“They found the knife behind the radiator,” Sherlock said.
“Ha! I wouldn’t be that big a fool. That was another knife. Thomas must have gotten some blood the same type as his parents’ and rubbed it on the knife—no DNA back then, so it was easy. Then he planted it for the cops to find.”
“What did you do with the knife you used?”
“I dropped it in the Lansky River five miles away from my house. But what could I do? Nothing, that’s what.
“It was all over for me anyway, and I knew it. How can you fight being framed for a bunch of murders nobody committed at all?”
Sherlock said, “When did you tell Thomas Pallack that you’d slept with his mother?”
The old man laughed. “When I was being marched out of the courtroom between two guards right after the guilty verdict. Up dashed old Thomas, got right in my face. He looked wild with triumph, and I knew he wanted to gloat, and so I whispered it right in his face, and then I sang ‘Maggie May’ and licked my lips. He leaped on me but the guards pulled him off. I remember it so clearly, I could hear Thomas breathing hard as I laughed at him while the guards yanked me out of there.
“But hey, I’ve got lots of friends in here and the world is safe from me. I’m feeling tired now. I’d like to sleep so I can get back to the poker game later with Moses. He’s quite a gamer, old Moses, just a bit lame on the strategy. Can’t bluff worth a damn.”
Savich said, “Mr. James, we appreciate your filling us in on what happened, but the real reason we came to see you—” He saw the old man’s eyelids droop, and he added quickly, his voice sharp and hard, “Did you know Thomas Pallack finally married? Nearly three years ago.”
Courtney’s eyes popped open. He looked surprised at that. “Isn’t that something. No, I didn’t know. There isn’t much news in here. I’m surprised, I’ll admit it. It was always his mama, always. I thought he’d go to his grave mourning her, having wet dreams about her.”
Now that they had him focused again, it was time to back up.
Sherlock asked, “Did you know Thomas Pallack claims to have spoken through a medium to his dead parents every Wednesday and Saturday since shortly after you killed them all those years ago?”
That perked him up. “A psychic? Nah, you’re putting me on. He found someone—a medium, right?—who talks to dead people? Now, isn’t that interesting? He’s wigged out, has he?”
Savich said, “Whatever Thomas felt for his mother, it appears he really loved both of his parents. He claims they give him advice, that they care about what he’s doing, are always there for him.”
The old man snorted. “Dead people there for him. Now, what’s wrong with that picture? Well, his daddy wasn’t there for him. Never. And Thomas never gave a rat’s ass what his daddy thought or felt. Like I told you, he loved his mama—way too much.
“So, he got married, did he? He finally found someone to replace her. Imagine that. I wonder what maggoty rotted old Maggie May thinks about that?”
Replace her?
“I wonder what Thomas’s wife looks like.”
“A moment, Mr. Jones.” In that instant, Savich felt a rush of adrenaline. He saw Sherlock’s hand shaking slightly, knew she felt it too. He opened his briefcase and handed the old man a color photo, not of Charlotte, but of Christie. But it didn’t matter. He stared down at the photo along with Courtney James.
Courtney twisted his head up to look at Savich. “What the hell is this, Agent?”
“A photo of Thomas’s new wife, like I told you.”
“No, no, come on now, I’m not that old. I remember so well Maggie’s swingy dark hair, those bright blue-green eyes of hers. And her white skin, so soft—” Courtney James fell silent, and simply stared and stared at that photo. Finally, he said, his voice bewildered, “My God, that’s Maggie May, but a lot younger. And the clothes and the hair can’t be right. You’re telling me this is Thomas’s wife, Agent Savich?”
“It is indeed, Mr. James,” Savich said.
“I don’t get this at all.”
“We’ll let you know when we figure it all out,” Savich said. “I promise you that. You’ve been of immense help to us. Thank you.”
“You gonna nail that pissant Thomas for something?”
Savich only smiled, shook the old man’s hand. Sherlock squeezed his thin forearm, let him touch her hair once more, took Savich’s arm and turned to leave the hospital room. They heard Courtney James say to Warden Rafferty, “I never believed in reincarnation before. What do you think?”
The warden said, “I don’t know, Courtney. I haven’t really thought about it. What do you think?”
“I just don’t know anymore. I’ll tell you, Warden, that photo— it was Maggie May, and how can that be?
“And all that psychic crap about Thomas speaking to his dead parents. That fair to creeps me out.”
“It does me too, Courtney.”
The old man closed his eyes a moment. “I’d sure like a glazed Krispy Kreme about now.”
CHAPTER 57
SAN FRANCISCO
Thursday night
The Pallacks’ building was tucked behind beautifully manicured trees and bushes on a small cul de sac just off Leavenworth Street on Russian Hill. The penthouse was dark, as were the two condos on the floor below it. A total of eleven dwellings shared the address in the hundred-year-old-plus building. Dix saw only two lights, one on the third floor, one on the fourth. The rest of the windows were dark. The occupants were either out or asleep. As for the Pallacks, they were at a political fundraiser at the Hyatt Embarcadero, which was expected to run very late.
He’d finally found a parking place on Chestnut Street, two blocks away, and too close to a fire hydrant. But he hoped the police wouldn’t be handing out tickets so late on a Thursday night. Dix looked down at his watch—it was nearly eleven o’clock. He should have plenty of time. It had taken him only about seven minutes to drive here after he’d walked quietly out of the Sherlocks’ house.
He locked Judge Sherlock’s Chevy Blazer and started back to the Pallacks’ building, careful to keep to the shadows. He was tense, his nerves stretched tight. He was a cop, he believed in the law, yet here he was preparing to break into the Pallacks’ penthouse. And he was carrying a gun while doing it. Even though he was a sheriff, he knew that could put him away for the next ten years. But he’d already had these arguments with himself a dozen times before he’d found that meager parking place. He paused a moment to calm himself. He’d made his decision, and now it was time to get the job done. He prayed Ruth wouldn’t figure out what he was doing and come after him, bringing Cheney and Julia or even Savich and Sherlock after him. He’d be out of here by midnight, and if something did happen, well, he’d left an e-mail for Ruth’s cell phone set to alert her at midnight—just in case he needed her to bail him out of jail.
It was past time to bring all this to an end. If he’d acted sooner, perhaps Soldan Meissen wouldn’t be dead. He’d been floored by what Savich had reported Courtney James told them—that Christie and Charlotte Pallack were both the image of Margaret Pallack. The madness of it twisted in him, the plain insanity of fate that had brought Christie to Pallack’s notice.
Despite Savich and Sherlock’s discovery, Dix still knew it wasn’t enough to get a search warrant, knew Pallack could destroy everything incriminating at any time. He’d get away with murdering Christie, and Dix would never find out what had happened to her. His plan was the best way. The only way.