Savich introduced himself and Sherlock, pulled out their shields. The old man stuck out his hand. Savich automatically started to shake it, then realized both he and Sherlock were black and filthy. He smiled at the old man. “I don’t want to dirty you up.”
“I appreciate that. So you both were in that fire in the big Ransom place,” Mr. Wilson said and motioned toward the door. “It’s all over the news. You want to come in and clean up?”
Sherlock smiled. “No thank you, Mr. Wilson. We need to ask you some more questions about the man on the motorcycle.”
“Call me Tuck, everybody does except for my little great-granddaughter. She calls me Friar, smart-mouthed little punk.”
Tuck Wilson waved them toward a wooden swing, but they shook their heads.
“—after the man drove his motorcycle right into the bushes, what exactly did he do?”
“Like I told the other officer, the guy jumped right off—he seemed real familiar with a motorcycle, smooth—okay, he turned and looked up the street. Not more than a minute passed before this blue car drove up, he jumped in the passenger seat, and they took off.”
A whole minute, Savich thought, and smiled. “Please tell us what the motorcycle guy looked like, Mr. Wilson.”
Tuck waved his cane toward the bushes. “He was more tall than not, a black guy, and he moved real fast and he was strong and graceful-like. He had on an old banged-up black leather jacket, I could see the nicks in the leather even with my old eyes. He had on some boots, not cowboy boots, but black boots like a biker would wear. He was wearing a helmet. When he first jumped off the motorcycle, he pulled it off. He was wearing glasses, isn’t that a kick? He saw me, I know he must have, saw Alice too, but he didn’t make any sort of move on us. No, he just concentrated on the street, and watched for the car.”
“Excellent, Tuck,” Savich said. “Okay, think back now. You see the blue car drive up. You see the driver. Tell us about him.”
“Hmmm, now that’s a bit more difficult, it all happened real fast. It was a man, young like the first—” Tuck broke off, laughed. “You gotta understand, anyone who isn’t on the shady side of sixty-five looks young to me. Alice said they were both old, but she’s seven years old.”
“Middle-aged, maybe?”
“He just wasn’t getting on like me.”
“The driver, was he bald? Glasses? What was he wearing?”
“No, he wasn’t bald, I’m sure about that. I couldn’t tell you exactly how much hair he had on his head, only that I could see some. The color? I couldn’t tell, really couldn’t, sorry. I remember thinking it was weird how his fingers kept tapping on the steering wheel while the motorcycle guy climbed into the car. Then he started yelling.”
“Could you hear what he was yelling about?” Savich asked.
“ ‘Hurry,’ that’s what he yelled, yelled it twice, and then he cussed and stomped on the gas. Now that I think about it, that car really took off fast. So it probably wasn’t an everyday sort of car, probably a fancy one, German, maybe, sounded real sweet and smooth.”
“Friar, you didn’t tell them the guy driving the car was mad, real mad.”
Savich and Sherlock looked down at a little girl who’d slipped out the front door and was peering around at them from behind her great-grandfather’s waist. “You’re Alice, right?”
Alice stared up at Sherlock. “I bet your hair’s real beautiful, ma’am, but not right now. It looks like you need to wash it. Oh, I’m Alice Douggan and this is one of my ancestors, Friar. That’s what he calls himself.”
Sherlock smiled between the two of them. “Is it all right, Tuck, if we speak to Alice?”
“Sure, no problem. Alice, stop hiding behind me. Come out here. You stand straight and tall, get those shoulders back and you tell them what you saw. Don’t add in all sorts of little details from that imagination of yours or else they might arrest you. They’re federal agents.”
Alice walked around Tuck, stood front and center. She cocked her head to one side, studied them straight on. Not at all shy, this cute little fairy. “You sure are dirty. My mama would skin me alive if I ever got as dirty as you are. You were in that big fire, right?”
“That’s right,” Savich said, and went down on his knees so he was eye level with the little girl. “I sure like your freckles. I wish my wife had some to go with her red hair, but I guess when she came down the line, the good Lord shook his head at her. When our little boy asked for some, he shook his head at him too.”
“I don’t like them. The kids make fun of me, call me speckle face.”
“Wait until you’re twenty-one and smiling real big. All the guys will line up to talk to you. And I want you to remember what I told you.”
The little girl smiled back at him. Can’t help it, Sherlock thought, content to let Dillon take over. “Alice, you said the man driving the car was mad?”
“Oh boy, was he ever. He was yelling and cussing something fierce at the motorcycle guy, worse than Friar ever does. My mama would have cleaned his mouth out with her organic barley soap. It tastes worse than oatmeal.”
“You didn’t hear any of his words other than the curses?”
Alice shook her head. “He had real long legs, and he looked like he could twist the head off a snake.”
“Who?”
“The black dude, the one wearing glasses. When he opened the car door, he cussed a blue streak right back at the man who was driving, called him a dickhead.”
“Alice—”
“I’m sorry, Friar, but that’s what he called the man—dickhead. He said, ‘Shut up, dickhead, and drive.’ ”
“Okay, let’s move on. The man driving, Alice. What did he look like?”
“He was old, but not as old as Friar. There aren’t many people that old. He was wearing this really neat ring and he was banging it against the steering wheel. I’d like to have a ring like that. I could wear it on a leather band around my neck, like my friends do at school.”
Savich said, “Tell us about the ring, Alice.”
“He wore it on his marriage finger, but it wasn’t a wedding ring, it was this big silver band thing with a black square sitting on top of it, all flat, with a lump in the middle. Just like Friar’s. I noticed it because the sun hit it just right, like a light sword, and made it glow.”
“That sounds like a Mason’s ring to me,” Tuck said. “You really saw that, Alice? You’re not making that up?”
“I saw it, Friar, I really saw it.”
Tuck said to Savich, “Thing is, I’ve got a Mason’s ring, she’s seen it a million times. No, I’m not wearing it today, my arthritis is kicking up.”
“Yes, it was a lot like yours, Friar, I promise.”
“Well,” Sherlock said five minutes later as she climbed into the passenger side of her dad’s Beemer, “do you think she made up the Masonic ring?”
“We might as well go with it, or at least with a ring on the guy’s wedding finger that maybe looks a bit different.” He smiled. “Cute kid. That hair of hers was so blond it was nearly white. Now, we know the guy with the ring had some hair, but we don’t know what color. And he was old or he was young, depending on whether you are seven or eighty.”
Sherlock said, “If Makepeace was cursing back at the guy who was driving and yelling at him, then it doesn’t seem likely the driver was the one who imported him to kill Julia. He sounds more like a local Makepeace hired to help him today. I’m thinking what happened was more than the guy bargained for, got him really scared.”
Savich said. “We’ll see what the canvassing officers have come up with.”
Sherlock gave him a big smile and ran a finger down her face. “So, I guess Alice was right, and it’s time to go play in the shower?”
Savich grinned, showing white teeth, just about the only white showing in his face. He covered her filthy hand with his, pressing her palm hard against his leg. “This was too close, Sherlock.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always
say.” She leaned over and kissed him, saw he was still thinking of what could have happened. “I like having you around, Dillon. If you hadn’t yelled for me to hit the deck right before the bomb exploded, I might have gotten whacked by some flying stairpost. But we’re all right, Julia and Cheney are all right, the cops are all right. Hey, I wonder if my underwear’s black.”
“I’ll let you know,” Savich said, and released a pent-up breath.
When he pulled into the Sherlocks’ driveway, he saw Ruth standing in the open front door, waving at them.
“What now?” Savich asked the rhododendron bushes, and followed Sherlock to the house.
CHAPTER 52
Savich and Sherlock got off the elevator at Stanford Hospital and headed toward the ICU. A police officer sitting in a chair in the unit outside Golden’s door eyed them up and down as they approached, then slowly nodded and rose, even before they had their shields out.
“Officer—Lazarus, I’m Agent Savich,” Savich said and shook his hand. “This is Agent Sherlock. Anything happening we should know about?”
“No, sir, everything’s calm now. But before—everyone thought she was dying. The doctors and nurses, they really moved fast.”
Savich’s heart sped up again, remembering how he’d felt when Ruth had told them Kathryn Golden’s heart had failed. But she was okay now, thank the good Lord.
“The neurologist is with Ms. Golden. I heard him assuring everyone she was stable now. Lieutenant Ramirez and one of his detectives left about five minutes ago. He didn’t look very happy, what with her still unconscious.”
“Any problem with the media?” Sherlock asked.
Officer Lazarus gave her a manic grin. “Yeah, I’ve booted out three or four of the varmints since I’ve been here. They’re sure having a good time, what with the bomb exploding at the Mariner, and Ms. Golden being a psychic and all, it means they have more to report about than the hike in our parking meter rates. Hope you find the guy who did this.”
When Savich quietly opened the door, he saw an older man wearing a white coat, his shoulders a bit stooped, his stethoscope pressed against Kathryn Golden’s chest. After he jotted something in her chart, he looked up at them and frowned.
“You just came from the Mariner?”
“How can you tell?” Sherlock asked him, giving him her sunny smile. “We scrubbed up pretty good before we came.”
“It must be the eau de smoke you’re wearing. Lieutenant Ramirez isn’t here. Who are you? What do you want? Why did the officer let you in?”
Both Savich and Sherlock held up their shields, introduced themselves.
"Hmm—FBI. I never met any FBI agents before. I’m Dr. Saint.” He looked closely at Sherlock. His shoulders straightened. “You and I are both blessed and cursed with our names, aren’t we?”
A kindred spirit, Sherlock thought. Like her, he’d undoubtedly heard it all. She said, “My dad leans toward calling it blessed— he’s a federal judge in San Francisco, likes the looks of abject terror he gets from defense attorneys and their clients. Actually, we missed out on the Mariner business. We were in another fire up in San Francisco. Please forgive the smoke perfume.”
“You were at that house fire in Pacific Heights? Really? I just heard about it—some big mansion was bombed, right?” At Savich’s nod, he shook his head. “Too much crazy stuff going on around here. Hey, you mean those two fires were connected?”
"It’s a little too soon to tell you that yet,” Sherlock said. "How’s Ms. Golden?”
Dr. Saint bent over her, lightly touched his fingertips to her temple. “As you can see, she’s been better. We had quite a scare with her heart rhythm and blood pressure a little while ago, and moved her into the unit here. That could have been from blunt-force trauma or head injury, but it seems to be under control now. The primary concern is that she’s never been fully alert, and we’re simply not sure why. The CT and even the MRI were normal, no hemorrhages, no edema. As for the rest, she’s got some bruises, some contusions, and a nasty cut on her leg that Dr. Ring sutured up. Her vitals are stable now. She’s not in a coma, but in a sort of a twilight state, partly from the drugs we had to give her. Now we just have to wait because she doesn’t seem quite ready to come back to us. She’s been through quite an ordeal.”
“Yes,” Savich said, looking down at her, “she has. You’re sure her heart is all right now?”
Dr. Saint nodded. “Never any guarantees in life or in medicine, but I doubt it will happen again, not at this point.”
Kathryn Golden’s face was pale as the fog that had hung outside the Sherlocks’ windows that morning, except for the faint bluish bruises. Both of her arms lay straight at her sides, IV lines tethered to both wrists. Still, she didn’t look as bad as Savich had thought she would, which was a relief. He would have recognized her anywhere, since he’d seen her so clearly last night. He said, “We’d like to sit here with Ms. Golden for a while if that’s all right with you, Dr. Saint.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s your time, and she isn’t going anywhere. Sometimes the sound of a voice can actually help, so if you want, talk to her. If there’s any change we need to worry about, we’ll see it on the monitors.” He shook their hands and left, smiling and nodding to Sherlock. Savich looked from his wife to Dr. Saint’s retreating back, eyebrow raised.
“What can I say?” Sherlock said as she walked to the single chair by the window. “You combine the smell of smoke with my name and I become irresistible.”
Savich was smiling as he sat at the side of Kathryn Golden’s bed. He leaned close, picked up her hand, and lightly rubbed his fingers over her skin. Too dry, he thought.
He focused on her and began speaking. “I’m here, Kathryn. I hope you can feel that I’m here, feel my hand holding yours. You’re going to be fine, there’s nothing to worry about. You scared the doctors for a little while, but you’re okay now. It’s time for you to wake up. I’d like to meet the person I’ve been thinking about so much lately.”
There was no response, but Savich continued, telling her what had happened at the Mariner Hotel. He spoke to her for perhaps five minutes, then paused, and looked over at Sherlock. She simply nodded at him and so he turned back. “Let me tell you about my little boy, Sean. He’s with his grandfather today. My father-in-law is a San Francisco native and a federal judge. They’re over at the courthouse, way up on the nineteenth floor. Can you imagine the fun he’s having—the center of every adult’s attention. This morning he said he wanted to watch his granddad punch out a criminal.”
There was still no response.
“Kathryn, do you know Thomas Pallack? I understand he was a client of Dr. Ransom’s for many years, in fact right up to the time of Dr. Ransom’s murder.”
“Yes, I know him.”
Savich smiled down into her eyes, still vague with drugs, but she was finally awake. He nodded to Sherlock as he lightly squeezed Kathryn’s hand. “Hello. I’m Dillon Savich.”
“I would know you anywhere. Hello. I’m Kathryn.”
“Do you want me to fetch the doctor?”
“No, please, not yet. Let me get my wits about me.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. The doctor said you’ve got stitches in your leg, some bruises, and a concussion, but you’ll be okay. And that’s my wife Sherlock over by the window.”
Kathryn nodded to Sherlock, and turned back to him. “I’m glad I’m not going to leave this earth just yet. You asked me about Thomas Pallack. Yes, I know him.”
“Then you know his wife, Charlotte Pallack?”
“Charlotte Pallack—I’ve met her, but I really don’t know her well at all. All I do know is that I don’t like her. No, it’s more than that. Whenever I see her, I always see this strange aura about her, constantly shifting and changing. Sort of like a chameleon, like she’s someone, then she’s someone else. There’s something about her that leaves me with a nasty feeling. I can’t get a handle on it.”
“Did you know
her brother plays the violin with the Atlanta Symphony?”
“I—well, maybe, that sounds familiar. Maybe I heard Thomas say something about him.”
“It seems he’s gone missing. No one’s seen him, including his girlfriend, for over two days now. Do you have any thoughts about that?”
Kathryn Golden focused her eyes on Savich’s face. Her eyes weren’t dark and intense like her colleagues’—like his—but a golden-green, a witch’s eyes, Savich thought, and had to smile at himself. She whispered, “I need to think about it.”
“You’re tired. I was really just talking to you to make sure you were all right.”
She clutched his fingers. “No, please don’t go.”
“All right, here, take a sip of water.”
She drank for a very long time.
“That’s good. Thank you.” She looked up at him, studied his face. “I tried to picture you in my mind by the sound of your voice, all deep and dark as a lava stone. I wasn’t that far off. I could see you, but you weren’t clear. Was I clear to you?”
He nodded.
She tried to raise her hand to touch him, but the IV lines didn’t allow it. He wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed them again.
“Do you need to rest?”
“No, no. Thank you for waking me up. I was busy scaring myself to death. That man—with the author’s name—Makepeace, you called him. He was very frightening.”
Savich felt her pulse speed up and backed off. “Yes, he is. Take a moment, Kathryn, relax, all right?”
She was silent a moment. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. He felt her pulse slow.
“How do you feel?”
“Sort of foggy, I guess, kind of dull and heavy-feeling. No pain to speak of.”
Savich looked up to see Dr. Saint come into the room. He blinked when he saw that Kathryn was awake, one of her hands in Savich’s.
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 26