Double Take ft-11

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich said, “Always lots of them, but to my understanding, the SFPD didn’t find anything definitive on the widow.

  “August Ransom’s estate was short on cash and long on property. His mansion in Pacific Heights must be valued at eight figures, so bottom line is the widow isn’t poor.”

  “Like everyone else, I always thought she killed her old man. What was he, thirty, forty years older than his wife?”

  “Something like that. And now someone tries to murder the widow. Maybe she was simply a loose end, or maybe she found out something she shouldn’t have. Cheney and the local SFPD will be looking into that.”

  Maitland gave him a look. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Cheney Stone isn’t going to drop this and walk away, and that means you’ll involve yourself too. All right, keep me posted, boyo.”

  “I don’t know whether Cheney wants us directly involved yet,” Savich said. “But it sure sounds interesting, doesn’t it, what with the psychic medium angle? Do you know, Sherlock’s read a good deal about psychic mediums.”

  “Does she believe it’s all a con?”

  “Whenever I ask her what she thinks, she starts singing the theme to The Twilight Zone. I don’t think she’s taken a stand.”

  “Has she read any of Dr. Ransom’s books?”

  “Very likely. I’ll ask her.”

  “I understand they sell well, most of those sorts of books do. Fact is, Ransom was one of the most famous psychic mediums out there.”

  Savich said slowly, “I wonder if maybe he made a deal with his wife, like Houdini did with his.”

  “A code, you mean? And only if a medium can tell her the code can he or she be believed?”

  Savich nodded slowly. “Something like that. If there really is anything to find out from Julia Ransom, Cheney would be the one to find it. He saved the woman’s life. That’s got to give him some sort of bond with her. I’m sure that’s what the locals will think too.”

  “I’ll speak to the SAC in San Francisco, tell him to give Cheney free rein on this deal if the SFPD wants to involve him. Keep me posted, Savich.”

  Ruth knew she should back off fast, but her feet were nailed to the linoleum.

  Jimmy Maitland nearly ran her over when he came out of Savich’s office. He grinned. “Ruth, how’s it going? How are Dix and his boys?”

  “Ah, good morning, sir. Everyone is fine. I’m driving to Maestro for the weekend to watch Rob pitch in a big game against the hated Panthers of Crescent City.”

  Maitland shook his head. “Baseball, basketball, football, snow-boarding, driving my car—my damned boys littered the landscape with their broken bones. Dix might wish they’d take up a rock band, or something that’d be safer.” He waved to Sherlock, who was discussing a bizarre Little Rock, Arkansas, murder case with Dane Carver. He remembered that Dane and Cheney had gone to Loyola Law School. He wondered which one of them had ranked higher in his class.

  “Hey, Ruth,” Savich called out, “come tell me what you think of this sketch.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Ruth knew Dillon was perfectly aware that she’d been eavesdropping, and yet here he was letting her off the hook, even involving her. She looked down at the sketch smoothed out on his desktop. A good-looking black man wearing glasses—he looked focused, like he knew exactly who he was and where he was going in life. She said without hesitation, “He’s a pro. And since we’ve got lots of pros entered in the database, the chances are good we’ll get a name. Look at those eyes—this guy is empty to his soul.”

  “Nah, not empty. Just cold. Hey, you needed something?”

  Then Savich looked at her face, really looked, and said, “Close the door.”

  She closed it.

  “Okay, Ruth, sit down.”

  She sat.

  “Because cops can’t stand not to know everything that’s going on, you were distracted for a couple of minutes listening to that conversation about Cheney Stone and Julia Ransom. But something’s going on. Nothing’s happened to Dix, has it?”

  “Oh no. Well, yes, it has. Dix called me from the Richmond airport. He’s on his way to San Francisco.” She gave him a desperate look. “It’s about his missing wife—Christie. Christie’s godfather called Chappy, swore he’d seen her.”

  A dark eyebrow shot up. He said slowly, “It’s not Christie, Ruth. She’s long dead. You know it, Dix knows it. But he has to go check this out, you know that too. Now, tell me what her godfather said.”

  “The godfather’s name is Jules Advere. He was positive it was Christie he saw even though he admitted she showed no signs of recognizing him.”

  And then Ruth repeated the story she heard from Dix, about what happened at the fancy fundraiser at the high-roller’s penthouse on Russian Hill in San Francisco.

  She felt drained when she finished. Savich studied her face, saw the anxiety in her dark eyes. “San Francisco,” he said slowly. “Do you mind if I give my father-in-law a call? Ask him if he knows these people—Charlotte and Thomas Pallack?”

  “No, I don’t mind. I’m sure Dix wouldn’t either.”

  “Sherlock’s dad, Corman Sherlock, is a judge and a native San Franciscan, a rare breed I’m told, and he’s into everything local. Also, he’s got money, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows these people socially. Maybe he can solve this problem right away, without any fuss.”

  She said, “I was picturing Dix walking up to this dripping-gold penthouse, ringing the doorbell, this snooty butler telling him that the lady of the house wasn’t available. He didn’t exactly have a plan except maybe climbing up the side of the house to her bedroom to get a look at her.”

  Savich leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his belly, never taking his eyes off her face. He said slowly, “I agree with Dix. His wife was murdered. What was it, three years ago?”

  “More than three years ago now. About this trip to the coast— Dix lied to the boys, asked me to keep a close eye on them this weekend. I gather Chappy will be around as well.” Ruth laughed then, ugly and raw, and then she gulped. “Dillon, what if it is

  Christie?”

  Savich rose and came around the desk. She stood up as well. He took her in his arms, hugged her, said against her hair, “It’s not. Now, try not to make yourself nuts with this. You can eavesdrop on all my conversations that sound interesting.”

  “Dillon, call your father-in-law now. Please. If it could be clean and fast—that’d be great, it would be best for Dix, for all of us.”

  “I hesitate to do this without Dix’s permission, Ruth.”

  “You know he’d want you to, Dillon. Please, for all of us. This is so important, and not only to me.”

  Savich gave her a long look, checked his Mickey Mouse watch. “It’s about seven o’clock on the West Coast.” He nodded her to a chair, pulled out his cell, and dialed.

  “Sherlock residence.”

  “Good morning, Isabel. This is Dillon Savich. How are you?”

  “Agent Savich! What a pleasure to hear your voice, sir. I’m surely fine, thank you. How’s my baby?”

  “She’s fine, Isabel, keeps me in line.”

  “How’s my baby’s baby boy?”

  “Sean’s the only one who runs right over her.”

  Isabel laughed. “Good, good. I’ll bet he’s a perfect little boy. Let me get judge Sherlock.”

  Sherlock’s father was on the line in an instant. “This is a nice surprise, Savich. Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”

  After reassuring his father-in-law and asking after his mother-in-law, Evelyn, Savich gave him a concise rundown of the players and the very unusual problem. “I know you haven’t met Dixon Noble, but he’s a good man, Corman, had it really hard since his wife disappeared more than three years ago. He’s doing a fine job of raising his two sons. He’s a no-nonsense sheriff, sharp, dedicated, tough as a bulldog. You’d like him. So you know this Thomas Pallack and his wife Charlotte?”

  “Sure. Thomas has been active in local and national politics
for a good ten years now. I think he originally hails from Southern California, one of those fancy beach places, Malibu, if I remember correctly. He was in with the Hollywood set, which, I’d say, has been the ruin of many a good brain. I know he was active in L.A. politics before he got involved on the national level. As I said, he moved up here maybe ten years ago. Maybe there was a falling out, I don’t know, or maybe it was simply that he wanted to reheadquarter up here. He made all his money in refineries and oil exploration, but he’s diversified now, got his fingers in lots of things, including several software companies in Silicon Valley. He didn’t marry until about three years ago—yep, lots of rumors about that, but no, I never thought he was gay.

  “I only see him socially, usually at one of his endless stream of fundraisers. Everything’s political with Thomas, and I don’t want to punch him in the nose in front of his new wife, plus he’s up there, nearly seventy, I think. Since he knows I’m not about to back any of the candidates he’s pushing, we’ve had this longstanding agreement—no political harangues and no requests for money from me, except for charities we both support.

  “I haven’t met his wife, Charlotte. I did hear she was from money, back East, Boston, maybe, but don’t quote me. Just an impression. Would you like me to invite them to dinner, Savich? Maybe get to know Charlotte Pallack a bit?”

  “Another question first, sir. Does Evelyn know them?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll ask her in about five minutes—at the breakfast table.”

  “Thank you, and please give her my best. I’ll have MAX check Charlotte Pallack myself, see if MAX can’t find out exactly who she is and what she was doing before she married Thomas Pallack. Oh yes, please keep this confidential. Hey, maybe Dix Noble could dine with you and the Pallacks? Is that possible?”

  “Excellent idea. That would put all his questions to rest immediately. I’ll call Thomas right now, see if he and Charlotte are free tonight or Saturday night. How’s that?”

  “I think we’ll all owe you. Just a moment—” He asked Ruth, “When is Dix supposed to hit SFO?”

  She said, “Around three o’clock this afternoon, their time.”

  Savich said to Judge Sherlock, “I’ll call Dix when he arrives in San Francisco, tell him the plan.”

  “Why don’t you tell him to come on over to the house? He can stay with us. That’ll make his presence at the dinner all the more natural. What do you think?”

  “Thank you, Corman, great idea, and since Dix is a good friend of ours, it would be very nice for you to put him up.”

  “Savich, did you hear about this attempted murder of Julia Ransom? Front page, mentions an FBI agent saving her bacon?”

  “Well, yeah, some.”

  “Yeah, you’re a damned clam. You running the whole show?”

  Savich laughed. “Let me get Sherlock on the line. You two can chat for a minute and she can tell you about Sean’s latest computer games—Pajama Sam and Dragon Tales!’ He knew Sherlock would tell her father more about Sheriff Dixon Noble of Maestro, Virginia—she’d be excited they would meet. He cupped his hand over his cell and said to Ruth, “I’ll be right back.”

  After he gave Sherlock his cell, he watched her face for a moment as she spoke to her father and heard the familiar warmth in her laugh. When he got back to his office, he said, “Ruth, you know as well as I do that when you’ve been married to someone, you’d know that person in an instant, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how much the person has changed her appearance. Dix will know tonight. This fast.” Savich snapped his fingers. “Right now, Ruth, there’s absolutely nothing more to be done. I want you to think about cheering Rob on to pitch a no-hitter against the Panthers, okay?”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Yeah, okay, you’re right, but it’s hard, Dillon, really hard.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “If Rob pitches a no-hitter his brother might run away from home, he’ll be so disgusted at all the swaggering.” Her shoulders were straighter, Savich saw, as she left his office. She was striding again, long, no-nonsense steps—the Ruth walk—head up, and ready to kick butt.

  All of a sudden there was a lot going on in San Francisco, he thought. Funny how many times a particular place became a nexus of things. Savich watched Sherlock walk back toward his office, punching off his cell. He couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say about all this. He wondered if she’d admitted to her father that Sean had beaten her at Pajama Sam.

  CHAPTER 11

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Friday morning

  Evelyn Sherlock said to her husband, “I saw Charlotte Pallack last month at a fashion show at the Hyatt Embarcadero. She’s beautiful—no, better than beautiful, she’s got style and intelligence and a very interesting face. She was on the standoffish side. Actually, she’s always been somewhat reserved since I met her some two years ago.

  “I remember Mazie Wallace told me—you know, that nasal voice of hers lowered, but not enough—that Charlotte spent a bundle on clothes Mazie said she wouldn’t even want to see off the hanger, but who really knew about her background? Mazie’s mean-spirited so I ignored what she said.”

  “What did that mean—her background? I thought she came from Boston money, something like that.”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “I don’t suppose Thomas Pallack was around?”

  “Thomas? No, that day it was all women.”

  Corman said, “I’ve got to go in about five minutes. Oh, here you are, Isabel. I’m sorry for the short notice, but we’re going to have a houseguest tonight and perhaps tomorrow night as well. It will all depend on how the dinner goes tonight. His name is Sheriff Dixon Noble. He’s a friend of Savich and Sherlock. And we’ll be having dinner for five tonight.”

  “I hadn’t realized you’d already called Thomas,” Evelyn said. “Oh yes. Do you know I didn’t even wake him up. He’d already been through the Wall Street Journal. All I had to do was intimate that I might be mellowing toward his newest political candidate—what’s his name? Whatever, he’s running for district attorney.” At his wife’s laugh, he smiled back at her. “And that did it. He and his wife will be here at seven o’clock.”

  “That was clever,” Evelyn said, saluting him with her coffee cup.

  “My roast pork with my special mint sauce, Judge Sherlock?”

  “Yes, and apple pie.”

  Isabel nodded. “We haven’t had guests in at least a month. This’ll be fun,” and she left the dining room, humming and making lists in her head.

  Forty-five minutes later Judge Sherlock reached his chambers on the sixteenth floor of one of the ugliest gray buildings in San Francisco, the U.S. Government Federal District Court on Golden Gate Avenue. He dealt with his clerks in record time, closed his door, and booted up his computer. He had twenty-three minutes until he had to be in court. He typed in Julia Ransom’s name and began reading. After seeing that morning’s newspaper article about the attempt on her life and the involvement of a local FBI agent, he’d bet his newly crowned molar that his son-in-law knew a lot about it. Savich was likely up to his ears in it. The judge was rarely a step ahead of his son-in-law, but this time perhaps he’d dig up something before Savich did with his damned computer, MAX.

  Dix landed at SFO right on time. He pulled his single carry-on from the overhead bin and walked out of the airport into a chilly, sunny day. He’d asked a flight attendant about a hotel and had just climbed into a taxi when his cell phone played some New Orleans jazz.

  Five minutes later, the taxi was headed to Pacific Heights, where it pulled up some forty minutes later in front of a beautiful three-story Art Deco house with views of the whole bay.

  “Nice big money house,” the Russian driver said, his accent thick.

  Nice big money house indeed, Dix thought. It was like the Tara of San Francisco, only with better views.

  A cup of rich Kona coffee in his hand, Dix sat in the formal living room across from Evelyn Sherlock and looked at
his watch.

  “Yes, it’s five o’clock,” Evelyn said. “Dix, dear, it occurred to me that you might not have brought a suit. Such a fast, in-and-out trip. Did you?”

  He smiled at the beautiful woman who was Sherlock’s mother and who didn’t look a thing like her. She looked soft and elegant, graceful and smooth, her blond hair in a stylish straight cut that skimmed her jawline. Where had Sherlock gotten her incredible wild red hair?

  “Actually, ma’am—”

  “Do make that Evelyn.”

  “Yes, Evelyn. And call me Dix. Well, since this Thomas Pallack is a bigwig, I had the brains to bring a decent suit so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. I don’t know if it’s up to snuff, but—”

  Evelyn patted his big hand, so like her son-in-law’s, she thought, a firm, strong hand she imagined could pull you out of the deepest mire. “I’ll ask Isabel to have a look at it. She’ll tell us if it will be appropriate. If it is, she’ll press it for you.”

  Isabel deemed Dix’s dark blue wool suit quite lovely for the occasion. His shirt, however, didn’t make the cut. He found himself buttoning one of Judge Sherlock’s handmade white shirts, slipping on simple gold cuff links, and Windsor-knotting a red and white Italian silk tie. Dix stepped back to study himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, a large airy space about the size of his dining room. Then, drawn to the window, he looked out toward the beautiful hillside town of Sausalito, and the Marin Headlands. With all the rain, Evelyn had told him, it was nearly Irish green, but that wouldn’t last. Just wait until July, and she’d sighed. His room was filled with English antiques Christie would have loved—Ruth’s tastes leaned toward the bright and colorful, the whimsical, like the ceramic rooster sitting on alert just inside her front door. He stilled, stared at himself in the mirror, not seeing anything. Could he do this? How would he face this woman who couldn’t be Christie because Christie was dead?

  But what if she is Christie?

  He realized his hands were sweating, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He couldn’t think straight because his brain was leapfrogging around too much. This woman, this Charlotte Pallack, no, she wasn’t Christie, but—What’s wrong with you, moron? Christie’s dead, long dead. Deal with it. His brain turned around again and went a different direction. Since this woman couldn’t be Christie, maybe she was some long-lost sister? Had Chappy had an affair and not known his lover was pregnant? It went around and around as it had throughout the day. If he’d had his Beretta, he’d have shot himself.