The Beginning

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich pulled out his little black notebook and his ballpoint pen. “Could you give me some names, please?”

  She turned stiller than Lot’s wife. “I did this last year. I don’t remember now.”

  “Give Mr. Savich two names, Candice. Just two.”

  “All right. Lancing Corruthers and Dorthea McDowell. They’re both rich and idle and know everything about everyone. They live right here in the city.”

  Savich wrote down the names. “Thank you. Actually, I’m pleased you could come up with even one name. I’m impressed.”

  “I am too,” Douglas said.

  “They knew all about her too,” she added, nodding toward Sherlock.

  “That should prove to be interesting,” Savich said, again taking hold of Lacey’s wrist. “You see, I’m hoping she’ll agree to marry me, once I ask her properly.” He paused a moment, then looked very worried. “I sure do hope they won’t tell me things that will change my mind about asking you. Were you a loose teenager, Sherlock? Will you corrupt me if I marry you?”

  “I don’t think that Bobby Wellman could count as loose, do you?”

  “Who’s Bobby Wellman?” Douglas asked.

  Savich shook his head.

  “No one will say anything remotely questionable about Lacey,” Douglas said. “Look Candice, Lacey was only nineteen when Belinda died. She was even a bit on the backward side for her age. All she did was play the piano. I don’t think she ever even saw other people. She just saw her music. Now, tell me that was all a joke about you marrying him, Lacey.”

  “He still has to ask me right and proper.”

  “No!” Douglas stood now, leaning toward Lacey, and said, his voice rough and low, “Listen to me, Lacey. I’ve known you for a very long time. I don’t think you should marry this man. You can’t. It’s a very bad idea.”

  “Why, Douglas?”

  “Yes, Douglas, why?” Candice asked.

  “I know his kind. He doesn’t care about you, Lacey. You’d just be another notch on his belt.”

  Savich started whistling.

  Everyone turned to stare at him. Sherlock wanted to laugh, but she held it back.

  “Sherlock Savich,” Savich said slowly, looking up at the ceiling, rolling the words on his tongue. “It has quite a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “Dammit, no, you can’t marry him, Lacey. You can’t. Look at him; he’s one of those stupid bodybuilder types you see at the gym who are always staring at themselves in the mirror. Their biceps and pecs are all pumped up but their brains are the size of peas.”

  Lacey said mildly, “Douglas, you need a reality check here. You need to get a grip.”

  “All right. So he can play with computers, that’s no big deal. He’s a nerd with big arms. You can’t marry him.”

  “Well she can’t marry you, Douglas; you’re already married to me.” Candice took one step toward Sherlock, then pulled up when she saw the look on Savich’s face.

  “Congratulations,” Candice said, stepping back. “I do mean that. Marry him.”

  “This is getting us nowhere fast,” Savich said. “Now, Candice, Sherlock and I are here to speak to Douglas about Belinda. Would you like to stay or go?”

  “Why? Belinda’s been dead for seven years. Her killer is in jail, in Boston. I’ve even given you two names, women who knew her, who knew what she was like. Why are you talking to Douglas? He doesn’t know anything.”

  “There are all sorts of loose ends, ma’am,” Savich said. “Tell you what, why don’t we come back after you and your husband bond or kill each other or eat lunch or whatever else you’d like to do?” Savich rose as he spoke, his hand out to Sherlock. She looked at that big strong hand and smiled. She still wanted to belt Candice.

  “No, wait,” Douglas called out, but Savich shook his head and waved.

  She said as they walked from Douglas’s office, “What will we do now?”

  “Let’s duck around the corner for a minute. Douglas’s door is still open; Marge isn’t at her desk. Who knows? Maybe we’ll hear something we shouldn’t.”

  They moved as close to the open door as they could, pressing back against the wall.

  “You can’t still want her, Douglas. Didn’t you see what she was wearing? By God, she even chews her thumbnail!”

  Sherlock looked at her thumbs. Sure enough, one thumbnail was nearly down to the quick. How had that happened?

  “That’s enough, Candice,” Douglas said. He sounded incredibly tired. “That’s really quite enough. She shouldn’t marry him. I’ll have to think about this, then write down all the good sound reasons why it wouldn’t work. This shouldn’t be happening.”

  “No, what shouldn’t be happening is that you still lust after her. Are you blind? What’s there to lust over? Get over it, Douglas. Buy some glasses.”

  Douglas didn’t appear to have heard her—that or he was ignoring her. He said, “They’re back here because of Belinda. There must be something going on with Marlin Jones. Savich called them loose ends, but I don’t trust him. Mrs. Sherlock claimed she saw Marlin Jones kissing Belinda in the driveway. You say it’s likely Marlin had slept with Belinda, but you’re just jealous, Candice. You didn’t know Belinda. It’s all nuts. I don’t understand any of it, but I think they must doubt that Marlin Jones killed Belinda. Maybe they think I killed her and that’s why they’re here.”

  “That’s crazy, Douglas. They don’t have a clue. They’re here fishing around. Keep your mouth shut. Now, take me to lunch. I have to be back at the station at two o’clock.”

  “We’re outta here,” Savich said. They were in the elevator and on their way down from the twentieth floor of the Malcolm Building within a minute.

  DINNER had been quiet; that is, no one had had much to say about anything, which to Savich, was a relief. Evelyn Sherlock ate delicately, gave Savich disapproving looks, and said again that he was too good-looking and not to be trusted. She said nothing at all to her husband, except over a dessert of apple pie, she finally said, not looking at him, but down at her pie, “I spoke to one of your law clerks—Danny Elbright. He said he needed to speak to you but I told him you’d gone to the gas station. I asked him if I could help him and he said no, it was something really confidential. Even your wife couldn’t know.”

  “It was probably about a current case,” Judge Sherlock said and forked down another bite of pie. He closed his eyes for a moment. “This is delicious. I need to give Isabelle another raise,” he said.

  “No, she makes too much already,” said Evelyn Sherlock. “I think she bought the pie. She’s rarely here except when she knows you’ll be here. I don’t like her, Corman, I never have.”

  “How is your companion, Mother?” Sherlock said. “Her name is Mrs. Arch, isn’t it?”

  “She’s fine. She never says anything, only nods or shakes her head. She’s very boring, but harmless. She’s younger than I am and looks the way my mother would look if she were still alive. She doesn’t try to seduce your father and that’s a relief.”

  “Mrs. Arch,” the judge said, “is not younger than you are, Evelyn. She must be all of sixty-five years old. She’s got blue hair and is a good size sixteen. Believe me, your mother never looked like Mrs. Arch.”

  “So? She’s not dead yet,” said Mrs. Sherlock. “You’ve slept with every size and age of woman. Did you think I didn’t know? I remember everything once I’m reminded.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  It was an hour later in Judge Sherlock’s library that Savich finally said, “Sherlock didn’t realize until recently that Belinda had had a miscarriage. Why didn’t this come out?”

  Judge Sherlock was stuffing a pipe. The smell of this particular tobacco was wonderful—rich and dark and delicious. He didn’t answer until the pipe was lit and he’d sucked in three or four times. The scent was like a forest. Savich found himself breathing in deeply. Finally, Judge Sherlock said, “I didn’t want any more publicity. What difference did it make? Not a bit. What do y
ou mean Lacey didn’t remember?”

  “Evidently she’d blocked it out, for some reason neither of us can figure out. She remembered under hypnosis. Do you know why she’d block it out, sir?”

  “No, no reason to as far as I can see. It was seven years ago. It no longer matters,” Judge Sherlock said and sucked on his pipe. The library was filled with the delicious, rich smell. Savich took another drink of his tea.

  Sherlock took a deep breath. “Do you know if Douglas was the father?”

  “Look, Lacey, Mr. Savich, Belinda shouldn’t have been pregnant in the first place. I told you, Lacey, that Douglas knew they shouldn’t ever have children because of her defective genes. Look at her mother. Her father is even worse. Yes, I keep tabs on him. He’ll be out one of these days, despite my efforts to the contrary. I don’t want that crazy man coming here.”

  “But she was pregnant,” Savich said.

  “Yes, evidently, but not very far along, not more than six or seven weeks. That’s what the doctor said. After the autopsy, they knew, naturally, that she’d just miscarried, but since it wasn’t relevant to anything, they didn’t mention it. The press never got hold of it, thank God. It would have caused more pain. Was Douglas the father? I’ve never had reason to suspect he wasn’t.”

  “It would have also caused more outrage,” Sherlock said.

  “No, not unless they led the public to think the miscarriage was tied to her murder, and it wasn’t.”

  But Sherlock wasn’t so certain. Actually, as she told Dillon later as she walked him to the guest room where he was staying, “There are more than simple loose ends here. There are ends that don’t seem to have any beginning.” She sighed, staring down at her navy pumps. Candice was right. She looked dowdy and uninteresting. How then could she be a slut at the same time?

  Savich pulled her against him, lightly pressing her face against his shoulder. “I know what you mean. It’s infuriating. Everything that comes out of your mother’s mouth makes Alice’s Wonderland look like MIT. How long has she been like this, Sherlock?”

  “As long as I can remember. She’s more so now, I think. But I don’t see her all that often anymore.”

  “Do you think she could be doing some of this to gain your father’s attention?”

  “Oh yes. But how much of it is real and how much is her own playacting? I don’t know.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “And my father?”

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly, leaned down and kissed her left ear. “I just don’t know. He’s slippery, hard for me to read. But you know, Sherlock, it’s tough not to like him.”

  “I like him too, most of the time,” Lacey said and looked up at his mouth. “Do you really want to marry me now that you’ve met my mother and father?”

  “Unfair. But you haven’t met my family yet. Now there’s a scary bunch. Actually, they’re going to be so grateful that you’re taking me on that they’ll probably try really hard not to be weird around you, at least until after we’re married. Then, no guarantees. Oh yes, Sherlock, we’re all alone here in the corridor. I think now’s the time. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  He kissed her. It was sweet and warm and he tried very hard not to overwhelm her with his need, which was growing by leaps and bounds. But then she pushed him against the wall, pressing herself up tight against him. “You feel delicious,” she said into his mouth, her breath warm and dark from the espresso. “You taste even better. Dillon, are you sure you want to marry me? We haven’t known each other all that long. We’ve been stressed-out since we met. Nothing’s been normal or natural.”

  “Sure it has. I kicked your butt in Hogan’s Alley and at the gym. What’s more natural than that? I’ve cooked my pasta for you. I’ve fed you pizza at Dizzy Dan’s. You’ve slept in my house. I think we’ve got great experience going into this. Besides, the sex isn’t bad either, except it’s been so long that I’m having a tough time remembering all the details, any of the details, actually.”

  She kissed his chin, his jaw, lightly bit his earlobe. “I don’t understand how you’ve managed to stay footloose for four whole years.”

  “I run fast and I don’t chase too well. Actually, I guess I was waiting for you. Nobody else, just you. I’m more surprised that no one snapped you up.”

  “I was so locked in the past, locked into only one path, all of it focused on Belinda. What will we do?”

  He said as he slowly traced the buttons of her blouse, “I have this inescapable feeling that everything revolves around Belinda, not Marlin, not Douglas, not anybody else, just Belinda. I don’t think anyone ever really knew who she was. I’d like to see pictures of her around the time she was killed. Do you have any albums?”

  “Yes. I hope Mother didn’t throw them away. Would you like to see them now?”

  “Nope. We’re still on East Coast time, so it feels like three hours later than it is. I want to get some sleep. Actually I want to sleep with you, but that wouldn’t be right, not in your parents’ house. Besides, your mother is so worried that we’re shacking up, she just might go on patrol tonight to make certain we’re separated.”

  She laughed. “Mother is a hoot, isn’t she? You never know what will come out of her mouth. But it seems she’s gone even more around the bend lately. Lots of it might be an act. Who knows? She’s not going to change. But it still scares me because some of what she says just might be true. Did my father really try to kill her? Run her down in his BMW?”

  “If he did, at least he knows she’s told us about it. Your father isn’t stupid. If he did do it deliberately, it won’t happen again.”

  “I don’t want my mother to die, Dillon.”

  He brought her close. “She won’t. Everything will be all right. I’ll even have a chat with your father, to make sure he understands completely.”

  Much later, when Sherlock was on the edge of sleep, she thought, Who were you, Belinda?

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was dawn, the bedroom a soft, vague gray, and chilly. She woke up slowly. Someone was shaking her arm, someone speaking to her. “Sherlock, we’ve got a problem. Come on, wake up.”

  He was lightly caressing her upper arms, then lightly tapped her face. She blinked up at him. “Dillon? I’m so glad it’s you. I thought it was someone else, another nightmare. What’s wrong? Did Mother try to run you off the property?”

  He sat down beside her and she reached for him. He took her hands in his and held them tightly. “No, that I could have handled. Listen to me, Sherlock. It’s Marlin Jones. Brace yourself—he’s escaped.”

  She stared up at him, slowly shaking her head on the pillow. “No, that’s impossible. A prisoner doesn’t escape nowadays, except in the movies. There’s no way Marlin could have gotten away. There were cops all over him. He even went to the bathroom with a cop on either side of him. Besides, he was wearing more shackles than an Alabama chain gang. This has to be an early-morning joke, right, Dillon?”

  “I’m sorry, Sherlock, he’s gone. The court had ordered him taken to the Massachusetts State Institute for more psychological testing. The doctors there blew fits when they saw the guards and all the restraints—he had full leg shackles. They complained they’d never get anything meaningful out of him, that they’d never gain any true and accurate testing results unless Marlin could trust them, the doctors. The cops refused, naturally. The doctors called the judge who’d dictated more testing. The judge ordered the cops to remove the shackles, even the handcuffs. The cops were even ordered to wait outside the room. The long and the short of it—Marlin hit two doctors over the head, smashed an orderly’s jaw, knocked him unconscious, and got out through a bathroom window that was right off the office. They haven’t recaptured him yet. They didn’t know he’d escaped until the orderly regained consciousness and staggered out to tell them.”

  She was fully awake now, sitting up, rubbing her arms with her hands. “How did you find out?”

  “Mr. M
aitland called me about thirty minutes ago, said the cops called him, but it had been on TV even before they bothered to telephone. He got hold of the FBI in Boston and put them on it big-time. He made it sound like everything was in complete disarray.”

  “Do you think maybe that judge who ordered Marlin Jones released will now be under the bench instead of sitting on it?”

  “There’ll be big-time fallout. Hopefully that nitwit judge will either swear he’s seen the light or he’ll go down, which is what he deserves. Get on your robe and let’s get downstairs. Isabelle’s made us some tea and warmed up some rolls.”

  Ten minutes later they were downstairs in Judge Sherlock’s lair watching TV. They’d just turned on the big set when a news bulletin flashed on. A big black-and-white photo of Marlin Jones filled the screen. A newswoman’s voice said, “…The manhunt has extended in all directions now. The FBI, state and local police are all trying to find the alleged killer of more than eight women.” The picture then flashed to the newsroom. A beautiful blond woman, not more than twenty-eight, was beaming at the camera, saying in her happy, perfect voice, “It’s just been learned that the FBI agent, Lacey Sherlock, who was instrumental in catching Marlin Jones in Boston, is the sister of one of the women he allegedly murdered in San Francisco seven years ago. What this means isn’t exactly clear, but John Bullock, Marlin Jones’s lawyer, has said his client was entrapped all along by the FBI.”

  “It’s out,” Savich said, and sighed. “I wonder who told them.”

  “Oh no.” A photo of Sherlock appeared on the TV screen. The newswoman was saying, “Agent Sherlock has been with the FBI for only five months now. It’s said that the reason she joined was to catch her sister’s killer.” The newswoman gave a dazzling smile to the people watching her. “It appears she succeeded, but now, no one can say what will happen once Marlin Jones is recaptured. Let’s switch to Ned Bramlock, our affiliate in Boston. Ned?”

  They watched in silence as the cops in the Boston PD stood in stiff and angry silence. The local FBI representative stood behind the small group, saying nothing.