Double Take ft-11

by Catherine Coulter

  “You mean did I purchase it with my ill-gotten gains?”

  That’s exactly what he meant, Cheney realized, but he didn’t say anything. He wanted to hear what Julia would say.

  Julia said, “August wasn’t fond of the Impressionists. I am. I brought it down from my study. It’s a Sisley. My husband bought it for me as a wedding present. Do you like it, Inspector Whitten?”

  “Well, yes, I do. Bet it cost Dr. Ransom a bundle. So who do you think is after you, ma’am?”

  “The man wasn’t a mugger or some crazy drug addict. Given how he behaved, what he did—it occurred to me he could be the person who murdered my husband. He would have killed me if it hadn’t been for Agent Stone.”

  “Yeah, Cheney is a hero,” Inspector Bigger said.

  Frank frowned at both inspectors. Maybe it hadn’t been smart to bring them, particularly Inspector Bigger. She was a tangled mess of anger. Why? He’d need to speak to Lieutenant Vincent Delion, who’d be back from vacation in a couple of days, or hell, maybe it was a week before Vincent was back. He said, “It’s been six months since your husband was murdered, Mrs. Ransom. Why would your husband’s murderer want you dead now? Perhaps you remembered something about him or her? Perhaps you found something that could implicate someone and this person

  found out?”

  “I don’t think so, Captain Paulette.” But Julia frowned. “I’ll have to give that a lot of thought.”

  Cheney said, “The attempt on your life means something’s changed, Julia. Think hard about what’s different now, about what could have drawn the murderer out into the open again.”

  Inspector Bigger said, “You’re still big buddies with all the psychics in the Bay Area, aren’t you, Mrs. Ransom?”

  “I see them occasionally.” Like Wallace, tonight for dinner.

  “Word is you all hang out together, like a club of sorts.”

  “What word?” Julia said to Inspector Bigger.

  “Bits and pieces, here and there,” said Inspector Bigger.

  Captain Paulette said, “I haven’t heard any word, Inspector. Maybe the real question here is, who stands to gain from your death?”

  “No one, Captain Paulette. I have no living relatives. Well, perhaps there are some cousins four times removed, but I don’t know who they are. I do have a will. Everything goes to various medical research foundations.”

  “All right. Now, please, Mrs. Ransom, if you’re feeling up to it, tell us exactly what happened.”

  Julia didn’t tell them she’d actually felt happy, that the paparazzi had finally abandoned their various posts in the neighborhood, that she’d felt so alive she’d walked all the way to Fisherman’s Wharf, sometimes running for the sheer joy of it, sometimes whistling, saying hi to everyone she met. “I was standing at the railing at the far end of Pier 39, looking toward Alcatraz, watching the fog roll through the Golden Gate. It was getting late. There weren’t that many tourists left. The lights were coming on. I realized I had to get home because I had a dinner engagement.” She paused, drew in a deep breath. “He was tall, black, nice clothes, smart eyes—you know, like he saw everything and knew what it meant. He wore skinny-rimmed glasses, and he was very polite, asked me about Alcatraz, then about a ferry to Sausalito. I remember he had a nice smile, made me smile back. I told him about the ferry, then turned to show him where to walk to see the schedule. He hit me in the jaw, to daze me, I guess, and then he had a knife in his hand—it was silver, and I saw it had a sharp point, but before he could stab me with it, Agent Stone yelled at him to stop, and so the man hefted me over the wooden railing into the bay.” She frowned. “There weren’t any seals down there but I swear I heard one of them honking close by before I went under.”

  “The man only asked about Alcatraz, then the ferry schedule to Sausalito?”

  “Yes, Inspector Whitten, that’s all. He didn’t seem at all threatening. He was well-spoken, over six foot, I’d say, nice-looking, and again, he was very well dressed.”

  Inspector Bigger marveled aloud, “Only you saw this knife, right? Maybe you didn’t really see a knife, Mrs. Ransom, maybe this man was a mugger who nailed you as someone really rich—”

  “Rainy—” Inspector Whitten said, warning in his voice. “You said he smiled at you, Mrs. Ransom?”

  Cheney saw Julia withdraw, though she hadn’t moved at all. But she was stiff all over now, hating this, hating them. She said, voice steady, “Yes, Inspector Whitten, and I smiled back, as I told you. It was impossible not to. He was wearing a Burberry coat, it had that look. Expensive, I’d say. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything else about him. Then I heard Agent Stone shouting at him.”

  She watched Frank Paulette write down what she said in a small notebook. He was left-handed, like she was. He said to Cheney, “How well did you see the guy?”

  “I saw his face only once, when he turned around to look at me when I yelled at him. Then he heaved her over the railing and took off. Like I told you, I got the impression he was an athlete, fast, supple. As to his age, he moved young, agile. I didn’t even have time to draw my gun. I couldn’t go after him because I had to haul out Mrs. Ransom.”

  “Good timing,” Inspector Bigger said.

  “Yes, I sure thought so,” Julia said, smiling hard at Bigger. “Hey, you think maybe I set the whole thing up to get Agent Stone on my side? Ah, may I ask why I need him on my side? Actually, I didn’t think I had a side. Am I missing something here?”

  Cheney smiled to himself. There was strength there, he thought, and waited.

  Inspector Bigger backed off.

  Cheney wondered what had happened between the two women during the investigation into her husband’s murder.

  Inspector Whitten said to Cheney, to get the attention off his partner, “You got no hint of recognition from this man? Nothing about him was familiar to you?”

  Cheney shook his head. “Only that I’d bet the farm the guy’s a pro. He was fast and efficient. He didn’t alarm her. If I hadn’t been outside looking for a friend who was smoking, Mrs. Ransom would be dead. He did exactly what he needed to do to get away, once he realized I was an immediate danger to him. Now the thing is—” He paused a moment. “We know he meant to kill her because he didn’t mind that she got a really good look at him. And he knows he very probably failed to kill her. He’s also got to know we’ll have sketches of him plastered everywhere. He’d be crazy to stay in San Francisco.”

  Captain Paulette said, “Do you think you got a good enough look at him to help a police artist make up a sketch of him, Mrs. Ransom?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Yes,” Julia said. “I’ll never forget his face as long as I live.”

  “Good,” Cheney said. “I got something of a look as well. We’ll do it separately, then compare.”

  Inspector Bigger started to say something, but her brain caught up with her mouth, and she kept quiet.

  Captain Paulette pulled out his cell. “I’ll see if I can’t get Otis over here right now. He lives on Potrero Hill so it shouldn’t take him long this time of night. Hey, if I missed the Warrior-Laker game, so can Otis.”

  “The Warriors are down,” Inspector Bigger said. “I was listening to the game on the way over here.”

  Cheney realized it was only nine o’clock. He said, “Frank, the FBI has a facial recognition program they’ve modified to allow you to plug in an artist’s sketch. We used it a couple months back and caught the perp. We can do it again.”

  Captain Paulette nodded. “That sounds hopeful, if you’re right and this guy is a pro. Yeah, I met the agent who was one of the guiding hands behind it—Dillon Savich. He and his wife, Lacey Sherlock, and another agent, Dane Carver, were here a while ago.”

  “Yes,” Cheney said, nodding, “when Dane’s brother was murdered.”

  “The Script Murders,” Inspector Whitten said, leaning forward in his chair. “Lieutenant Delion still talks about it.”

  Cheney said, “Then you know they are
n’t into big-footing locals.”

  “Others in that nice big federal zoo of yours are, Cheney.”

  “Yeah, well, Frank, what can I tell you. I can speak to Savich personally, see what he can do with the sketch after Mrs. Ransom gives us the guy’s face.”

  Julia remembered the Script murderer who had butchered three people in San Francisco, including a priest. She shuddered to think she was part of that world now. She rose. “While we’re waiting for the police artist, I’ll make everyone coffee.”

  When she was out of the room, Inspector Rainy Bigger said, “She’s making the coffee? The help goes home at night?”

  “Evidently so,” Cheney said, and waited to see what else she’d say.

  It didn’t take her long. She jumped up from her chair and began pacing. “It’s obvious one of her confederates decided to knock her off. Ain’t that a kick? I guess she must have tried to screw him, or maybe she wanted to stop screwing him.”

  Captain Paulette said sharply, “That’s enough, Inspector Bigger. No charges were ever brought against Mrs. Ransom. You don’t have a clue why this guy tried to kill her tonight. None of us do. Yet.”

  Inspector Bigger looked like she still wanted to spew, but she wasn’t stupid. She nodded, looked around the living room. “I’d forgotten what a palace this place is. And now it’s all hers. What is she, twenty-eight?”

  “Something like that, I’d guess,” Captain Paulette said. “Hey, Cheney, why don’t you go help Mrs. Ransom?”

  Because she doesn’t look at me like the enemy, Cheney thought, Frank thinks she’ll talk to me. And maybe he was right. Cheney didn’t say anything, just nodded and walked out into the vast front entrance hall. Which way was the damned kitchen?

  He paused, heard a woman’s voice, singing low and soft, and walked in that direction. The kitchen was halfway down the back hallway, on the left. Another room the size of his living room, he thought, staring at the array of stainless-steel appliances, with copper pots hanging over a huge center island, and gleaming Italian tiles. Julia was singing to herself, probably trying to keep her fear at bay, as she flipped off the European carafe and poured boiling water into a large glass French press carafe. He wondered if making coffee this way made it taste better.

  “I’m here to help,” he said, and shoved his hands into August Ransom’s pants pockets.

  Without looking up, she said, “In the cupboard beside the fridge you’ll find some big mugs. I’ll get a tray.” She paused a moment. “Do you think I should put some cookies on a tray? Something like that?”

  He grinned. “I was busy hauling you out of the bay, and I never had dinner. What kind of cookies do you have?”

  “Oreos,” she said. “You got a couple dozen?”

  “Yep, a brand new bag. Mrs. Filbert says it’s the only way she can get me to drink milk.”

  “Mrs. Filbert?”

  Her chin went up. “My cook.”

  She pulled out a big tray from a drawer beneath the island, a bright beach scene, he saw. As he set out the oversized mugs on the tray, he asked, “Why does Inspector Bigger hate your guts?”

  She paused, then walked into the pantry. She reemerged with a big unopened bag of Oreos. He watched her domino the cookies into a circle on a plate and set it on the tray. “You could answer that question yourself, Agent. She believes I murdered my husband. Actually, I think she’d have been singing hallelujahs if I’d drowned tonight or gotten a knife shoved into my throat.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression too. With her behavior tonight, I doubt you’ll have to see her again. Captain Paulette will probably tell her lieutenant she couldn’t keep herself professional. The last thing the SFPD needs is your lawyers taking them apart for her behavior toward you.”

  She shrugged. “Why bother?”

  “Yeah, if I were you, I’d rather clip her in the chops.”

  She looked perfectly serious and clenched her hands. “That would be nice.”

  He laughed, picked up the tray, and preceded her out of the vast kitchen, their footsteps echoing on the tile.

  Ten minutes later Captain Paulette let in the police artist, Danny Otis. “Hey, Captain, do you know the Warriors came this close”—Danny’s fingers were nearly touching—”to beating the Lakers? Well, okay, they fell quite a ways behind after the second quarter, but it wasn’t a total wipeout like I expected.”

  Captain Paulette grunted. “Yeah, right, that’s great news. You got your computer? Good, come on in, Danny, let’s see what you can get from Mrs. Ransom.”

  By ten o’clock the Oreos were gone, two pots of coffee were history, and the two sketches Danny got from Julia Ransom and Agent Cheney Stone were done, and surprisingly similar to each other. The detail in Julia’s was impressive.

  Cheney said, “There are a few differences—but since Mrs. Ransom saw him up close and personal, believe her over me. Do you want me to run with this, Frank? Send it off to Dillon Savich in Washington?”

  “Let’s make copies first, then yeah, let’s see what he can come up with. Okay, guys,” he added to the two inspectors, “we’ll be able to add this sketch to the APB on this perp. Let’s make sure we get it out to the whole Bay Area.” He turned to Julia. “Mrs. Ransom, if you think of anything more, call me,” and he gave her his card.” I’m having a patrol car sit out in your driveway tonight, all right?”

  “Thank you.” Julia showed all of them out, then turned to face Cheney, who’d remained standing next to her. “I’ll need your address, Agent, so I can return your clothes after they’ve been cleaned.”

  He pulled out one of his FBI cards, wrote his address on the back as well as his cell number, and handed it to her. “You’re looking a bit on the pale side, Julia. Get yourself to bed. I’ll check with you in the morning. Oh yeah, turn on the alarm after I leave.” He turned back to her in the open doorway. “Rub Vitamin E, on the bruise, it might help.”

  “Will I see you again, Agent?”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure you will, Mrs. Ransom.” He nodded to the officers in the patrol car, climbed into his Audi, and drove home to what he once thought was his good-sized Belvedere Street condo, nestled in among town houses and small apartment buildings not a quarter mile above Haight-Ashbury.

  CHAPTER 7

  MAESTRO, VIRGINIA

  Sheriff Dixon Noble took the call from his father-in-law, Chappy Holcombe, at three twenty-five on a Thursday afternoon. It was a moment he knew he’d never forget until he was stretched out dead.

  “Dix? Chappy here. I’ve got to talk to you. This is really important. Can you come out to Tara right now?”

  There was something about his voice that kept Dix from telling his autocratic father-in-law whatever it was would have to wait, that he was a working stiff, that the people of Maestro expected their sheriff—”What is it, Chappy?”

  All Chappy would say was, “It’s about Christie. Hurry, Dix, hurry.”

  Dix went cold. Christie, his wife, had been gone for well over three years, literally with him one day and gone the next. There had been no word of any kind, not a single lead in all this time. But Chappy wouldn’t say anything more over the phone. “Get here, Dix, fast as you can.”

  He made it to Chappy Holcombe’s Tara, a southern mansion built along the lines of the fictional Tara as described by Margaret Mitchell, in under thirteen minutes. Dix was a mess by the time he pulled into the large circular driveway in front of the house.

  Chappy’s butler, Bernard, as old as the gnarly pine tree on Lone Tree Hill just outside of Maestro, or one of the sessile oaks in front of Tara, greeted Dix, his bald head shiny in the watery early spring afternoon sunshine. He said, his words spewing out fast, tumbling over one another, “Dix, he’s in his study. Hurry, something’s bad wrong, but I don’t know what it is, just that it’s about Christie.” Dix hurried after him, not saying a word.

  Bernard opened Chappy’s study door and stood aside for Dix to enter.

  Chappy was so rich he could probably bankroll the
state of Virginia single-handedly for at least two days, a man who knew his own power and used it ruthlessly in business and at home, to keep his heir, Tony, and his heir’s wife, Cynthia, under his thumb. He was standing by his big antique mahogany desk, looking every inch the tall, lean aristocrat in a beautiful pale blue cashmere turtleneck sweater and black bespoke wool slacks. Dix always felt like a mutt standing next to him. Dix looked closely at his face. Chappy looked haggard, nearly frantic, not a sharp edge in sight, no malice brimming in his eyes, no hint he was a man who could blast a killing verbal blow in a smooth ironic voice. Chappy’s pupils were dilated, his face pale with shock.

  What was happening here? What had he heard about Christie? Dix’s heart pounded hard and fast.

  “Chappy.” Dix laid his hands on the older man’s shoulders, steadying him. “What’s wrong? What is this about Christie?”

  Chappy shook himself, and Dix saw the effort it took to get himself together. “Jules saw Christie.”

  “Jules?”

  “Yes, you know Christie’s godfather—Jules Advere. You’ve met him over the years, Dix, don’t you remember? He’s been living in San Francisco for the past year, claimed he wanted a big city with a slower pace. He lives in Sea Cliff, right on the ocean, his house looks toward the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Yes, okay. You say he saw Christie?”

  “He called me, said he saw her.”

  Dix’s hands fell away. He took a step back. He stared blindly at his father-in-law, shaking his head back and forth, his brain blank. He had to make himself breathe. He had to get spit in his mouth so he could talk. No, it wasn’t possible.

  Chappy grabbed Dix’s wrist. “You know if anyone else had told me that, I’d have dismissed it out of hand, maybe even belted them, hut not Jules. He was there when Christie was born. He knew her all her life. He might be older than I am but he’s not senile, Dix, and he’s still got the eyesight of an owl. Truth is, I’d trust him with everything but my money.”

  And that was saying something indeed. Dix had met Jules Advere perhaps a dozen times before Christie had simply up and vanished that long-ago day. He pictured him in his mind the day Jules had flown into Richmond from some weird place like Latvia, a short, older man with a big dark mustache and a good-sized paunch on him that made Chappy razz him endlessly. He’d worked as hard as anyone trying to find Christie, did everything he could to comfort the boys. He’d even hired his own private investigator—but with no luck. No one had had an ounce of luck.