The Beginning (57 page)

“It's there, Lacey. We'll get it all out. It will take a bit of time.”

“Dr. Bowers is right. It's all there in that magnificent brain of yours, somewhere. We'll unlock all of it, but no more today.” He kissed the top of her head, then said in that calm unhurried voice, “Do you remember if it was Marlin Jones speaking?”

He held his breath. She was perfectly silent, perfectly still. Finally, she said in a voice muffled by his shirt, “No, I can't be certain.”

Or she couldn't bear to remember. It was enough for now, more than enough. He said aloud, “I think we should pack it in for today. What do you say, Lauren? Has she had enough of the wringer?”

“I'd say so. Go watch the Redskins play ball. Eat popcorn. Forget it, at least for today. She's still recovering. She needs rest. We'll get at the rest of it in a couple of days.”

Jimmy Maitland chewed on an unlit cigar, wrote two words in his small black book, then looked back at Agent Sherlock, who was sitting on the edge of Savich's sofa, looking pale as death. Savich was across from her in his favorite leather chair, his legs crossed at the ankles. He was, as far as Maitland could tell, looking at Sherlock's hands. He hadn't said a word. Jimmy Maitland, who'd known Savich since he'd become a special agent eight years before, said, “I don't like any of this, Savich. I got a call from Crammer's section supervisor, telling me Sherlock here had been attacked and that Crammer had stayed outside her hospital room. I'd like to know why you didn't bother to tell me about this.”

Sherlock looked up. Her eyes were very bright and very blue. “It's Sunday, sir, and we were going to watch the Redskins game. I'd prefer the San Francisco 49ers but you don't show them here unless they're playing on Monday Night Football.”

Before Jimmy Maitland could leap on Sherlock, Savich said, “I wanted her to rest today, sir. I'd planned to speak to you about it tomorrow. However, it's kind of you to have driven all the way over here.”

“Why is she here?”

“She was attacked in her town house. I didn't think it was safe for her to remain there.”

Maitland grunted at that. “So what's going on here? It's about Marlin Jones, isn't it?”

She knew if she told him she had no idea what it was about, he'd probably have a coronary, so she said simply, “Yes, sir. I don't think our job is quite done yet. I'm going back to Boston to talk to him again. There are some loose ends, some things that don't fit together. The last thing we want is any uncertainty. Remember Richard Jewell and the Atlanta Olympic bombing? We looked like secretive, cover-your-behind boobs in that deal. We were heavy-handed, let the media in on everything before we had anything conclusive, and then we left the guy twisting in the wind. We took his reputation, his good name. Sir, we even took his Tupperware. Let me finish properly with Marlin Jones. Just this week, sir. That's all I need, just this week.”

Reference to the long ago Richard Jewell fiasco made Jimmy Maitland nearly chew clean through his cigar. “You mean we could get burned in this?”

“It's possible, sir. As I said, I'll be going up on Tuesday and get everything settled. Maybe stay until the end of the week. Please, sir.”

“Who tried to whack you, Agent Sherlock?”

She should have known he would home in on that. Mr. Maitland was a very tenacious man. “I don't believe it was a whack job, sir, more like a threat, but it is one of the loose ends.”

“I don't like my agents getting whacked, Agent Sherlock.”

“No, sir.” As the whackee, she hadn't liked it either, but she didn't think Mr. Maitland would laugh if she said that. She moved even closer to the edge of her seat. Her head was aching. Her shoulder throbbed. She felt mildly light-headed. She wanted Dillon to kiss her. She saw him naked over her and choked on the sip of water she'd just taken.

“You okay, Sherlock?” Savich half rose in his chair, then at her look, he sat down again. What would he have done anyway? Hugged her? Yeah, that would have been a real treat for Maitland. He might have stroked out on the spot. Savich prayed he wouldn't ask any more questions about her attacker. He didn't have any convincing answers made up yet.

She said, “Yes, sir, I'm fine.”

She was red in the face; she wouldn't look at him. She was staring at the black toes on her Bally loafers. If his boss hadn't been sitting six feet from him, he might have thrown her over his shoulder and carried her upstairs. He smiled really big at his boss. “I'll go with her to Boston. We'll get it all wrapped up.”

“Marlin Jones is in jail. Who attacked Agent Sherlock? Why?”

“We don't know yet, sir, but we're betting the answer lies with Marlin Jones.”

“You don't know that, Savich. It might be entirely unrelated.” No one said a word. Jimmy Maitland sighed and pulled himself to his feet. He was tired. He'd had too much beer to drink the night before at a retirement party for Stu Hendricks, an old New York agent who'd been a terror in his day. Even the Mob had sent him a gold watch. He wanted to go home and watch the Redskins too. He said, “Go on to Boston, then. I see you don't want to tell me you really have no idea if Marlin Jones is connected with this attack on Sherlock. There is one thing though, Savich. The young cop who messed up and let two of the old people go in that Florida nursing home murder—he has no idea. We were right—all old people look the same to him. Oh yeah, there's been a spate of murders in South Dakota, right in Elk Point, then the guy went over the border into Iowa. Nasty business. The police chief in Sioux City is frantic.”

“I'll deal with it tomorrow, sir.” Savich rose and walked Jimmy Maitland to the front door.

“This place,” Maitland said, taking one last sweeping look. “I remember one night when your grandmother came down those stairs wearing this lemon yellow chiffon gown. Lord, she must have been at least seventy-five then but she was a queen. You've done well with it, Savich. Your brother the artist still pissed at you that she gave you the house?”

“Not too pissed now. He got over it.”

“I hate that modern stuff. Tell Ryan to go Impressionist, can't go wrong there. As for that dolphin of yours I bought, I still like it. Nice work. Oh yeah, take care of Sherlock.” He paused a moment, carefully wrapped his unlit cigar in a handkerchief and slid it into his jacket pocket, then walked to the front door. He lowered his voice. “I suppose you know what you're doing.” He nodded toward the living room where Sherlock was sitting still as a stone, still staring down at her shoes.

“I sure hope so.”

“It's been what? Five years since Claire died?”

“Nearly.”

“Sherlock is getting high marks in the Bureau.”

“She deserves them. I'm glad I was bright enough to latch onto her right out of Quantico. She's a plus to the Unit.”

“I imagine she's also other things to you, but that's none of my business. Make sure it remains none of my business. You take care of her, all right, Savich? And yourself. And call when you need backup.”

“Yes, sir, I will.” Savich paused just a moment, then turned, smiled, and strolled back into the living room, whistling.

She said immediately, “What dolphin was Mr. Maitland talking about?”

“I told you I whittled. The dolphin was a piece my sister stole out of here and put on consignment in the Lampton Gallery. She was all over me to quit the FBI when the piece sold. I didn't have the heart to tell her that my boss bought it.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Do you happen, by any chance, to have any more whittled pieces around here?”

“A couple.”

He was clearly uncomfortable. She smiled at him. “Have you ever carved teak?”

“Oh yes, but my favorite is maple.”

“You've been doing it a long time. Some of the scars on your hands look very old.”

“Since I was a kid.”

She said nothing more.

 

IT
was chilly in Boston, the sky a dull gray, the clouds fat with rain. The buildings looked old and tired, ready to fold in on themselves. Sherlock shivered in the small interrogation room, waiting for them to bring in Marlin Jones. She would have given about anything to be in San Francisco at that moment, where everything was at least two hundred years newer and the chances were really good it was sunny. Then she remembered what was in Boston and shook her head. Where was Marlin Jones? Naturally his lawyer, Big John Bullock, would be with him. She hoped she could talk him into leaving her alone with Marlin. Five minutes; that's all she wanted. Dillon was close by, speaking with the two homicide detectives in charge of Marlin Jones's case. Lots of people behind the two-way mirror would be watching and listening.

She heard leg shackles pounding hard. She looked up. Marlin stood in the doorway. He looked hard and tough, all gentle edges carved off him. He stared at her for a very long time, not moving, not saying a word. Then, finally, terrifyingly, he smiled. He lifted his shackled hands and waved his fingers at her. “Hey, Marty, how's your arm? I remember how that felt, throwing that knife at you, watching it hit you, dig right into your skin. It went in so easy. Still hurt from my knife, Marty?”

“No, Marlin, I'm just fine. How's your belly? Can you stand up straight yet? You got a big scar to show for my bullet?”

He grew utterly still. The vicious light in his eyes went out, leaving them dark and opaque. “You've still got that smart mouth on you, Marty. That wasn't an act you put on for me. You need a man to teach you how to behave.”

“Be quiet, Marlin,” Big John said, lightly touching his fingertips to Marlin's forearm. Marlin shook him off.

Big John never stopped looking at her. “Forget it, Agent Sherlock. There's no way I'll leave you alone with him.” He sat down.

“You sit down now too,” a sergeant said, shoving Marlin into a chair. “Don't move or I'll shackle you to the arms. I'm standing right behind you, boy. Just keep your hands on the tabletop. Don't even let your hair grow, you got that?”

Marlin didn't say a word. “He's got it,” said Big John. “Don't worry, Officer.”

“You and I did a lot of dancing when I was last in Boston, Marlin. You remember our last tango through your little maze, don't you?”

“I thought you were so pretty, so precious, but then you started saying those bad things. But you don't even have a husband, do you?”

“Nope, no husband.” She was holding her ballpoint pen, lightly tapping it on the tabletop. She said, “You never saw me before I came into the lumber store, did you, Marlin?”

“Me? See you?” He paused a moment, then smiled at her. “You think maybe that's possible?” Then he shrugged and looked down at his dirty fingernails, ignoring her.

“I don't think I ever would have dated you, Marlin. You want to know why? Even though you look pretty interesting on the outside, you look dead on the inside, really dead, like you've been dead for a very long time.”

“I'll ask you that question on the witness stand, Agent Sherlock,” Big John said as he laced his fingers over his stomach. “Good stuff. To think I nearly refused to let Marlin say anything to you. Do keep talking. No juror will convict this poor fellow. Talk about not responsible—”

She ignored Big John. She sat forward, laid down the pen, and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. It was Formica, scarred, stained. She wondered briefly when it had last been cleaned. “Have you ever seen me before, Marlin?”

He was staring at her. At that moment, she felt she could see his dead eyes looking through her skin down to her bones, looking at the blood pulsing through her veins. For an instant, she saw him dip his hands into her blood. She jumped, then forced herself to stillness again. He was scary with those eyes of his, but she was the one making him into more than he was. He was a monster, but she was making him into the Devil. Just let him stare. There was nothing he could do to her. He'd already tried and she'd won. She had to remember that. “Did you, Marlin? Ever see me before Boston?”

Slowly, he shook his head. “Nah. Maybe, but who cares? I still don't like you even though you're pretty. You're a real bitch, Marty.”

“I'd like you to tell me something, Marlin.”

“If I feel like it.”

“Remember when you were in the hospital I asked you to list the women you'd killed in San Francisco?”

“I remember.”

“You left out a woman named Belinda Madigan. Why? Why did you leave out her name?”

“Did she curse?”

“No. I've never cursed either, Marlin. Why did you leave out Belinda Madigan's name?”

He shrugged, his eyes narrowing now, and she saw into him, clearly. He knew he could play her, knew he was in control, knew he could string her until—until what? Had he ever seen her before? In San Francisco? Did he know who she was? Something was awfully wrong. She knew he was playing mind games with her, but she couldn't stop.

He grinned, showing all his beautiful straight white teeth. “I got trouble remembering sometimes, you know?”

“Maybe my father prosecuted you? He was an assistant D.A. in San Francisco seven years ago. His name is Corman Sherlock. Was that it, Marlin?”

“I heard about your daddy, heard he was a mean son of a bitch, heard he never cut anybody any slack, but I never met him.”

“Why did you kill Belinda Madigan?”

Big John roared out of his chair, knocking it over. The sergeant grabbed his arm, his gun out. The door to the interrogation room burst open, and three armed officers rushed into the room.

Sherlock stood up slowly. “It's all right, gentlemen. Mr. Bullock got a bit riled, didn't you, sir?”

“You've got no right to ask him questions like that, Agent Sherlock. If you do it again, Marlin won't say another word, the interview will be over, and there'll never be another one. You got that?”