Double Take
Page 90“After his nightmare last night, I’m thinking maybe he should stay with us tonight. It’s the strange-house-and-bed syndrome, no one his age does all that well with it.”
“Did my mom tell you that after she and Graciella took Sean to the zoo, they hit the crooked block of Lombard Street? Sean was so excited he wanted her to drive it three times.”
“Graciella told me. Your dad is taking him down to the courthouse tomorrow, introducing him to some of the clerks, interns, and judges. He even promised him he’d show him a crook or two—I think he meant a defense lawyer, but I’m not sure.”
She smiled as she reached out to touch his face. “Are you still freaked out about what happened at Tammerlane’s?”
“No. Sweetheart, I don’t want any of the others to know about what happened, okay?”
“Nor should they,” Sherlock said, and yawned. “I can’t begin to imagine what Director Mueller would say if he heard you’d cell-phoned a kidnapped psychic without the cell phone.”
Despite the strange bed and all the excitement, all three were soon asleep, Savich the last to fall.
Toward morning he dreamed of Kathryn Golden. She was alone again, in a closet, bound to a chair, her hair hanging over her face. She seemed to be asleep. He wanted to speak to her, but somehow no words came from his mouth or into his mind. She never stirred. He came abruptly awake, his heart pounding. What had that been about? He looked at the digital clock next to the bed. It was nearly five o’clock.
He pulled on his pants, picked up MAX, and headed down-stairs to the Sherlock gym. He drew up short, seeing Cheney sleeping on the narrow cot, sprawled on his back, arms and legs over the sides of the bed, deeply asleep. No way was he going to wake him. He went to his father-in-law’s study, and set to work. He wanted to know more about the Pallacks’ murder in 1977 and all about the man who’d butchered them, Courtney James. He frankly didn’t think he’d find anything useful, but who knew what might pop up?
CHAPTER 47
SHERLOCK HOUSE
Wednesday morning
Savich handed Sean a piece of his freshly baked croissant, which he’d smeared with a big dollop of strawberry jam. Sean grinned up at Isabel and said, “My mama says you make the best croxants in the known world.”
“Yes, indeed I do,” Isabel said and ruffled the little boy’s dark hair. “You look just like your daddy and that’s a fine thing. He’s so handsome one of the neighbor women said she wanted to take over my job for a while so she could get close to him, maybe steal him away from my little Lacey.”
“Who’s little Lacey?”
Sean shook his head. “No, Isabel, Mama’s name is Sherlock. Everybody calls her Sherlock, except me, and I call her Mama.”
Ruth frowned as she stifled a yawn. “I didn’t even know her name was Lacey. Well, how about that, speak of the sweetie and Sean’s mama. Dix, meet Lacey.”
Dix looked up from his cereal bowl. He looked tired, his eyes dark with shadows. “Hi, Lacey. No, that doesn’t feel right—it’s got to be Sherlock.”
“Or Mama,” Sean said.
Sherlock was wearing her usual FBI uniform of black pants, white blouse, short black boots, her SIG clipped to her belt. Her curly hair shone brightly in the morning sunlight flooding through the kitchen windows, thick and red as Isabel’s lipstick. Her blue eyes were as bright—a soft summer blue. She kissed Sean’s cheek, nipped her husband’s earlobe.
Ruth said, “Hey, where are Cheney and Julia?”
Isabel said, looking down at the fork in her hand, “Julia told me she had to talk to Cheney, so she went down to the gym. I look down a big plate of croissants and a pot of coffee a half hour ago and from the sound of it, they were having a nice full-bodied, loud, ah”—Isabel shot Sean a look— “discussion.”
“Well, nothing really, Sean,” Isabel said. “It’s more a discussion, like I said.”
“A full-bodied discussion,” Ruth said.
Isabel cleared her throat. “Maybe they’re going to work out a bit.”
Dix smiled into his orange juice.
Sean said, “When Mama’s mad at Papa, she jumps on him.”