Sherlock smiled between the two of them. “Is it all right, Tuck, if we speak to Alice?”
“Sure, no problem. Alice, stop hiding behind me. Come out here. You stand straight and tall, get those shoulders back and you tell them what you saw. Don’t add in all sorts of little details from that imagination of yours or else they might arrest you. They’re federal agents.”
Alice walked around Tuck, stood front and center. She cocked her head to one side, studied them straight on. Not at all shy, this cute little fairy “You sure are dirty. My mama would skin me alive if I ever got as dirty as you are. You were in that big fire, right?”
“That’s right,” Savich said, and went down on his knees so he was eye level with the little girl. “I sure like your freckles. I wish my wife had some to go with her red hair, but I guess when she came down the line, the good Lord shook his head at her. When our little boy asked for some, he shook his head at him too.”
“I don’t like them. The kids make fun of me, call me speckle face.”
“Wait until you’re twenty-one and smiling real big. All the guys will line up to talk to you. And I want you to remember what I told you.”
The little girl smiled back at him. Can’t help it, Sherlock thought, content to let Dillon take over. “Alice, you said the man driving the car was mad?”
“Oh boy, was he ever. He was yelling and cussing something fierce at the motorcycle guy, worse than Friar ever does. My mama would have cleaned his mouth out with her organic barley soap. It tastes worse than oatmeal.”
“You didn’t hear any of his words other than the curses?” Alice shook her head. “He had real long legs, and he looked like he could twist the head off a snake.”
“Who?”
“The black dude, the one wearing glasses. When he opened the car door, he cussed a blue streak right back at the man who was driving, called him a dickhead.”
“Alice—”
“I’m sorry, Friar, but that’s what he called the man—dickhead. He said, ‘Shut up, dickhead, and drive.’ “
“Okay, let’s move on. The man driving, Alice. What did he look like?”
“He was old, but not as old as Friar. There aren’t many people that old. He was wearing this really neat ring and he was banging it against the steering wheel. I’d like to have a ring like that. I could wear it on a leather band around my neck, like my friends do at school.”
Savich said, “Tell us about the ring, Alice.”
“He wore it on his marriage finger, but it wasn’t a wedding ring, it was this big silver band thing with a black square sitting on top of it, all flat, with a lump in the middle. Just like Friar’s. I noticed it because the sun hit it just right, like a light sword, and made it glow.”
“That sounds like a Mason’s ring to me,” Tuck said. “You really saw that, Alice? You’re not making that up?”
“I saw it, Friar, I really saw it.”
Tuck said to Savich, “Thing is, I’ve got a Mason’s ring, she’s seen it a million times. No, I’m not wearing it today, my arthritis is kicking up.”
“Yes, it was a lot like yours, Friar, I promise.”
“Well,” Sherlock said five minutes later as she climbed into the passenger side of her dad’s Beemer, “do you think she made up the Masonic ring?”
“We might as well go with it, or at least with a ring on the guy’s wedding finger that maybe looks a bit different.” He smiled. “Cute kid. That hair of hers was so blond it was nearly white. Now, we know the guy with the ring had some hair, but we don’t know what color. And he was old or he was young, depending on whether you are seven or eighty.”
Sherlock said, “If Makepeace was cursing back at the guy who was driving and yelling at him, then it doesn’t seem likely the driver was the one who imported him to kill Julia. He sounds more like a local Makepeace hired to help him today. I’m thinking what happened was more than the guy bargained for, got him really scared.”
Savich said. “We’ll see what the canvassing officers have come up with.”
Sherlock gave him a big smile and ran a finger down her face. “So, I guess Alice was right, and it’s time to go play in the shower?”
Savich grinned, showing white teeth, just about the only white showing in his face. He covered her filthy hand with his, pressing her palm hard against his leg. “This was too close, Sherlock.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say.” She leaned over and kissed him, saw he was still thinking of what could have happened. “I like having you around, Dillon. If you hadn’t yelled for me to hit the deck right before the bomb exploded, I might have gotten whacked by some flying stairpost. But we’re all right, Julia and Cheney are all right, the cops are all right. Hey, I wonder if my underwear’s black.”
“I’ll let you know,” Savich said, and released a pent-up breath.
When he pulled into the Sherlocks’ driveway, he saw Ruth standing in the open front door, waving at them.
“What now?” Savich asked the rhododendron bushes, and followed Sherlock to the house.
CHAPTER 52
Savich and Sherlock got off the elevator at Stanford Hospital and headed toward the ICU. A police officer sitting in a chair in the unit outside Golden’s door eyed them up and down as they approached, then slowly nodded and rose, even before they had their shields out.
“Officer—Lazarus, I’m Agent Savich,” Savich said and shook his hand. “This is Agent Sherlock. Anything happening we should know about?”
“No, sir, everything’s calm now. But before—everyone thought she was dying. The doctors and nurses, they really moved fast.”
Savich’s heart sped up again, remembering how he’d felt when Ruth had told them Kathryn Golden’s heart had failed. But she was okay now, thank the good Lord.
“The neurologist is with Ms. Golden. I heard him assuring everyone she was stable now. Lieutenant Ramirez and one of his detectives left about five minutes ago. He didn’t look very happy, what with her still unconscious.”
“Any problem with the media?” Sherlock asked.
Officer Lazarus gave her a manic grin. “Yeah, I’ve booted out three or four of the varmints since I’ve been here. They’re sure having a good time, what with the bomb exploding at the Mariner, and Ms. Golden being a psychic and all, it means they have more to report about than the hike in our parking meter rates. Hope you find the guy who did this.”
When Savich quietly opened the door, he saw an older man wearing a white coat, his shoulders a bit stooped, his stethoscope pressed against Kathryn Golden’s chest. After he jotted something in her chart, he looked up at them and frowned.
“You just came from the Mariner?”
“How can you tell?” Sherlock asked him, giving him her sunny smile. “We scrubbed up pretty good before we came.”
“It must be the eau de smoke you’re wearing. Lieutenant Ramirez isn’t here. Who are you? What do you want? Why did the officer let you in?”
Both Savich and Sherlock held up their shields, introduced themselves.
“Hmm—FBI. I never met any FBI agents before. I’m Dr. Saint.” He looked closely at Sherlock. His shoulders straightened. “You and I are both blessed and cursed with our names, aren’t we?”
A kindred spirit, Sherlock thought. Like her, he’d undoubtedly heard it all. She said, “My dad leans toward calling it blessed— he’s a federal judge in San Francisco, likes the looks of abject terror he gets from defense attorneys and their clients. Actually, we missed out on the Mariner business. We were in another fire up in San Francisco. Please forgive the smoke perfume.”
“You were at that house fire in Pacific Heights? Really? I just heard about it—some big mansion was bombed, right?” At Savich’s nod, he shook his head. “Too much crazy stuff going on around here. Hey, you mean those two fires were connected?”