Authors: Catherine Coulter
“Yeah, tell me what James Quinlan was wearing.”
“Dark suit, red tie with blue triangles on it, looked pretty somber for someone carrying a saxophone. I enjoyed listening to him play. Surprised me—there were lots of folks weeping. It was affectin’, real affectin’.”
Savich drew a deep breath. They’d been talking a good long time now. Maybe long enough, but he wasn
’t sure. Best to keep him talking as long as possible, to make certain. “Tell me, Moses, why are you so interested in me? Me in particular? What did I ever do to you?”
Moses was silent for a moment. “So you think this is personal, do you, boy? Well, fact is, you’re right. I got more hate for you stored up inside me than Lucifer.”
“Why?”
“You hurt her, boy, hurt her so bad she was screaming with it.” He broke off. Savich heard the old man’s breathing quicken.
“Who was that, Moses?”
“I might tell you before you die, boy. You know my Claudia still wants you, don’t you?”
All right. Moses was not going to tell him. He decided to shake the old man. It might be the best way to keep him on the line. Savich said in an amused voice, filled with contempt, “You think I’d actually have down and dirty sex with that bug-eyed crazy teenage slut? I bet Claudia drools, she’s so far gone, particularly since she’s with you.” Savich laughed, vicious and nail-hard. “Hey, I’d kick that crazy bitch in the head before I’d let her get near me. What is she, old man, your granddaughter? Or is she some pathetic drugged-out teenager you picked up?”
Blank surprise, Savich heard it in the cold, dead silence. He waited, finally heard a wheeze, as if Moses Grace was going to start hacking. He’d been as crude as he could manage—was this teenage girl old Moses’s lover?
Then Moses Grace wheezed out a laugh that made gooseflesh rise on Savich’s arms. He said in that wet drawl, “Must have been real tough for you, boy, talking all dirty like that. Let me tell you, you’ll change your mind if Claudia has a shot at you. I’ve seen my little sweet cakes diddle a woman before I told her enough was enough and to dig out the old girl’s eyes then kick her out of the van.”
Yes, tell me more, you insane old man, yes. “Yeah, right, you old liar. That’s about as believable as Hollywood throwing a ticker-tape parade for Schwarzenegger.”
He looked up to see Sherlock standing ten feet away, watching him. He said very deliberately, “It must be tough for you, Moses, knowing you’re too decrepit, too diseased, to screw your own wife.”
Savich felt cold dead rage blasting at him. Then Moses Grace chortled, a disgusting, juicy sound. “I don’t like a dirty mouth on you, boy, it don’t seem right somehow. You know, Claudia’s got her fantasies about you and I’ve got mine. We’ll see what you say when I watch your life drain away. I’ll win and you’
ll know it. See you then, Savich.”
There was the silence of dead space. Moses Grace had disconnected.
Sherlock walked to him, nosed against his shoulder. “I’ve never heard you speak like that before.”
“It surprised old Moses, too,” he said as he saw Dix walking toward them. Savich nodded to him, then speed-dialed the communications center in the Hoover Building. “This is Savich. Did you locate Moses Grace’s cell phone?”
He heard a man shouting, “I need the location now!” Then a voice came back on the line, panting, “He’s within a two-mile radius of a semi-rural area west of Dulles, heading toward Leesburg. We just dispatched local police and agents to the area. He was moving, and unfortunately knew enough to turn the phone off, so we’ve lost his signal. You kept him going a long time, Savich, but he didn’t make it easy on us. He was using a different carrier than yours, so we had to track him down through Sprint’s Automatic Number Identification system, using your number as the target phone. That took a while. We’
ll keep you posted.”
Savich punched off his cell, turning to Sherlock and Dix, “Moses is headed toward Leesburg. Cops and agents are on their way, but it sounds like a crapshoot.”
Sherlock said, “A pity he’s not at a nice warm motel, all tucked in for the night.”
“How did you track him from way out here, Savich?” Dix asked.
“MAX helped,” Savich said. “I had him set up to instant message our communications center in Washington if Moses called again. MAX recorded the call, too, through a Bluetooth transmitter I have wired into my phone.
“Since the PATRIOT Act was put into place, we’ve been able to get wiretap warrants for all calls made by an individual suspect, not just a particular phone number. So it doesn’t help them to just ditch a phone and get a new one. So, wherever Moses goes, no matter what cell phone he happens to use, we go with him. He used Caller ID blocking, which slowed us down at bit. If we’d known his number right away, we could have located him in about fifteen seconds.”
“Do you think the police and agents will catch him?” Dix said.
“We should be so lucky,” Savich said, and sighed. “He was driving while he talked, and probably kept driving after he turned the phone off.” To Sherlock he said, “Do you know he bragged how he and Claudia were at the Bonhomie Club last night for Pinky’s memorial? There was no way they were inside, that’s for certain. They had to be hiding outside, watching who went into the club.”
They stood silently for a moment before Savich spoke again. “It kept him talking, though, and he may have given me a lead without realizing it. We need to find a woman who was probably kidnapped and eventually dumped on the side of the road, with possible eye injuries. I’ll call Mr. Maitland, give him a heads-up. Moses still sounded like he was wheezing; he can’t disguise that. You guys head into the kitchen, play it light. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Sherlock nodded. “When we get back to the B-and-B, we’ll get MAX started on finding this woman.”
She rose to her tiptoes, kissed his mouth. “Okay, don’t be too long, there are two growing boys in there. No telling how long that corn on the cob’s going to last.”
“One more thing, Sherlock. Moses said I hurt a woman he cared for. That’s why he hates me.”
BUD BAILEY’S BED & BREAKFAST TUESDAY NIGHT
SAVICH GOT THE call that the roadblocks hadn’t turned up anyone resembling Moses Grace or Claudia. The cell phone belonged to a woman in Hamilton whose purse had gone missing. He wanted to kick something.
Instead, he put MAX to work. When Sherlock came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, Savich said, “Her name is Elsa Bender, forty-five, divorced a little over a year, kids grown. About two months ago, she was kidnapped right out of the parking lot at her local supermarket—only one witness. The guy said he heard a woman scream, saw a dirty white van screech into the street. Elsa was found the following morning by a farmer driving a tractor on a country road only three miles from her home in Westcott, in western Pennsylvania. She was naked, dumb with pain, her eyes gone. There’d been a warm spell, thank God, or else she’d have died. As it was, she nearly died from shock.
“She’s now living in Philadelphia with her ex-husband, who’s evidently been a stand-up guy since this happened. I think we need to go see her, Sherlock. I called the chief of police in Westcott, finally convinced him I was for real and asked him to read her description of the kidnappers. He said he didn’t have one; she couldn’t remember what had happened from the moment she drove into the supermarket parking lot until she woke up in the hospital. He didn’t know if she was telling the truth or was just scared, and he couldn’t do any follow-up interviews because the ex-husband took her out of the local hospital and his jurisdiction and back to Philadelphia. The Philadelphia police know about it, but so far, the chief said, they’ve got squat. The last time the local police spoke to her was four weeks ago. There’s been nothing since.”
Sherlock was excited. “How lovely of that mad old man to tell you about her. We could be there tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly, rose and stretched.
“Hey, sailor, you wanna dance?”
He laughed, pulled her to him, and hugged her hard. He said against her ear, “We can be back in Maestro by tomorrow evening. Maybe we’ll want to dance again.”
“What if Moses and Claudia do—”
“It’s okay. If they act, we’ll deal with it. I’ll be surprised if they don’t do something. Old Moses called me to brag, and he needs something new to brag about. He’s not well, Sherlock. I’m thinking this may be his last hurrah.”
CHAPTER 18
MAESTRO, VIRGINIAWEDNESDAY MORNING
“HOLD UP A minute, Ruth,” Dix said. He and Ruth waited by the Range Rover for Tony Holcombe to cross Main Street. He was focused on Dix, looking straight ahead ignoring the slushy ground, nearly sending an old Ford Fairlane skidding into a parking meter to avoid hitting him. Ruth watched the beautifully dressed man hurrying toward them. He was tall and fit, probably in his early forties. He looked like a fashion plate out of GQ, his thick light brown hair beautifully styled, shining in the morning sun.
“Hey, Tony,” Dix called out. “What’s up?”
Tony Holcombe came to a stop not a foot from Dix’s face. “I—I heard about Erin—that is, Dad told me what happened. I can’t believe it, Dix. Erin was the sweetest girl, never did anything to anybody, only wanted to play her violin, there was nothing else in the world for her but her music.”
Ruth came around the Range Roger and nodded to the man bundled up in the thousand-dollar black leather coat and soft leather gloves.
Tony Holcombe turned his large dark eyes to her face. “You’re the woman Brewster found in Dix’s shed, aren’t you? Are you still staying at Dix’s house? I was wondering how it might look if my sister—”
“That’s enough, Tony.”
“Sorry. Yes, all right. Dix, do you know anything about who killed Erin?”
Dix said, “Why don’t you come into my office, I’d like to warm up a bit.”
Tony had the Holcombe body—long bones, no extra flesh, a strong jawline. His dark eyes were a dramatic contrast to his light hair. He looked remarkably like Chappy, his father, but wasn’t as graceful as he, a man as lithe as a dancer despite his age. Tony walked awkwardly, his arms moving in a different rhythm from his legs. It was curiously charming.
In the sheriff’s office, Dix spoke to half a dozen people before he opened his office door and ushered the two of them inside.
“Now, let’s get official here. Ruth, this is my brother-in-law, Tony Holcombe, Chappy’s son. He runs the local Holcombe bank. Tony, this is Ruth Warnecki, FBI.”
They shook hands. Tony had a nice firm grip along with his well-manicured nails, and his beautiful eyes met hers directly. She wondered if his sister’s eyes were that color, her coloring that dramatic. She hadn’
t been able to tell from the photo on Dix’s desk.
“Call me Tony, please. Why are you still here in Maestro?”
“I’m here to find out who tried to kill me. It appears that the same person also killed Erin Bushnell.”
His face tightened. “I can’t believe she’s dead. My dad told me and my wife, Cynthia. She’s really upset. She and Erin were like sisters.”
This was odd, Dix thought. To the best of his knowledge Cynthia Holcombe had never liked anyone of her own sex, beginning with her own mother and two sisters, whom he’d heard Cynthia refer to as the old bitch and her two whining whelps. Her dislike had extended to her sister-in-law Christie, whom she’d called a gun-toting right-wing redneck. Christie a redneck—it still boggled his mind. As for what Cynthia thought of him, he wasn’t about to go there. She was like a sister to Erin Bushnell?
“How is Cynthia?” Dix asked, holding out a mug of black coffee with two sugar cubes to his brother-in-law, and waiting for him to pull off his gloves.
“Distraught, as I said. She wanted me to find out what you’re doing, what you know. I heard you found her in Winkel’s Cave. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“Yes, Tony, we found her in Winkel’s Cave, where her killer left her. How did Cynthia meet Erin Bushnell?”
“At a concert at Stanislaus last year, but that’s not important now. Dix, if you hadn’t gone to Winkel’s Cave, if my father hadn’t shown you that back entrance, no one would ever have known she was dead.”
“Very true.”
“She would have simply disappeared, like Christie.”
Dix’s face was impassive. He nodded.
Tony turned to Ruth, who was sipping her own coffee. She’d laced it liberally with cream, realizing quickly if she didn’t, it would clot blood. “I heard you were hunting some kind of treasure, that you found a cave chamber no one knew was there.”
“That’s right,” Ruth said. So bits and pieces had gotten out, which wasn’t too bad as long as it didn’t go any further.
Chappy had given Tony a few facts, Dix thought, but not everything, thank the good Lord. Chappy never could keep his mouth shut, except when it came to money. He could tell Ruth was assessing Tony, like a cop would a suspect in a crime. He watched her push her hair behind her ear, a habit of hers. It took only a moment for her hair to swing back again. Thick, dark hair, with a bit of a curl to it. Dix watched Tony focus all of his bred-to-the-bone intensity on Ruth, then he eyed both of them in frustration. “Dad asked me to drop by and invite the two of you over to lunch, said you wouldn’t be available for dinner because the other two FBI agents are coming back this evening.”
“How does your father know that?” Ruth asked. Without thinking, she took a sip of coffee, and shuddered.
“Dad spoke to Rafer this morning, caught him as he was going to school. Told him Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock were going to fly in a special FBI Bell helicopter up to Philadelphia on a case. He didn’t know what it was, but he said they would be back for dinner tonight.”
Dix grunted. He’d have to speak to both his boys. He wondered if either of them could even spell “
discretion.” He’d give them the loose lips talk.
“Why did they take off for Philadelphia all of a sudden?”
“That’s an FBI matter, Tony,” Ruth said. “I’d like to have lunch with your dad. Will you and your wife be there as well? She could tell me all about Erin Bushnell and their sisterhood.”
Tony Holcombe’s eyes darkened, suspecting sarcasm, but not hearing any he finally nodded and set his mug on Dix’s desk. “I must get to the bank now.” He pulled on his black leather gloves.