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.”