When he released her, she said, “I’m fine, sir.”
“Like everyone else in this town, I heard the FBI press conference yesterday morning about Jimmy’s death being classified as murder, not an accident, and that a woman shooter was possibly involved. Now she’s dead. Do you know why she died?”
“Complications of surgery,” Jack said.
“I take it you are Agent Crowne?” He raised a brow at Jack.
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, and shook his hand. “We appreciate your seeing us on such short notice.”
Cullifer waved them to a burgundy leather sofa, offered them coffee, and sat himself in a chair facing them. “Rachael, my dear, tell me what I can do to help you.”
Rachael said, “You remember I told you what Jimmy did, how he accidentally killed that little girl. You acted like you didn’t know anything about it. I’ve been thinking that’s not true. Please, sir, tell me what Jimmy said to you about that little girl.”
Brady sat down and drummed his fingertips on his desktop. Finally, he said, “Why would you think I know anything more about thatpoor little girl than what you told me, Rachael?”
“You’re his lawyer,” Jack answered, “his longtime friend.” He raised his hand. “Please don’t invoke client confidentiality. I don’t think it applies anymore. The senator is dead, and this is an official investigation. It’s important, sir.”
Cullifer slowly nodded. “Very well. Shortly before his death, Jimmy told me about his hitting and killing a little girl eighteen months ago.”
Cullifer’s eyes clouded. “I couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t. When he finished, when I couldn’t think of another question to put to him, I asked him why he didn’t tell me sooner, but he said only that he was telling me now to prepare me because he’d decided to go public. He wanted it in the open, he wanted it done and over with. He told me he’d also informed Rachael, Laurel, Stefanos, Quincy, and Greg Nichols of his intentions. He didn’t know if there would be any blowback on me, but he was telling me just in case.
“And I played dumb with you, Rachael, because he was my longtime friend, my client, as well as the whole confidentiality issue. You’re thinking I know more?”
Rachael said, “He wanted all those close to him to be ready to deal with the media and any fallout, business and personal. He told me his family was furious with him.”
“An understatement,” Cullifer said absently. He sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and tapped his fingers together. “He also told me he’d told Jacqueline and his daughters. They were exceedingly upset, as you can imagine. Jacqueline wanted him to keep quiet. They had several extended phone conversations about it.”
“Were you furious with him?” Rachael asked.
Cullifer said after a moment, “To be honest, I was devastated. You see, I knew something was wrong with Jimmy, knew it to my soul. I remember how distracted he was, how there were new lines on his face—a face, I might add, that was always youthful until the last year or so. But you know, I got caught up in a lawsuit and any concerns about Jimmy dropped out of my mind. Until it was too late. And then you came back from Sicily and told me what you were going to do, Rachael.”
Rachael said, “The guilt was eating him alive; that’s why he was going to confess everything.”
Cullifer said, “Yes, I know. Now, like everyone else who heard the FBI press conference, I wondered and wondered who would want Jimmy dead. Who would take such a risk? And believe me, killing a United States senator is a huge risk. The thing is, even after Agent Savich said he was murdered, for the life of me I couldn’t figure out a motive, not for Laurel or Quincy, not for his ex-wife, who’s very well off financially, believe me, or any of his colleagues. I honestly can’t imagine any of them killing him to avoid a scandal—that’s simply too far out there.”
Cullifer looked thoughtful. “Tell the world what he did—I told him it would mean the end of his career, it would mean a huge scandal, a lawsuit to break the bank, it would have meant beggaring the estate, depending on the sharks the little girl’s family hired. But most of all, I told him he would be tried and convicted of vehicular homicide and go to jail.
“Of course he knew all this. He also fully realized his family would be dragged into it—Laurel and Stefanos, and Quincy, all his staff on the Hill, me because I’ve been his lawyer for nearly forever.”
Jack said, “Regardless, someone took it upon him- or herself to silence him. Rachael is convinced it’s Laurel and Quincy.”
Brady asked, “You’re certain only these people knew what he was preparing to do?”
“As far as we know,” Jack said.
“This was why Jimmy had stopped drinking and driving his car?”
Rachael nodded. “Alter he killed the little girl, he never took another drink, and never drove his car again. That’s what he told me and I believed him.”
“During the press conference, Agent Savich mentioned that a woman was involved.”
Jack said, “Yes, we think so. But we don’t yet know who hired her.”
Rachael said, “Sir, do you think Laurel and Quincy could have murdered Jimmy?”
Cullifer arched a sleek eyebrow at her. “Laurel? Quincy? Kill their own brother? Evidently you believe it. As for me, Rachael, I don’t know. Again, the motive isn’t strong enough. I would prefer Greg Nichols, only because I don’t know him well. And he would indeed go to jail when Jimmy confessed.”
He shook his head. “A real-life assassin, and you brought her down in the Barnes & Noble in Georgetown. Amazing.”
Rachael said, “There’s something else, Mr. Cullifer. Jimmy was committed to telling the truth. After he died, as you know, I decided to make his confession for him because it was what he planned to do, and what he wanted to do. And I told those same people, to prepare them, just as I told you.”
Cullifer didn’t say a word, just continued giving her that emotionless lawyer look until she said, “Someone has tried to kill me— three times.”
It was rare to see a good lawyer caught off-guard. Cullifer leaped to his feet. “No! I can’t believe that, no, Rachael, it simply—” He stopped dead in his tracks. “That’s why you’re with an FBI agent, isn’t it? He’s protecting you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Because you plan to make Jimmy’s confession for him and someone is trying to stop you.”
“Yes. I can think of no other reason.”
“Are you still going to make his confession?”
“I don’t know. I was sure about my reasons, sure about what Jimmy wanted, but now, I don’t know.”
“It is a difficult question,” Cullifer said, and nothing more.
Rachael said, “Several people have pointed out that it’s an ethical question. How can I presume to have Jimmy’s entire life judged by one incident, and I’m assured that is what would happen. I don’t know what to do, Mr. Cullifer.”
“Are you still certain it’s what he would have done?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it and the fallout be damned.”
They spoke to Brady Cullifer for another ten minutes. When he hugged Rachael good-bye, she said, “Thank you for accepting me as Jimmy’s daughter, sir. Thank you for your kindness.”
“Well, I didn’t want to accept you, Rachael, not initially, despite Jimmy’s enthusiasm. I should tell you I hired an investigator to do a thorough check on you and your mother. That was what convinced me. And I didn’t charge your father for the investigator’s time.” He patted her cheek. “You’re an Abbott now, Rachael, all right and proper. If you choose to be his spokesperson, then I’ll be behind you one hundred percent.”
FORTY-ONE
They ate lunch at a taqueria known for its guacamole and chips, then took an array of photos back to Millie at the diner near Black Rock Lake.
Millie was busy, and they waited. When she dropped into the seat next to them in a booth, Jack handed her a series of black-and-white shots. She looked at Donley
Everett’s photo carefully, the man Jack shot in the kitchen at Slipper Hollow. She shook her head and picked up Clay Huggins’s photo, the man he shot and killed at Slipper Hollow, studied it for a good minute, then regretfully shook her head again. The same for Marion Croop. Jack handed her Roderick Lloyd’s photo, the man who walked right into Roy Bob’s garage in Parlow and started shooting. She shook her head again.
Rachael was nearly out of hope when Jack looked down at the last photo, then handed it to Millie.
Millie studied it, then looked up at them. “Now isn’t this a kick? I would have sworn it was a guy who came in last Friday night and ordered the two coffees, but it’s her”—she stabbed the photo with her finger—”all dressed up like a guy.”
Jack and Rachael stared at Perky’s—aka Pearl Compton’s— photo.
Rachael’s heart was pounding. “You’re certain, Millie?”
“Yeah, all that blond hair—if you look at her and think black hair, then it becomes clear. Yes, Agent, it’s her. I’m sure.”
As they drove back to Washington, a light summer rain falling, Rachael said, “So Perky carried me by my arms down the dock. Who was carrying my feet? Donley Everett or Clay Huggins or Roderick Lloyd? Who’s that fourth guy—oh yeah, Marion Croop?”
“If so, then who hired them?”
“Or maybe it was Quincy or Stefanos carrying my feet.”
“Or Laurel,” he said.
The windshield wipers moved slowly back and forth, steady as a metronome. “I’m tired, Jack.”
With no hesitation at all, out of his mouth came, “Sleep with me and you won’t worry about a crook coming in through the window. You’ll sleep soundly. With me.”
Rachael turned in her seat to look at his profile. “How long has it been since you had a date, Jack?”
He laughed. “Fact is, I broke up with a very nice woman about a month before I flew to Lexington to pick up Timothy. It seems like ten years ago.”
“It’s only been a week.”
He increased the wiper speed.
Rachael laughed. “I don’t have an umbrella with me.”
“Old Nemo here has everything in a box in the backseat. Including umbrellas.”
“Nemo?”
Jack patted the dash. “Yep, I gave him that name when I drove into a swamp once. I thought he was agoner, but he started right up and steamed on down the road. I love Nemo, been with me eight years now, still runs faster than my dad when Mom chased him with a skillet.”
Rachael pictured the Toyota Corolla steaming out of a swamp and laughed, then settled back and closed her eyes. “What are we going to do now?”
“How about we take off a couple of hours, take a nap, maybe on one of the sofas in the living room, anything but that rock-hard bed you put me in last night.”
She didn’t answer him. She was asleep. Slowly, she slid into him, her head on his shoulder.
Jack managed to extricate his cell without disturbing Rachael and punched in Savich, told him about Millie’s identification of Perky as one of two people at Mel’s Diner Friday night, not more than a ten-minute car ride from Black Rock Lake.
Savich was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Things are beginning to come together. From what you told me about Laurel and Quincy, I can’t see them killing Senator Abbott and Rachael themselves. Too messy for them. On the other hand, who knows? You done good, Jack. It won’t be long now.”
Jack hoped Savich was right, but he couldn’t see any light at all himself. He wondered as he drove through the thickening summer rain, Who hired you, Perky?
FORTY-TWO
Georgetown
Friday evening
Savich closed and locked the front door, set the alarm. He was tired and stiff, bummed because it was too late to hit the gym. He rotated his neck as he thought about stretching out in his bed and sleeping deep and dreamless, forgetting both cases. He turned to see his wife standing on the stairs, looking at him over her shoulder as she shrugged off her white oxford shirt. He stopped cold. He went instantly from bone-tired to wide-awake, let-me-lick-those-beautiful-white-shoulders lust. Had he really thought he was so tired he was nearly brain-dead? That was very shortsighted of him. Well, perhaps he was brain-dead, but the rest of him was wide awake.
He didn’t move, crossed his arms over his chest, a smile playing over his mouth, and watched the show.
Sherlock said nothing at all—what was there to say, anyway? She licked her tongue over her bottom lip as she unfastened the front clip of her bra. She waited, then slowly shrugged out of it while she shifted to stand nearly in profile to him. She gave him her over-the shoulder smile while her fingers were busy, her movements slow and subtle, leaving just a bit to his imagination.
She pulled off the bra, one strap at a time, and tossed it at him over her shoulder, but it landed three feet short.
“Lightweight,” he said, and she laughed.
“You’re right, lace doesn’t weigh much.” She turned her profile to him again. Savich walked slowly toward her, all his attention focused on those hands of hers playing with the zipper on her pants. Then he saw the slow, downward slide. He did a fast fifteen-foot sprint, nearly tripping over her boots, which lay on the bottom step, her socks hanging out the tops. He saw she’d had the presence of mind to drape her navy blue blazer on the newel post. He loved those beautiful feet of hers.
Savich exercised great strength of will and stopped three stairs below her, waiting to see what she’d do next. He suspected he’d bite his tongue if he weren’t careful, particularly now that she was wriggling out of the pants. She was doing a major tease, slow, really slow, and she knew what slow meant.
He got a glimpse of that beautiful rear end of hers, the white lace panties that matched her bra, cut high on her thighs, and it pushed him over the edge. He ran up the stairs, grabbed her up in his arms, felt her laughter wash over him, and felt her mouth kissing his ear, his eyebrow, her hands tangled in his hair. He wanted to laugh with the sheer joy of it, but the fact was he needed to concentrate on getting to the bedroom without tripping because he was so far gone he didn’t know if he’d make it.
And he really wanted to make it.
It always seemed to him that time became both syrupy slow and galloped to hurricane speed when he was making love to her.
When at last he pulled her on top of him, when at last she had the energy to sit up, her strong white legs tight against his flanks, her palms flat on his chest, he marveled as he always did at the whiteness of her flesh against the darkness of his hands holding her.
She gave him a silly smile. “That was rather nice, Dillon.”
“Oh yes.” He looked up at her beloved face, saw her eyes were vague from pleasure, touched fingers to her fiery hair, tossed wildly around her head, and said, “I never tell you enough. You are my life.”
As he was hers, she thought, but the words fell away when he came deep inside her and she was kissing him, and the words she whispered in his mouth were, “You are so hot I can’t stand it,” and it was enough, too much, really and he didn’t last as long as he would have wished, but she was with him, blessed be, so that was all right.
He was felled, so loose and relaxed it would have taken Sean jumping on top of him for a good three minutes before he moved. His breathing finally slowed, at least enough so he could think. His meager thoughts soon scattered when she began moving down his happy, lifeless body. He grabbed handfuls of hair when he felt her mouth on his belly, and he arched up, groaned.
“Music to my ears,” she whispered against him.
She fell asleep stretched out on top of him, her head tucked into the curve of his neck, her hair against his mouth. He didn’t feel it tickle, though, because his was the sleep of the dead.
When his cell phone belted out the Monday Night Football theme, he came instantly awake and looked with loathing at his cell phone half hanging out of his pants pocket on the floor beside the bed. Sherlock was stirring against him. He didn’t want to move her
, but a phone call late on a Friday night couldn’t be good.
He managed to stretch out and grab his cell. “Yeah.”
He listened as he leaned back to rub Sherlock’s belly. She didn’t want to pull away from that big warm hand of his, but she did. She managed to sit up, saying, “What’s wrong, Dillon? What happened?”
“Someone just tried to kill Dr. MacLean.”
They left a sleeping Sean with Lily and Simon, and arrived at the hospital sixteen minutes later.
He’d found hospitals to be eerily quiet at the witching hour, and truth be told, he hadn’t expected excitement there on the main floor, but he heard some raised voices, saw two security people dashing up the stairs. To their surprise, the elevator was empty. When they reached MacLean’s floor, they had to dodge a gurney then two wheelchairs being pushed out of the way, and a good half-dozen hospital personnel, running, yelling, or silent with shock. He saw several patients standing in doorways, one older man holding up his IV bag in his right hand, an orderly trying to talk him back into bed, but he wasn’t buying it.
“Agent Tomlin,” Sherlock said, grabbing one of the nurses. “Where is Agent Tomlin?”
“They’re working on him. Someone walked up to him and shoved a syringe into his neck, but he didn’t go all the way out and Louise noticed something was wrong—you know, he was kind of jerking in his chair, and she called out, but he didn’t answer.” The nurse was nearly hyperventilating. “Louise ran toward him. I don’t know what happened—Louise was gone and there was a gunshot. I didn’t know it would be so loud. It was like an explosion, and everyone was yelling and screaming.”
Sherlock closed her eyes and prayed hard. Please, God, let Tom Tomlin be okay. She was right behind Savich when he shoved open MacLean’s door.
There were half a dozen people around MacLean’s bed, all talking, gesturing, some on cell phones, one security woman talking loudly on a crackling walkie-talkie.
When Savich shoved his way through, he saw MacLean lying on his back, the bed cranked up, his head on a pillow, and he was smiling impartially at everyone, the patriarch surrounded by his family. Hospital security was two deep.
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