The Beginning (59 page)

“He's got nice feet,” Sally said.

“What he's got is big feet,” Marvin said. “Look at these suckers, Chicky, they're size twelve.”

Both women looked up. Marvin looked from one to the other. “Well, ain't this a kick? I've never had this problem before.”

Sally said to Sherlock, “Marvin calls every female Chicky, except for Ms. Lily of course. How about your mother, Marvin?”

“She's the Big Chicky. Nobody screws with the Big Chicky, even my dad. You can go to Sally now, but she's still Chicky.”

“I don't mind at all.”

“Chicky Savich,” Dillon said slowly, relishing the sound. “Talk about strange. I don't know if I can deal with that. But you know, it's not as bad as Chicky Sherlock.”

“We thought you were asleep. How do you feel, Dillon?” Sherlock leaned over him, her fingertips lightly touching his dark eyebrows, the bruise on his cheek.

“Alive.”

“Yes, that's good. You're kind of out of it, aren't you, Dillon?”

“No, not at all. I hurt enough still to keep me out of the ether.”

“You don't know what you just said, do you?”

“Yeah, I know what I just said. It does sound strange, don't you agree?”

“I think,” Sherlock said very slowly, staring down at the man who'd become more important to her than anything or anyone in her life, “that I could get used to it, until Marvin gets to know me well enough to call me Sherlock.”

“Good,” Savich said. “I hadn't really meant to bring it up here, at this particular moment. It lacks suavity and timing. It just came out of my mouth. How about I try it again later, when three people aren't staring at us?”

“Yes, I think that would be an excellent idea.”

His head fell to the side. He was out cold this time.

“Chicky Sherlock Savich,” Marvin said slowly. “Yeah, that's so funny it would make Fuzz's mouth split from laughing so hard.”

“I prefer Sherlock Savich,” Sally said. “That's unforgettable. With a name like that maybe they'd make you director one day.”

Some minutes later, Quinlan said from across the room as he dropped his phone back in his shirt pocket, “The car was rented to a Marlin Jones. Paid for in cash, but he presented them with a credit card with his name on it, and a driver's license.”

“I don't like this,” Sherlock said, her face washed of color. “I really don't like this at all. But wait, the picture couldn't have matched, could it?”

James Quinlan said, “The guy said the picture was real fuzzy, but since the name was the same, the guy's age was about right, what the hell? So who knows?”

“Jones. Marlin Jones? Hey, that's the serial killer, isn't it?” Marvin the Bouncer asked as he set an old issue of the Economist magazine back down on the coffee table. “I thought he was in the can, in Boston.”

“He is,” Sherlock said. “I spoke to him yesterday. He's in the can, probably in maximum security. He brought his fists down on his lawyer's temple. Knocked him out cold. Actually, as we were driving here, the news reported the first thing Big John Bullock said when he regained consciousness was, ‘I'm going to get that little bastard off so I can kill him.' Then he passed out again. The doctors think it's a concussion.”

“The guy's a real comedian,” Quinlan said.

“I don't think he was concussed,” Sherlock said. “I know Big John meant every word.”

“I was hoping it would be one less lawyer,” Sally said from the kitchen. “James, come out and help me. Everyone needs to have some dinner. It's nearly five o'clock.”

“I'll go catch us some bass,” Marvin said. “Where's the rods, Quinlan?”

“Why'd the guy hit his lawyer?” Sally asked Sherlock, looking up from the carrot she was alternately cutting and eating.

“He told him to shut the fuck up because he'd admitted to me that he'd killed the women in San Francisco. Marlin went nuts. Evidently he doesn't like bad language from men either. I wish the cops had shot him then and there.” She sighed, her hands clasped between her knees. She rose slowly. “I guess I'd better call Mr. Maitland. I'm afraid he's going to be really upset about this.”

 

SAVICH
was mending. All he had to do was lie quietly, not breathe deeply, keep his eyes either closed or focused on Sherlock, and he'd be fine. Sherlock Savich. Boy, that had a real ring to it. He couldn't wait to get her alone and kiss her. Then he could ask her to marry him again, only this time it would be properly done.

The pain in his ribs and hip and ankle came in waves, not really big surfing kind of waves, just small ones that were rhythmic, steady, and relentless.

He felt her hand on his cheek. “I have another pain pill for you. Open up.”

He did. Soon the pain was nothing but an annoying throb that didn't even touch his mind. “Good stuff,” he said.

“The best,” Quinlan said. “It's from our favorite doctor.”

“Ah, Dr. Ned Breaker.”

“He said give him a call if you need him to drive up and check you out.”

“Let's call him,” Sally said. “Savich, you really don't look so hot.”

“I'm feeling better by the minute,” Savich said. “Really. I'm not stupid. Everything's okay.”

“You ready for something to eat? Marvin caught three bass, good-size suckers. I gutted them and Sally fried them.”

Savich thought he'd puke right there. The thought of anything fried went right to his belly and turned nasty.

“No, I don't think so,” said, lightly cupping his cheek in her hand. “We'll have the good stuff and Dillon here can have some soup. Got any chicken noodle, Sally?”

Sherlock didn't want to leave him alone. She slept beside the sofa on three blankets, close enough to hear him breathing.

 

THE
next morning, she came into the house to see Dillon standing at the small bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He was drinking a cup of tea. He needed to shave.

“You're not dead.”

He grinned at her over the rim of his cup. “Nope, but I appreciate you sleeping guard beside me all night. You know what might be fun, Sherlock? We could strip naked and have a bruise-off contest. I might be catching up with you. How's your left side?”

“Hardly any bruising at all. How could Marlin Jones have rented the car, Dillon?”

“Obviously someone else did, using his name. You and I are going to California tomorrow, okay?”

“No, not until you're back to your full strength. I'm not going to take any more chances with you.”

“That sounds nice.”

She walked to him, lightly kissed his mouth, then pulled up his shirt. “I'll be objective. Now, I think my ribs looked more like the Italian flag than yours do.” He felt her fingers on his flesh, light, so light, not hurting him at all, skimming over his flesh, and to his own blessed wonder, he got hard. He didn't mean to say it, but the words just came right out of his mouth. “Do you think you could go a bit lower?”

Her fingers stopped cold. Then, she laughed. “Dillon, I'm going to fly us First Class, all right?”

“Yeah, that's fine. I'll be okay by day after tomorrow, I swear it. We'll have a day to make some plans with Quinlan.” He sucked in his breath and stared at her.

Her fingers had gone beneath the waistband of his slacks, way beneath. He didn't know about this, didn't know if he was going to start crying or shouting or moaning, and not from any pain in his ribs. He was going to die, lose it, be premature, the whole thing. But then it was academic. Marvin came into the house, singing at the top of his lungs.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said and kissed his ear.

He sighed deeply. “Do you think maybe I did something really bad in a former lifetime?”

“You're breathing awfully hard, Dillon.”

“Hey, Chicky, what'd you do to our boy here?”

“I was just checking him out. Just like you did, Marvin.”

“I doubt that, Chicky. I surely doubt that. More like you tortured the poor man but good.”

Sherlock stared at the doorbell for a long time before she rang it. Savich didn't say a word, just looked beyond the Art Deco three-story mansion to the incredible view of Alcatraz, the Golden Gate, and the stark Marin Headlands in the distance. The day was sunny and cool, so clear and vivid it made your eyes sting. There were dozens of sailboats on the Bay. The air was crisp and sharp.

A middle-aged black woman, plump, very pretty, her eyes bright with intelligence, opened the door, gasped, and grabbed Sherlock into her arms. “My baby, it's you, it's really you. Thank God you're home. They've been telling me for weeks that you'd come home and now you're here. But I'd begun to believe that you'd finally turned your back.”

Sherlock hugged her back. Isabelle had been more her mother than the woman upstairs in her elegant bedroom had ever been. She'd been the Sherlock housekeeper and cook since before Lacey was born. “It's good to see you, Isabelle. You all right? Your kids okay?”

Sherlock drew back and looked carefully at the fine-boned face, a beloved face that radiated warmth and humor.

“Things are fine with my family, but they aren't too good here, Lacey, no, not too good at all. Your daddy's all quiet and keeps to himself. Your mama never comes out of her room now, stays there and looks at those ridiculous talk shows, best I can tell. She says she wants to write a book and send it to Oprah so Oprah will recommend it and your mama will become really rich and leave your papa. Hey, who's this guy with you?”

“This is Agent Dillon Savich. He's also with the FBI, and my boss. Dillon, this is Isabelle Tanner. She's the one who told me how wicked boys were just after my sixteenth birthday. She's the one who told me to keep out of Bobby Wellman's Jaguar.”

“You should have listened to her.”

“Oh, Lordie. You mean you let that boy crawl all over you in that little Jaguar, Lacey? Oh goodness, I thought I'd won that one.”

Savich shook her hand. “Ms. Isabelle, I promise you that Sherlock here hasn't gotten into any more cars since the Jaguar. You taught her well.”

“You call her Sherlock,” said Isabelle, clasping her arms beneath her ample breasts. “That sounds funny, but cute too. Well, come on in. I'll get you some fine tea and some scones that just came out of the oven.”

“Who is it, Isabelle?”

Isabelle's face grew very still. Slowly, she turned and called out, “It's your daughter, Mrs. Sherlock.”

“No, Belinda's dead. Don't do that to me, Isabelle. You're cruel.”

“It's Miss Lacey, not Belinda.”

“Lacey? Oh. She said she was coming back but I didn't believe her.”

Isabelle said quickly, “Don't look like that, Lacey. It's just a bad day for her, that's all. Besides, you haven't been around in a long time.”

“Neither has Belinda.”

Isabelle waved away her words. “Come into the living room, honey.” She turned to the stairs that wound up to the second-floor landing. “Mrs. Sherlock, will you be coming down?”

“Naturally. I'll be there in a moment. I must brush my teeth first.”

The house looked like a museum, Savich thought, staring around the living room. Everything was pristine, thanks probably to Isabelle, but stiff and formal and colder than a Minnesota night. “No one ever sits in here,” Sherlock said to him. “Goodness, it's uninviting, isn't it? And stultifying. I'd forgotten how bad it was. Why don't we go into my father's study instead. That's where I always used to hang out.”

Judge Sherlock's study was a masculine stronghold that was also warm, lived-in, and cluttered, stacks of magazines and books, both paperback and hardcover, on every surface. The furniture was severe—heavy, dark brown leather—but the look was mitigated by warm-toned afghans thrown everywhere. There were lots of ferns in front of the wide bay window that looked out onto the Bay in the distance. There was a telescope aimed toward Tiburon. This wasn't at all what he'd expected. What he had expected, he wasn't certain, but it wasn't this warm, very human room that had obviously been nurtured and loved and lived in. Savich took a deep breath. “What a wonderful room.”

“Yes, it is.” She pulled away and walked to the bay windows. “This is the most beautiful view from any place in San Francisco.” She broke off to smile at Isabelle who was carrying a well-shined silver tray. “Oh, Isabelle, those scones smell delicious. It's been too long.”

Savich had a mouthful of scone with a dab of clotted cream on top when the door opened and one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in his life walked in with all the grace of a born princess. She was, pure and simply, a stunner, as his father used to say about a knockout woman. She also didn't look a thing like Sherlock. Where Sherlock had lovely curly red hair, her mother had blond hair as soft and smooth and rich as pale silk. Sherlock's eyes were a warm blue; her mother's, a brilliant green. Sherlock wasn't tall, but she wasn't fragile, fine-boned, not more than five foot three inches tall, like her mother. Sherlock was wearing a dark blue wool suit with a cream turtleneck sweater, all business. Her mother was wearing a soft peach silk dress, her glorious hair pulled back and held with a gold clip at the nape of her neck. There was nothing overtly expensive about her jewelry or clothing, but she looked well-bred, rich, and used to it. There were very few lines on her face. She had to be in her late fifties, but Savich would have said forty-five if he hadn't known that she'd had a daughter who'd be in her late thirties now, if she hadn't been murdered.

“So you're Dillon Savich,” Mrs. Sherlock said, not moving into the room. “You're the man who spoke to her father on the phone after I said to Lacey that he'd tried to run me down with his BMW.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He walked to her and extended his hand. “I'm Dillon Savich. Like your daughter, I'm with the FBI.”

Finally, after so long that Sherlock thought she'd die from not breathing, her mother took Dillon's hand.

“You're too good-looking,” Mrs. Sherlock said, peering up at him for the longest time. “I've never trusted good-looking men. Her father is good-looking and look what's come of that. Also I imagine that you are built splendidly. Are you sleeping with my daughter?”

Savich said in that smooth interview voice of his, “Mrs. Sherlock, won't you have a cup of tea? It's rich; Indian, I believe. As for the scones, I'm certain you'll enjoy those. They're delicious. Isabelle is a wonderful cook. You're very fortunate to have her.”

“Hello, Mother.”

“I wish you hadn't come, Lacey, but your father will be pleased.” Her voice was plaintive, slightly reproachful, but her beautiful face was expressionless. Did she never show anger, joy? Anything to change the look of hers?

“I thought you wanted me to come home.”

“I changed my mind. Things aren't right here, just not right. But now that you're here, I suppose you'll insist on remaining.”

“For a few days, Mother. Would you mind if Dillon stayed here as well?”

“He's too handsome,” Mrs. Sherlock said, “but again I suppose I have no choice. There are at least four empty bedrooms upstairs. He can have one of them. I hope you're not sleeping with him, Lacey. There are so many diseases, and men carry all of them, did you know that? It's been proven now at least, but I always knew it. That's why I stopped sleeping with your father. I didn't want him to give me any of those horrible diseases.”

“A cup of tea, ma'am?”

Mrs. Sherlock took the fine china saucer from Savich and sat down on the very edge of one of her husband's rich brown leather chairs. She looked around her. “I hate this room,” she said, then sipped at her tea. “I always have. It's the living room I love. I decorated the living room, did Lacey tell you, Mr. Savich?”

Savich felt as though he'd fallen down the rabbit hole; but Sherlock just looked tired. She looked used to this. It came to him then that Mrs. Sherlock was acting a great deal like his great-aunt Mimi—in short, outrageous. She always made it known that she was fragile, whatever that meant, so she could get away with saying whatever she wanted, so that she could be the center of attention. Savich didn't doubt that Mrs. Sherlock did suffer from some mental illness, but how much was real and how much was of her own creation?

“I forgot to tell him, Mother,” she said. “But as rooms go, this one really isn't that bad. There are so many books.”

“I dislike clutter. It's the sign of a chaotic mind. Your father is going to sell that BMW of his. I believe he's going to buy a Mercedes. What model, I don't know. If it's a big car, I'll have to be really careful not to be outside when he's driving. But, you know, if you're standing in the driveway, those tall bushes make it impossible to see if someone is coming. That's how he nearly got me last time.”

“Mother, when did Dad try to run you down? Was it recently?”

“Oh no, it was some time last spring.” She paused, sipped some more tea, and frowned down at the beautiful Tabriz carpet beneath her feet. It was a frown, but it wasn't obvious. There were no frown lines on that perfect forehead. She waved a smooth white hand. “Maybe it was this past summer. It's hard to remember. But once I remember things, they stay with me.”

“Yes, Mother, I know.”

Savich said, “Perhaps your husband will buy a little Mercedes, ma'am.”

“Yes, or perhaps a Porsche,” Mrs. Sherlock said, looking thoughtfully at Savich.

“I own one. They are very nice. I've never tried to run anybody down in my 911. It could hurt the car. I'd get caught. No, a Porsche is a good choice.”

“Actually, I've been thinking about a Porsche.”

Savich was on his feet in an instant to face a very handsome middle-aged aristocrat standing in the doorway. He had a fine head of silver hair, Sherlock's soft blue eyes, beautiful, wide, luminous eyes, and was taller than he was and as lean as a runner. He was looking at his wife, and the look reflected both irritation and amusement, in about equal amounts.

“I'm Judge Sherlock. Hello, Lacey.”

She was on her feet as well, walking slowly to her father. She held out her hands to him. “Hello, Dad. We just got here. Do you mind if we stay with you for a while?”

“Not at all. We've plenty of room. It will be nice to have different voices to listen to. My dear,” he continued to his wife as he walked to the beautiful woman who was sitting there staring at him, her eyes large and intent. “How was your day?”

“I want to know if she's sleeping with him, Corman, but she wouldn't tell me. He's too good-looking and you know how I feel about that. Why, look at what Douglas did, just because he's a man and doesn't have any sense. He married that tramp and Belinda barely in her grave.”

“Belinda's been dead for seven years, Evelyn. It was time for Douglas to marry again.” He shot Savich a quick look from the corner of his eye that said,
Look, isn't she a fool?
Savich drew back.

“That's a good point,” Evelyn Sherlock said, her beautiful expressionless face turned away from her husband. “But they shouldn't be married. Can't you get Douglas to divorce her, Corman?”

“No, I don't do that sort of thing, you know that. Or don't you remember?”

“When I remember something I never forget it. That's what I was telling Lacey and Mr. Savich before you came in. Will you buy a Porsche so I'll be safe?”

“Perhaps I will, Evelyn, perhaps I will. Mr. Savich spoke about a classic911. I like that car. Lacey, may I have a cup of tea, please? Mr. Savich, rather Agent Savich, I'm delighted to finally meet you. I understand you're my daughter's boss at the FBI.”

“Yes, sir. I head up the new Criminal Apprehension Unit.”

“I think your approach is a fine idea. Why not use technology to predict what psychopaths will do? Why are you here with her in San Francisco?”

“We're working on the Marlin Jones case.”

“Why here? Marlin Jones is in Boston.”

“That's true, but there are loose ends. We're here to check things out.”

“I see.” Judge Corman Sherlock sat down in the beautiful rosewood chair behind his rosewood desk. The desk was piled with books and magazines. There were at least a dozen pens scattered haphazardly over the surface as well as a telephone and computer. It was a working place for him, Dillon realized. Not just pleasure in here. The man spent hours here working.

“I heard on the news that Marlin Jones hit his own lawyer, knocked him out. Everyone in the courthouse was talking about it. You were there, weren't you, Lacey?”

She nodded. “Yes, we both were. I believe everyone was cheering because there would be one less lawyer—” She broke off and smiled at her father. “Forgive me, but I never think of you as a lawyer since you're a judge and a former prosecutor. You put criminals away, not defend them.”

“True enough. Big John Bullock has quite a reputation. Your Marlin might escape any punishment at all when he goes to trial. Big John is magic with juries. If this Marlin character doesn't already have a pitiful, tragic childhood, then Big John will manufacture one for him and the jury might believe everything he says.”