The FBI Thrillers Collection (154 page)

“Whatever you may believe about my personal ethics and behavior, none of it concerns you unless I did something criminal, which I did not. Dix, you are the sheriff of Maestro. Everyone says we are lucky to have you. Well, prove it. Find out for all of us who killed two citizens of our town in under a week.”

“You forgot Walt McGuffey, that kind old man who never harmed a soul in his life.”

“I heard about him. You want to lay the old man’s death at my door, too? Fact is, I didn’t know him well, he meant nothing to me. Why would I kill him?”

“His house is on the way to Lone Tree Hill and the other entrance to Winkel’s Cave. Ruth’s car was hidden in his shed. That’s why someone murdered him.”

“I don’t know anything about her car! I haven’t seen Walt in months.”

Dix said, “When did you last see Erin alive?”

“On Thursday afternoon, at Stanislaus. She was working hard rehearsing for the upcoming concert, and we had no plans to see each other over the weekend.”

“But you did see her on Friday, didn’t you, Gordon? You took her to Winkel’s Cave, to murder her.”

Gordon looked like he might faint. He paled, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Ruth stuck her coffee cup under his nose. “Drink.”

Gordon was babbling now, waving his hands at them like a drunk conductor. “I didn’t, really, there’s no way I could do anything like that. I didn’t—”

Dix splayed his hands on his seat cushion and leaned toward his uncle. “Let me tell you what you’re going to do for us, Gordon. You’re going to give us written permission to search your home, your office, and your studio. If you cooperate, we’ll do it discreetly as part of the investigation. If not, we’ll get search warrants and post flyers on every tree on campus about the women you slept with, then subpoena each of them to come back to Stanislaus and talk to us—and the board of directors.

“You know now that you can’t expect to keep your affair with Erin under wraps for long, but they might let you keep your job, or help you get another one somewhere, if you tell them yourself. Think about it.

“And you’re going to tell us all about your other affairs—the names of the students and how we can reach them. We can turn the records at Stanislaus upside down to find them if we have to. Don’t make us do that, Gordon.”

Ruth pulled out a pen and a small notebook. “All right, I’m ready, Dr. Holcombe. Tell us about your talented Lolitas.”

“It wasn’t like that! You make them sound like teenagers, and they weren’t. They were all accomplished musicians. No, it was never like that. I loved all of them, in their time.”

“In their time,” Savich repeated slowly, his eyes steady on Gordon’s face. “Who lasted longest, Dr. Holcombe?”

Gordon froze. “I don’t want to talk about this. Dix, make them stop. I haven’t done anything.”

“Ruth has her pen ready, Gordon. Give her names. Who was before Erin Bushnell?”

There was a moment of tense silence. Gordon drew in a deep breath and said to Ruth, “Before Erin, there was Lucy Hendler, pianist, lovely long reach, incredible technique and passion, perfect pitch.”

A litany of attributes, nothing about Lucy Hendler the woman, the individual. “What were the dates?”

“What do you mean, dates?”

Ruth said, “Dr. Holcombe, surely Lucy wasn’t all that long ago.”

“She performed Scarlatti exquisitely in a recital a year ago February. She got a standing ovation, difficult to do, let me tell you, in an audience of accomplished musicians. She told me later she actually hated Scarlatti, that he was dated and boring, far too predictable. I thought it amusing and sweet, her lack of historical context. I mean, how could anyone dismiss Domenico Scarlatti, for God’s sake? She was only twenty-one. What did she know?”

Ruth said, “So you booted her because she wasn’t a Scarlatti aficionada?”

“No, of course not. Our relationship deepened. I remember we got a little cross with each other before she graduated. It was May Day and we had a Maypole on campus. I thought it would be lovely if we had a choral group seated around the Maypole singing Irish folk songs, and other students could dance around the pole, dressed up in peasant costumes. She laughed at me. Can you imagine that?”

“Where is Lucy Hendler, Dr. Holcombe?”

“She graduated in June. She was accepted into our performing graduate program, but she didn’t stay.”

“Let me guess, she changed her mind after the Maypole.”

“No, I’m sure that had nothing to do with her decision to leave Stanislaus. She had a friend up in New York she went to visit and decided to stay. Last I heard she was enrolled at Juilliard.”

Ruth nodded. “And do you feel responsible for Stanislaus losing a graduate student?”

Dix kept his mouth shut. Ruth was handling this like a pro, reeling Gordon in, getting him to spill information Dix doubted he’d ever be able to get out of him.

Gordon went on to tell them about Lindsey Farland, a student about two and a half years ago, a soprano with incredible range he met when she sang the role of Cio-Cio-San, the betrayed young wife in
Madama Butterfly.
She hardly looked the part, since she was black, but when he heard her sing and she hit the high C in “Un bel dì,” he fell in love.

“That is one of my favorite arias,” Ruth said, and everyone at the table knew she meant it. She paused, then asked, “Where is Lindsey now?”

“I don’t know. She graduated two years ago. She hasn’t kept in touch.”

“It won’t take us long to find her.”

Ruth got six names out of him but he remembered few facts about the women. His recollection of the dates was also sketchy. “I can’t remember anymore, Agent Warnecki. Wait, wait, there was one more. Her name was Kirkland. Her first name was unusual, something like Anoka. And then, there was . . . No, that isn’t at all relevant. Look, I’ll need to look through some school records, find out what her first name is exactly.”

It was Sherlock who nailed him. “Tell us who you’re leaving out, Dr. Holcombe. Why don’t you want to tell us about her? Who is she?”

Dix shook his head. “I know why he doesn’t want to tell us. She’s local, isn’t she, Gordon? She’s from Maestro.”

“No, there isn’t anyone else. Now, Dix, I assume you’ll be calling these ladies to verify what I’ve told you. May I contact them first to make it less alarming for them?”

“Not yet, Gordon. I’ll be with you when I decide it’s the right time to make any calls.

“Now, I want you to stay here and think about the woman whose name you’re not telling us. Of course she’s local. Is she married? Did she swear you to secrecy? I want her name, Gordon. You’ve got until tomorrow morning or I’m coming after you.”

“There isn’t another damned woman!”

Dix said flatly, “You give me her name or I’ll arrest you.”

“How can you say that, Dix, for pity’s sake, I’m Christie’s uncle!”

Dix slowly straightened. “Maybe that’s why I’m making the mistake of not arresting you right now, Gordon, and taking your Italian-suited self to my nice warm jail. As for now, B.B. will keep an eye on you. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

 

“I NEED A shower and a shave before we head over to Dix’s house.” But Savich didn’t move to get up. He nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, loving the feel of her hair against his face.

“Since I don’t have any bones, you can go first.” She bit him lightly on his shoulder, kissed him, then breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of him. “I’m thinking maybe I’m not through with you yet.”

“You think?”

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was doing stretches, her mind automatically working the angles, thinking about the people they’d interviewed, wondering if Gordon Holcombe had told them everything.

She smiled when she heard Dillon singing “Baby, the Rain Must Fall” in the shower in his beautiful baritone. She was about to join him, to see if he was interested in some more quality time, when his cell phone played “Georgia on My Mind.” She picked it up.

“Hello?”

No answer, only the sharp sound of breathing.

“Who is this?”

“My oh my, what an unexpected surprise this is. My lucky day.”

A woman—no, a girl, a bouncy young voice. “Claudia? Is this Claudia Grace?”

“You win the prize, girlfriend. I was actually calling to speak to your man—you know, get him all hot and bothered with some of my great phone sex, but hey, I can do him later. It’ll be fun talking to you. Cool name, Claudia Grace, don’t you think? Maybe I should go ahead and marry Moses and make it legal. He’s a cutie, no doubt about that, but the thing is, he has a tough time getting it up, even when I walk around in the buff for him. I fed him some of that Viagra, but even that didn’t stiffen him up. So he got bored and went out and got this phone to call you guys with. I figured why should he have all the fun?”

Sherlock heard voices in the background. So they weren’t driving around this time. Her fingers tightened on the phone. “Where are you, Claudia?”

Sherlock heard the shower turn off. She walked to the bathroom door, opened it to see Dillon stepping out of the shower stall. He frowned at the phone at her ear.

She mouthed,
Claudia.

He nearly dove at her, his hand out to take the phone, but she shook her head and mouthed,
Not yet.

Dripping, he walked past her to MAX, pressed several keys, and plugged a wireless earphone into his ear.

“Where am I? Question is, where are you guys? Moses says you’re hiding from us. Are you?”

“No, Claudia, not in this lifetime.”

“Come on now, sweet cakes, how is Moses going to give you the business if you disappear, and we can’t find you? Hey, is your man there? We could get together if you’re close by.”

“Sure, my man’s right here.”

“Well now, that’s good because Moses wants him close. Did Moses tell you what he’s planning for you?”

“I really don’t care, Claudia. Where are you and Moses, by the way? Under an extra-big rock so you can hide together?”

“We don’t do no rocks, you little bitch. We’re in a nice big Hilton, in a suite. I can hardly throw a football across the living room it’s so big. I’m going to make you scream through that smart mouth of yours. I told your gorgeous husband that I’d have you watch while I screw his brains out. Then he can watch what I do to you, that brain of his all mushy. Every man I do ends up grinning like his brains have melted.”

“I’ve got to tell you, Claudia, I’m surprised you’re that experienced with men at your tender age. Shouldn’t you be in school learning how to read? How old are you, fifteen?”

“I can read, bitch, and I’m eighteen.”

“Yeah, right. From what I’m hearing you sound barely fifteen. I’ll bet your mama had you when she was real young, and you ended up on the street, and that’s where Moses found you. And here you are, a little girl acting all grown up, hooked up with that creepy old man.”

“Shut up! You won’t think you’re so smart when Moses gets to you.”

“Okay, if he didn’t find you shooting up on the street, then how’d you meet him, Claudia? He follow you home, maybe butcher your mama?”

“I’m not fifteen and my mama was over forty when she died, you hear me? She was smart, a schoolteacher, but some tattoo-tongued gangbangers raped and beat her because she wouldn’t screw their leader. She died.”

“I’m really sorry about your mother, Claudia. You said she was a schoolteacher?”

“Yeah, a math teacher, and she was real smart. I was sorry when she died, I really was. I mean, she could have flushed me down the john, right? But she didn’t. You hear me, bitch?”

“You’re screaming so of course I hear you. You’re out of control, like a little kid throwing a tantrum. Why would she have flushed you? Where was your daddy?”

“My mama slept with this jerk who left her. There wasn’t any daddy.”

“Where’d you learn to talk so dirty, Claudia? From your mama or from that saliva-dripping old man you’re with now?”

“My mama didn’t cuss!”

“After she died, what did you do?”

“I took off. I wasn’t going to let those freak social service people take me. And I picked up Moses, not the other way around. He was standing over this filthy old tramp, blood all over his hands and his old army fatigues, and those black boots he wears, and he was laughing his head off. I asked him why he beat the bum like that, and he told me the guy wouldn’t share his Ripple. I figured someone like that could protect me, so I offered him some of my bourbon. All I remember is waking up in a motel room in the morning.”

“What were you doing in Atlanta, Claudia? Running from juvie?”

“Nah, it wasn’t Atlanta, but what do you care? I’m going to hurt you, lady, more now for dissing me and my mama.”

Sherlock laughed. “Sure you are, Claudia. You sound like one of those playground bullies who’s all mouth. Why don’t you tell me where you are, and we can get together and talk things over before Moses gets you killed, or you end up in a state prison until your hair turns gray?”

“Next time we get together, I’m going to pull your tongue out.”

“Now there’s a real grown-up threat. You’re young enough to still have a chance, Claudia. Stay out there and you’ll end up a drugged-out hooker. All that booze will make you look as old as Moses in a few years. Is that what you want for yourself?”

“I’ll tell you what I want, bitch. I’ll tell Moses to do you first, to do whatever he wants, just for me. And I’ll be there to watch.”

Sherlock heard a man’s voice, and a scuffle. “What are you doing, Claudia? Who is that?”

“Don’t you hit me, Moses!”

There was a crackling sound, and the phone went dead.

Savich looked at her, watched her punch off the phone. “I’m going to call the Hoover Building, see if they’ve located these two specimens.”