Nate hadn’t died, I doubt she would have ever agreed to a pregnancy. She wouldn’t have wanted to ruin her figure.”
She was silent for several moments, then said in an emotionless voice, “It’s been too long even to remember clearly what one felt, what one believed. If someone murdered Nate, it wasn’t Johnny. I have no idea who it would have been.” She gave a short laugh. “I remember thinking if Johnny and Nate were gay, it would have been perfect for both of them. They were that close. You must excuse me now, Agent Savich. I’m needed in a meeting.” And without another word, she punched off.
Savich leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought. Was she telling the truth? Or did she not remember the events that clearly anymore? He’d bet his last dollar she remembered every detail of her own fourth birthday party. She was a fascinating woman, a woman still carrying a trail of bitterness after so many years. At her husband? He’d give that a yes. And Miranda. It was obvious to him she disliked Rebekah as well. Why? Was it again a case of simple jealousy because her husband loved his granddaughter so much? Maybe more than his wife? There had to be more. There was always more. He’d have to speak to Rebekah.
Savich looked up to see Denny Roper at his office door, grinning and holding another large brown paper–wrapped box. “Here you go, Agent Savich—just as you predicted.”
Savich led Denny and the agents who’d followed him to the CAU into the conference room. They gathered around the conference table, every eye on Savich as he cut off the wrapping paper, pulled out the third red box, and poured out the puzzle pieces. A couple of minutes later the new puzzle section was complete. Savich fitted the three sections together, and they stared down at an older big-bellied man wearing a purple Grateful Dead T-shirt and hanging out a window. Above him was a sign that read ALWORTH HOTEL. Flames were pouring out of the window, surrounding him, enveloping him. He was screaming.
23
ST. LUMIS
MONDAY
A man’s low voice brought her back to an aching head. Pippa listened but couldn’t make out his words, yet she knew instinctively to play dead. She slitted her eyes. Her vision was blurred at first, but she could see a man in a black hoodie standing near her, listening to someone talking from the cell phone in his hand. She could tell he was slightly built, his blue jeans loose, and his voice sounded on the young side, maybe thirties.
Turn around. Turn around so I can see you. But he didn’t. He paced away from her. He was wearing black high-top sneakers. Had she seen him during her walkabout yesterday? The jeans, the black hoodie. She didn’t think so. If she’d been alert, would she have noticed him, noticed something was off? She didn’t know. She held very still, eyes still slitted, and listened.
Then he raised his voice. “Yes, yes, I know.” She saw him shove his cell phone into his pants pocket. Before he turned back to her, he pulled up a handkerchief from around his neck and tied it over the lower part of his face.
Kill the fear and think cold, that’s what Hibbard, an instructor at Quantico, had preached. She heard Black Hoodie crunch over some broken glass, coming closer, until he stood over her. She imagined him studying her face. Don’t move. Play dead. Finally, she heard him step away and she slitted her eyes again. The only light came from weak sunlight through a high broken window. She gathered herself mentally and waited for him to come close again, but before she could act, he leaned down and whispered against her ear, “I saw you blink. So you’re playing possum?” He struck her with the butt of his gun behind her left temple. Pippa saw a flash of light, then nothing.
24
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CORRECTIONAL TREATMENT FACILITY
TEMPORARY PRISON OF MARSIA GAY AND VERONICA LAKE
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Veronica Lake pressed herself against the prison wall, out of the stiff, cold wind, trying to keep warm. It didn’t help. She was alone and cold, always cold. She looked out over the yard with its dozen or so prisoners, some sitting on benches and gossiping, trash-talking, some shooting basketballs at the ragged metal net. She hated and feared these women, at least the coarse, violent ones who preyed on the rest. The few who were nice tried to keep to