All of a sudden there was a lot going on in San Francisco, he thought. Funny how many times a particular place became a nexus of things. Savich watched Sherlock walk back toward his office, punching off his cell. He couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say about all this. He wondered if she’d admitted to her father that Sean had beaten her at Pajama Sam.
CHAPTER 11
SAN FRANCISCO
Friday morning
Evelyn Sherlock said to her husband, “I saw Charlotte Pallack last month at a fashion show at the Hyatt Embarcadero. She’s beautiful—no, better than beautiful, she’s got style and intelligence and a very interesting face. She was on the standoffish side. Actually, she’s always been somewhat reserved since I met her some two years ago.
“I remember Mazie Wallace told me—you know, that nasal voice of hers lowered, but not enough—that Charlotte spent a bundle on clothes Mazie said she wouldn’t even want to see off the hanger, but who really knew about her background? Mazie’s mean-spirited so I ignored what she said.”
“What did that mean—her background? I thought she came from Boston money, something like that.”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“I don’t suppose Thomas Pallack was around?”
“Thomas? No, that day it was all women.”
Corman said, “I’ve got to go in about five minutes. Oh, here you are, Isabel. I’m sorry for the short notice, but we’re going to have a houseguest tonight and perhaps tomorrow night as well. It will all depend on how the dinner goes tonight. His name is Sheriff Dixon Noble. He’s a friend of Savich and Sherlock. And we’ll be having dinner for five tonight.”
“I hadn’t realized you’d already called Thomas,” Evelyn said. “Oh yes. Do you know I didn’t even wake him up. He’d already been through the Wall Street Journal. All I had to do was intimate that I might be mellowing toward his newest political candidate—what’s his name? Whatever, he’s running for district attorney.” At his wife’s laugh, he smiled back at her. “And that did it. He and his wife will be here at seven o’clock.”
“That was clever,” Evelyn said, saluting him with her coffee cup.
“My roast pork with my special mint sauce, Judge Sherlock?”
“Yes, and apple pie.”
Isabel nodded. “We haven’t had guests in at least a month. This’ll be fun,” and she left the dining room, humming and making lists in her head.
Forty-five minutes later Judge Sherlock reached his chambers on the sixteenth floor of one of the ugliest gray buildings in San Francisco, the U.S. Government Federal District Court on Golden Gate Avenue. He dealt with his clerks in record time, closed his door, and booted up his computer. He had twenty-three minutes until he had to be in court. He typed in Julia Ransom’s name and began reading. After seeing that morning’s newspaper article about the attempt on her life and the involvement of a local FBI agent, he’d bet his newly crowned molar that his son-in-law knew a lot about it. Savich was likely up to his ears in it. The judge was rarely a step ahead of his son-in-law, but this time perhaps he’d dig up something before Savich did with his damned computer, MAX.
Dix landed at SFO right on time. He pulled his single carry-on from the overhead bin and walked out of the airport into a chilly, sunny day. He’d asked a flight attendant about a hotel and had just climbed into a taxi when his cell phone played some New Orleans jazz.
Five minutes later, the taxi was headed to Pacific Heights, where it pulled up some forty minutes later in front of a beautiful three-story Art Deco house with views of the whole bay.
“Nice big money house,” the Russian driver said, his accent thick.
Nice big money house indeed, Dix thought. It was like the Tara of San Francisco, only with better views.
A cup of rich Kona coffee in his hand, Dix sat in the formal living room across from Evelyn Sherlock and looked at his watch.
“Yes, it’s five o’clock,” Evelyn said. “Dix, dear, it occurred to me that you might not have brought a suit. Such a fast, in-and-out trip. Did you?”
He smiled at the beautiful woman who was Sherlock’s mother and who didn’t look a thing like her. She looked soft and elegant, graceful and smooth, her blond hair in a stylish straight cut that skimmed her jawline. Where had Sherlock gotten her incredible wild red hair?
“Actually, ma’am—”
“Do make that Evelyn.”
“Yes, Evelyn. And call me Dix. Well, since this Thomas Pallack is a bigwig, I had the brains to bring a decent suit so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. I don’t know if it’s up to snuff, but—”
Evelyn patted his big hand, so like her son-in-law’s, she thought, a firm, strong hand she imagined could pull you out of the deepest mire. “I’ll ask Isabel to have a look at it. She’ll tell us if it will be appropriate. If it is, she’ll press it for you.”
Isabel deemed Dix’s dark blue wool suit quite lovely for the occasion. His shirt, however, didn’t make the cut. He found himself buttoning one of Judge Sherlock’s handmade white shirts, slipping on simple gold cuff links, and Windsor-knotting a red and white Italian silk tie. Dix stepped back to study himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, a large airy space about the size of his dining room. Then, drawn to the window, he looked out toward the beautiful hillside town of Sausalito, and the Marin Headlands. With all the rain, Evelyn had told him, it was nearly Irish green, but that wouldn’t last. Just wait until July, and she’d sighed. His room was filled with English antiques Christie would have loved—Ruth’s tastes leaned toward the bright and colorful, the whimsical, like the ceramic rooster sitting on alert just inside her front door. He stilled, stared at himself in the mirror, not seeing anything. Could he do this? How would he face this woman who couldn’t be Christie because Christie was dead?
But what if she is Christie?
He realized his hands were sweating, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He couldn’t think straight because his brain was leapfrogging around too much. This woman, this Charlotte Pallack, no, she wasn’t Christie, but—What’s wrong with you, moron? Christie’s dead, long dead. Deal with it. His brain turned around again and went a different direction. Since this woman couldn’t be Christie, maybe she was some long-lost sister? Had Chappy had an affair and not known his lover was pregnant? It went around and around as it had throughout the day. If he’d had his Beretta, he’d have shot himself.
He was terrified of what he wanted, of what he didn’t want, of what he’d find out. He admitted he was a basket case, couldn’t help it. But he had to get himself together enough to face this woman tonight and he had to be calm and rational and clearheaded. He would know, the instant he saw her, he would know, and then it would be over.
He shook his head at himself in the mirror, brushed his dark hair. He had to get a grip, just face this: Be the ultimate cool, dude, as Rafe would say. He continued to stare at himself and slowly nodded in satisfaction. He looked sophisticated, he realized, like a guest should look, a guest polite enough and rich enough to have dinner with society snoots. He had poise, he had confidence, he was ready. He would not fall apart, no matter what happened.
Ten minutes later in the living room, Evelyn Sherlock agreed with his assessment. She patted his sleeve. “If Charlotte isn’t your Christie, she still might try to run away with you,” she remarked, rising to straighten his tie, though it didn’t need it.
That gave things a different perspective, Dix thought, staring down at her a moment, and marveling again how very different she was from her daughter. Then she tilted her head to the side and said, “I do love a man in French cuffs.” He’d seen Sherlock tilt her head in exactly the same way.