He and Jack were halfway to the conference room door when Maitland called out, “But, Savich, where are you going? What happened?”
“Sherlock’s in trouble,” Savich said over his shoulder, never slowing. “MAX helped me track down her cell phone GPS coordinates.”
“But how do you know she’s in trouble?”
There was no answer because Savich and Jack were gone. Savich roared out of the Hoover Building garage, only to hit the afternoon traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue. The Porsche preferred to fly, but Savich also knew how to skim around other cars, slip in and out whenever there was a sliver of an opening. Too many people, Savich thought, and turned onto Seventh Street and picked up some speed as they passed the National Mall. He caught Pennsylvania Avenue again, heading toward the Potomac, and crossed the John Philip Sousa Bridge at a crawl, but was soon speeding north on 295, the Baltimore-Washington Parkway still light with commuters.
“Looks like we’re heading to Hailstone,” Savich said. “Eighteen minutes, if traffic stays light and the cops stay away.”
“I can’t believe she and Rachael are at Stefanos’s mansion. Why? How’d they get from Rachael’s house to Hailstone, Maryland?”
“We’ll find out. Jack, have one of our people check out Rachael’s house, see if her Charger and Sherlock’s Volvo are there. Is your seat belt fastened?” There was a break in traffic and Savich let the Porsche hit one hundred miles an hour, smooth as a slide of silk.
Jack nodded and used his cell phone.
A clear stretch ahead. Savich hit the hammer. The Porsche glided to 110, passed a speeding Cadillac. Savich saw the guy’s white face flash by.
A black Ferrari danced with them for a mile or two, then let them go, Savich smoothly pulling around it. The driver sent Savich a look of surprise and a thumbs-up.
Traffic thickened up and the Porsche growled back down to sixty. “They got both Rachael and Sherlock, Savich, you know they did. But how? Sherlock’s more careful than the Secret Service.” What are they going to do to them? But he didn’t ask that, his jaw locked so tight he couldn’t get the words out. “Why now? In the middle of the day? It’s a huge risk. What happened to make them move now?”
The Porsche ate up the miles. Savich said, “Jack, I’ve never believed that people like Laurel Kostas commit murder based on strong emotions. Everything has happened so quickly, we never really thought this through. I don’t buy they murdered the senator because he was going to talk, even harder to believe they were trying to murder Rachael because she was going to confess what her father did. It simply isn’t enough of a motive. And then even after she’s with us and they know we must know everything, they still tried to get to her, broke into her house. It doesn’t make sense.”
Jack said slowly, “Okay, if the guy who broke into the house wasn’t there to kill her, then why was he there?”
Savich said, “Money.”
Jack said, his eyes locked on the highway ahead, at the blur of cars, “All right, something to do with money. But what?”
“I have a feeling we’re going to find out right now.”
The Porsche’s sexy female GPS voice told them the Hailstone exit was in 3.2 miles. “Good, good,” Savich said like a mantra. “Almost there. We’ll make it in a couple of minutes.”
Savich took the exit in a tight, controlled turn. After another right turn onto Nimere Avenue into the town of Hailstone, he said, “Rachael said her father left her a third of his estate, including the company stock and the house.” He smacked his palm on the steering wheel. “Why is that worth so much to them?”
“Maybe it’s about control of the Abbott empire,” Jack said.
The Porsche took a left on Clapton Road as smooth as spreading butter, doing sixty.
Jack said, “Wait, the Kostas mansion is back to the right. Where are we going?”
The GPS announced the location was 0.5 miles ahead.
“I don’t know,” Savich said.
An old gray Chrysler pulled onto the road directly in front of the Porsche.
SIXTY-ONE
Laurel said, “Just a moment, Stef.” She looked down at Rachael. “Tell me why you didn’t make the senator’s grand confession for him last night when you had the perfect chance.”
Quincy said, “That’s clear enough, Laurel. She finally realized she’d be considered a traitor to her father, and her idea for that damned foundation she wants to run would be trashed.”
Keep them talking, keep them talking. Rachael saw it in Sherlock’s eyes, and so she said, “No, none of that. Fact is, Aunt Laurel, I decided that only Jimmy could make public a revelation with such far-reaching consequences. His decision, no one else’s.”
“Are you telling the truth?” Quincy asked her.
“I’m lying here at your feet. Why would I lie?”
Suddenly tears appeared in Laurel’s eyes. The stone-cold prison matron was suddenly remorseful about murdering her brother? Tears? Rachael stared at her. What was going on here?
Laurel said, “It means I didn’t fail. And do you know, I’d already accepted that I had? I despised you so much, Rachael. Daddy would never have forgiven me if you had spoken out. Never. He believed there was never any excuse for failure.”
Daddy? Her father? That profane old man who took my father from my mother? But he was dead, months and months dead, dead before they murdered Jimmy. Daddy?
“That old bastard,” Quincy said. “How did he even find out what Jimmy did? I didn’t have a clue until Jimmy told us.” Quincy banged his fist against his palm.
“Dammit, he should have told me, too. I was his loyal son. I stayed, didn’t go haring off to the damned Senate. I was the son who did whatever he asked. Damned old bastard.”
Rachael and Sherlock barely breathed.
“Calm yourself, Quincy. Daddy never told me how he found out about it,” Laurel said. “I do know he had Jimmy followed now and again, had detectives check on him. He liked to know where all the pieces were on the chessboard—you know that was always his way. Plus, he was very angry that Jimmy ignored all his ideas for new legislation.”
“Stop your whining, Quincy,” Stefanos said. “It is really unattractive, doesn’t go well at all with your patrician image.”