“Charlotte,” he repeated, nodding, knowing a deaf man could hear that extra warmth in her voice. “I can’t place your accent. Perhaps it’s southern?”
“Why, Mr. Noble, you’ve a very good ear. I’m from back east originally, then my folks moved to Durham. But I’ve been in California for many years now. And your accent, it’s also got a bit of the South.”
He nodded. “I’m from a small town called Maestro, in Virginia. I’m the sheriff there. Do call me Dix.”
“Ah, more law enforcement,” Thomas Pallack said, and flipped his napkin down beside his plate. “A federal judge and a sheriff.” Dix could see that his status had dropped markedly in Mr. Pal-lack’s eyes. He wanted to laugh, but only nodded. “Yes, sir. I am friends with their daughter and son-in-law. As you probably know, both Lacey and her husband Dillon Savich are FBI agents. We worked a local case together a couple of months ago in my town.” He took another small sip of the merlot and heard himself add, “Perhaps you know my father-in-law, Mr. Pallack. His name is Chapman Holcombe—everyone calls him Chappy. His main interest is banking, owns Holcombe First Independent. Well, that’s not quite accurate—to be closer to the mark, I’d have to say his major interest is making money.” And Dix smiled, a man of the world.
Thomas Pallack nodded. “I thought the name of your town sounded familiar. Yes, Chappy and I did business some years ago, very profitably, I might add. However, I haven’t been in touch with him, haven’t seen him since that time. How’s the old curmudgeon doing these days?”
“He’s the same as ever. His son Tony runs the banks now, but Chappy hasn’t entirely dropped the reins. I doubt he will until he passes.”
Judge Sherlock said smoothly, “You said this man was your father-in-law, Dix? Yes, I remember now my daughter Lacey saying you were married to his daughter. I’m sorry, but I don’t know her name.”
“My wife is dead,” Dix said, feeling raw ugly bile in his throat and at the same time admiring Judge Sherlock’s chutzpah and his acting ability. “It’s been over three years now. Her name was Christie.”
“I’m so very sorry,” said Charlotte Pallack. “My own father died when I was young.”
“Well, Dix,” Thomas Pallack said, “you’d best warn Chappy not to bend the law or Judge Sherlock here might send him off to one of our federal gulags.”
“Gulags?” Dix asked, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t know we’d built any here.”
“Our prison system,” Thomas said, sitting forward, eyes fierce, “is a disgrace. Our prisoners are in appalling, overcrowded facilities, and the prison administration system is bogged down and incompetent.”
“I agree with that,” Judge Sherlock said. Thomas Pallack gunned forward. “The only solution is to release some of the inmates, a furlough system, and then reintegrate them back into society.”
Judge Sherlock said, “Don’t you know what the recidivism rate is, Thomas? It’s higher than the state income tax. I’d say the last thing society needs is to let robbers, murderers, drug dealers, rapists, and assorted other lowlifes back on the streets to wreak havoc.” Judge Sherlock paused a brief moment, realizing he couldn’t pound Thomas Pallack like he wanted since the man was his guest, dammit. “But you have a point. We need to overhaul the system—and build more prisons.”
Thomas Pallack opened his mouth, saw Evelyn giving him a hostess’s gimlet eye, and closed it. “Some would agree” was all he said. Dix admired his restraint, but he wondered and questioned: Since Thomas Pallack knew Chappy, had he met Christie, seen her photo in Chappy’s library? Hadn’t he also at least heard Dix’s name? And if he had met Christie, hadn’t he noticed how alike his wife and Christie looked?
Evelyn offered Thomas some French green beans with tiny pearl onions and blanched almonds on top. “You, Thomas, know Dix’s father-in-law. Such a small world, isn’t it?”
Thomas Pallack said, “I remember meeting briefly with Chappy in Maestro—that’s the name, right? Then we went on to Richmond to meet with another couple of bankers. I remember asking him why he wasn’t in New York. I mean, what’s to do in a little one-horse town in western Virginia? Ah, no insult intended, Sheriff Noble.”
Dix said easily, “I like the one-horse town very much, sir, even willingly moved my family from big exciting New York to live there.”
But Thomas Pallack didn’t seem at all interested in that. Between a bite of the French green beans and a dinner roll, he said, “My candidate for district attorney, Corman, Galen Banbridge, is running on a hard-line law-and-order platform. It’s possible he might even be interested in more prison construction.”
Dix grew still. He looked up at Thomas Pallack, well fed, so very certain of his place in the sun. Who and what was he? He asked, “Does your candidate believe evil should be eliminated from the world, sir?”
“Evil?” Thomas Pallack started to laugh, had the manners to hold it back, but he had his look of contempt down cold. “Evil, did you say? Evil? Who in this day and age believes in such medieval nonsense as evil?”
Evelyn clearly pictured Thomas Pallack lying on the floor by her dining room table, his eyes rolled back in his head, with Dix standing over him. Because she was a skilled hostess, she quickly went pre-medieval, to the Queen Hatshepsut Egyptian exhibit currently at the de Young Museum. Thankfully, both Pallacks had visited the exhibit.
Over excellent apple pie and ice cream, fudge Sherlock let Thomas Pallack wax eloquent about his candidate. He did an almost credible job of seeming interested.
Charlotte Pallack flirted with Dix in a lovely discreet way, going so far as to touch her fingers to his sleeve while her husband helped her into her cashmere coat at precisely ten o’clock. Judge Sherlock assured Pallack that he would study the hard-line law-and-order candidate and knew that Pallack probably didn’t buy it. Well, he’d shown as much enthusiasm as he could without starting an argument that would have had Evelyn throwing wineglasses at them.
When the front door closed, Evelyn patted Dix’s cheek. “She didn’t know you and you didn’t know her. It’s over, Dix, all questions answered. Go to bed now and get some sleep.”
CHAPTER 13
At eight o’clock Saturday morning, the Sherlocks sat down with Dix at the breakfast table. They’d already worked out in their downstairs gym and still wore their workout clothes. They looked fit, their faces still shiny with exertion and good health. There was no makeup at all on Evelyn’s face. She looked beautiful. Dix took a bite of his sliced grapefruit. “I called Savich and Sherlock last night, told them what happened. And Christie’s father, of course.” And Ruth.
“A difficult call to make,” said Judge Sherlock.
“It was very hard.” Chappy had been stone silent, and Dix pictured the stark grief in his eyes again, grief that had lessened over the past three years, now brought back to full strength, though he had known, had accepted, that Christie was dead. ‘Tm sorry, Chappy,” he’d said, “sorry for all of us. This woman looked very much like Christie, but she wasn’t.” So inadequate, but there was simply nothing else to say. Chappy hadn’t broken down, and Dix was immensely grateful for that.
He’d called Ruth on her cell so she could have some privacy from the boys. He knew she was trying to keep the immense relief out of her voice. As for himself, he’d tried to keep his voice as flat and steady as he could. As God was his witness, he didn’t know what he really felt, at the core of him, where murky questions and even murkier feelings tangled and snarled, and years of memories heaved to the surface to draw him back. He knew only that he’d wanted Christie to be alive—beyond that, he simply didn’t know.
Dix watched Judge Sherlock carefully place four slices of crispy turkey bacon on a slice of toast, fold it over, and take a big bite. A BLT without the LT. Corman said, “Savich and Lacey surely knew what happened; they didn’t want to bother you until you were ready. Neither was surprised that Charlotte Pallack wasn’t your wife.”