Savich said, “You’re smart, Marsia, loaded with talent, but you threw it all away because you’re a psychopath without any sense of remorse to restrain you. You wanted your revenge on me and Sherlock, the other two witnesses against you. You picked my wife first because you wanted me to suffer losing her, losing my son.
“You’re going to face attempted murder charges, namely of my wife and son, a conspiracy charge for arson, and, of course, charges for blackmail and extortion. I’m sure Ms. Grayson will tell you those are only a start.”
Marsia drummed her fingers on the tabletop. She began humming under her breath, then sneered. “Is that your wish list, Savich? On the word of killers? And that’s what they are.”
Savich saw her pulse pounding in her throat. She hadn’t expected this; she’d been simply too arrogant to believe Mrs. Trumbo and her son would ever confess to anything. Savich pulled Marsia’s cell phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “Your first mistake was sending Ronald a sample.”
Savich was pleased to see the sneer fall off her face. It was replaced not by rage, but by frenzied thought. She grew perfectly still, her hands fists in front of her. He said, “We located your old cell phone in a safe deposit box. If you’ve forgotten, take a look.” Everyone crowded in close as he punched up the images. There were stills of Major Trumbo’s body lying on a floor, a knife in his back.
“Now the burial.” Snippets of video appeared, less than a minute long, but they showed both mother and son digging frantically into hard earth. When the hole was big enough, they rolled Major Trumbo into it and shoveled dirt over him, strewed dead leaves and branches over it all.
Pippa said, “Of course, you didn’t film the major hitting his wife, trying to strangle her before Ronald stabbed him. That would have shouted self-defense. No close-ups of Mrs. Trumbo or Ronald, either, not a surprise, you would have edited them out, with all the bruises Ronald had from Major Trumbo’s fists. And you made sure we don’t see the bruises on Mrs. Trumbo’s neck from the major trying to kill her. You’re an artist, Ms. Gay. You know what has punch and what doesn’t.”
Savich switched off the cell phone, sat back, crossed his arms.
Marsia laughed. “That doesn’t prove anything other than those two are murderers.” She leaned back in the chair, raised her chin. “What I saw was cold-blooded murder, and now you’ve seen it, too. I documented what they did to protect myself so they wouldn’t kill me, too, and bury me like they did Major Trumbo. I was grateful to leave that place alive. You should thank me for providing the proof. It’s about time they go down for murdering her husband.”
Wilde said, drawing her attention to him, “Blackmail only works so long as there is something left to hide, Ms. Gay. While there was, Mrs. Trumbo and Ronald did as you demanded, but then you asked too much of them. Ronald Pomfrey couldn’t bring himself to torch the Savich house with Agent Savich’s wife and son inside. He set a fire, yes, but only in the kitchen so he could show you he’d tried.
“It probably didn’t matter to you whether he killed Agent Cinelli, but it did to him. And everything Lillian Trumbo did, she did to protect her son, from you.”
Savich said, “I’ll bet you were very angry at Ronald, Marsia, for failing at what you’d told him to do. Did it ever occur to you this man simply couldn’t do it, couldn’t kill two people?”
Marsia didn’t move, didn’t say a word. There was no expression on her face at all, but Savich knew she was hiding a deep black well of rage. She looked down at her fingernails, filed short. Finally she looked back at him. “As I said, Savich, it’s my word against a couple of murderers trying for a lighter sentence, murderers you choose to believe.” She looked at Wilde. “And you, the chief of police of that bum-crap little town, are you all aflutter the FBI is letting you play with them? You’re a fool.”
Wilde sat forward. “I guess you haven’t figured out yet that Savich tracked down the IP address of the person who’s been sending your instructions to the Trumbos. He didn’t cover his tracks well enough. It doesn’t matter you didn’t put your name on them. We’ll connect them to you, probably through your lawyer. You know what else? I can’t tell you how pleased I am you’re going to be in prison for the rest of your life, and how grateful I am for the small part I’ve played in saving all of us from having to deal with you again.”
Sonja Grayson cleared her throat, bringing Marsia’s eyes to her. “I’m here to inform you, Ms. Gay, that in addition to the charges we’ll be bringing against you in the Trumbo case, the court is scheduling your trial for the attempted murder of Mrs. Venus Rasmussen.”
Marsia sneered. “If you believe these FBI yahoos, you’re not as bright as I thought you were. Without Veronica, you don’t have enough evidence to convict me of anything.”
“You’ll be pleased to know your dear friend Veronica Lake is no longer in critical condition. Her condition is guarded, but it’s likely she’ll survive.” Below the table, Sonja crossed her fingers, said a silent prayer.
Marsia Gay froze. She began shaking her head back and forth. Angela had promised her, right in the heart. She heard her mother’s voice, booze-slurred and mean, I told you Ronald was too weak, told you he’d fold, the little loser. But you never listen, and now it’s all over for you, Daughter.
“No, no, it can’t be all over. No!” The drunk bitch was always telling her she was wrong, she was stupid. Marsia caught herself. She’d die before she showed these people any weakness. She looked at each of them in turn and said easily, “That’s a line from a book. Unlike you Nazis, the book is fascinating.”
Sonja rose and flattened her palms on the table. “Oh yes, Ms. Gay. Finally, I’ll see you in court. Enjoy your book.”
Marsia drew a deep breath and gave them a beautiful smile. “I’d like to see my lawyer now.”
63
GEORGETOWN
M STREET
CLYDE’S OF GEORGETOWN
SATURDAY NIGHT
Savich, Sherlock, Pippa, and Wilde sat in a booth, a bit away from the happy laughter and conversation at Clyde’s bar.
Chief Wilde said, waving a barbecue rib in his hand, “I’m asking for probation for Mrs. Trumbo, some community service, along with a stern lecture on her poor judgment in not reporting a death, self-defense or not. Of course, she would have done it if Marsia Gay hadn’t extorted her. I can’t see putting her in jail for helping her son, either, even after he attacked Cinelli. Mrs. Trumbo hugged me, and Ronald pumped my hand even though he knows he’ll have to do some time, no way around it.” He dabbed a bit of barbecue sauce off his chin. “Great ribs. I hear yours are even better, Sherlock, according to your husband.”
Sherlock laughed. “What else could Dillon say? We’ll have you over after New Year’s when we have kitchen appliances again. Our logistics expert said something always goes wrong, in her experience. But Clyde’s is always good. Glad you’re enjoying it.”
Wilde said, “Look at all the bones on my plate. Do you know, when Mrs. Trumbo hugged me, I smelled oatmeal cookies?”
Pippa grinned at him. “She hugged me, too. Alas, no oatmeal cookie smell. After Mrs. Trumbo and Ronald gave Sonja even more details of Marsia’s extortion and blackmail scheme, she was so happy she’d have thrown the Trumbos a parade if she could. But what about us? We deserve a parade, too, don’t you agree, Wilde?”
He laughed, patted her hand. “I gotta admit, Cinelli, when you showed up at my house all banged up, pathetic, really, you perked me right up. I’ve had as much fun these last few days as I ever had in Philadelphia.” He paused a moment, fiddling with the final rib on his plate. “I’d forgotten the rush, the challenge. I’m thinking it’s time I moved on, left St. Lumis, maybe moved here to Metro. What do you think, Savich?”
Savich said slowly, “St. Lumis was a good place to heal, Chief. You interested instead in the FBI?”
Wilde reared back in his chair. “Become a Fed? Like Cinelli here?”
Sherlock said, “You have excellent big
-city police experience, Chief. Unless you stole coffee money from the homicide division pot in the Philadelphia PD, I think the FBI would be proud to have you, and very lucky. From what Pippa says, you have a good brain. Not as sharp and fast as hers, of course, but still.”
“Something to think about,” Wilde said, and wondered how Savich knew he’d had to leave Philadelphia to heal. He realized now he wanted to be back in the game, the real game. He said, “When does Marsia Gay go to trial, Savich?”
Savich took the last bite of his pesto pasta, chewed, and sighed with pleasure. “Sonja told me the first week of March. That will give Veronica Lake time to get well enough to take the stand and provide the testimony to nail the cell door on Marsia.” He paused as he looked thoughtfully at his green beans. “I visited Veronica yesterday. She seemed different, more centered and self-aware, I guess you could say. Quite a thing to almost be murdered. When I left, she thanked me, told me her time with Marsia seemed like an ugly dream now, that she’d lost herself. She wants to make amends and wants to start in prison. She can teach, she said, she can listen. She’s hoping she can heal herself.”
Sherlock said, “We’re endlessly grateful Veronica didn’t die and is eager to put Marsia in jail for the rest of her life.” She sat back, took a sip of wine, gave them a big smile. “It’s all good.”
“One less psychopath to sow misery and chaos in the world,” Pippa said.
Sherlock turned to her. “The CAU will miss you, Pippa, but your unit chief was clicking her heels knowing you’ll be back on Monday. Jessie told me she wasn’t surprised you did a great job, because she’d trained you herself.”
“I’ve learned a lot from her, of course, but—” Pippa took a sip of her rich cabernet, carefully set down her wineglass, and looked at Savich, who nodded. She said, excitement in her voice, “Yesterday I asked for a transfer to the CAU, with Dillon’s permission and backing. I really did like bringing down white-collar slime in Financial Crimes, then again—” She shrugged. “I think the CAU is the best fit for me. Now I have to wait and see.”
Savich raised his glass. “Let me announce, Agent Cinelli, despite your current boss’s best efforts, you won’t be returning to Financial Crimes. I talked to Mr. Maitland, and he’s pleased to approve your transfer to the CAU. You’re ours now.”
“The fourth woman in the unit,” Sherlock said, and squeezed her hand. “Welcome aboard.”
Savich’s cell phone vibrated. He looked down, then rose. “Excuse me a moment.” He walked to the arch that led to the restrooms. “What’s going on, Griffin?”
“Rebekah has asked me to accompany her and Kit to Amsterdam. They’re on the trail of a forged van Gogh. Several days, maybe a week. Is this all right with you?”
Savich smiled. “I think it’s a great idea. Take a week. Help them track down forgers, make the art world a better place. How is Rebekah doing?”
“Kit told me she’s been on the quiet side, understandable with all that’s happened in the past week and a half. She doesn’t want to talk about it. We’ve both left her alone to sort through things herself.
“Rebekah did tell me she spoke to her half sister, Caitlin, and Rebekah has made plans for the three of us to fly to Spain after she and Kit finish in Amsterdam. On the way home Rebekah also asked Kit and me to stop with her in Birmingham, England, to meet her mother, Constance Riley.” Griffin paused a moment, added, “I assume Caitlin told her all about her birth mother, since Gemma wouldn’t give Rebekah the time of day, and there’s no one else who knows. Rebekah’s spoken on the phone to her mother, quite a thing for both of them. She said she’s looking forward to meeting her daughter.”
“You’ll be a rock for her, Griffin, you and Kit both. And there’s no reason for you all to stay here. Gemma refuses to see anyone again, Duvall would seriously like to pin someone to gain leniency but can’t, and Zoltan has managed to disappear quite effectively, if she survived the gunshot. And I’ll bet my Redskins tickets she did. But who knows, maybe something will turn up.” Savich doubted it. He added, “You make Rebekah smile, Griffin, maybe tell her Congressman Manvers lost his greatest asset, namely her. I can understand her being private about their breakup. A great deal has happened for her to work through, but it came as a surprise.”
Griffin said, “True enough. Kit will be a great support to her. She’s got this wonderful smile, a really sly wit, and she loves Rebekah. And you wouldn’t believe how smart she is, she—” Griffin coughed, shut up.
Savich was grinning into his cell, but his voice was matter-of-fact. “Yes, she is.” He paused a moment, then said, “Do you know, Griffin, I find myself wondering whether Rebekah knows more than she shared with us about the Big Take. Do you think she might know where it’s hidden?”
“I asked her, and she just gave me a look. Yes, she knows, but I doubt she’ll ever tell a soul. She’s only sorry Gemma won’t ever pay for her crimes, especially for killing Nate.”
As Savich walked back into Clyde’s dining room, he thought, Sometimes there isn’t any justice even if you know the truth. But acceptance was difficult. Still, Clyde’s lights were soft, the conversation low and steady, the waiters were bringing plates, pouring drinks. He looked up to see Sherlock smiling toward him and let it go. He thought about Griffin and Kit Jarrett. You never knew. People were amazing.
EPILOGUE
MONTEGO BAY, JAMAICA
EARLY IN THE NEW YEAR
Zoltan, who now called herself Sharma, hummed as she plaited cornrows in a young girl’s long blond hair on her chosen beach in Montego Bay. Pretty girl, not more than sixteen, and spoiled rotten. It was easy enough for the teen to more or less order her mother to pay for the cornrows even though it was obvious Mrs. Grace Chivers, rich enough to own this five-star resort, didn’t want cornrows on her daughter’s head.
She hardly listened as the girl talked trash about her supposed best friend, her thoughts returning to the night that man had broken into her house to kill her. She had known it had to be Gemma Clarkson who’d hired him, and she’d called her, outraged. She should have thought it through, she’d realized once she’d calmed down, a big mistake on her part. She’d yelled at Clarkson for not having any faith she could coax Rebekah back, but now she was involving her in violence. Gemma hadn’t even bothered to argue with her. It was clear she would stop at nothing. Zoltan had prayed she was wrong, but she’d realized she could be in danger. Agent Savich had brought that home to her.
And so she’d pulled out her small Colt buried in the back of her underwear drawer and carried it around in her pocket. It had saved her life. She’d shot him when he surprised her, a nice center shot, she hoped, after his bullet had only gone through the flesh of her arm. She lost lots of blood, of course, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing what she needed and driving out of Washington. She’d stopped at an urgent care clinic in North Carolina, and then it was a straight shot to Miami.
Zoltan paused in plaiting a cornrow, raised her eyes to the awesome blue sky, and thanked Zoltan for teaching her to always keep a fake passport available. You never knew, he’d say, when it would be best to take your skills elsewhere. She did miss her beautiful old house outfitted with all the dramatic touches for her clients’ benefit, but Jamaica had its own opportunities.
She thought about Rebekah Manvers, wondered if she knew where the Big Take was hidden. A pity Rebekah never trusted her, never believed her grandfather had come to chat, even with her special tea. In the long run, though, would it have mattered? Maybe so, given what she’d read online yesterday. Clarkson United had been bought out. The financial analyst called it a merger, but between the lines, it was clear Clarkson United had been taken over, clear the old witch was no longer in the driver’s seat. And that was the proof Gemma hadn’t gotten her hands on the Big Take.
Zoltan studied the cornrow she’d just finished, saw it wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. She bet the teenager would notice and trash-talk her.
She looked out toward the inc
redible turquoise water at all the happy swimmers, the yelling children, the endless supply of Jamaican hawkers pushing their wares on the tourists. She loved Montego Bay. She couldn’t say why she’d picked Jamaica, but it turned out she loved the heat and the fierce sun baking through her muscles, warming her very bones. She loved the sheer laziness of Jamaica, never hurrying or stressing about jobs or traffic jams, only an occasional small one if the goats hunkered down in the middle of the road. From what she’d seen, most of the men didn’t work much, just lay about, literally, in the shade of blue mahoe trees, smoking ganja, the women steering the family’s course. It was the tourists who were the manic ones, as if they’d been let out of jail for the first time and didn’t know what to do with themselves. They seemed incapable of simply relaxing, which was good for her plaiting business and her other growing business as well.
She’d found a woman from the mountains to tutor her in obeah, the Jamaican version of Haitian voodoo. She practiced communicating with ancestors and spirits, and Zoltan certainly knew how to do that. It would be a hard sell to convince Jamaicans a woman from the United States could have any powers, and the fact was few of them had enough money to afford her in any case. Ah, but visitors to Jamaica were different. She’d already begun enticing tourists to let her guide them in obeah sessions. It gave them a chance to be a little wicked and use their money to wallow in a bit of the local shamanism, something to tell their friends when they got home. All seemed to like her name, Sharma. Maybe it gave them a little shudder, made them think of magic. And none of them realized how much you could find out about them in a minute on the web. Like Mrs. Grace Chivers. And after all, the Internet was a kind of magic, wasn’t it?
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