Double Take (6 page)

So much had happened since he'd found her, so very much, but now Ruth was his; he knew his boys felt the same way, though they also felt guilty about it when they thought of their mother. But they'd allowed Ruth into their lives in a way they had no one else. They laughed with her, worried with her, confided in her.

The four of them had become a solid unit, if not a legal one. Dix had a missing wife, no actual proof of death. If he sought a divorce, he'd have to do it on stated grounds of abandonment. The thought of accusing Christie of abandonment made him sick. No way would he allow that word to come out of his mouth, out of anyone's mouth for that matter, or have it recorded on any document. So what sort of plans could they make? So far it hadn't seemed to matter. He and the boys visited Ruth at her home in Alexandria and she visited them here in Maestro, usually for three-day weekends if she could talk her boss, FBI Unit Chief Dillon Savich, into it, which she usually could. She hadn't spoken recently of reassignment to the Richmond Field Office. Actually, they'd spoken hardly at all about the future. Everything they talked about was short term. He closed his eyes a moment, realized he and Ruth were hovering in a sort of limbo. The future was like a hibernating bear in the corner of the living room, ignored by everyone because it seemed the polite thing to do and, truth be told, it was easier.

He had to call Ruth, see if she still wanted to come out since he wouldn't be here, but he knew she would. She loved his boys, he knew that just as he knew her love wasn't contingent on their future plans. But should he tell her the truth? He had to think about it. He did know she'd never buy the story about an FBI conference, and that would mean another lie altogether. He hated lies, always had. You usually got tangled up in lies, and busted yourself.

Dix said, looking at his eldest son, “I'll bet she'll still want to come see you play, Rob. Thing is, the guy who was going to speak fell over with a heart attack. Yep, I'm their second choice, but on the plus side, I'll get to see a lot of friends I haven't seen in a long time. I want you guys to stick to the rules, you got that?”

Rob was sixteen, nearly as tall as Dix and filling out, growing into manhood. Dix gave him the Eye. Rob took it in and didn't even squirm, just nodded solemnly. He was growing up, Dix thought, and that both depressed him and made him proud. Where had the years gone? “You're in charge, Rob. Don't give him grief, Rafe, okay? If Ruth comes, you guys take good care of her. There's some spinach and sausage lasagna in the freezer. Feed her that, not pizza. She'll probably make up a salad for all of you. And you'll eat it without complaint.”

“Sure, Dad,” Rob said, and Dix immediately knew Ruth would be surrounded with pizza from the instant she walked into the house, Brewster panting at her heels. He knew she'd laugh and fetch the lasagna out of the freezer, and the boys would get both, and a salad.

Rob said, “Dad, have you seen Ruth's fastball now that I've been working with her?”

Dix nodded.
Ah, Christie, we did good with our boys, and Ruth does well with them too.
Dix had spoken to Christie a lot over the years. His memory of her, the feeling of her presence, would always be with him, easing the bad times and making the good times better. But he knew all the way to his soul that Christie was dead, more than three years dead.

This was an entirely different woman in San Francisco, he had no doubt. But he still had to make the trip, had to make sure, for all of them. If he didn't go he knew Chappy would, and who knew what kind of grief that would cause? And in the back of his mind, a voice softly asked,
If she is Christie, what then?

Brewster was gnawing on his trouser leg. Dix leaned down and picked up the well-fed furball whose eyes would melt Scrooge's heart, straightened his dark blue collar, and hugged him close. “Don't you get too excited when you see Ruth, okay, Brewster? She doesn't need you to pee on her again.”

The boys laughed. “Brewster loves her leather jacket,” Rafe said. “She told me Brewster supports her dry cleaners.”

The boys moved on to talking about school. They'd bought his story. Good. The last thing they needed to know was the real reason he was flying to the West Coast.

CHAPTER 9

When Special Agent Ruth Warnecki bent down to pull the bottom of her slacks out of her boot she heard Dillon Savich say to his boss, Jimmy Maitland, "Take a gander at this. This sketch is excellent.”

“I was thinking maybe it's too good,” Maitland said. “Is Cheney sure the witness didn't embellish?”

“Cheney said the reason it's so detailed is that the guy didn't mind showing her his face up close and personal, because he planned to kill her. He ended up throwing her into San Francisco Bay, where she would probably have drowned if Cheney hadn't gotten her out in time.”

“Good for Agent Stone,” Maitland said, “and a remarkable chunk of good luck for the victim. It was a coincidence, right, Savich? He isn't dating her, is he, or surveilling her, something like that?”

Ruth couldn't help listening in. She knew Cheney. She leaned closer to the door and heard Dillon say, “Nope, I asked him about that. Cheney said he'd never seen her before in his life. The thing about Cheney Stone is he's got great instincts and this karma sort of thing that seems to put him in the right places at critical times. Weirdest thing I've ever heard of. But even without the woo-woo—as an agent, Cheney's good, very good. This Julia is lucky he was there.”

Maitland nodded, started pacing in front of Savich's desk. “I've read some of his reports. He's got good recall. Did you know he's got a law degree?”

Savich grinned. “I say thank the Lord he crossed over to the side of the angels.”

Maitland grunted, unconsciously flexed an impressive bicep. “Yep, we need him more than the world needs another damned lawyer.”

“He started out as a prosecutor, but couldn't accept all the plea bargains they have to make to keep the system from imploding—he couldn't see a whole lot of justice in that, didn't think he was making much of a difference.”

Maitland nodded. “You know the SAC out in San Francisco— Bert Cartwright? He's one smart guy, but he bitches about Stone being a hot dog—not covering other people's butts is how I translate that.”

“You think?” Savich grinned.

“Of course you and Sherlock are the original hot dogs, if I don't count your dad. Buck Savich drove everyone nuts.” Jimmy Maitland paused a moment and Savich knew he was thinking back.

Savich felt the brief dig of loss. He regretted that his dad had never met Sherlock, and had never known Sean. Then he eased away the memory of his larger-than-life father.

Maitland said, “I assume the SFPD has protection on Julia Ransom.”

“Yes. When Cheney called he said Captain Frank Paulette was in charge. They're reopening the investigation into Dr. Ransom's murder, but still there's some talk about her being involved since she was their primary suspect six months ago.”

“But nothing came of it,” Maitland said. “She wasn't arrested.”

“No,” Savich said, “and now there's an attempt on her life. Interesting, isn't it?”

Who is Julia Ransom?
Ruth wondered.
Julia Ransom—her name sounds familiar.
But Ruth couldn't place it. Because she was a cop, and cops were always curious, and, after all, she did know Cheney Stone, Ruth couldn't walk away. Besides, she didn't see much point in walking back to her desk to wait to see Dillon, her brain squirreling around in crazy circles. Eavesdropping was a relief, in fact, from the numbing disbelief that had smacked her in the face at seven-thirty that morning. She'd take it, even temporarily, take anything to distract her, even for a minute, from the weight of Dix's news. No matter what scales you used, the bottom line was that Dix's three-year-gone wife, Christie, was either dead or she wasn't. No possible middle ground. Ruth couldn't help it, she had a horrible premonition about which way the scales were going to tilt.

She heard Dillon say, “I think if this guy is a pro we might catch him, and Cheney says that was the impression he got.”

Maitland tapped his fingertip on the image of the man's face in the sketch. “Look at those dead eyes—the sketch artist nailed that. Okay, we've used the facial recognition program now on a good half-dozen sketches—and come up with hits. See what you can do with this.”

Ruth knew Dillon was anxious to do just that. “I'll get back to you on this, sir.”

Maitland, still strong enough to take on his four grown sons, stretched his back and said, “What a mess this is going to be. The SFPD is going to have to go digging again into all the people Ransom harmed or killed over the years with his free medical advice.”

“He didn't give much medical advice,” Savich said. “His big rep was as a medium, and that means he communicated with the dead.”

Maitland grunted at that. “I remember reading that Edgar Cayce told cancer patients to use peach pits. Now, how about money trails?”

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.”