“My son died that day. He took his own life. He is gone now, forever.
“I did not tell the police. I could not. The storm, the winds, the speedboat in the fog, all of that is the truth. All of that helped my fiction. Everyone believes it was an accident.
An accident
. But I have told you the truth and now I will tell you why I believe my son killed himself. He did it to spare his mother and me and his family. He did not want to see us shamed, did not want to see us reviled and humiliated because of what he did. My boy killed himself to save my honor.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Georgetown
Thursday evening
S
herlock opened the front door to Rachael and Jack, Astro jumping up and down behind her, barking his head off, his tail wagging so fast it was a wild blur, Sean at his heels.
Jack went down on his knees and stuck out his hand. “Sean, I’d know you anywhere. You look just like your father.” Sean put out his hand and Jack pumped it up and down. “I’m Jack Crowne and I work in your dad’s unit. This is Rachael Abbott. Hey, it looks like you’ve got a wild dog here.”
“He’s Astro,” Sean said, staring up with his father’s eyes into Jack’s face. He said to Rachael, “I’m Sean. You’re pretty. I like your braid. You’re almost as pretty as Mama.”
“A wonderful compliment indeed,” Rachael said. “Thank you, Sean.”
Jack was scratching Astro’s head. “Hello, Mighty Dog, how you doing, big boy?”
“Mighty Dog,” Sean said, “we never thought of that name, Papa.
Mighty Dog
.” He said to Jack, “We had fake grass for a while in the backyard and that’s why he’s Astro.”
“Why don’t we make Mighty Dog Astro’s second name?” said his father.
“Astro Mighty Dog Savich,” Sean said, and grabbed Astro around his belly and pulled him over to roll onto the floor. Jack laughed and roughhoused with the two of them, Rachael joining the chaos. Soon shouts and barks filled the house.
It felt good.
When everyone was seated in the living room, Astro on Rachael’s lap, licking her hands, she said, “Jack told me Sarah Elliot was your grandmother, Dillon. That painting over the fireplace, it’s magnificent.”
“Thank you. I agree,” Savich said. “She named it
The Lame Man in the Square
. I have eight of her paintings, seven on display at the Corcoran. I change them out maybe three or four times a year.”
“I’d want all of them around me all the time,” Rachael said.
The doorbell rang again. Savich, Sean behind him, Astro leaping and barking on his heels, went to answer the door. In a moment, agents Dane Carver and Ollie Hamish walked into the living room.
After Rachael met Dane and Ollie and Astro Mighty Dog had been petted until he collapsed on his back, legs in the air, tongue lolling, Sherlock said from the kitchen doorway, “Mr. Maitland called. He can’t make it. Let’s eat first, then we’ll sort things out.”
“Sort what things out, Mama?” Sean asked.
“Come wash your hands, Sean,” Savich said, and led him to the half bath.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t offer to help you.” Rachael immediately jumped to her feet. “Anything I can do now?”
“Sherlock cooked?” Ollie said, not moving.
“Tell us you cooked, Savich,” Dane said as he walked back into the living room. “Right?”
“Ingrates,” Sherlock said.
Savich laughed as he wiped his son’s now clean hands. “Yes, I did. Meat lasagna for you barbarians, vegetable lasagna for me and Sean.”
“I made the Caesar salad,” Sherlock said.
“Give her a lettuce leaf and she can make it dance,” Savich said.
They all learned about Sean’s first football game with three neighborhood kids, two on a side, and how he threw the best, longest touchdown pass ever, how Marty had tackled Paul, bloodying his lip, and all the other convoluted details until it was time for dessert.
Sherlock sliced the apple pie into even pieces, every eye at the table on her knife. Between bites of ice cream and pie, Sean told them about his new computer game,
Dora the Explorer
. “I already know Spanish, so that’s easy.”
“He speaks Spanish with Gabriella, his nanny,” Sherlock said. “I’m thinking Dillon and I should learn Spanish, to keep up with him.”
There was a lot of laughter, something Rachael thought had disappeared from her life. There was no talk of business until Sherlock came back downstairs after putting Sean to bed and Savich came inside after walking Astro Mighty Dog for the night.
“All right,” Sherlock said. “Let’s get to it.”
Rachael sat forward. “Dinner was such fun I forgot all the misery, but now it’s coming back.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Jack said. “We had a big surprise waiting for us when we got back to the senator’s—to Rachael’s house.”
“What, for heaven’s sake?”
Rachael said, “My ex-fiancé was standing on the doorstep.”
Jack sat back on the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest. “Rachael came to a dead stop when she saw him, and I nearly shot him because for all I knew he was there waiting to kill her. I only made an insignificant move toward him and I thought the little wuss was going to puke.”
Rachael said, “That’s because his bookies were probably after him, and he was already on edge. You’ve got to admit, Jack, he did recover quickly.”
“Yeah, he did, but only because he knew you were looking at him and he didn’t want you to think he was a coward. Then the jerk acted like you were still going to marry him. He even tried to kiss you.”
“You didn’t clock him, did you, Jack?” Ollie asked.
Jack was silent for a moment, his brows drawn together. “For a moment there, I gotta admit it was close.”
“What is the ex-fiancé’s name?” Sherlock asked as she poured more of Savich’s excellent coffee into Rachael’s cup.
“Jerol Springer.”
“I’ve been wondering what kind of name that is,” Jack said. “I mean, it’s almost like that guy on TV. I tell you, Rachael, I can’t believe you ever considered marrying that idiot.”
“Well, it never came to marriage, and not because of his name,” Rachael said, sipped the coffee and closed her eyes a moment in pleasure. She said, “You know, Dillon’s coffee’s as good as mine.”
There was a discreet snort; no one believed her.
Ollie said, “Why is Mr. Springer an ex? He wasn’t faithful?”
“Oh no, he was faithful as a tick, as far as I know. The moron gambled too much and I found out about it. Actually, his bookie sent one of his yahoos to visit me, something that makes a person see things very clearly, let me tell you. Evidently Jerol wasn’t such a hot gambler. He was always looking over his shoulder.”
“He was into the horses?” Dane asked.
“Horses, dogs, football—pro and college—beach volley-ball, soccer, the first guy to belch after drinking beer, you name it, he’d bet on it, and lose. So when Jerol saw Jack, he thought he was there to break his kneecaps. When he found out Jack was only an FBI agent, I thought he was going to cry with relief. I hadn’t seen him for a good six months.”
Dane said, “Maybe he was there because he’d heard Rachael was the late Senator Abbott’s daughter, and he saw cash registers ca-chinging in his brain.”
Rachael said, “I think you’re right. Do you know what Jack did? He pretended he was living there with me, cozied himself up all over me, even draped his arm around my shoulders while Jerol was standing there looking hopeful.”
Jack grinned hugely. “It sent him on his way fast.” He frowned at Rachael. “You were being far too nice to him.”
Rachael reached in her purse and pulled out a Smith & Wesson pistol. “If he’d hassled me, I would have shot him in the foot. It was my father’s. It’s got a nice feel to it.”
“Then he wouldn’t have been able to leave,” Ollie observed.
“Oh dear, you’re right.” Rachael fell silent, sipped her coffee, her eyes on Astro, who was sleeping off vegetable lasagna from Sean’s plate on a rug in front of the fireplace.
Jack liked the Sigma Series, you pointed at what you wanted to shoot and fired, but still . . . “I don’t like your having a gun; it’s not a toy.”
“Jeez, you think? Jack, you’ve seen me shoot. I’m probably better than you. Be quiet.”
“Moving right along,” Savich said, “time to get you caught up.” He and Sherlock proceeded to fill them in about their meetings with Congresswoman McManus and the Barbeaus.
“The thing is,” Sherlock said, “neither Dillon nor I think Pierre Barbeau is the person behind the attempts on MacLean’s life. Now, Mrs. Barbeau—she’s something else, a real piece of work.” Sherlock shrugged. “She’s grieving hard, as torn up as her husband, but her level of anger at Dr. MacLean—I don’t know. I simply don’t.”
Ollie said, “Did you guys pick up any vibes about McManus? Do you think she had her husband murdered?”
Savich nodded. “I think she’s capable of having him killed.”
Sherlock said, “She’s got a real temper, but she’s learned how to control it—had to, I guess, since spewing venom at her colleagues on the floor of the House of Representatives wouldn’t make her any friends. She’s an impressive woman, though. I’d rather have her on my side any day.”
Savich shrugged. “Is she the one behind the attempts on Timothy’s life? I hate to say it, but I don’t think so. There’s no motive, unless it would be revenge for his stirring everything up, maybe creating a scandal that could annoy her for a time.”
“I think she has too much to lose for that,” Sherlock said. “Unless she knew there were too many loose ends surrounding her husband’s murder, maybe worried a new investigation would turn up something too easily.”
Rachael said, “Then where does this leave us?”
Astro Mighty Dog raised his head and barked once.
Rachael went over to sit on the floor beside him, petting him until he rolled onto his back, all four feet sticking in the air.
Savich said, “There’s Lomas Clapman, the rich guy who stole his partner’s ideas and may have committed fraud. But again, I can’t see that as a motive.”
Ollie said, “It always comes back to how the killer knew MacLean had talked. The bartender said he wasn’t aware of any other customers listening, but he couldn’t be sure. He said he never told another soul, so this remains a mystery.”
Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a disk. “All Timothy’s files are on this disk. If he hadn’t backed them up, the fire would have destroyed all his patient notes. And just who set the fire?”
Ollie said, “We’ve reviewed all the files with our forensic psychiatrists, done a lot of checking, but there aren’t any other patients they can point to as having the motive to kill Dr. MacLean. Sure, there’s some ugly stuff here and there, but murder?” Ollie shook his head. “And let’s face it, who would kill his shrink on speculation—he hasn’t told the world your secrets, but he might? It doesn’t make sense.”
Everyone thought about that for a moment.
Rachael said, “Tomorrow morning, Jack and I are going to see Jimmy’s lawyer, Brady Cullifer. If there are skeletons, he may be able to tell us about them.”
Savich sat back on the sofa, laced his fingers over his belly. “I spoke to the ME about Perky’s unexpected death. Turns out it wasn’t foul play. She died of a pulmonary embolism—a blood clot to her lungs. It’s a major surgical risk, the ME said. So there you have it.
“I then paid a visit to our two wounded bad guys from Parlow and Slipper Hollow—Roderick Lloyd and Donley Everett. Lloyd still refuses to speak to us, and as for Everett, he’s already signed a full confession. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know who hired Perky. I don’t think he’s lying.” Savich sat forward. “There’s no reason for Lloyd to know that Perky is dead. Maybe we can convince him she rolled. What do you think, Sherlock?”
“I can’t imagine Lloyd’s lawyer not knowing she’s dead, but it’s worth a shot.” She didn’t sound optimistic.
“What about the fourth guy?” Jack asked. “What’s his name?”
“Marion Croop,” Sherlock said. “We just got word from the field office in Miami that when they found him, he started a firefight. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C.
Friday morning
R
achael ladled hot, thick oatmeal into Jack’s bowl.
He stared down at it, then up at her.
“What? Come on, dig in while the steam is still pouring off it. It’s good for you, and I make the best oatmeal in Kentucky. Here’s some brown sugar.” She spooned some over the oatmeal.
He gave her a pitiful look. “Could I have some Cheerios instead?”
Rachael punched him in the shoulder. “What is this? Here I decide to cook you my very best breakfast since you’re here as my bodyguard, and reward you because there weren’t any break-ins last night, and you want Cheerios? Out of a box?”
“With nonfat milk?”
She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Maybe some sliced banana?”
She laughed, went to the pantry, and disappeared inside. She came out again a moment later. “Sorry, Jack, no Cheerios. It’s either oatmeal or you’re out of luck.”
He took a bite of oatmeal and chewed slowly, then swallowed.
“Well? What do you think?”
“The truth?”
“Of course. Come on, Jack, I can take it.”
“It’s gotta be the best oatmeal in Kentucky.”
“Yeah, yeah, but we’re not in Kentucky, you jerk.” She threw a napkin at him and dug into her own oatmeal. “All right, all right, I’ll get you some Cheerios.”
They ate in companionable silence. It was an odd feeling, Rachael thought, as she watched the morning sunlight pour through the window over the kitchen sink, having someone at the breakfast table with her. After Jimmy died, and the days were empty and passed slowly until she flew to Sicily, she’d begun to doubt she’d ever begin her morning with a smile again. And then someone drugged her and threw her into Black Rock Lake.