Dix read them all once more, and realized that the tone, the implied intimacy of the words, bothered him. It hit him between the eyes—of course, it sounded like Julia Ransom had written them.
It all fell into place. Pallack had hired Makepeace to kill Julia because he believed she was the blackmailer.
But Dix believed her when she’d said she’d never even seen any journals, that she really didn’t think they’d even existed. So Pallack had been wrong.
Who then? It took Dix only a moment to realize it must have been another of Pallack’s psychics, probably none other than Soldan Meissen.
Meissen and August Ransom had known each other for a long time. Meissen must have known about the journals, even seen them. After August Ransom was murdered, he could have gotten into Julia’s house, stolen the journals, and discovered he had a gold mine. He’s started off with the blackmail, then lured Pallack in as a client.
Dix wondered what Pallack had thought when he finally tumbled to the fact that Meissen was not only his blackmailer but had made Pallack believe he could communicate with his parents, convincing him by using conversation notes lifted from August Ransom’s journals. Dix remembered clearly on the tape recording Sherlock had made of their interview with Pallack, how he’d sensed he’d had similar conversations with his parents before, a sort of deja vu.
Did it all become clear to you the moment you voiced that understanding, Pallack? Did you realize then that Meissen had a lovely scam going on you? All that money you paid him and it wasn’t enough. He sucked you into being his client twice a week, made a fool of you.
Dix wondered if Pallack had paid the last million before he’d killed Meissen or if he’d paid the money to Makepeace instead.
The rage Pallack must have felt. He’d moved quickly, Dix thought, and Makepeace had moved quickly as well. How convenient that Pallack had his own private assassin close at hand.
Dix thumbed through the first journal, sessions with Thomas Pallack, but he didn’t see anything incriminating, only reminiscences. He picked up the last journal, opened it to the last page, and read:
Thomas is frightened of me. I’ve tried to speak to him about it, but he refuses. I sense he deeply regrets talking about that other woman. He spoke of her only because his mother kept asking him where she was, what he’d done to her, and then his mother laughed, such a laugh that my flesh crawled. And he told her he’d met a woman who was her twin and he loved her the first instant he saw her. But she wouldn’t have him. He’d had to—Thomas shook his head, shot a look at me, and didn’t say any more, but of course, he’d already said too much, and he knew he had.
Here he is still taking orders from a woman thirty years dead. Though I’m not his psychiatrist, I’ve told him this link with his mother is unhealthy, counseled him it’s time to leave the dead alone, and look to his own future. He was abusive.
It was the last entry.
Dix could barely breathe. Christie, he thought, you were that woman, and he wanted to weep with the knowledge of it. He’d known she was dead, but the proof of it was finally staring him in the face.
Dix pulled out his cell phone, turned on the camera, and took pictures of the last pages in Ransom’s last journal. It wouldn’t serve as legal proof, but it was the hard truth nonetheless. He wished he had time to photograph everything, but when he looked at his watch, he realized he had to leave. He closed the journal, placed it at the bottom of the dozen or so others. He placed them back in the accordion file, pulled the rubber band around it, and slid it in the safe, exactly where he’d found it, closed the safe, and put the Picasso over it, and began to set everything back in place.
Then he heard the front door open.
CHAPTER 58
Dix looked over Pallack’s desk, prayed he’d gotten everything back in the right order, and locked the drawer again. Pallack would never know—but what if Pallack or Charlotte went into the living room and wondered why their gorgeous view was gone?
He heard the front door close, heard their voices and their footsteps. Dix looked at the long draperies on the far end of the study, a cliché, but there wasn’t any other good hiding place he could see. He quickly moved across the study and slipped in behind the thick dark green brocade curtains that dragged to the floor. There was a chair in front of the drapes. Hopefully that would be enough. He made a small opening in the seam of the drapes and looked out onto the study. The Pallacks walked nearly to the study doorway and stopped.
Pallack said, his voice irritated, “Damned alarm system went off again, third time this month.”
Charlotte’s voice sounded tired, on edge. “The neighbors have probably already called.”
Pallack grunted. “It just pisses me off. Could you believe the talk about Barbara being too far to the left?”
Charlotte’s voice sounded indifferent. “They might be right. I’m surprised you can actually remember anything anyone said tonight. Thank God you got us out of there. I thought I was going to scream if I had to listen to any more of that claptrap. Thomas, what are we going to do?”
Dix heard annoyance in Pallack’s voice. “No need to get hysterical. It’s done, there are no more loose ends. Meissen is dead and we have the journals. It’s over. Once Makepeace leaves town, we can forget about everything. Give me a minute to call Berenger Security, find out why the hell the security’s out.”
“But they know!”
“Those ridiculous FBI agents? Julia Ransom? Who cares? Their beliefs will get them exactly nowhere.”
Dix heard Pallack’s heavy footsteps, watched him step into the room and walk across the carpet to his desk phone.
Charlotte followed him in, but not all the way to Pallack’s desk. She said in a weary voice, “I certainly hope you’re right about the FBI. But we can’t stop worrying about Makepeace— he’s out of control, you know that. When he brought you the journals earlier, all he could talk about was killing Julia.”
Dix saw Pallack shrug. “It doesn’t matter. Julia’s not important. If Makepeace kills her, it’s on his own dime, not ours. That’s what I told him. Go to bed, Charlotte. I’ll be up soon.”
He heard Charlotte’s heels lightly tapping the wooden hallway, then muffled by the thick Persian runner on the stairs.
Pallack sat down behind his desk and pulled the phone close. Dix listened to him report the alarm failure to Berenger Security, nasty-bitch the individual on the other end of the line, and hang up. Then he booted up the computer, began to hum as he typed.
What was he typing at midnight? The phone rang. Pallack said, “Yes?”
Pallack listened for some time, said finally, “I don’t care if she is staying at the Sherlock house, there’s no reason to go after her now. Dammit, you shouldn’t be calling me here. A public phone? Still—look, now that I have August’s journals, our business is at an end. You should leave San Francisco as soon as possible.
“Dammit, Julia Ransom isn’t important. I don’t want to have to deal with any fallout from that. No, I don’t want to see you tonight.”
Pallack’s fingers tapped impatiently on the desktop as he listened.
“You’ve lost perspective, Xavier. Listen to me, go to Costa Rica, lie on the beach. Enjoy your money. It’s over, do you hear me?” Pallack jerked the phone away. Dix supposed he’d been hung up on. Pallack slowly put down the phone. Dix saw him stare at it, shaking his head.
Through the slit in the drapes, Dix saw Charlotte walk back into the study, wearing a nightshirt that read across the front I Only Swing Left. The shirt ended at the top of her thighs. Those weren’t Christie’s legs, not the same shape at all. “Thomas, was that David?”
Pallack said irritably, “No, it wasn’t David.”