Savich said, “The last attempt on Dr. MacLean’s life was a bomb placed on board a plane. He survived, barely.”
Estelle shrugged. “What is this? A bomb? We know nothing of any bomb. We do not care what happens to him.” She picked up a framed photo from a side table and waved it in front of their faces. “This is our son. This is Jean David. An elegant, brilliant boy, good, so very good. Look at him! He will never grow older, he will never have a wife and children.”
He was indeed a handsome man, Sherlock thought, studying the photo. Dark hair, deeply tanned, his smile beguiling and utterly charming, his father’s dark eyes shining out of his face. Such a waste, she thought, such a waste.
Savich decided not to tell them about MacLean’s disease. He knew it wouldn’t matter. It would mean less than nothing to them. He said, knowing it was a very risky roll of the dice, “Mr. Barbeau, I have read your statement to the authorities about the day your son drowned after saving you. After some dithering, it was determined to be a tragic accident. However”—he paused for effect— “however, I know that is not the truth. Please tell me what really happened that day.”
Pierre grew very still, and Savich thought, Bingo! He’d known to his gut that something else was going on here. He waited, silent, patient.
When Estelle would have spoken, Pierre raised his hand to quiet her, shrugged, and said, “Why does it matter now? I say it no longer matters at all, nothing matters now that he is dead. Why not? I will tell you all of it.”
Estelle stared at her husband. “What are you planning? No. Pierre?”
“I’m sorry, Estelle, but I knew it would come out eventually. And now, I’m tired, very tired, you see.” He held up his hand to his wife once again and repeated, “It does not matter, Estelle. Agent Savich, Jean David did not die an accidental death.”
Savich said, his heart racing at a fine clip, “Tell us what happened, sir.”
Pierre raised his head, his face leached of color, but surprisingly, his voice was strong and steady. “My son came to me, told me what he’d done, asked me to help him. He knew, you see, knew his superiors would figure out soon enough he was the one responsible. I could not believe it. He gave me the details, convinced me. I told him I had to think about it.
“Two days after he asked me for help, I told him I’d spoken to Timothy, and I told him what he advised us to do, then I told Jean David of his threats. My son looked at me for a very long time, silent, and it broke my heart. He told me that he, just as I, must think about it. He left me. I feared he would try to escape but he did not. I am not lying to you. He did not.
“Two days later, on Friday, he asked me if I would like to go fishing, even though the weather was getting worse.
“And so we fished for striped bass in the Potomac, something we’d done many times, a ritual, a special time for us, to be together. But that day we really weren’t fishing, we were silent for the most part, both of us in misery. I was afraid, Timothy’s ultimatum rang in my mind. I finally broke the silence, told him I didn’t know what to do. I loved him, but what he had done—I had to tell him I couldn’t imagine his getting fooled so completely by that woman. And once again, I shook my head and told him I did not know what to do.
“Jean David leaned over and kissed me. He sat back, his fishing pole in his hand, and said he’d thought about it and decided he was going to kill himself, it was the only way, and that was why he’d wanted to come out in this storm. He told me he couldn’t live with what he’d done, you see, and there were tears in his eyes when he spoke. The woman, he agreed, had made a fool of him, that was true enough, she’d led him to commit inexcusable crimes, to break sacred laws. He was a traitor, an unwitting one, but it was his own fault for being so gullible. He and only he was responsible.”
Pierre’s heavy breathing was the only sound in the large living room. Estelle said nothing, merely stared at this man who was her husband, this man radiating pain. There was no pity in her eyes, there was condemnation. Why? Because he’d told them the truth, and left them both naked.
Savich let the silence and Pierre’s breathing hang thick in the air. He watched a dust mote sparkle in a shaft of bright sunlight.
Pierre said finally, “I told my son I would not forsake him, that I would hire the best lawyers, maybe I could even arrange for him to leave the country, but he only shook his head, smiled at me sadly.
“That storm, he had known it would be bad. The winds roared, the fog began to creep over us, and the rain pounded down, thick and wet, but to be honest, I didn’t even notice. The waves were whipping up around our boat, but again, it simply wasn’t important. Jean David said only, ‘I cannot, Father.’ And I knew in my heart that he was already gone from me.
“The wind became fierce. And I became aware that our boat was rocking wildly. Jean David stood up and I knew what he was going to do. Then a speedboat struck us as he jumped overboard. I jumped in after him. The people on the speedboat tried to help us, and they did save me, but not Jean David. Someone pulled me out, and I was screaming for my son, and then the Coast Guard was there, and they searched for him for hours.
“But he was gone, he killed himself, as he said he would. The truth is, Agent Savich, I was surprised my story was believed, it was so utterly unbelievable, silly really, but it was believed.” He sighed. “But not by you. I suspect others are questioning it, as well. Perhaps they will believe something worse, that we staged the entire thing so Jean David could escape. But he didn’t. He died, just as he’d intended.
“But it doesn’t matter now. My son is dead. He paid for his crime. Hle paid with his life.”
He looked down at the mangled Coke can in his hands, then raised his head once more. “They never found him. I wish they had found him.”
Tears flowed down his cheeks. He didn’t move, merely continued to stare at them, beyond them, really his eyes dead and weeping. “It happened so fast, so very fast, as if someone had speeded up time. My son jumped into that cold rough water. He was not a good swimmer. I tried to teach him how to swim when he was a boy, but he never took to it. He said the water scared him because he knew it just went on and on, deeper and deeper, that there was no bottom. He always believed that. There was no bottom, he’d say. I have thought of that many times, Agent Savich, and I see my son and he is only a vague outline because the water is so deep and it is dragging him down.
“My son died that day. He took his own life. He is gone now, forever.
“I did not tell the police. I could not. The storm, the winds, the speedboat in the fog, all of that is the truth. All of that helped my fiction. Everyone believes it was an accident. An accident. But I have told you the truth and now I will tell you why I believe my son killed himself. He did it to spare his mother and me and his family. He did not want to see us shamed, did not want to see us reviled and humiliated because of what he did. My boy killed himself to save my honor.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Georgetown
Thursday evening
Sherlock opened the front door to Rachael and Jack, Astro jumping up and down behind her, barking his head off, his tail wagging so fast it was a wild blur, Sean at his heels. Jack went down on his knees and stuck out his hand. “Sean, I’d know you anywhere. You look just like your father.” Sean put out his hand and Jack pumped it up and down. “I’m Jack Crowne and I work in your dad’s unit. This is Rachael Abbott. Hey, it looks like you’ve got a wild dog here.”
“He’s Astro,” Sean said, staring up with his father’s eyes into Jack’s face. He said to Rachael, “I’m Sean. You’re pretty. I like your braid. You’re almost as pretty as Mama.”
“A wonderful compliment indeed,” Rachael said. “Thank you, Sean.”
Jack was scratching Astro’s head. “Hello, Mighty Dog, how you doing, big boy?”
“Mighty Dog,” Sean said, “we never thought of that name, Papa. Mighty Dog.” He said to Jack, “We had fake grass for a while in the backyard and that’s why he’s Astro.”
“Why don’t we make Mighty Dog Astro’s second name?” said his father.
“Astro Mighty Dog Savich,” Sean said, and grabbed Astro around his belly and pulled him over to roll onto the floor. Jack laughed and roughhoused with the two of them, Rachael joining the chaos. Soon shouts and barks filled the house.
It felt good.
When everyone was seated in the living room, Astro on Rachael’s lap, licking her hands, she said, “Jack told me Sarah Elliot was your grandmother, Dillon. That painting over the fireplace, it’s magnificent.”
“Thank you. I agree,” Savich said. “She named it The Lame Man in the Square. I have eight of her paintings on display at the Corcoran. I change them out maybe three or four times a year.”
“I’d want all of them around me all the time,” Rachael said.
The doorbell rang again. Savich, Sean behind him, Astro leaping and barking on his heels, went to answer the door. In a moment, agents Dane Carver and Ollie Hamish walked into the living room.
After Rachael met Dane and Ollie and Astro Mighty Dog had been petted until he collapsed on his back, legs in the air, tongue lolling, Sherlock said from the kitchen doorway, “Mr. Maitland called. He can’t make it. Let’s eat first, then we’ll sort things out.”
“Sort what things out, Mama?” Sean asked.
“Come wash your hands, Sean,” Savich said, and led him to the half bath.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t offer to help you.” Rachael immediately jumped to her feet. “Anything I can do now?”
“Sherlock cooked?” Ollie said, not moving.
“Tell us you cooked, Savich,” Dane said as he walked back into the living room. “Right?”
“Ingrates,” Sherlock said.
Savich laughed as he wiped his son’s now clean hands. “Yes, I did. Meat lasagna for you barbarians, vegetable lasagna for me and Sean.”
“I made the Caesar salad,” Sherlock said.
“Give her a lettuce leaf and she can make it dance,” Savich said.
They all learned about Sean’s first football game with three neighborhood kids, two on a side, and how he threw the best, longest touchdown pass ever, how Maggie had tackled Paul, bloodying his lip, and all the other convoluted details until it was time for dessert.
Sherlock sliced the apple pie into even pieces, every eye at the table on her knife. Between bites of ice cream and pie, Sean told them about his new computer game, Dora the Explorer. “I already know Spanish, so that’s easy.”
“He speaks Spanish with Gabriella, his nanny,” Sherlock said. “I’m thinking Dillon and I should learn Spanish, to keep up with him.”
There was a lot of laughter, something Rachael thought had disappeared from her life. There was no talk of business until Sherlock came back downstairs after putting Sean to bed and Savich came inside after walking Astro Mighty Dog for the night.
“All right,” Sherlock said. “Let’s get to it.”
Rachael sat forward. “Dinner was such fun I forgot all the misery, but now it’s coming back.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Jack said. “We had a big surprise waiting for us when we got back to the senator’s ... to Rachael’s house.”
“What, for heaven’s sake?”
Rachael said, “My ex-fiancé was standing on the doorstep.”
Jack sat back on the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest. “Rachael came to a dead stop when she saw him, and I nearly shot him because for all I knew he was there waiting to kill her. I only made an insignificant move toward him and I thought the little wuss was going to puke.”
Rachael said, “That’s because his bookies were probably after him, and he was already on edge. You’ve got to admit, Jack, he did recover quickly.”
“Yeah, he did, but only because he knew you were looking at him and he didn’t want you to think he was a coward. Then the jerk acted like you were still going to marry him. He even tried to kiss you.”
‘You didn’t clock him, did you, Jack?” Ollie asked.
Jack was silent for a moment, his brows drawn together. “For a moment there, I gotta admit it was close.”
“What is the ex-fiancé’s name?” Sherlock asked as she poured more of Savich’s excellent coffee into Rachael’s cup.
“Jerol Springer.”
“I’ve been wondering what kind of name that is,” Jack said. “I mean, it’s almost like that guy on TV. I tell you, Rachael, I can’t believe you ever considered marrying that idiot.”
“Well, it never came to marriage, and not because of his name,” Rachael said, sipped the coffee and closed her eyes a moment in pleasure. She said, “You know, Dillon’s coffee’s as good as mine.”
There was a discreet snort; no one believed her.
Ollie said, “Why is Mr. Springer an ex? He wasn’t faithful?”
“Oh no, he was faithful as a tick, as far as I know. The moron gambled too much and I found out about it. Actually, his bookie sent one of his yahoos to see me, something that makes a person see things very clearly, let me tell you. Evidently Jerol wasn’t such a hot gambler. He was always looking over his shoulder.”
“He was into the horses?” Dane asked.
“Horses, dogs, football—pro and college—beach volleyball, soccer, the first guy to belch after drinking beer, you name it, he’d bet on it, and lose. So when Jerol saw Jack, he thought he was there to break his kneecaps. When he found out Jack was only an FBI agent, I thought he was going to cry with relief. I hadn’t seen him for a good six months.”
Dane said, “Maybe he was there because he’d heard Rachael was the late Senator Abbott’s daughter, and he saw cash registers cachinging in his brain.”
Rachael said, “Do you know what Jack did? He pretended he was living there with me, cozied himself up all over me, even draped his arm over my shoulder while Jerol was standing there looking hopeful.”
Jack grinned hugely. “It sent him on his way fast.” He frowned at Rachael. “You were being far too nice to him.”
Rachael reached in her purse and pulled out a Smith & Wesson pistol. “If he’d hassled me, I would have shot him in the foot. It was my father’s. It’s got a nice feel to it.”
“Then he wouldn’t have been able to leave,” Ollie observed.
“Oh dear, you’re right.” Rachael fell silent, sipped her coffee, her eyes on Astro, who was sleeping off vegetable lasagna from Sean’s plate on a rug in front of the fireplace.
Jack liked the Sigma Series, you pointed at what you wanted to shoot and fired, but still ... “I don’t like your having a gun; it’s not a toy.”
“Jeez, you think? Jack, you’ve seen me shoot. I’m probably better than you. Be quiet.”
“Moving right along,” Savich said, “time to get you caught up.” He and Sherlock proceeded to fill them in about their meetings with Congresswoman McManus and the Barbeaus.
“The thing is,” Sherlock said, “neither Dillon nor I think Pierre Barbeau is the person behind the attempts on MacLean’s life. Now, Mrs. Barbeau—she’s something else, a real piece of work.” Sherlock shrugged. “She’s grieving hard, as torn up as her husband, but her level of anger at Dr. MacLean ... I don’t know. I simply don’t.”
Ollie said, “Did you guys pick up any vibes about McManus? Do you think she had her husband murdered?”
Savich nodded. “I think she’s capable of having him killed.”
Sherlock said, “She’s got a real temper, but she’s learned how to control it—had to, I guess, since spewing venom at her colleagues on the floor of the House of Representatives wouldn’t make her any friends. She’s an impressive woman, though. I’d rather have her on my side any day.”
Savich shrugged. “Is she the one behind the attempts on Timothy’s life? I hate to say it, but I don’t think so. There’s no motive, unless it would be revenge for his stirring everything up, maybe creating a scandal that could annoy her for a time.”
“I think she has too much to lose for that,” Sherlock sa
id. “Unless she knew there were too many loose ends surrounding her husband’s murder, maybe worried a new investigation would turn up something too easily.”
Rachael said, “Then where does this leave us?”
Astro Mighty Dog raised his head and barked once.
Rachael went over to sit on the floor beside him, petting him until he rolled onto his back, all four feet sticking in the air.
Savich said, “There’s Lomas Clapman, the rich guy who stole his partner’s ideas and may have committed fraud. But again, I can’t see that as a motive.”
Ollie said, “It always comes back to how the killer knew MacLean had talked. The bartender said he wasn’t aware of any other customers listening, but he couldn’t be sure. He said he never told another soul, so this remains a mystery.”
Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a disk. “All Timothy’s files are on this disk. If he hadn’t backed them up, the fire would have destroyed all his patient notes. And just who set the fire?”
Ollie said, “We’ve reviewed all the files with our forensic psychiatrists, done a lot of checking, but there aren’t any other patients they can point to as having the motive to kill Dr. MacLean. Sure, there’s some ugly stuff here and there, but murder?” Ollie shook his head. “And let’s face it, who would kill his shrink on speculation—he hasn’t told the world your secrets, but he might? It doesn’t make sense.”
Everyone thought about that for a moment.
Rachael said, “Tomorrow morning, Jack and I are going to see Jimmy’s lawyer, Brady Cullifer. If there are skeletons, he may be able to tell us about them.”
Savich sat back on the sofa, laced his fingers over his belly. “I spoke to the ME about Perky’s unexpected death. Turns out it wasn’t foul play. She died of a pulmonary embolism—a blood clot to her lungs. It’s a major surgical risk, the ME said. So there you have it.
“I then paid a visit to our two wounded bad guys from Parlow and Slipper Hollow—Roderick Lloyd and Donley Everett. Lloyd still refuses to speak to us, and as for Everett, he’s already signed a full confession. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know who hired Perky. I don’t think he’s lying.” Savich sat forward. “There’s no reason for Lloyd to know that Perky is dead. Maybe we can convince him she rolled. Whatdo you think, Sherlock?”
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