Eleventh Hour
Page 58“Nah. If I wanted to interrogate you, I’d be so subtle, so consummately skilled that you wouldn’t even be aware of what I was doing.”
“I’ve also got two uncles who drill for oil in Alaska.”
“I’m sorry about your folks.”
“Thank you. I think they were both surprised when I ended up with a Ph.—Well, that’s not important.”
Yeah, right, he thought. “What do you think of Savich and Sherlock?”
“Sherlock showed me a photo of Sean. He’s adorable.”
“Sean is nearly a year old now, running all over the place, jabbering a language that Savich claims is an advanced code used in rocket science. I’m Uncle Dane, only it doesn’t come out that way.”
“They’ve been here less than twenty-four hours—it’s like I’ve known them for much, much longer. Sort of like you, only not exactly.”
“How long have you been an FBI agent?”
“Six years now. I came out of law school, went to a big firm, and hated it. I knew what I wanted to do.”
“A lawyer. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“You mean I don’t look slimy?”
“Close enough.” A lawyer, that was all she needed. Both a lawyer and an FBI agent. She’d nearly spilled the beans about her Ph.D. It looked like he didn’t even need to exert himself particularly to get information out of her.
Nick didn’t tell him anything more about herself, eventually just looked out her window at the passing vegetation that was getting greener as they gained altitude.
They finally arrived at Bear Lake. Set amid groves of pine trees, up a beautiful long sloping lawn that stretched up about fifty yards from Bear Lake, was a lovely old two-story building of weathered wood, each room featuring glass doors and a small terrace that gave onto the lake. There were several piers that went some fifty feet out into the calm blue water, where half a dozen canoes and several powerboats were tied up. Lovely white-painted chairs and benches were scattered over the manicured lawn. But it was winter, and even though it was in the high fifties today, no one was outside to appreciate it.
Nick stood still a moment, staring out toward the lake. It was as still as a postcard. She said, “I think this is a beautiful place, but somehow, I don’t know why, I just don’t like it.”
She turned, sped up, and entered the double glass doors, which led into a large lobby. In the center was a large wooden counter with offices behind it.
Behind the counter stood a stout woman with curly black hair and a very pretty smile. The name on her tag read Velvet Weaver. With the thin black mustache over her upper lip, she didn’t look much like a Velvet.
Dane introduced both himself and Nick, showed her his FBI shield.
“Oh dear, I hope there’s nothing wrong.”
“This is just routine, Ms. Weaver,” Dane said easily. “Just a couple of questions we hope you can help us with. Could you please tell us about one of your patient’s sons, a Mr. Weldon DeLoach?”
Velvet nodded. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. Yes, a lovely man, Mr. DeLoach, a wonderful son. You know, he’s this big TV writer in Hollywood and so it’s only the best for his father.”
“Oh no, Agent Carver, Weldon hasn’t been here for a week, at least not that I know of. Of course, he could have visited when I wasn’t on duty. I’ll ask around for you. I was wondering just the other day when he was coming to see his father again. Not that Captain DeLoach knows when his son is here, poor man. Dementia, you know, for about the last six years now. Is something wrong with Weldon?”
Dane shook his head. “Nothing at all. As I said, this is just routine, Ms. Weaver. Now, I understand that Captain DeLoach is a retired police officer?”
“Yes, he was the captain of this small-town police department in the central valley for nearly forty years.”
“Do you remember the name of the town?” Dane asked.
“Dadeville. It’s a good-sized town now. Not all that far from Bakersfield. Poor man, but he’s eighty-seven years old and human parts break down. It’s sad, but Captain DeLoach doesn’t seem to be in any particular distress about it. It’s usually that way. What you can’t remember doesn’t hurt you.”