“Mrs. Clarkson, you said your husband never mentioned any of this to you?”
“Of course not.” Gemma’s phone buzzed. She picked up, said, “Yes, send Mr. Neilly in.” She rose. “I expect I won’t see you again, Rebekah.”
“And you don’t want to, do you, Grandmother?”
“Any more than you want to see me.”
Rebekah rose slowly to face her grandmother across her big mahogany desk. “Do you really think Nate’s death was an accident?”
“Of course it was an accident. Your precious grandfather was many things, but he wasn’t a murderer.” She looked over at the trio of old Dutch countryside paintings against the light gray wall. “Your grandfather loved Nate. Perhaps as much as he loved you. As for any stolen money—what you’re calling this Big Take—I suppose your grandfather could have stolen it. He had what I call flexible ethics.” Her face stiffened. “Unlike Nate, who, as I said, had no ethics at all. Now, you’ve put on quite a show for Agent Hammersmith. Are we finally done here?”
Rebekah nodded. “Thank you for seeing us.” She and Griffin walked to the door, her heels sinking into the gray carpeting.
Rebekah turned back to face her grandmother. “Do you know what I told Zoltan? If there is such a thing as the Big Take, I intend to let the money rot for eternity. As you said, I don’t need it, and the last thing I’d ever do is harm Grandfather’s legacy.”
They didn’t speak until they were in Griffin’s black Range Rover. He turned to her. “How do you feel?”
She fiddled with her seat belt, her hands trembling. Then she turned to him and smiled. “I still don’t know why she dislikes me so much, but I finally said what I needed to. Sorry we couldn’t get much out of her.”
Griffin started the Range Rover. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “Your seat belt still isn’t fastened.”
46
HOOVER BUILDING
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich punched off his cell when he saw Sherlock coming toward his office. He rose automatically at the look on her face.
“What’s up? You’re grinning like a fool. Is it something to do with the house?”
Sherlock laughed. “I’m grinning like a fool for two reasons. I spoke with Mrs. Mickelson—our logistics expert—about the home front. Dillon, she’s already looked at the fire damage with contractors and scheduled the cleanup in the kitchen and the repairs that won’t need permits on Friday. She wants to discuss the new flooring for the kitchen and what brand appliances we want. She even said we might be all finished by Christmas. Unbelievable, right? And my piano tuner says my Steinway will play like new once he’s done. So yay!
“Now, the second thing I’m grinning about is really unbelievable news.”
He grinned at her. “Lay it on me.”
“You remember when I spoke to Philly in forensics, told her it was super critical to run the DNA from the blood from Zoltan’s living room as quickly as possible? I nearly begged her on my knees, even said I’d offer you up as a bonus. Well, Philly rang me up, said she called in some favors and got the DNA results. You won’t believe this, Dillon: some of the blood belongs to Zoltan, and some of it belongs to a Gary Duvall, a thug out on parole for the past seven months.”
He whistled. “So someone sent a thug out to get rid of Zoltan, a loose end, but it didn’t work out well for him. Both of them wounded, but no reports of gunshot wounds at the local ERs or urgent care clinics. Well, we can put out a BOLO for Mr. Duvall. How about an apple pie for Philly?”
“No, a Christmas fruitcake, with lots of bourbon. Philly would love that. I already called in a BOLO on Duvall. Here’s his booking sheet. The guy’s thirty-four, Dillon, looks like a preacher, with the long Elmer Gantry black hair.” She added, “You know, Zoltan didn’t break any laws we know of. I hope she’s still alive.”
“I do, too.”
He watched Sherlock speaking on her cell as she walked back to her workstation, her step light. Was she thinking about a new double-door refrigerator or Duvall? Probably both; she was a born multitasker.
Savich made his own call to Sonja Grayson, Marsia Gay’s federal prosecutor. When he punched off his cell, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Veronica Lake was alive, but her surgeon still wasn’t optimistic. The knife had nicked her heart, one millimeter closer and she’d have died on the