Tail Spin
Page 72“He didn’t help the terrorists! Maybe some of it got to them, but the point is, he didn’t realize . . . It was all that woman’s fault. She seduced him, twisted him up.” He stopped, shook his head. “Jean David was so young, so innocent until she got hold of him.”
Jean David Barbeau was twenty-six when he drowned. Savich and Sherlock remained quiet.
Pierre said, “At least it wasn’t raining last night. Dreadful weather here, simply dreadful.”
“Your English is excellent, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said.
“It should be. My father was always traveling here to the States with me and my mother in tow. He consulted with Amtrak, you know, and we lived here for long stretches of time. I attended American private schools, attended Harvard for two years before going back to France to finish my education.”
“And your wife?”
“She, too, traveled widely with her family. She is one of those few people who can pick up a language like that.” He snapped his fingers and looked sour. “She speaks five languages. Five. I’ve always believed three languages quite enough, but five? It’s a bit over the top, I think.”
Savich, who spoke only English, said, “So that’s why Jean David was born in New Jersey. You are travelers like your parents.”
“If you must know, we were visiting friends at their beach house in Cape May. Jean David came three weeks early and so he is an American citizen, something we never intended or wanted.”
At that meaty insult, Sherlock said, “As it turned out, it might have been better for everyone if Jean David wasn’t born here. The CIA would have been pleased if he’d joined his father at the French National Police, as well, Mr. Barbeau.”
Savich said, “We would like to speak to your wife.”
He started to protest, then simply turned and yelled, “Estelle!”
Mrs. Barbeau, covered from neck to mid-calf in a thick white robe, her hair wrapped up in a white towel, appeared at the end of the hall. She’d known they were there, naturally, but she’d been staying back. “Go away,” she called out. “I am not dressed. It is Saturday morning. Leave us alone. We have nothing more to say to you.”
Sherlock called out, “I understand you and your husband visited the Penyon Gallery last evening. What did you think of the special exhibit?”
“It was pitiful. We saw nothing to interest us. I am not feeling well. I will not come any closer, I do not wish for you to become as ill as I am.”
“Your illness, it came on very quickly,” Sherlock said. “Since you were all about town last night.”
“Yes, it came on quickly. Go away.”
Savich stepped closer to Pierre, clamped a hand around his right arm, to check once and for all that he was not the one Nurse Louise had shot. He felt thick material, but no bandage. Pierre didn’t jerk away, he very slowly pulled away. Had he flinched at all? Savich knew he’d tightened, he’d felt his muscles tense. Perhaps a very minor wound, Savich thought again, if Pierre was the man Nurse Louise shot.
Why couldn’t anything be easy?
“Not particularly,” Estelle said. “It was all what I call commercial oatmeal—nothing of interest or import. Go away. Leave us alone. I am ill.”
Savich said pleasantly, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Barbeau, why don’t you join us in the living room. We will be brief and we promise to stay three feet from you so you won’t have to worry about being arrested for infecting an agent.”
Estelle made no pretense of civility. She came to stand in the living room doorway, but no closer. It was true, she didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was very pale. And, Sherlock thought, that bathrobe was very thick for June. Could it have been a woman on those hospital tapes?
Estelle repeated what her husband had told them, probably because she’d listened to their conversation, Sherlock thought cynically.
Finally, Pierre threw up his hands. “Will you tell us what has happened?”
Savich said, looking Pierre right in the eyes, “A man pretending to be a physician tried to kill Dr. MacLean last night around midnight.”
A moment of silence, then Estelle shrugged. “It is a pity, and a pity he failed.
“Oh, I see. You believe my husband is the one who tried to kill that miserable excuse for a doctor? For a friend? I will tell you, he did not. We were together—all night. I want you to leave.”
Sherlock eyed Estelle’s right arm. There could easily be a bandage beneath her robe. No, surely it was a man on the tapes—the walk, the posture, surely, but he wore loose clothing. Estelle was nearly as tall as her husband.
Savich wanted to go back to bed and sleep for a few hours or have Sherlock seduce him again. Both, actually.
There was light traffic on Wisconsin. Savich’s foot went down heavy on the Porsche’s gas pedal. Then he sighed, slacked off a bit, sighed again.
“You want to know what I’m thinking?”
She touched his hand, felt his fingers slowly relax. “Tell me.”
“This persistence—obsession—you said. I simply can’t see anyone we’ve spoken to being that dogged, that determined to kill Dr. MacLean. Maybe we should speak to Lomas Clapman, maybe he murdered a dozen people and Dr. MacLean’s forgotten about it.”
“I think our killer is right under our noses. We’re missing something and that’s because we’re tired. It’s been a wild week, Dillon. We’ve got to spend some time putting everything we know down on a timeline—and we’ve got to take some time to let it percolate.”
Savich thought she was right.
She said, “I’m thinking we could arrange a little party tonight with Rachael’s aunt and uncle, and maybe Stefanos. It would give us a chance to talk to them. You think they’d accept an invitation to the old family manse if Rachael asked them real nice?”
Savich laughed. “Yeah, maybe if we sent a SWAT team with the invitation. And if we brought them in for questioning, they would come with a half-dozen lawyers, refuse to answer any questions, and demand we arrest them or release them. Then they’d try to sue the FBI out of existence.”