“He tried to murder me. Instead he killed a friend of mine, Lucas Bennett. It was a long time ago, Lacey, before you were born, before your mother and I married. He was a big Irish bully, a gambler, worked for the mob. He must be at least sixty by now. He’s four years older than I. Which is why Belinda was cursed. Her genes ruined her. Despite the fact that I raised her, she still would have turned bad. It was already beginning even before she died. A pity, but there it is.”
“But Belinda knew about him, didn’t she?”
“She only knew that he’d left her and her mother when she was eight or nine years old. We never told her anything different. There was no point. Look, Lacey, that was a long time ago. You’ve caught the man who killed her. Belinda’s madness died with her. Now the man who killed her will die as well. Forget it, forget all of it.”
She hoped he would prove to be right about that. No, she didn’t want to forget Belinda. But at least now that Marlin Jones was in custody, that helpless feeling was gone.
Except for the fact that he’d claimed he hadn’t killed Belinda.
“Come home soon, Lacey.” There was a pause, then, “Do you want to speak to your mother?”
“Oh yes, please, Dad. How is she today?”
“Much the same as always. She’s downstairs with me in the library. Here she is.”
Her fingers tightened on the receiver. Her father had spoken about her first husband and Belinda like that in front of her? Savich had come into the room, but it was too late for her to hang up. “Mom? How are you?”
“I miss you, dearest. I’m glad you caught that bad man. Now you can come home and stay. You always were so pretty, dear, so sweet and pretty. And how well you played the piano. Everyone told me how talented you were. Why, you could teach little children in a kindergarten, couldn’t you? You’re so suited to something like that. Your grandmother was a pianist, you remember?”
“Yes, Mom, I remember. I’ll be home to visit you soon. Not long now and then we’ll be together for a couple of days.”
“No, Lacey, I want you to stay here, with me and your father. I have your piano tuned by Joshua Mueller every six months. Remember how much you admired him?”
“Look, Mom, I’ve got to get back to work now. I love you. Please take care.”
“I always do, Lacey, since your father tried to run me down with that black BMW of his.”
“What? Dad tried to run you down with his BMW?”
“Lacey? It’s your father. Your mother is having one of her spells.”
“What did she mean that you tried to run her down?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.” He sighed deeply. “Your mother does have good days. This is not one of them. I have never harmed your mother or tried to harm her. Forget what she said, Lacey.”
But how could she? She stared at the phone as if it were a snake about to bite her. She could swear she heard her mother crying in the background.
Savich was looking at her. Her face was white. She looked to be in shock—yes, that was it.
When Savich took the phone from her, she didn’t resist. She heard him say in his calm deep voice, “Judge Sherlock? My name is Dillon Savich. I’m also with the FBI. I’m the head of the Criminal Apprehension Unit. Your daughter works for me. I hope you don’t mind, but Lacey is a bit overwhelmed by all that’s happened.” He paused, listening to her father. “Yes, I understand that her mother isn’t well. But you must realize that her mother’s words shocked her deeply.”
She walked across the room, rubbing her arms with her hands. She heard him say in that firm, calm voice, “Yes, I will see that she takes care of herself, sir. No, she’ll be just fine. Good-bye.”
Savich turned to look at her—nothing more, just to look. Then he said very slowly, “What in the name of heaven is going on with your family?”
Her laugh was on the shaky side, but it was a laugh. “I feel like Alice in Wonderland. I’ve just fallen down the rabbit hole. No, it’s always like that, but this is the first time the hole is deeper than I am tall.”
He smiled. “That’s good, Sherlock. You’ve got some color back. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t scare me again like that.”
“You shouldn’t have stayed in the room.”
“Actually, I brought you a message from Marlin Jones. He wants to talk to you again, with his lawyer present. He got Big John Bullock, a hotshot shark from New York who does really well with insanity pleas. I recommend that you don’t go. He’s doubtless set this up so that his lawyer can humiliate you. He won’t let you get to first base with Jones anymore.”
He would have wagered his next paycheck that she’d still insist on seeing Marlin Jones. To his surprise, she said, “You’re right. The police and the D.A. can get the rest of the pertinent information from him. There’s nothing more for me to say to him. Can we go home now?”
He nodded slowly. He wondered what she was thinking.
The taxi stopped in front of her town house at ten o’clock that night. She felt more tired than she could ever remember in her life. But it wasn’t the peaceful, good sort of tired she would have expected, now that Belinda’s killer had been caught.
She hadn’t said much to Savich on the flight from Boston or on the ride in the taxi from Dulles to Georgetown. He walked her to the door, saying, “Sleep late, Sherlock. I don’t want to see you before noon tomorrow, you got that? You’ve had more happen to you in the past three days than in the past five years. Sleep, it’s the best thing for you, all right?”
She didn’t have any words. How could he know that her brain was on meltdown? “Would you sing me just one more outrageous country-and-western line before you leave?”
He grinned down at her, set her suitcase down on the front step of her town house, and sang in a soft tenor whine, “I told her I had oceanfront property in Arizona. She nodded sweetly and I told her to buy it, that I’d throw in the Golden Gate for free. She thanked me oh so sweetly so I told her that I loved her and that I’d be true for all time. Sweetly, sweetly, she kissed me so sweetly and bought every word I said.”
“Thank you, Dillon. That was amazing. That was also very coldhearted and cynical.”
“Anytime, Sherlock. Not until noon now. Hey, that’s just a silly song, sung by a lonely man who’s not going anywhere. All he can do is dream that he’s a winner, which he’s not, and he knows it deep down. See ya tomorrow, Sherlock.”
She watched him until he turned the far corner. It was as it had been before, Douglas’s voice coming out from behind her, low, angry. Even as he spoke, she was leaning down to pull her Lady Colt from her ankle holster. She straightened back up slowly. She was so tired of angry voices. “I wish you wouldn’t keep seeing that guy, Lacey. He’s such a loser. What was that nonsense he was singing to you?”
“You startled me, Douglas. Please don’t wait for me like this again. I could have shot you.”
“You’re a musician. You play the piano brilliantly. At least you used to. You wouldn’t shoot anybody. What were you doing with him?”
She almost shouted at him that she wasn’t that soft, pathetic girl anymore, hadn’t been for seven long years, that two days ago she’d belly-shot the psychopath who’d killed her sister. She managed to hold it back. “We just got back from Boston. He just brought me home, that’s all. I’d hardly call him a loser, Douglas. Because of him and his computer, we got the guy who killed your wife. It would seem to me that you’d want to give him a medal. Now, what are you doing here?”
“I had to see you. I had to know what you thought about my marrying Candice. She lied to me, Lacey. What am I going to do?” It was then he noticed the sling on her arm. “Oh Jesus, what happened to you? You didn’t tell your father that you’d gotten hurt. Who did this? That man you were with?”
“Come into the house and we’ll talk.”
She placed a snifter of brandy into his hand five minutes later. “There, that will make you feel better.”
He drank slowly, looking arou
nd her living room. “This is nice. Finally, you’ve decorated the way you should.”
“Thank you. Now, what do you want to tell me about that I don’t already know?”
She sat opposite him on a pale yellow silk love seat. While she’d been in Boston, her designer had had soft recessed lights installed. It made the room very warm and cozy. Intimate. She didn’t like that at all. She pressed herself against the sofa back.
“First tell me how you got hurt.”
“It’s just a small wound. I’ll take the sling off in another couple of days. It’s really no big deal, Douglas, don’t worry. Now tell me about Candice.”
“I’m going to divorce her.”
“You’ve been married less than a week. What are you talking about?”
“She crossed the line, Lacey. She overheard us talking on the phone, I told you that. Well, the minute I hung up she started in on me, accused me of sleeping with you, yelled that I’d slept with both you and Belinda at the same time, that you were a slut and she’d get you. I can’t take the chance that she’ll hurt you, Lacey.”
“Douglas, calm down. She was angry. I don’t blame her. You were newly married and saying things to me that shouldn’t have ever been said. I would have yelled too. Forget it. Didn’t you discuss everything with her?”
“What was there to say? She lied to me. Your dad thinks I should divorce her. So does your mom.”
“My mother and father have nothing to do with you now. It’s your life, Douglas. Do what you want to do, not what someone else wants.”
“So wise, Lacey. You were always so gentle and wise. I remember sitting on the sofa in your father’s house listening to you play those Chopin preludes. Your playing moved me, made me feel more than what I was.”
“It’s kind of you to say that, Douglas. Would you like some more brandy?”
At his nod, she returned to the kitchen. She heard him moving about the living room. Then she didn’t hear his footsteps. She frowned, walking slowly out of the kitchen. He wasn’t in the living room. He wasn’t in the bathroom. She stood in her bedroom doorway watching him look at the framed photos on her dresser. There were three of them, two of Belinda by herself, and one with both of them smiling at the camera.
“You were seventeen when I took that picture of you and Belinda at Fisherman’s Wharf. Do you remember that day? It was one of the few perfectly clear sunny days and you guys took me to Pier Thirty-nine. We bought walnut fudge and ate some horrible fast food. I believe it was Mexican.”
She remembered, vaguely. His details astounded her.
“I remember everything. You were so beautiful, Lacey, so full of fun, so innocent.”
“So was Belinda, only she was always far prettier than I. She could have been a supermodel, you know that. She was very close to making it when she met you. She gave it all up because you wanted her to be there only for you. Come into the living room, Douglas.”
When they were seated again, she said, “I can’t help you with your wife. However, I do think you and Candice should discuss things thoroughly.”
“She bores me.”
Lacey sighed. She was exhausted. She wanted him to leave, just leave and go back to San Francisco. It was odd, but since they’d caught Marlin Jones, she’d felt herself withdrawing from Douglas. It was as if Belinda’s murder had somehow bound them together, but not anymore. “You know one thing still disturbs me,” she said slowly, lightly stroking her fingertips over the yellow silk arm of the sofa. “I suppose Dad told you that Marlin Jones denied killing Belinda.”
“Yes, he told me that. What do you think?”
“I agree with Father. He’s a psychopath. He probably skips a woman’s name every time he recites them. Why did he happen not to recite Belinda’s name? I don’t know. Random chance? He probably doesn’t know either. It has to be coincidence. There’s simply no other explanation.” She sat forward, clasping her hands between her knees. “But you know me, Douglas, I’m going to have to check to make triple certain that he did kill Belinda.”
“Of course he killed her, Lacey. There’s absolutely no other choice.”
“You’re right, of course, it’s just that—” She broke off and dredged up a smile for a very nice man she’d known for nearly twelve years. “I’m sorry. It’s still so painful for you as well. How long are you staying in Washington?”
He shrugged and rose when she did. “Drop it all now, Lacey. Don’t do any more searching. That kook killed all those poor women. Let him rot for what he did.” He walked to her, his smile deep, his eyes intent.
She took a step back, turning quickly out of the living room into the small front hallway. He followed her.
“Will you let it all go now, Lacey?”
She took another step toward the front door. “It is all gone. Just details now, Douglas, nothing more than silly details. Shall we have dinner tomorrow night? Maybe you’ll have made some decisions about Candice.” Were they going to perform this same act every couple of weeks? Would he leave after tomorrow night? She hoped so. She hoped he’d leave for good. She was exhausted.
He brightened at that and took her hands between his. “It’s good to see you again, Lacey. I wish I could see you all the time, but—”
“Yes, ‘but,’” she agreed and stepped back. “I’ll see you here about seven tomorrow night.”
Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland nodded to Lacey but said to Savich, “I heard from Captain Dougherty that Sherlock here didn’t do what she was told to do, that she wrote her own script. He let some of it drop, then I pried the rest of it out of him. John Dougherty and I go way back. He’s a good man, fair and hard.”
Savich didn’t change expression, merely cocked his head to one side in question. “She got the job done, sir.”
“I don’t like having my agents knifed, Savich. What the hell did she do?”
“I can answer that, sir.”
Both men turned to look at her.
“It better be good, Agent Sherlock,” Jimmy Maitland said, and broke a pencil between two fingers. Maitland had been a Special Agent for twenty-five years. He was bald, built like a bull, and held a black belt in karate. His wife was five foot nothing, blond, and punched her husband whenever she wanted to. They had four boys, all over six foot three. She punched them whenever she wanted to as well.
She shrugged. “Really, sir, the perpetrator took us a bit by surprise, that’s all, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Savich yelled out. I shot him at practically the same instant he threw the knife. I was already down and rolling when he released it. It’s just a minor wound.”
“That’s exactly what Savich said. Did you two rehearse this?”
“No, sir, certainly not.”
Maitland raised an eyebrow at Savich, then said quickly, “Fine. Okay. You’re excused, Agent Sherlock. Savich, you stay a moment, there’s been another murder in Florida. It wasn’t a nursing home on the Star of David matrix MAX generated. As for the perp disguised as an old woman, that doesn’t look good anymore. They talked to every old woman in the nursing home. All of them longtime residents. Damnation! Tell MAX he’s got to do better.”
“Agreed,” Savich said. “I’ll get Sherlock back on the Radnich case with Ollie. I’ll see you later.”
18
SHE PRAYED her involvement in the String Killer case would be kept under wraps, and it had been, at least so far. She knew that Savich had spoken privately with Captain Dougherty and Ralph Budnack. If anyone blew the whistle on her, it wouldn’t be one of them. So far no one in the media knew anything about her relationship to one of the victims of the String Killer. It would be a nightmare if anyone found out.
So far the FBI had gotten lots of good publicity: always a welcome circumstance for the continually besieged Bureau. Savich and his new FBI unit had brought down two killers in weeks. Reporters wanted to interview him, but he wasn’t having any of it. No one was to speak to any reporters. Louis Freeh held a press conference, praising the work of the new Criminal
Apprehension Unit. Savich had asked not to attend. Freeh had wanted him there but hadn’t insisted.
She avoided Hannah Paisley, working closely with Ollie to get back into the Radnich case. She wasn’t looking forward to the evening with Douglas, but it couldn’t be helped.
Lacey dressed up that evening, wearing her hair loose, pulled back with two small gold combs, gold hoops in her ears that her mother had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday, a nice black dress that was classic enough to be two years old and still pass as current style, and three-inch heels. She felt strange in her different plumage and a bit exposed. But good. She felt really good. She realized at the last moment that Douglas could take it wrong. But there wasn’t time to change.
The first thing Douglas said when he walked in was “The sling looks awful with that dress” and grinned at her. “Don’t you have several styles and colors to match different outfits?”
The evening was lighthearted and amusing until near dessert, when Douglas dropped his good humor and said, “You’ve gotten what you wanted, Lacey. I want you to quit the FBI and come home. Surely you see that it’s finally over, that it’s your music that is important now. You nailed the guy who killed Belinda. Come home. Do what Belinda did. Come stay with me. I’ll take care of you.”
She looked at him across the candlelit table, at the pure lines and angles of his face, and said simply, “No.”
He drew back as if she’d punched him. “I plan to divorce Candice. It will be done quickly, perhaps I can even get an annulment. It can be just you and me, Lacey, as I always wanted. Just give us time together, once I’m rid of Candice.”
He’d always wanted her? He’d never said a word to her until she’d joined the FBI and finished her training. Had he somehow gotten turned on because she was now a law officer? It didn’t make sense to her. She was shaking her head even as she said again, “No. I’m sorry, Douglas, but no.”
He said nothing more about it. When they were once again in her living room an hour later, she held out her hand to him, desperate for him to leave. “Douglas, I had a lovely time tonight. Will I see you tomorrow?”
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