"I was there when Ollie spoke to the chef-Carlysle is his name, Carlysle Boyd-and he said he always prepares Senator Hoffman's shrimp personally, and he did this time as well. He said he thought it was for the senator's usual order. The batter was mixed by one of the sous chefs, Jay Luckoff's his name, from the usual ingredients as far as he knew. Luckoff said he let the batter sit because he was preparing three other dishes at the same time, so anyone could have stirred something into it.
"Ollie's doing an in-depth check on Luckoff, nothing so far. Elliot's doing checks on all the other kitchen employees. One of the busboys has a few juvenile offenses, nothing horrendous, joy riding in a stolen car, some marijuana. He was shaking so hard when Ollie spoke to him, Ollie doesn't think he could have pulled it off.
"To be honest here, Dillon, it could be any one of them. Ollie's setting all of them up for lie detector tests."
"That'd be too easy."
"Show me some optimism here, boss."
"All right then, I'm hoping by tomorrow we'll have nailed him," he said as he smoothly swung around a big black SUV.
Ruth felt the wind tear through her hair. "Let's hope." She laughed. "Ah, this is wonderful. I'm thinking I'll talk Dix into a Porsche. What are my chances?"
Savich shot her a grin. "I'd like to hear what he says."
"Are you going back up to Connecticut?"
"Tomorrow, if Mr. Maitland agrees. I want to see the results of the lie detector tests, use them to recreate where everyone was in the kitchen." Savich shrugged. "I've got some serious thinking to do."
Back in his office, Savich shut his door, turned off his cell, pulled off his tie, and sat down. He closed his eyes and he concentrated. Nikki, David nearly died today. I really do need you.
He pictured her from the photo Senator Hoffman had showed him and Sherlock. A solid woman, she had thoughtful brown eyes, "handsome" was the word, he supposed. She looked fit, a gym lover probably, lightly tanned, her hair beautifully styled and red as a sunset. And an appealing smile, at least in the photo. She stood alone, a big star jasmine bush trellised behind her, white blooms so thick they nearly covered the trellis. He pictured her, tried to feel her. Nikki, please come. There's trouble here, and I know you can help me.
He waited, tried to relax, and opened his hands on his desk. He made her face as clear in his mind as he could, as if she were right in front of his nose.
He felt nothing at first, and then it seemed her face was floating, but it wasn't clear anymore. It was swallowed up by what seemed like a fog, cold and gray. Suddenly the fog was churning in front of him. It seemed substantial, and yet he knew he could put his hand through it, knew it would be wet if he did, but she wouldn't really be there to grasp his hand. There would be nothing. Nikki, make yourself clear.
The swirling fog thinned, and he saw a vague outline, blurred, then clearer, but never clear enough, as if she were a prisoner behind the thick veil, unable to come through. He concentrated hard on trying to see her face, but there was nothing but a vague outline he could hardly make out. He thought he heard her voice, faint and hollow, her words indistinct and distant, as if she were retreating, farther and farther away.
Savich's eyes opened slowly. He looked at Dane Carver, who stood in the doorway of his office, stone still, watching him. Dane asked calmly, "You get anything from the wife?"
Had Dane knocked and he hadn't heard him? Very probably. Savich had to grin. There was no doubt in his mind the whole unit knew now about Senator Hoffman's dead wife. There was no doubt in his mind either that not a word about it would get out. "No, well, she couldn't seem to come through to me. Very weird, actually. What's going on, Dane?"
"You need to switch gears back to Connecticut. Maitland just told me the top-dog director of Schiffer Hartwin, Adler Dieffendorf, and one of his subordinates, Werner Gerlach, marketing and sales, are on their way here from Germany."
"Isn't that a nice surprise? It seems this is very important to them if they don't trust their lawyers to handle it. When are they arriving?"
"Tomorrow afternoon at JFK."
Savich picked up his cell from his desktop. "I'll give Sherlock and Bowie a heads-up. Things are going to happen fast up there now."
31
STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT
Early Wednesday evening
"Hot diggity," Sherlock said. "The mountain's coming to Mohammed. I can't believe it. I've got Bowie right here, I'll tell him." Sherlock rang off, gave Bowie a fat grin. "Guess what? Dillon told me the big German guns are coming here, all the way from Hartwin, Germany, the managing director, Dr. Adler Dieffendorf, and Mr. Werner Gerlach, director of pharma marketing and sales."
Bowie made a victory fist. "Here I was picturing us going to Germany and having them slam the door in our faces, the German cops kissing us off, and here they come, right into our open arms."
Erin was spooning taco meat from a skillet into a bowl on the table. Her heart was pounding hard, but she tried to look only mildly interested. She had to be cool, had to keep her excitement under wraps, well hidden from these two pairs of sharp eyes and sharper brains. "That's great, right? And even better, they'll speak English."
Sherlock smiled at her. "How do you know that, Erin?"
Erin's spoon dashed taco meat onto the table. "Oh, rats, look what I did. How do I know they speak English? Well, all the higher-ups in the big corporations in Europe speak English. They'd have to, wouldn't they? I thought everybody knew that."
"I didn't," Bowie said, and helped her spoon up the meat. "Is the placemat clean?"
"Yes. In any case, don't forget the five-second rule. Georgie," she called out, "come to dinner."
"I didn't know that either," Sherlock said. She knew something was up here, knew it to her red toenails.
Erin gave them both a distracted smile. "Now you won't underestimate us private investigators in the future. We know lots of stuff." She turned to Georgie, who looked adorable, Sherlock thought, dressed in jeans and a red, white, and blue T-shirt that had Wonder Woman emblazoned across the chest. "Hey, kiddo, your hands clean?"
Georgie held up her hands, palms out.
"Good. Tacos, Georgie. You said you could match me. Come and prove it. You really think you can eat a dozen?"
Georgie came skipping into the small dining room. "Not twelve, Erin. Daddy can't even eat twelve tacos."
"So now you're trying to welsh on the bet?"
Bowie looked from one to the other. "You've got a bet? Twelve tacos?"
"We didn't actually specify a number," Erin said, and motioned Georgie to her chair. "You get your homework done, sweetie?"
Bowie did a double take. He watched his daughter slip into her seat, shake her head at Erin. "You're nagging, Erin. I got nearly all of it done, but Daddy needs to help me with the grammar part. We have to put in commas and periods. Okay, Daddy? After dinner?"
Bowie nodded. Georgie had been living with Erin for only two days, and here Erin was acting like her mother? The thought stopped him cold. He had to bring this case to a close so he could get his daughter out of here, away from Erin. He didn't care that Erin Pulaski was smart and nice and sincerely liked his daughter, and liked him too, he thought; there was no way he was traveling down that road again, not after Beth. His brain froze as it always did when he thought of Beth, like he'd stepped to the edge of a black hole and leaped back. At least the memories no longer burst through into his dreams to give him nightmares. And that made him think of Krissy, which was odd. He and Krissy had been friends, with benefits, for nearly four months, but neither of them wanted anything more, at least he had thought that. He said easily to his daughter, "I got a call from Krissy today. She sends you her love. She wants to bring you something from Harrods in London. Is there anything in particular you'd like?"
"What's Harrods?"
"It's a big, gorgeous department store," Erin said, "with more cool stuff than you can imagine, including this huge floor just for food, with everything from candy to filet migno
n. Me, I love their stuffed olives."
"Okay, tell Krissy we'd really like some olives. I don't know about stuffing them, though."
Bowie's eyebrow shot up. "What is this, Georgie? You're ordering food all the way from England? Erin doesn't have enough to share? You won't be here long enough to worry about that. Glynn will be better soon and home again. Don't forget, Erin has that big important client, right, Erin?"
Does he suspect something isn't right, like Sherlock? She stared down at her taco, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Sherlock said when Erin didn't reply, "You remember, Erin, your case dealing with drugs, right?"
Erin said, "You can tell Krissy any of the candies would be great, okay, Georgie? Candy will travel better than stuffed olives. Whatever she brings will make you dance on the ceiling, something I haven't yet figured out how to do. Big case? Well, really, it's not big at all. No, it's not about drugs."
Hmm. Sherlock said to Georgie, who was all ears, "By any wild chance did you hear us talking before dinner?"
"Well, maybe I heard some things, Aunt Sherlock."
Bowie nearly dropped the handful of lettuce he was spreading on top of his taco. Aunt Sherlock?
Georgie continued, "You know, I might have heard some stuff when I got real close to the door. Erin's walls aren't very thick, you know. It's an apartment, and Daddy says apartments have crappy construction."
"Well, I didn't say exactly that," Bowie said. "Don't say 'crap,' Georgie."
"I didn't say 'crap' exactly, Daddy."
"Close enough. Whatever."
Georgie gave her father a sweet smile and continued, "Erin knows lots of neat things. She's known people in Europe speak English for years and years. I think I knew it too."
God bless this wonderful child, Erin thought, as she spooned taco meat into a tortilla shell, carefully handed it to her, and waved at the bowls of lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese. "Add whatever you want. Years and years? That makes me sound about a hundred."
"No, Grandma's about a hundred," Georgie said, and sprinkled cheddar on her taco.
Bowie was looking at her, too many questions in his eyes, and so Erin proceeded to lie, clean as a whistle. "It wasn't years and years ago. When I was twenty I took off a year to bum around Europe. I began to notice that business people, especially in international companies, sometimes spoke three, four different languages, English included. I decided it must be a requirement for upward mobility." She never raised her head, concentrated on her own taco. "Except in France, of course. I think if you speak English in France, you can be guillotined as a traitor."
Bowie was diverted, just as she'd intended. He laughed, couldn't help it. "Sherlock, should I send Dolores Cliff back to JFK tomorrow to fetch the two Schiffer Hartwin gentlemen?"
She said, "It appears they're going to control our access to them much better than that. Dillon told me they're being transported here in a proper big limo, one of those eighteen-foot jobbers, I bet. I wouldn't be surprised if the lawyers will already be in the limo to brief the bigwigs on the drive here to Stone Bridge."
Bowie said, "I'd sure like to be in that limo with them. I'm thinking they've got to be really concerned to come here themselves to try to defuse this."
Sherlock said easily, "I hope they're really scared. Dillon called and got the DOJ to look into the Culovort shortage, so things may get even scarier for them sooner than they know."
"We could phone Jane Ann, see if her husband will be with the lawyers in the limo. You think she'd tell us, Sherlock?"
Erin? What did she have to do with Jane Ann Royal? He said, "I want to hear about your meeting with her, Sherlock," Bowie said, and shot Erin a look.
"Erin and I met with her this afternoon. We'll tell you all about it after dinner, Bowie, after you've helped Georgie with her commas and periods."
Sherlock continued, "I'm wondering what their lawyers will be cooking up for Dieffendorf and Gerlach to tell us."
Georgie said, "Lawyers are a pain in the ass."
"What?" Bowie said, his second taco halfway to his mouth.
"I've heard you say that, Daddy, several times. You were pretty pissed off."
" You listen to me, kiddo, you do not say that word either. Nor do you say 'crap.' Okay? It's not polite, particularly for a kid. You've got to be eighteen before you can say those things."
"All the kids at school say them, and lots more stuff. I even heard my teacher tell her ex-husband to piss off just outside the classroom. All of us heard her. And he was really mad. He stomped off down the hall, we heard that too. When Mrs. Reems came back in, her face was red."
Bowie looked ready to laugh and yell at the same time.
Erin took Georgie's face between her hands. "Listen to me, Small Person, your dad's right. Eighteen is the magic number in your future. Until you're eighteen, you have to try to have the cleanest mouth in Stone Bridge, okay?"
"But all the kids talk like that, Erin, it's no big deal."
Bowie said, "Georgie, if you talk like that, everyone will think I'm a lousy parent."
Georgie's lower lip fell.
"All the kids, Georgie?" Sherlock asked. "Surely not. Sean doesn't, nor do his friends." She crossed her fingers. He was two years younger.
Georgie nodded vigorously.
Bowie said quietly, "Georgie Loyola Richards, you will not say bad words," and he looked at her straight on, in silence.
Georgie took a big bite of her taco and chewed hard.
"Her middle name is Loyola?" Sherlock grinned at the little girl. "I like it."
"It's was for her grandfather, Sean O'Grady, and yes, he graduated from Loyola, valedictorian of his class. Story goes he downed six shots of Irish whiskey and passed out in a closet."
Erin said, "I remember when I was Georgie's age, there was a Mr. O'Grady-he lived one street over-but he was a gambler and a bad one. He had what my dad called negative luck. He pawned his wife's wedding ring and the poor woman thought she'd lost it. She hired me to find it and I tracked down the pawn stub in Mr. O'Grady's dresser drawer. Mrs. O'Grady didn't speak to him for months, as I recall."
Everyone laughed, and the tension disappeared.
Sherlock started telling them about the case in Washington, D.C.
Georgie, all ears, ate three tacos.
32
It was Sherlock who tucked Georgie in that evening and read her the next chapter of her Nancy Drew mystery. Erin and Bowie cleaned up the dishes in Erin's small kitchen.
Erin cupped her hand to her ear.
"What?" Bowie asked.
"I can't seem to hear Sherlock reading to Georgie. And her bedroom is only one crappy-thin poorly constructed wall away."
Bowie vigorously dried a cup. "Sorry about that, but you know it's usually true."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're off the hook." She tossed him a dry dish towel.
Bowie stared at a wet glass. "Sherlock was out of line to take you to see Jane Ann Royal."
She grinned at him. "Is that snark I hear? Why would you care if Sherlock took me along?"
"You're not FBI, Erin. You're a civilian. She shouldn't have taken you anywhere related to the investigation, and this interview was official."
Erin threw a handful of soapy water at him.
"Hey!" He wiped off his face and frowned at her.
"Sorry, but you deserved that, Bowie Richards. I'm good, and you're supposed to have the brains to know to use good people whenever you can. You and your precious FBI-like Agent Cliff got all that much information out of Andreas Kesselring?"
How did she know about that? He had no smart reply ready. Because he wasn't stupid, Bowie shut up. He dried another glass. "I was with Agent Kesselring most of the day."
"If I tell you about our meeting with Mrs. Royal, will you tell me about what you and Agent Kesselring did?"
He dried two plates before agreeing.
After Erin told him her impressions of Jane Ann Royal and what the woman had said, with many questions
thrown in by Bowie along the way, he nodded. "So both you and Sherlock think she knows quite a bit about what her husband's doing, and she's just playing dumb. Sort of like Madoff's wife did a couple of years back?"
"I don't know how much Jane Ann actually knows, but I'll tell you, she puts on a good act, all straightforward and open, but she knows more than she lets on. And Sherlock, the consummate professional, agrees with me."
"All right, all right, I'll drop that if you will. The tennis pro, did you speak to him?"
"No, he just waved and left. Mrs. Royal said she hadn't decided to sleep with him yet. Evidently he wouldn't be the first tennis instructor she's bedded. She likes them young and hard. She said her husband prefers women nearer to his own age, like Carla Alvarez. An interesting reversal. I wonder if she's right. His name is Mick Haggarty and he really wants to be an actor. If what she says is true, he may not know much."
"Neither you nor Sherlock trust her, either. We'll see. I'll check out the tennis pro."
"Mick Haggarty. He's a tennis pro at the Glenis Springs Country Club right down the road."
Bowie nodded, put another glass in the cupboard. He was building a military-straight line of glasses.
She said, "Georgie was telling me about your long commute, how you get home tired a lot of nights. She said you were thinking about leaving Stone Bridge and moving to New Haven."
"The commute's not all that bad, really, but she's right, I am thinking about putting my house up for sale." He paused, frowned. "I don't know how she knew that."
"The kid's precocious, reads people, particularly you, very well, and she's a great eavesdropper. Actually, now that I remember back, I started early as well. I was a champ by Georgie's age. No one said anything I didn't pay attention to."