Krimakov had lived all this time in Crete? Since Thomas had found out about his daughter’s stalker, after the man had murdered that old bag lady, he’d put everyone on finding Krimakov. Scour the world for him, Thomas had said. He’s got to be somewhere. Hell, he’s probably right here.
Now after all this time, all these bloody years, he’d finally found him? Only he was dead. It was hard to accept. His implacable enemy, finally dead. Gone, only it was too late, because Allison was dead, too. Far too late.
Was it really an accident?
Thomas knew that Krimakov had to have enemies. He’d had years to make them, just as Thomas had. He’d gotten messages from Krimakov back in the early years, telling him he would never forget, never. Telling him he would find his wife and daughter—yes, he knew all about them and he would find them, no matter how well Thomas had hidden them. And then it would be judgment day.
Thomas had been terrified. And he’d done something unconscionable. He escorted a very pretty young woman, one of the assistants in his office, to an Italian embassy function, then to a Smithsonian exhibit. The third time he was with her, he was simply walking her to her car from the office because the skies had suddenly opened up and rain was pouring down and he had a big umbrella.
A man had jumped out of an alley and shot her between the eyes, not more than six feet away. Thomas hadn’t caught him. He knew it was Krimakov even before he’d received that letter written in Vasili’s stark, elegant hand: “Your mistress is dead. Enjoy yourself. When I discover your wife and child, they will be next.”
That had been seventeen years before.
Thomas had considered seeing Allison that weekend. He had canceled, and she’d known why, of course. He sat back in his chair, pillowing his head on his arms. He read the e-mail from Adam. Consider Krimakov.
But Krimakov was finally dead. The irony of it didn’t escape him. Krimakov was gone, out of his life, forever. It was all over. He could have finally been with Allison. But it was too late, too late. But now someone was terrorizing Becca. He didn’t understand what was going on. He wished he could learn about Dick McCallum, but as of yet, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary. No big deposits, no new accounts, no big expenditures on his credit cards, no strangers reported near him, nothing suspicious or unexpected in his apartment. Simply nothing.
Thomas remembered telling Adam how there were only two other people—besides Adam—who knew the real story. His wife and Buck Savich, both dead now. Buck had died of a heart attack some six years before. But there was Buck’s son, and he was very much alive, and Thomas realized now that he needed him, needed him very much.
The man knew all about monsters. He knew how to find them.
Georgetown
Washington, D.C.
Dillon Savich, head of the Criminal Apprehension Unit of the FBI, booted up his laptop MAX and saw there was an e-mail from someone he didn’t know. He shifted his six-month-old son, Sean, to his other shoulder and punched up the message.
Sean burped. “Good one,” Savich said, and rubbed his son’s back in slow circles. He heard him begin to suck his fingers, felt his small body relax into his shoulder. He read:
Your father was an excellent friend and a fine man. I trusted him implicitly. He believed you would change the course of criminal investigations. He was very proud of you. I desperately need your help. Thomas Matlock.
Sean reared back suddenly and patted his father’s whiskered cheek with his wet fingers. Savich stroked his son’s small fingers and dried them on his cotton shirt. “We’ve got a neat mystery here, Sean. Who is Thomas Matlock? How did he know my father? He was an excellent friend? I don’t remember ever hearing my father mention his name.
“MAX, let me get you started on this. Find out about this man for me.” He punched in a series of keys, then sat back, Sean bouncing from foot to foot on his stomach, watching MAX do his thing.
Savich reached up and flicked the drool off Sean’s chin. “You’re teething, champ. It’s not going to be a pretty sight for the next several months, so that book says. You don’t seem like you’re feeling any pain. Believe me, that’s a relief for both of us.”
Sean gurgled very close to Savich’s ear.
He held his son back and smiled into that beloved little face that looked more like him than Sherlock. Sean had his dark hair, not Sherlock’s curly red hair. As for his eyes, they were as dark as his father’s, not that sweet, soft blue of his mother’s. “You want to know something? It’s four o’clock in the morning and here we are wide awake. Your mama’s going to think we’re both nuts.”
Sean yawned then and stuck three fingers into his mouth. Savich kissed his forehead and stood, gently laying his son over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re ready to pack it in again.”
He went to his son’s room and dimmed the light. He laid him on his back and pulled a yellow baby blanket over his light diaper shirt.
“You go to sleep now, hear? I’m even going to sing you one of my favorite songs. Your mama always laughs her head off when I sing her this one.” He sang a country-and-western song about a man who loved his Chevy truck so much that he was buried with the engine and all four hubcaps, special edition, all silver. Sean looked mesmerized by his father’s deep, rich voice. He was out after just two verses. One good thing about country-and-western music—there was always another verse. Savich paused a moment, smiled down at the precious human being that still jolted him when he realized that Sean was, indeed, his very own child, part of him. Just as Savich had been his father’s child. He felt a sharp pull somewhere in the region of his heart. He missed his dad, always would.
Who was this Thomas Matlock, who claimed to have known his father?
He went back to his study.
MAX beeped as he walked in. “Good for you,” Savich said, sitting back down. “What have we got on this Thomas Matlock guy?”
TWELVE
Adam said, “You mean they’re giving up trying to find her on the Outer Banks?”
Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched behind a car somewhere, calling on his cell phone, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes caused eye infections. “Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all, they’re counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing this guy who shot the governor. That’s why they’re searching high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show down there. I hear he’s cursing up a blue streak, wondering where she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her and she ain’t anywhere, like smoke, he says, and the others grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you’ll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you who duped him, he’d want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to stick it on.”
“Thanks for sharing that, Hatch.”
“Knew you’d like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don’t you?”
That wasn’t the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, “Something like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra’s finally come to the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn’t anywhere near the Outer Banks?”
“That’s it.”
“I don’t think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time has passed for them to find her now. I think we’re home free—well, at least for the moment.”
Silence.
“Hatch, I know you’re lighting a cigarette. Put it out right now or I’ll fire you.”
Silence.
“Is it out?”
“Yeah, boss. I swear it’s out. I didn’t even get one decent puff.”
“Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?”
“They’re talking to their counterparts all over the country, just like the Feebs are. But hey—nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective Morales is a wreck, probably hasn’t slept for three days. All he can talk about is how she cal
led him, repeated to him that she’d told him everything, and he wasn’t able to talk her in. There’s this other detective, a woman name of Letitia Gordon, who evidently hates Ms. Matlock’s guts. Claims she’s a liar, a nutcase, and probably a murderer. Old Letitia really wants to bring her down. She’s pushing everyone to charge Ms. Matlock with the murder of that old bag lady outside the Metropolitan Museum. You know, the murder Ms. Matlock reported? The one the stalker did to get her attention?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, they told Detective Gordon to pull her head out of her armpit and try for a bit of objectivity. The woman’s really got it in for our gal.”
Adam made a rude noise. “Let Detective Gordon get hives over it for all we care. Neither Thomas nor I ever believed they were going to charge her with murder. But a material witness? That’s possible. And you know as well as I do that the cops couldn’t protect her from this stalker. Nope, that’s our job. Now, what do you have on McCallum?”
Adam wasn’t expecting anything, so he wasn’t disappointed when Hatch sighed and said, “Not a thing as of yet. A real pro spearheaded this operation, boss, like you thought.”
“Unfortunately, it can’t be Krimakov because Thomas finally got him tracked down. He was living on Crete, and as of a week ago, he’s dead. I’m not sure of the exact date. But it was before McCallum was run down in Albany. I guess Krimakov could have been involved, but he certainly wasn’t running the show, and that’s not his MO. Anything Krimakov was involved in, he was the Big Leader. Thomas is willing to bet his ascot on that. But if Krimakov was somehow involved, it means he knew about Becca being Matlock’s daughter. It’s making me crazy.”
“Nah, the guy’s dead. This is a new nutcase, fresh out of the woodwork, and he’s picked Becca.”
Adam scratched his head and added, “No, I don’t think so, Hatch. It’s got to be some sort of conspiracy, there’s no other answer. Lots of folk involved. But why did they focus on Ms. Matlock? Why put her in the middle? I keep coming back to Krimakov, but I know, logically, that it can’t be. Someone, something else, is driving this. How’s the governor?”
“I hear his neck is a bit sore, but he’ll live. He doesn’t know a thing, that’s what he claims. He’s very upset about McCallum.”
Adam sat there and thought and thought. The same questions over and over again. No answers.
Silence.
“Put out the cigarette, Hatch. I know about your girlfriend. She loves silk lingerie and expensive steaks. You can’t afford to lose your job.”
“Okay, boss.”
Adam heard some papers shuffling, heard some mild curses, and smiled. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Of course there’s no positive ID on that skeleton that popped out of Ms. Matlock’s basement wall. For sure it was a teenage girl who got her head bashed in some ten or more years ago. I did find out something sort of neat, though.”
“Yeah?”
“It turns out there was an eighteen-year-old girl who leaves Riptide, supposedly eloping. Nobody knows who the boyfriend was though. Now ain’t that a neat coincidence?”
“I’ll say. When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“No one’s heard from her since?”
“I’m not completely sure about that. If she’s still unaccounted for and they decide she’s a good bet, then they’ll do DNA tests on the bones.”
Adam said, “They’ll need something from her—like hair on a brush, an old envelope that would have her saliva, barring that, then a family member would have to give up some blood.”
“Thing is, though, it wouldn’t be admissible in court if it ever came to it. It’ll take some time, a couple of weeks. No one sees any big rush on it.”
“I don’t like the feel of this, Hatch. We’ve got this other mess and now this skeleton falling out of Becca’s basement wall. It’s enough to make a man give up football.”
“Nah, you’ve always told me that God created the fall for football. You’ll be watching football when you throw that last pigskin into the end zone in the sky, if they still have the sport that many aeons from now. You’ll probably lobby God to have pro football in Heaven. Stop whining, boss. You’ll figure everything out. You usually do. Hey, I hear that Maine’s one beautiful place. That true?”
Adam stared at his cell for a moment. He had been whining. He said, “Yeah. I just wish I had some time to enjoy it.” He suddenly yelled into the receiver, “No smoking, Hatch. If you even think about it, I’ll know it. Now, call me tomorrow at this same time.”
“You got it, boss.”
“No smoking.”
Silence.
BECCA said very quietly, “Who is Krimakov?”
Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he’d spent his first night in Jacob Marley’s house. She’d opened the door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was losing it.
“Who is Krimakov?”
He said easily, “He’s a drug dealer who used to be involved with the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He’s dead now.”
“What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?”
“I don’t know. Why did you open the door without knocking, Becca?”
“I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going on. I knew you wouldn’t tell me. I also came up to get you for breakfast. It’s ready downstairs. You’re still lying. This doesn’t have anything to do with drug dealing.”
He had the gall to shrug.
“If I had my kitchen knife, I’d run at you, right this minute.”
“And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can’t you accept that I’m here to do a job and that job is to make sure that you don’t get wiped out? Get off your high horse.”
He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him still. After seeing him all civilized that entire evening with four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn’t have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn’t gay, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.
“Who are you?”
He sighed, tucked in his shirt. Then he flipped the sheet and blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.
When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She’d heard Krimakov’s name. It didn’t matter. She’d never hear it again. The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free. To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn’t Thomas said anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and headed downstairs.
She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon, just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch’s fantasies, the fresh cantaloupe she’d sliced, ripe and sweet.
Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that much down.
He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, “What is this? No questions right in my face? No bitching at me? I don’t believe it—you’re sulking.”
That got her, just as he hoped it would.
“How would you like that nice sticky syrup down the back of your neck?”
He grinned at her and saluted with his coffee cup. “I wouldn’t like that at all. At least you’re speaking to me again. Look, Becca, I’m trying to find out what’s going on. Everyone is floating a lot of ideas, a lot of names. Now we have this skeleton.”
He was so slippery, she’d bet if he were a pig in a greased pig contest, no one could hold him down, but she was tenacious.
“Who were you telling not to smoke?”
“Hatch. He’s my main assistant. He has mor
e contacts than a centipede has legs, speaks six languages, and is real smart except when it comes to cigarettes and loose women. That’s the way I can control his smoking. I pay him very well and threaten to fire him if he lights up.”
“But I heard you tell him to put out the cigarette. Obviously he’s still smoking. And he knew you were on the other end of the line.”
“It’s more a game now than anything else. He lights up to hear me blow.”
“Did he find out anything about the skeleton? What’s this about DNA testing? They think they know who that poor girl was?”
He stretched, drank down the last of his coffee, carefully set the cup on the table, then stood up.
She was on her feet in the next instant. Two fast steps and she was in his face. She was fast, he’d give her that, and she was mad. He was grinning down at her when she slammed her fist in his belly. Becca felt her face turning red. “You will not treat me like a cipher, like I’m a moron who isn’t even important enough to talk to. Who are you?”
He grabbed her wrist. “That was a good shot. No, don’t hit me again or I’ll have to do something. I want to keep those pancakes happy.”
“Yeah, what?” She didn’t care anymore. She smashed her other fist into his left kidney.
He held both her wrists now. He knew she’d bring up her knee next so he jerked her around so her back was pressed against his chest. He held her arms pressed to her sides. “You’d look better as a blonde. Usually a woman’s roots are darker than her hair. In your case, you’ve got all this baby-light hair at the roots.”
She kicked back, grazing his shin. He grunted. He sat back down on the chair, holding her on his lap. She was pinned against him and couldn’t move. “Now,” he said, “I’m sorry we’re playing only by my rules, but that’s the way it’s got to be unless I’m told otherwise.”
“You need to shave. You look like a convict.”
“How do you know? You’ve got the back of your head to me.”
Twice Dead Page 11