"So, it's still unclear whether or not your theory is right. You know, the likeliest person to kill a wife is the husband." He'd steered so smoothly back on course that the words just spilled out of her mouth: "No, Dillon, Douglas loved Belinda. Just for argument's sake, let's say that I'm wrong and he hated her. He would simply have divorced her. There's no reason he would have killed her. He's not stupid, nor, I doubt strongly, is he a murderer. There was no reason for him to kill her, none at all."
"No, not that you know of. But one thing, Sherlock, he does seem to think too much of you, his sister-in-law. How long has he been looking at you, licking his chops?"
"I'm sure that's just recent. And I think he's over it now." She remembered him staring at hers and Belinda's photos in her bedroom-all that he'd remembered, all that he'd said about her innocence. She felt a knot of coldness settle deep into her. She was shaking her head even as she added, "No, not Douglas."
"Your daddy's a judge, but he wasn't a judge seven years ago. He couldn't have had access to everything on the String
Killer case."
She wondered only briefly how he knew that, but then wanted to laugh at herself. That was easy stuff. Actually she wouldn't be surprised if Savich knew what the president's next speech would be about. She had complete faith that MAXINE could access anything Savich wanted. "No, impossible. Don't lie to me, I'll bet you know that my father did have access to everything. He came out of the D. A.'s office. He knew everyone. He could have accessed anything he wanted. But Dillon, how could a man kill his own daughter? And so brutally?"
"It's been done more times than I can remember. Your dad's not all that straightforward a guy, Sherlock, and Belinda wasn't his daughter. He appears to have this mean streak in him. He didn't much like Belinda, did he? He thought she was nuts, like his wife, who claimed that he'd tried to run her down in his BMW."
She scooted out of the booth, the tablecloth snagging on her purse strap. His two remaining slices of pizza nearly slid off the table.
"Then there's Mama. Does she have mental problems, Sherlock? What did she think of Belinda?"
He was standing there in front of her, very close, and she couldn't stand it. "I'm going home. You don't have to see me there."
"Yeah, I do. You've got to do some thinking. You know very well that Ralph York has sent his findings to the SFPD. They just might reopen Belinda's case or they might not. No way of telling just yet. At the very least though, everything we're talking about they'll be talking about too. Douglas could be in some warm water, Sherlock, no matter how you slice it. Daddy too."
"Since everything is so inconclusive, it's very possible the San Francisco police won't do a thing. I think once they talk to Boston, they'll know it was Marlin. They won't have any doubts. They'll just shake their heads at Ralph's report."
"I think they will pay some attention. We're all the law. We're all supposed to try to catch the bad guys, even if it might mean opening a can of worms."
"I've got to call Douglas, warn him. This can't be right, it can't. I never meant for this to happen."
He rolled his eyes. "Maybe I'll understand you in another thirty years, Sherlock. Do what you must. Come on. I've got things to do tonight."
"Like what?"
"My friend James Quinlan plays the sax at the Bonhomie Club on Houtton Street, owned by a Ms. Lily, a super-endowed black lady who admires his butt and his soulful eyes as much as his playing. He tries to be there at least once or twice a week. Sally, his wife, loves the place. Marvin, the bouncer, calls her Chicky. Come to think of it, he calls every female Chicky. But Sally to him is a really nice Chicky. I'll never forget that Fuzz the bartender gave them a bottle of wine for a wedding present. It had a cork. A first. Amazing."
Now all this was strange. She said slowly, willing, happy to be distracted, even if only for a moment, "So you go to support him"'
He looked suddenly embarrassed. He didn't meet her eyes. He cleared his throat and said, "Yeah."
He was lying. She cocked her head to one side. "Maybe I could go with you sometime? I wouldn't mind supporting him either. Also, I've never gotten together with Sally Quinlan. I heard she's an aide to a senator."
"Yeah. Okay, sure. Maybe. We'll see." She didn't say a word. They were nearly at her town house. There was a quarter moon showing through gothic clouds- all thin and wispy, floating past, making sinister images. It was only eight-thirty in the evening, cool with only a slight breeze. "You should keep a light on."
"The FBI doesn't pay me all that well, Dillon. It would cost a fortune."
"Do you have an alarm system?"
"No. Why? All of a sudden you're worried? You were mocking all my locks just a while ago."
"Yeah, and I wondered why someone who faced down Marlin like a first-class warrior would need to have more locks in her house than the president has guards." "They're two very different things." "I figured that. I don't suppose you'll tell me about it, will you?"
"There's nothing to tell. Now, what's all this about an
alarm system?"
"Someone tried to run you down. That changes things, big-time."
They were back to that. "It was an accident."
"Possibly."
"Good night, Dillon."
20
LACEY UNLOCKED THE FRONT door and stepped into the small foyer. She reached for the light switch and turned it on. It flickered, and then the light strengthened. She turned to lock the front door-the dead bolt, the two chains. From habit, she looked into the living room, the kitchen, before she went to her bedroom. Everything was as it should be.
She stopped suddenly. Slowly, she lowered the gym shoe she'd just pulled off to the floor. She turned, silent as stone now, and listened. Nothing.
She was losing it. She remembered that long-ago night in her fourth-floor apartment when she'd awakened to hear noises and nearly heaved up her guts with terror. Then she'd gotten a grip and gone out to see what or who was there. It had been a mouse. A silly little mouse, so scared he didn't know where to run when he saw her. And that had been the night she'd changed.
She took off the rest of her gym clothes and went into the bathroom. Just before she stepped into the shower, she turned the lock on the door, laughing aloud at herself while she did it. "You're an idiot," she said, unlocked the door, then stepped into the shower.
Hot. Hot water. It felt like heaven. Dillon had nearly killed her, but the hot water was soaking in. She could feel her shrieking leg muscles groan in relief. He'd told her that working out kept his stress level down. It also gave him a gorgeous body, but she didn't tell him that. She was beginning to wonder if he didn't have something about bringing down the stress. For the hour they'd exercised, she hadn't given a single thought to Marlin Jones or to the inconclusive report from Wild Ralph York.
She finally stepped out of the shower some ten minutes later and into the fog-heavy bathroom. She wrapped a thick Egyptian-cotton towel around her head, then used the corner of her other towel to wipe the mirror.
She stared into the masked face right behind her.
A yell clogged in her throat. She froze. She realized she wasn't breathing, couldn't breathe, until air whooshed out of her mouth.
The man said in a soft, low voice that feathered warm air on the back of her neck, "Don't move now, little girl. I expected you to come home a bit later. You seemed well ensconced at that pizza place with that big guy. What's the matter, didn't the guy push hard enough to sleep with you? I could tell he wanted to, just the way he was looking at you. You told him no, didn't you? Yeah, you're here a little earlier than I expected, but no matter. I had a chance to settle in, get to know you a bit."