The Beginning

by Catherine Coulter

  “I thought you wanted me to come home.”

  “I changed my mind. Things aren’t right here, just not right. But now that you’re here, I suppose you’ll insist on remaining.”

  “For a few days, Mother. Would you mind if Dillon stayed here as well?”

  “He’s too handsome,” Mrs. Sherlock said, “but again I suppose I have no choice. There are at least four empty bedrooms upstairs. He can have one of them. I hope you’re not sleeping with him, Lacey. There are so many diseases, and men carry all of them, did you know that? It’s been proven now at least, but I always knew it. That’s why I stopped sleeping with your father. I didn’t want him to give me any of those horrible diseases.”

  “A cup of tea, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Sherlock took the fine china saucer from Savich and sat down on the very edge of one of her husband’s rich brown leather chairs. She looked around her. “I hate this room,” she said, then sipped at her tea. “I always have. It’s the living room I love. I decorated the living room, did Lacey tell you, Mr. Savich?”

  Savich felt as though he’d fallen down the rabbit hole; but Sherlock just looked tired. She looked used to this. It came to him then that Mrs. Sherlock was acting a great deal like his great-aunt Mimi—in short, outrageous. She always made it known that she was fragile, whatever that meant, so she could get away with saying whatever she wanted, so that she could be the center of attention. Savich didn’t doubt that Mrs. Sherlock did suffer from some mental illness, but how much was real and how much was of her own creation?

  “I forgot to tell him, Mother,” she said. “But as rooms go, this one really isn’t that bad. There are so many books.”

  “I dislike clutter. It’s the sign of a chaotic mind. Your father is going to sell that BMW of his. I believe he’s going to buy a Mercedes. What model, I don’t know. If it’s a big car, I’ll have to be really careful not to be outside when he’s driving. But, you know, if you’re standing in the driveway, those tall bushes make it impossible to see if someone is coming. That’s how he nearly got me last time.”

  “Mother, when did Dad try to run you down? Was it recently?”

  “Oh no, it was some time last spring.” She paused, sipped some more tea, and frowned down at the beautiful Tabriz carpet beneath her feet. It was a frown, but it wasn’t obvious. There were no frown lines on that perfect forehead. She waved a smooth white hand. “Maybe it was this past summer. It’s hard to remember. But once I remember things, they stay with me.”

  “Yes, Mother, I know.”

  Savich said, “Perhaps your husband will buy a little Mercedes, ma’am.”

  “Yes, or perhaps a Porsche,” Mrs. Sherlock said, looking thoughtfully at Savich.

  “I own one. They are very nice. I’ve never tried to run anybody down in my 911. It could hurt the car. I’d get caught. No, a Porsche is a good choice.”

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking about a Porsche.”

  Savich was on his feet in an instant to face a very handsome middle-aged aristocrat standing in the doorway. He had a fine head of silver hair, Sherlock’s soft blue eyes, beautiful, wide, luminous eyes, and was taller than he was and as lean as a runner. He was looking at his wife, and the look reflected both irritation and amusement, in about equal amounts.

  “I’m Judge Sherlock. Hello, Lacey.”

  She was on her feet as well, walking slowly to her father. She held out her hands to him. “Hello, Dad. We just got here. Do you mind if we stay with you for a while?”

  “Not at all. We’ve plenty of room. It will be nice to have different voices to listen to. My dear,” he continued to his wife as he walked to the beautiful woman who was sitting there staring at him, her eyes large and intent. “How was your day?”

  “I want to know if she’s sleeping with him, Corman, but she wouldn’t tell me. He’s too good-looking and you know how I feel about that. Why, look at what Douglas did, just because he’s a man and doesn’t have any sense. He married that tramp and Belinda barely in her grave.”

  “Belinda’s been dead for seven years, Evelyn. It was time for Douglas to marry again.” He shot Savich a quick look from the corner of his eye that said, Look, isn’t she a fool? Savich drew back.

  “That’s a good point,” Evelyn Sherlock said, her beautiful expressionless face turned away from her husband. “But they shouldn’t be married. Can’t you get Douglas to divorce her, Corman?”

  “No, I don’t do that sort of thing, you know that. Or don’t you remember?”

  “When I remember something I never forget it. That’s what I was telling Lacey and Mr. Savich before you came in. Will you buy a Porsche so I’ll be safe?”

  “Perhaps I will, Evelyn, perhaps I will. Mr. Savich spoke about a classic911. I like that car. Lacey, may I have a cup of tea, please? Mr. Savich, rather Agent Savich, I’m delighted to finally meet you. I understand you’re my daughter’s boss at the FBI.”

  “Yes, sir. I head up the new Criminal Apprehension Unit.”

  “I think your approach is a fine idea. Why not use technology to predict what psychopaths will do? Why are you here with her in San Francisco?”

  “We’re working on the Marlin Jones case.”

  “Why here? Marlin Jones is in Boston.”

  “That’s true, but there are loose ends. We’re here to check things out.”

  “I see.” Judge Corman Sherlock sat down in the beautiful rosewood chair behind his rosewood desk. The desk was piled with books and magazines. There were at least a dozen pens scattered haphazardly over the surface as well as a telephone and computer. It was a working place for him, Dillon realized. Not just pleasure in here. The man spent hours here working.

  “I heard on the news that Marlin Jones hit his own lawyer, knocked him out. Everyone in the courthouse was talking about it. You were there, weren’t you, Lacey?”

  She nodded. “Yes, we both were. I believe everyone was cheering because there would be one less lawyer—” She broke off and smiled at her father. “Forgive me, but I never think of you as a lawyer since you’re a judge and a former prosecutor. You put criminals away, not defend them.”

  “True enough. Big John Bullock has quite a reputation. Your Marlin might escape any punishment at all when he goes to trial. Big John is magic with juries. If this Marlin character doesn’t already have a pitiful, tragic childhood, then Big John will manufacture one for him and the jury might believe everything he says.”

  “People aren’t stupid, Dad. They can look at Marlin Jones and see he’s a psychopath. He’s crazy but he’s not insane. He knows exactly what he’s doing and he has no remorse, no conscience. He’s admitted to all the killings. Besides, even if he’s acquitted in Boston, he’ll be sent here to be tried. He also admitted he’d murdered two women in Denver. He’ll go down. In one of those places, he has to go down.”

  “Ah, Lacey, people can be swayed, they can be manipulated, they can see gray when there’s nothing really but black. I’ve seen it happen again and again. Juries will see what they want to see—if they want to free a defendant, no matter what the evidence, they’ll do it. It’s that simple, and many times that tragic.

  “I hope Marlin Jones does come to California to stand trial. At least here we’ve got the death penalty.”

  “If he got the death penalty, I think the electric chair would be too easy and quick. I think all the families of the women he killed should be able to kill him, over and over.”

  “That’s very unliberal of you, Lacey.”

  “Why? It’s only right. It’s justice.”

  “It’s vengeance.”

  “Yes, it is. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing. Now, my dear child, Agent Savich probably wonders if you and I go on and on like this. Let’s take a short time out. Tell me about these loose ends you’re here to tie up.”

  Evelyn Sherlock smiled, but again, it seemed to Savich that her face still remained without expression. It was as if she’d trained herself not to move any mus
cles in her face that would ruin the perfect mask. She said, “They probably think you murdered Belinda, Corman, isn’t that right, Agent Savich?”

  Now that was a kicker. It was Savich’s turn not to change expression. He said, bland as chicken broth, “Actually, no, ma’am.”

  “Well, you should. I guess you’re not as smart as you are handsome. He tried to run me down. No reason why he wouldn’t kill Belinda. He didn’t like her, hated her, in fact, since her father is in San Quentin. He said Belinda would be as crazy as her father and me. That’s an awful thing to say, isn’t it, Agent Savich?”

  “It’s certainly not what I’d say, Mrs. Sherlock, but everyone is different. Now,” he continued, turning back to Judge Sherlock, “I wonder, sir, if you would mind telling us if you ever had Marlin Jones in your courtroom.”

  “No.”

  “You’re very certain?”

  “Yes, naturally. I remember every man and woman who’s ever stood before my bench. Marlin Jones wasn’t one of them.”

  “Before you became a judge, did you ever prosecute him?”

  “I would have remembered, Mr. Savich. The answer is still no.”

  Savich opened his briefcase and pulled out a black-and-white five-by-seven photo. “You’ve never seen this man?”

  He handed Judge Sherlock Marlin’s photograph, taken the previous week.

  “No, I’ve never seen him in my courtroom. It’s Marlin Jones, of course. Lacey, you’re right. He does look like a classic psychopath, which is to say, he looks perfectly normal.”

  Savich handed him another photo.

  “I’ll be damned. It’s Marlin Jones but you’ve doctored this photo, haven’t you?”

  “The FBI labs are the very best. I asked them to render me photos with various disguises a man could use effectively.”

  “It’s a mustache, the sideburns longer, the hair combed over as if the guy wants to cover a bald spot—it’s amazing. Sorry, but I’ve never seen this man either.”

  Savich gave him a third photograph.

  Judge Sherlock sucked in his breath. “I don’t believe this. I prosecuted this guy years ago, but I remember him. He was a hippie sort, up on marijuana charges. Look at that bushy beard and the thick bottle-cap glasses. Hunched shoulders, but he was still tall, as tall as I am. I remember that he looked at me as if he wanted to spit on me. What was his name, anyway?”

  He fell silent, staring down at the photo, tapping his fingers on the arm of the leather chair. Then he sighed and said, “I’ll have to look it up. I guess I’m getting old. No, wait a minute. It was a weird name. Erasmus. That’s it. His name was Erasmus something, I don’t remember his last name, but it was a common name. It was at least fifteen years ago. I managed to plea-bargain him into three years even though it was his first offense. He himself was so offensive I didn’t even hesitate to push the public defender. He had no respect. Yes, it was three years. This is Marlin Jones?”

  Sherlock took the photo from her father. Dillon hadn’t told her about this. She stared at the photo, then at her father. “It’s possible, then, that because you gave him that three-year sentence, he wanted revenge. It’s possible when he got out, then, that he killed Belinda, to get his revenge on you.”

  “There’s a problem here,” Savich said.

  Both Judge Sherlock and his daughter looked at him, their left eyebrows arched in an identical way.

  “Look again at the photo, Judge Sherlock.”

  “Yes, all right. What?”

  “Marlin Jones would have been twenty-three years old fifteen years ago. This man is older, maybe fifty or fifty-five.”

  “Well, yes, you’re right, he is. It’s hard to tell with all that hair and the glasses. Oh, I see what you mean. It isn’t Marlin, is it?”

  “It’s his father,” Sherlock said slowly. “This man, Erasmus, the man Dad prosecuted, is Marlin’s father. And this is an old picture of him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The FBI field office in Phoenix got hold of this photo of him from an old driver’s license. Our lab people worked on it. I didn’t tell you about it, Sherlock, because I didn’t really think it would lead to anything.”

  “Is the man still alive?”

  “He is as far as we know. He hasn’t been back to Yuma in years. That’s where he raised Marlin. Marlin left at eighteen. Erasmus drifted in and out for a few years, then disappeared. He’d be about sixty-four now. Where is he? No one knows.”

  “Let me see the man,” said Mrs. Sherlock.

  Lacey handed her mother the photo.

  “He’s scruffy. I remember his sort; they were all over San Francisco back in the sixties and seventies. But he was in court in the late eighties, Corman?”

  “Yes, some fifteen years ago.”

  “I think he would be handsome without those glasses and all that hair and beard.”

  “His son is handsome, Mother, very handsome. Here’s his photo. But you know, he’s got dead eyes.”

  Mrs. Sherlock looked at Marlin Jones’s photo, stared toward her husband, and fainted, sliding out of the chair and onto the carpet before anyone could catch her.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “What do you want?” Douglas stared at Dillon Savich. He laid down the papers he’d been reading and rose slowly, splaying his fingers on the desktop.

  “It’s okay, Marge. Let him in. He’s FBI. Ah, you’re here too, Lacey. Why is he with you? You know I don’t like him. He’s corrupted you, changed you.”

  “He’s my boss. He has to be with me.”

  “Madigan,” Savich said, barely nodding.

  Douglas said nothing. He sat back down in his chair. He crossed his hands over his stomach.

  “How are you doing, Douglas?”

  “I’m very angry at the moment, but you don’t care about that. Why are you here with him?”

  Savich said easily as he sat down in one of the plush client chairs opposite Douglas Madigan’s large high-tech chrome-and-glass desk, “It appears Belinda had an affair with Marlin Jones. Did you know about it?”

  “No. I don’t like your jokes, Agent Savich.”

  “No joke, Mr. Madigan. As far as we know it’s a distinct possibility—that Belinda slept with Marlin Jones seven years ago.”

  Lacey was watching his face. There was no sign of pain, of anger, of remembered betrayal. Nothing.

  “So you’re saying you know why he killed her?”

  “No, that’s not what we’re saying. I’m sorry, Douglas,” Lacey said, sitting forward, extending her hand to lightly touch his forearm. “It seems there were some things about Belinda none of us knew. Mother saw a photo of Marlin Jones and fainted. She’d seen him, she said, seen him kissing Belinda in the driveway. At least that’s what she told us. You know Mother. One can never be quite certain if the flag is going to be flying high or hanging at half-mast.”

  “That crazy old bitch is probably right about this. Belinda was a gold-plated faithless bitch.”

  They all turned to see Candice Addams Madigan standing in the doorway, a flustered Marge behind her, waving her hands. Douglas smiled and said, “It’s all right, Marge. Tell you what, anyone else comes, wave them on in. Hello, Candice.”

  Candice walked into the office, head high, beautifully dressed in a pale blue wool suit and a Hermès scarf. “She was a bitch and she did cheat on you.”

  “But was the man Marlin Jones? I doubt it. Where could she have met him?”

  Candice gave her husband a scornful look. “Belinda had low tastes. I’ve heard that she went to dives, to real low-class places. That’s where she would have met this killer. Yes, I’ll bet she did sleep with him. She slept with everyone. Why don’t you ask her?” She turned and gave Lacey a vicious look. “Yes, ask the little princess here. She probably went with her sister. She might have slept with him too.”

  Sherlock had blood in her eye. Her heart was pounding; she was ready to kill. It was Savich who grabbed her wrist and kept her in her place. “Ignore her,” he said low, only for her h
earing. “She’s miserable she’s so jealous. Let it be. Let’s listen. Consider this a bad play. Let’s see if we can’t figure out the theme of the play.”

  She tried to pull away from him. She couldn’t take any more from this miserable woman. “Okay, then, Agent Sherlock, this is an order from your superior. Don’t move and be quiet.”

  She tried to calm her breathing, but it was hard. “That’s different, then, but I still want to pound her.”

  “I know, but later. Now let’s listen.”

  “What are you two talking about?”

  Savich smiled at Candice Madigan. “I was telling Sherlock that you looked pregnant to me. She insists you’re not, that you look too slender. But I can tell your stomach is out there. Who’s right?”

  Candice immediately sucked in her stomach, taking two steps away from Savich. Then she realized what he’d done to her. She dropped her hands to her sides, straightened really tall, and shot a look toward her husband. He merely smiled at her. “Go ahead, Candice. After all, I don’t have a client for another twenty minutes. Feel free to talk about whatever.”

  Candice Madigan walked to her husband, kissed him on the mouth, then turned to say to Sherlock, “I’m not pregnant but I will be soon. You keep away from my husband, do you hear me? You haven’t seen mean until you’ve seen me mean.”

  “Yes, I hear you,” Sherlock said. Then she smiled. “You and Douglas planning a baby, then?”

  “We will be soon. It’s none of your business. You’re a little gold-digging tart, just like your sister. Stay away from Douglas.”

  “Oh, she will,” Savich said. “Now, Candice, how do you know so much about Belinda? She was killed seven years ago. You weren’t even around then.”

  “I’m an investigative reporter. I looked up everything. I spoke to people who’d known her. She betrayed Douglas, over and over again. All the women in your crowd knew about it. With this Marlin Jones character? Why not? Again, it wouldn’t have been a problem for her to run into him at any one of the low-class bars she frequented.”