Savich reached up and flicked the drool off Sean’s chin. “You’re teething, champ. It’s not going to be a pretty sight for the next several months, so that book says. You don’t seem like you’re feeling any pain. Believe me, that’s a relief for both of us.”
Sean gurgled very close to Savich’s ear.
He held his son back and smiled into that splendid little face that looked more like him than Sherlock. Sean had his dark hair, not Sherlock’s curly red hair. As for his eyes, they were as dark as his father’s, not that sweet, soft blue of his mother’s. “You want to know something? It’s four o’clock in the morning and here we are wide awake. Your mama’s going to think we’re both nuts.”
Sean yawned then and stuck three fingers into his mouth. Savich kissed his forehead and stood, gently laying his son over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re ready to pack it in again.”
He went to his son’s room and dimmed the light. He laid him on his back and pulled a yellow baby blanket over his light diaper shirt.
“You go to sleep now, hear? I’m even going to sing you one of my favorite songs. Your mama always laughs her head off when I sing her this one.” He sang a country-and-western song about a man who loved his Chevy truck so much that he was buried with the engine and all four hub-caps, special edition, all silver. Sean looked mesmerized by his father’s deep, rich voice. He was out after just two verses. One good thing about country-and-western music-there was always another verse. Savich paused a moment, smiled down at the precious human being that still jolted him when he realized that Sean was, indeed, his very own child, part of him. Just as Savich had been his father’s child. He felt a sharp pull somewhere in the region of his heart. He missed his dad, always would.
Who was this Thomas Matlock, who claimed to have known his father?
He went back to his study.
MAX beeped as he walked in. “Good for you,” Savich said, sitting back down. “What have we got on this Thomas Matlock guy?”
12
Adam said, “You mean they’re giving up trying to find her on the Outer Banks?”
Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched in a phone booth somewhere, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes caused eye infections. “Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all, they’re counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing this guy who shot the governor. That’s why they’re searching high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show down there. I hear he’s cursing up a blue streak, wondering where she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her and she just ain’t anywhere, just like smoke, he says, and the others grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you’ll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes that Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you who duped him, he’d want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to stick it on.”
“Thanks for sharing that, Hatch.”
“Knew you’d like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don’t you?”
That wasn’t the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, “Something like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra’s finally come to the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn’t anywhere near the Outer Banks?”
“That’s it.”
“I don’t think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time has passed for them to find her now. I think we’re home free-well, at least for the moment.”
Silence.
“Hatch, I know you’re lighting a cigarette in a closed phone booth. Put it out right now or I’ll fire you.”
Silence.
“Is it out?”
“Yeah, boss. I swear it’s out. I didn’t even get one decent puff.”
“Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?”
“They’re talking to their counterparts all over the country, just like the Feebs are. But hey-nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective Morales is a wreck, probably hasn’t slept for three days. All he can talk about is how she called him, repeated to him that she’d told him everything, and he wasn’t able to talk her in. There’s this other detective, a woman name of Letitia Gordon, who evidently hates Ms. Matlock’s guts. Claims she’s a liar, a nutcase, and probably a murderer. Old Letitia really wants to bring her down. She’s pushing everyone to charge Ms. Matlock with the murder of that old bag lady outside the Metropolitan Museum. You know, the murder Ms. Matlock reported? The one the stalker did to get her attention?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, they told Detective Gordon to pull her head out of her armpit and try for a bit of objectivity. The woman’s really got it in for our gal.”
Adam made a rude noise. “Let Detective Gordon get hives over it for all we care. Neither Thomas nor I ever believed they were going to charge her with murder. But a material witness? That’s possible. And you know as well as I do that the cops couldn’t protect her from this stalker. Nope, that’s our job. Now, what do you have on McCallum?”
Adam wasn’t expecting anything, so he wasn’t disappointed when Hatch sighed and said, “Not a thing as of yet. A real pro spearheaded this operation, boss, just like you thought.”
“Unfortunately, it can’t be Krimakov because Thomas finally got him tracked down. He was living on Crete, and as of a week ago, he’s dead. I’m not sure of the exact date. But it was before McCallum was run down in Albany. I guess Krimakov could have been involved, but he certainly wasn’t running the show, and that’s not his MO. Anything Krimakov was involved in, he was the Big Leader. Thomas is willing to bet his ascot on that. But if Krimakov was somehow involved, it means he knew about Becca being Matlock’s daughter. Jesus, it makes me crazy.”
“Nah, the guy’s dead. This is a new nutcase, fresh out of the woodwork, and he’s picked Becca.”
Adam scratched his head and added, “No, I don’t think so, Hatch. It’s got to be some sort of conspiracy, there’s just no other answer. Lots of folk involved. But why did they focus on Ms. Matlock? Why put her in the middle? I keep coming back to Krimakov, but I know, logically, that it just can’t be. Someone, something else, is driving this. How’s the governor?”
“I hear his neck is a bit sore, but he’ll live. He doesn’t know a thing, that’s what he claims. He’s very upset about McCallum.”
Adam sat there and thought and thought. The same questions over and over again. No answers.
Silence.
“Put out the cigarette, Hatch. I know about your girlfriend. She loves silk lingerie and expensive steaks. You can’t afford to lose your job.”
“Okay, boss.”
Adam heard some papers shuffling, heard some mild curses, and smiled. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, of course there’s no positive ID on that skeleton that popped out of Ms. Matlock’s basement wall. For sure it was a teenage girl who got her head bashed in some ten or more years ago. I did find out something sort of neat, though.”
“Yeah?”
“It turns out there was an eighteen-year-old girl who leaves Riptide, supposedly eloping. Nobody knows who the boyfriend was though. Now ain’t that a neat coincidence?”
“I’ll say. When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“No one’s heard from her since?”
“I’m not completely sure about that. If she’s still unaccounted for and they decide she’s a good bet, then they’ll do DNA tests on the bones.”
Adam said, “They’ll need something from her-like hair on a brush, an old envelope that would have her saliva, barring that, then a family member would have to give up some blood.”
“Yeah. Thing is, though, it wouldn’t be admissible in court if it ever came to it. It’ll take some time, a couple of weeks. No one sees any big rush on it.”