Griffin said to Gemma, “Ever since someone tried to kidnap Rebekah last Thursday in Washington, I’ve been assigned as her bodyguard.” He pulled out his creds again and handed them to her. Gemma waved them away.
Gemma said, “Yes, yes, I know all about it. I saw your husband’s TV appearance. As I told an Agent Savich, who called me on Monday, it occurred to me it might have been a stunt set up by your husband, Rebekah, since he is up for re-election. Publicity is always useful, particularly if it involves a perceived danger to a loved one. He did say you were all right. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Griffin said, “It was no stunt. The kidnapping attempt was quite real. You would have known that if you’d called Rebekah.”
“Or if Rebekah would have called me,” Gemma said.
Rebekah said simply, “I didn’t think you’d be interested, Grandmother.”
Gemma touched the diamond studs at her ears. “Of course I would have been interested. Now, what does this have to do with why you’re here today, with an FBI bodyguard?”
Rebekah sat forward. “I’m in trouble, Grandmother. I’m hoping you can help.”
A dark eyebrow went up. “Help you? How can I possibly help you, Rebekah?” Left unsaid but clear to Rebekah’s ear was the smear of contempt in her grandmother’s voice. Rebekah hadn’t seen Gemma since her grandfather’s funeral, and before that, at her wedding six months earlier. Her grandmother had arrived at Rebekah’s wedding with her car and driver and left shortly after the ceremony. Gemma had looked amazing in a stylish Armani suit, so dark a purple it was nearly black, and a white silk blouse. One of her bridesmaids had told her Rich was very attentive to Gemma before the service, brought other politicians and businessmen over to meet her. Well, she was a big deal, rich and influential. She’d sat next to her daughter at the service, because it was expected of her.
Gemma was wearing Armani again today, black this time with a white blouse and black pumps on her small feet. Her short black hair didn’t show a single strand of gray, and she looked fifteen years younger than her nearly seventy-seven years. Rebekah remembered her mother saying at Grandfather’s funeral as she’d looked over at Gemma, her voice stone cold but oddly accepting, “I see the phoenix has shaken off the last of her ashes and risen.”
Gemma walked to her desk and sat down. She steepled her fingertips as she said, “Sit down, Rebekah, Agent Hammersmith, and tell me what I can do for you.”
Rebekah said, “As Agent Hammersmith told you, my attempted kidnapping was real. Rich didn’t stage anything. I was actually saved by another FBI agent.”
An eyebrow went up again. “You always were amazingly lucky,” she said, and smiled.
Rebekah thought of Agent Savich’s call, sat forward in the pale gray leather chair, and said without preamble, “Did you know Miranda Elderby, now Miranda Stirling, is convinced Nate was murdered? I’d like to know what you think.”
45
Gemma lightly tapped her fingertips on an exquisite gray leather desk pad as she shook her head. “It amazes me Miranda is still tossing out that old chestnut. Nate, murdered? What an absurd thing to say, but of course, Miranda was never very bright, always flirting, even with my husband. I never understood how she got that nonsense about murder in her head.” She paused. “It did bring her attention, though, and a lot of sympathy for the twenty-three-year-old widow.”
Griffin said in his smooth FBI voice, “I imagine it upset you, Mrs. Clarkson, when Miranda flirted with your husband.”
“I’ll admit it, several times I wanted to gut her.” Gemma stopped cold, stared at Griffin. “That was well done, Agent Hammersmith. But it’s the truth, and I’m not ashamed to say it. I imagine I felt like most any woman would if another woman went after her husband.”
Griffin continued, “Did you say anything to your husband about it?”
Gemma eased; they clearly saw it. “Of course I did. Johnny laughed, said Miranda was a cute kid and maybe that’s how Nate would come to see her as well. In other words, he saw right through her and trusted Nate would do the same when he got over his midlife crisis.”
Rebekah said, “But Nate never saw through her, did he, Grandmother? He loved her.”
Gemma shrugged. “So he died before he grew bored with her, but he would have, I’m sure of that. But all of it is nothing more than ancient history, isn’t it? Why are we even speaking of it?”
Griffin smiled at her. “You’re right, Mrs. Clarkson. We certainly have other, far more important things to discuss. For example, I know you’ve attended séances most of your adult life. Have you ever worked with a medium named Zoltan?”
“Zoltan? I’ve heard the name, of course. She has an excellent reputation, but no, I haven’t had the opportunity to work with her.”
It was a lie, he saw it, but she’d said it so smoothly. Had he imagined it? “Did you know she asked Rebekah to meet her to speak with her grandfather?”
Gemma grew utterly still, her face expressionless. She looked from Griffin to Rebekah and said slowly, “What is all this about? I thought you wanted to talk about Nate and his death, his accidental death.”
“We believe Zoltan and Rebekah’s attempted kidnapping are connected, Mrs. Clarkson, that they both had to do with a great deal of money your husband intended Rebekah to have, money he called his Big Take.”
“Big Take? That sounds like one of his silly stories. John’s estate was thoroughly accounted after he died, including Rebekah’s share. He had no hidden fortune. And if he did, why would he want to give it all to Rebekah? And why would Zoltan call her?”
Griffin wasn’t about to let her bog him down. Maybe she knew all of it already, but it didn’t matter. He said easily, “A good question, ma’am, and we’ll get to it. First, though, to be clear—you believe Nate’s death was an accident?”
She shrugged. “It all happened years ago, and, thankfully, those memories are blurred now. But I do know this. Nate wasn’t murdered. He was drunk, he was alone, and he fell, hit his head, and drowned. I remember Miranda was so pleased to be in the spotlight, and she played the bereaved widow to the hilt, the drama queen. She gloried in it until everyone realized there was no evidence of murder and finally dismissed her absurd accusations. Blessedly, she shut up and left Clairemont, her pockets full of Nate’s life insurance money.”
“What did Grandfather think?”
Gemma sat perfectly still. She cocked her head at Rebekah and stopped tapping her fingernails. “May I remind you your grandfather recently died? Those wounds never healed. Why do you want me to revisit such a painful time?”
“Please, Grandmother, it’s important.”
“Very well. Certainly your grandfather believed Nate was drunk, believed his death was an accident. He was buried in guilt because he thought he should have been with Nate.”
“What do you mean about those wounds never healing, Grandmother?” At her grandmother’s silence, Rebekah’s voice hardened, and words came out that had festered for years. “You can’t be talking about Grandfather and what happened to him. His wounds didn’t touch you. The sanitarium staff told me you rarely visited him yourself, though you sent in a series of private nurses. I know I never saw you there, and I visited him regularly all through those long sixteen years.”
Gemma laughed. “You really don’t understand anything about it, Rebekah. Yes, I was told his precious little darling was always there, crouched by his bedside, stroking his limp hands—” She broke off abruptly, shook her head. “I was very busy, Rebekah, and frankly, I do not understand why you bring it up. It’s none of your business what I did or didn’t do over the years. You know, one of the nurses asked me if you were hoping for a bigger inheritance, absurd since John was in a coma. Believe me, I assured the nurse you didn’t need it, not with the trust your grandfather had set up for you all those years ago.”
“Do you know, I’ve wondered if you ever loved my grandfather, your husband. Why else would he heap his love on me, his granddaugh
ter? He didn’t have a wife who cared.”
Gemma rose straight up out of her chair, banged her fists on the desk. “He felt sorry for you, you idiot! A poor fatherless child. What was he to do? Ignore you? Pretend you didn’t exist? No, he heaped love and attention on you.”
“Did you expect him to ignore me like you did, Grandmother? Why didn’t you feel sorry for me, too, a poor fatherless child of your blood? You knew my biological father, didn’t you? You know why he left my mother and me.”
Gemma straightened tall. “You want honesty? Your mother, my only child, was such a disappointment. She was rebellious, slept around. Which of her stream of boyfriends fathered you? I don’t know, nor do I care. I have no idea if I met your actual biological father.
“But she always worshiped her father, always did exactly what he wanted her to do. Just as you did. I imagine she complained to him about me trying to control her, just as I had to take control over the business your grandfather never wanted in the first place and was delighted to drop in my lap. He felt no responsibility for anything except politics and how he would rise to the top. And you, of course. You and politics.”
“You said your daughter—Caitlin—disappointed you. What did I do to disappoint you, Grandmother? I wasn’t old enough to sleep around, and I never rebelled, not with Grandfather there to guide and love me. After the strokes, when he fell into a coma, I was focused on him.” She searched her grandmother’s cold face, and the words poured out. “Why do you hate me? Why have you always hated me?”
The words sat stark in the cold silence.
“Hate you?” Gemma gave a contemptuous laugh. She waved her hand at Rebekah’s face. “I don’t hate you. Hating you would mean I spend time thinking about you, which I don’t. You are not and never were important. You were always simply there, to be endured.”
Griffin saw the devastation on Rebekah’s face, watched her absorb the blow. Then he saw anger and realized this moment had been coming for a very long time. He held perfectly silent and waited to see what Rebekah would do. She said slowly, “When I was a child, I always looked at you like some powerful being who occasionally came into the room when I was there. You rarely spoke to me or even acknowledged me in any way. It was as if I didn’t exist. I’ve never understood your dislike of me. Why? Were you punishing Grandfather for stepping up and being a father to me? Were you jealous he gave me affection?”
Gemma sat down again, turned her chair, and said to the bank of large windows, “No, I have never liked you, Rebekah, but I was not jealous of you. My reasons are my own. Did you come here to accuse me of ignoring your grandfather during those endless sixteen years he lay there, a husk with a faint heartbeat, nothing more? If so, you may leave. Nothing between your grandfather and me was ever any of your business.” She rose. “I’ve told you Nate’s death was an accident. Is there anything else?”
Rebekah said, “You’ve told me nothing.”
Griffin said, “Mrs. Clarkson, do you still visit mediums? Have you tried to reach your husband, for example?”
Gemma slowly sat down again. “No, I have nothing to say to him. If you must know, our marriage became more of a business partnership as the years passed. In fact, even if he hadn’t been in a coma, I doubt he would have cared if I visited him or not.”
Griffin decided to tell her all of it, about Zoltan claiming Rebekah’s grandfather had come to her, about her séance where John Clarkson supposedly appeared and spoke of Nate Elderby and their Big Take. Gemma didn’t interrupt, merely sat there, listening. When he finished, she said, “That is a remarkable story.” She turned to Rebekah. “So you actually spoke to your grandfather?”
Rebekah shook her head. “If I’d been inclined to believe in the dead returning to talk to loved ones, I’d have believed her. She’s an excellent researcher and entertainer.”
Griffin said, “Did you know Zoltan has gone missing? There was blood in her living room. It appears someone after this money thought Zoltan not only failed in her assignment, but she’d also become a risk.”
Gemma said, “You obviously believe Nate and my husband planned and stole this money together. You probably also believe my husband murdered Nate because of this stolen money, to which I say, it is impossible. Now, Nate gloried in not-guilty verdicts, even for criminals at trial, but his biggest flaw? He was a liar. He had no loyalty, not to me, not to your grandfather. Tell me, Rebekah, what does your husband think of this extraordinary story you’ve concocted?”
Rebekah said, “Rich is upset. He loves me and doesn’t want to see me hurt.”
Griffin said, “Mrs. Clarkson, you said your husband never mentioned any of this to you?”
“Of course not.” Gemma’s phone buzzed. She picked up, said, “Yes, send Mr. Neilly in.” She rose. “I expect I won’t see you again, Rebekah.”
“And you don’t want to, do you, Grandmother?”
“Any more than you want to see me.”
Rebekah rose slowly to face her grandmother across her big mahogany desk. “Do you really think Nate’s death was an accident?”
“Of course it was an accident. Your precious grandfather was many things, but he wasn’t a murderer.” She looked over at the trio of old Dutch countryside paintings against the light gray wall. “Your grandfather loved Nate. Perhaps as much as he loved you. As for any stolen money—what you’re calling this Big Take—I suppose your grandfather could have stolen it. He had what I call flexible ethics.” Her face stiffened. “Unlike Nate, who, as I said, had no ethics at all. Now, you’ve put on quite a show for Agent Hammersmith. Are we finally done here?”
Rebekah nodded. “Thank you for seeing us.” She and Griffin walked to the door, her heels sinking into the gray carpeting.
Rebekah turned back to face her grandmother. “Do you know what I told Zoltan? If there is such a thing as the Big Take, I intend to let the money rot for eternity. As you said, I don’t need it, and the last thing I’d ever do is harm Grandfather’s legacy.”
They didn’t speak until they were in Griffin’s black Range Rover. He turned to her. “How do you feel?”
She fiddled with her seat belt, her hands trembling. Then she turned to him and smiled. “I still don’t know why she dislikes me so much, but I finally said what I needed to. Sorry we couldn’t get much out of her.”
Griffin started the Range Rover. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “Your seat belt still isn’t fastened.”
46
HOOVER BUILDING
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich punched off his cell when he saw Sherlock coming toward his office. He rose automatically at the look on her face.
“What’s up? You’re grinning like a fool. Is it something to do with the house?”
Sherlock laughed. “I’m grinning like a fool for two reasons. I spoke with Mrs. Mickelson—our logistics expert—about the home front. Dillon, she’s already looked at the fire damage with contractors and scheduled the cleanup in the kitchen and the repairs that won’t need permits on Friday. She wants to discuss the new flooring for the kitchen and what brand appliances we want. She even said we might be all finished by Christmas. Unbelievable, right? And my piano tuner says my Steinway will play like new once he’s done. So yay!
“Now, the second thing I’m grinning about is really unbelievable news.”
He grinned at her. “Lay it on me.”
“You remember when I spoke to Philly in forensics, told her it was super critical to run the DNA from the blood from Zoltan’s living room as quickly as possible? I nearly begged her on my knees, even said I’d offer you up as a bonus. Well, Philly rang me up, said she called in some favors and got the DNA results. You won’t believe this, Dillon: some of the blood belongs to Zoltan, and some of it belongs to a Gary Duvall, a thug out on parole for the past seven months.”
He whistled. “So someone sent a thug out to get rid of Zoltan, a loose end, but it didn’t work out well for him. Both of
them wounded, but no reports of gunshot wounds at the local ERs or urgent care clinics. Well, we can put out a BOLO for Mr. Duvall. How about an apple pie for Philly?”
“No, a Christmas fruitcake, with lots of bourbon. Philly would love that. I already called in a BOLO on Duvall. Here’s his booking sheet. The guy’s thirty-four, Dillon, looks like a preacher, with the long Elmer Gantry black hair.” She added, “You know, Zoltan didn’t break any laws we know of. I hope she’s still alive.”
“I do, too.”
He watched Sherlock speaking on her cell as she walked back to her workstation, her step light. Was she thinking about a new double-door refrigerator or Duvall? Probably both; she was a born multitasker.
Savich made his own call to Sonja Grayson, Marsia Gay’s federal prosecutor. When he punched off his cell, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Veronica Lake was alive, but her surgeon still wasn’t optimistic. The knife had nicked her heart, one millimeter closer and she’d have died on the cafeteria floor. Both Grayson and Savich hoped he was being overly cautious. Sonja was desperate for Veronica to survive because she was afraid Marsia would go free without Veronica’s testimony at trial. “Would I even be able to make a case beyond a reasonable doubt without Veronica’s testimony?” she asked him. “Even with you and Sherlock testifying, I don’t think so, Dillon.”
Of course, she blamed herself for not getting Veronica out of the D.C. Jail in time. Once the bureaucracy got involved and everyone up the ladder wanted to chime in with opinions, it was enough to delay the transfer, and that was all Marsia needed. There was more than enough blame to spread around up the chain of command, but Sonja would take the fall.
Savich said a prayer for Veronica. She’d been the perfect patsy for Marsia, a single woman in her mid-thirties, hungry for love, easily manipulated, and willing to do whatever her goddess asked of her. He hoped she’d make it.
He pictured Marsia in his mind, but she was quickly replaced by Major Trumbo enveloped in flames—and the sight of his home on fire. His hands fisted, and rage bubbled up. It was Sherlock and Sean Marsia had been after. In that moment, he knew he would move heaven and earth to make her pay.
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