The Maze (17 page)

He drank slowly, looking around 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

S
HE 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?”

He didn't say anything, just jerked her against him. He kissed her hard, hurting her arm. She pushed at his chest but couldn't move him. “Douglas,” she said against his mouth and felt his tongue push against her front teeth.

The doorbell rang. He still didn't release her, just kept grinding his mouth into hers. Her knee was almost in motion when she managed to jerk her head back far enough to call out, “Who's there?”

“Let me in, Miss Sherlock.”

A woman. Who could she be?

Suddenly Douglas was two feet away from her, standing there looking bewildered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It's Candice,” he said blankly, then walked to the door and opened it.

The woman standing there was no older than Lacey, with long honey-blond hair, nearly as tall as Douglas, and endowed
with very high cheekbones that had to be a cameraman's dream. But it was her eyes that riveted Lacey. Dark, dark eyes that held fury, malice, and even more fury this instant than just the moment before. She looked ready to kill.

“Candice! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I followed you, Douglas. And you came here just like a little trained pigeon. I knew you'd come to her, even though I prayed you wouldn't. Damn you, I'd hoped our marriage meant something to you. Just look, you let her kiss you. You've got her lipstick on your mouth. Damn you, you smell like her.”

“Why should our marriage mean anything to me? You lied to me. You weren't pregnant.”

“We'll have children, Douglas. I'm just not ready yet. I'm just hitting my stride with my career. I could make it to one of the nationals, but not if I take off now. In another year, we can have a dozen kids if that's what you want.”

“That doesn't jibe with what you told me before we got married. Then you said you'd had a miscarriage and you were so upset. Now you don't want to get pregnant. You know what? I don't think you were ever pregnant at all.” Douglas turned to Lacey, waving a languid hand toward his wife. “This is Candice Addams.”

“I'm your
wife
, Douglas. I'm Candice
Madigan
. She is your dead wife's sister. No, half sister. Nothing more. What are you doing here with her?”

He changed from one moment to the next. His bewilderment, his frustration, all were gone. He was standing tall and arrogant, a stance Lacey recognized, a stance that was second nature to him. It held power and control, and the control was of himself and of the situation. He was in a courtroom, in front of a jury, knowing he could manipulate, knowing he could convince, knowing he would win.

“Candice,” he said very patiently, as if speaking to an idiot witness, “Lacey is part of my family. Just because Belinda died, I didn't cut her out of my life.”

“I saw you kissing her through the window, Douglas.”

“Yes,” he said quite calmly, “I did. She's very innocent. She doesn't kiss well and I like that.”

It was another damned rabbit hole. Only this time, she
wasn't going to slide in. “I didn't want you to kiss me, Douglas. I wasn't kissing you at all.” Lacey turned to Candice. “Mrs. Madigan, I think that you and Douglas should go discuss your problems. I have no part in any of it. Honestly, I don't.”

Candice smiled at her, stepped quickly around Douglas, and slapped her hard, whipping her head back.

A deep voice came from behind them. “This appears to be very interesting, but I really can't allow anyone to smack my agents, ma'am. Don't do it again or I'll have to arrest you for hitting an officer.”

Lacey looked up to see Savich standing in the open doorway. This was all she needed. Did he have to show up whenever her life seemed to be flying out of control? It wasn't fair. She rubbed her hand over her face, then took a step back to stop herself from hurling herself on Candice. She was sorely tempted even though she doubted she could take her down, not with her arm in a sling. But she wanted to try.

“Sir,” she said, although she wanted to say “Dillon.” No way was she going to use his first name in front of Douglas. It would be waving a red flag. “What are you doing here? No, don't tell me. I've been elected the recreation meeting center for the evening. Do come in and close the door, sir, before a neighbor calls the cops.”

“I am the cops, ma'am.”

“Very well. Would anyone care for a cup of tea? A game of bingo?”

Douglas plowed his fingers through his hair. “No, nothing, Lacey.” He turned to his wife. “We have to talk, Candice. I am upset with you. I don't care at all for your behavior. Come along, now.”

Lacey and Savich watched them leave, their voices raised before they even reached the end of the driveway.

“I'll take some tea now,” Savich said.

Ten minutes later, she and Savich were drinking tea in the now blessedly empty living room.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was out running when I came by here. You had a hard day. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. The front
door was open and I heard this woman yelling. How's your cheek?”

Lacey massaged her jaw. “She's a strong woman. Actually it's a good thing you came in or else I might have jumped her. Then she might really have beaten me up, what with my broken wing. I'll call Chico tomorrow.”

“You called me ‘sir' again.”

“Yes, I did. On purpose. Douglas is jealous of you. If I'd called you ‘Dillon,' it might have pushed him over the edge. Then you might have had to fight him. You could have messed up all my beautiful new furniture.”

That gave him pause. He grinned, toasted her with his teacup, then said finally, “This was the man who was married to Belinda?” At her nod, he said, “And this is his new wife. Tell me about this, Sherlock. I love family messes.”

“I'll say only that Douglas thinks he might like me a bit too much. As for Candice, his wife, she told him she was pregnant with his child, he married her, and then it turns out she wasn't pregnant. He's angry and wants a divorce. She blames me. That's all there is to it, not a mess really, at least it doesn't involve me.” She sighed. “All right, when I was talking to Douglas on the phone, he said some things he shouldn't have said and she overheard them. She was upset. She probably wants to kill me more than Marlin Jones does.”

“Do you realize you're speaking to me in nice full sentences? That I no longer have to pry basic stuff out of you?”

“I guess maybe I was a bit on guard when I first came to you. On the other hand, you were a criminal in Hogan's Alley and kicked two guns out of my hand before I overcame overwhelming and vicious odds and killed you.”

“Yes, you were wary as hell. But it didn't take too long to break you in. You've been spilling your guts for a good long time now. As for my day as the bank robber, you didn't do too badly, Sherlock. No, not badly at all.” He raised his hand and lightly stroked his fingers over her cheek. “She walloped you pretty good, but I don't think you're going to bruise too much. Makeup should take care of it.”

Suddenly his cheekbones flushed. He dropped his hand and stood up. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a blue sweatshirt that read
ACHY BREAKY COP
. He looked big, strong, and
harassed. His fingers had been very warm. They'd felt good against her cheek.

“Go to bed, Sherlock. Try to avoid any more trouble. I can't always guarantee to drop by when you're butt-deep in trouble.”

“I've really never had so many difficulties in such a short time before in my life. I'm sorry. But you know, I could have dealt with this all by myself.”

He grunted in her general direction, and was gone. Just plain out of there, fast.

She touched her own fingers to her face, saw his dark eyes staring at her with antagonism and something else, and walked slowly to the front door. She fastened the chain, clicked the dead bolt in place, and turned the key in the lock. What would have happened if Savich hadn't shown up? She shuddered.

She'd caught Belinda's killer and her life seemed messier than ever. What had her mother meant, “. . . since your father tried to run me down?”

 

She walked out of the doctor's building the following afternoon, trying to put up her umbrella in the face of a sharp whipping wind and swirling rain—hard, heavy rain that got you wet no matter what you did. It was cold and getting colder by the minute. She got the umbrella up finally, but it was difficult because her arm was still very sore. She stepped off the curb, trying to keep herself covered, and started toward her car, parked just down the block on the opposite side of Union Street.

Suddenly she heard a shout, then a scream. She whipped about, the wind nearly knocking her over, her umbrella sucked out of her hand. The car was right on her, a big black car with dark tinted windows, a congressman's car, no, probably a lobbyist's car, so many of them in Washington. What was the fool doing?

She froze in that blank instant, then hurled herself back onto the sidewalk, her sore arm slamming into a parking meter.

She felt the whoosh of hot air even as she went down half into the street, half on the sidewalk. She twisted around to see the black car accelerate and take the next corner in a screech of tires. She just lay there staring blankly after the car. Why
hadn't he stopped to see if she was all right? No, naturally, the driver wouldn't have stopped—he'd probably be arrested for drunk driving. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet. Her panty hose were ruined, as were her shoes and clothes. Her hair was plastered to her head and over her face. As for her healing arm, it was throbbing big-time now. Her shoulder began to hurt, as did her left leg. At least she was alive. At least she hadn't been farther out into the street. If she had been, she wouldn't have stood a chance.