel disagreed.
With Hawley’s phone not found on his body or elsewhere in the mansion, they assumed it was in the possession of the person they were hunting.
Frankel scrolled up the phone screen to look at the previous text messages from the sergeant.
Checking something on my end. Will let you know if it amounts to anything.
It had been sent to Rachel the night before last—around seven. Right before Hawley made an unfortunate stop in Esher on his way home.
Rachel took the phone back from Frankel.
“Hawley had just sent a pair of constables to Primrose Hill to check on Dozier’s house, but they didn’t find anything. I just wish I’d pressed him more on what he was thinking.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” said Frankel. “We were too busy figuring out how to get over here as quickly as possible.”
“Not quickly enough,” said Grant.
Frankel felt the same regret, and he knew Rachel did as well. She asked the question at the forefront of all their minds.
“So, do we answer him?”
Frankel looked to Grant. Now that they were on the Scotland Yard man’s turf, he knew the commander should be leading the show—but Frankel couldn’t help his take-charge instinct.
“Anyone around here that can run a trace?” he asked.
Grant pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Get Mr. Morrow, please; come here right away,” he said into the speaker.
They had tried running a trace on Hawley’s iPhone when they’d realized it was missing at the crime scene, but there had been no signal coming from it—meaning either it had been turned off or the battery had run down.
Less than a minute later, a harried tech in his late twenties with close-cropped hair poked his head into Grant’s office. “Sir?”
Grant brought the man up to speed. Now that the iPhone was apparently back on—he asked Morrow what the chances were of being able to run a trace.
“If the Find My iPhone function has been activated, it should be a matter of seconds,” answered Morrow. “I can do it from my phone right here if you want.”
Grant told the tech to proceed.
As Morrow fished his own cellular out of his pocket, Frankel shook his head. “Our guy is too savvy for that.”
Morrow punched a few buttons and confirmed Frankel’s guess. “Looks like whoever has the phone has the function button turned off.”
“What else can you do?” asked Grant.
“Well, now that it’s up and running, we can run a normal trace. Pinging off cellular towers and so forth,” the tech responded.
“How long will it take?”
“Depends where the phone is. If it’s in London proper, it would be easier to locate; more cell towers. In the suburbs or more rural areas, longer.”
“Hop to it then,” Grant ordered.
Morrow started to walk out of the office, then turned back. “Sir, I should mention this is providing the phone is kept on. If it’s powered down, then all bets are off.”
“I understand,” Grant told him. “Thank you, Mr. Morrow.”
The tech took his leave and they were back to staring at each other—and the iPhone on the desk.
“We could do nothing and hope he keeps it on long enough for the trace to kick in,” Frankel said. “But he could get frustrated not hearing back and decide to turn it off—then we’d be screwed.”
Grant looked thoughtful, as if considering options.
Finally, he extended his hand to Rachel. “Let me have that blasted thing.”
She handed her father the cell phone. Frankel and Rachel watched him open the text icon and type one word into the conversation line.
Prior?
Frankel raised an eyebrow. “That certainly puts the ball in his co
urt.”
They stared at the phone like parents waiting for a toddler to utter its first words. Though the wait seemed interminable, a response was almost immediate.
Well, it’s definitely not Sergeant Hawley.
“Looks like we’re in business,” said Frankel. “Now we just need to keep him on the horn.”
Grant nodded, then typed some more. It’s been a long time, Prior.
Grant hit “send,” then glanced up at the detective.
“Figure it doesn’t hurt to engage him personally,” said Grant, explaining his decision to address Silver by his given name. “Plays to his ego a touch and might continue to keep him distracted while Morrow keeps at it.”
“Or it might frighten him off,” Rachel suggested.
Frankel felt himself holding his breath this time as Grant’s message hung at the bottom of the text chat like an aerialist dangling on a tightrope with no net.
Fifteen seconds went by with absolutely nothing.
“Damn it,” Frankel muttered, certain Grant had overplayed his hand and that Prior Silver had ditched the chat.
“There.” Rachel pointed at the screen. “He’s typing something.”
An ellipsis had appeared, indicating a return message was in the works.
Ah, is that you Commander?
“Bingo,” Frankel exclaimed.
Grant started to type again. Yes . . .
Then he seemed to think better of it and deleted his affirmative response.
“Enough with formalities,” Grant said. “Time to engage this asshole.”
Frankel’s eyes widened. It was the first time he’d heard Grant swear since they had met in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral a week ago.
“Go for it,” encouraged Frankel.
Grant waited a few seconds, then resumed typing his message.
Isn’t it time you stopped all this nonsense, Prior?
This time the response was practically immediate.
I would hardly call it nonsense.
Frankel couldn’t help smiling. “That got his attention.”
“So it would seem.” Grant’s fingers hovered over the phone screen.
“Is that a good or bad thing?” wondered Rachel.
The Last Commandment Page 19