“Was that Cordie’s name, too?”
“Aunt Cordie—yes, she was Gilliam, too, because they were sisters, not half sisters.”
“Good. Very good. So she was Cordelia Gilliam. Did your grandfather and grandmother ever come around?”
She closed her eyes again. “I don’t ever remember a grandmother. But Granddaddy—yeah, I remember him. He never stayed with us, only with Aunt Cordie. I was maybe six years old when he came. Something must have happened because he suddenly left. Maybe he did something bad and had to run. He was mean, Mr. Savich, as mean as Aunt Cordie and Tommy and Tammy. He’d hit Tammy upside the head, then he’d cuddle her and stroke her hair. It scared me to death. It wasn’t right, I see that now. What he’d do when he cuddled Tammy wasn’t right.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“After my mom was killed he came real late one night, to Tommy and Tammy’s house. We were packing because the social workers were coming and we had to get out fast. He stuffed a whole bunch of money in Tammy’s hands, and then he kissed her, with his mouth open, patted her face, and left. I remember Tammy ran out after him. She didn’t come back for maybe an hour.” Marilyn looked at Savich. “I haven’
t thought about that in years. I really didn’t realize…but Tammy was maybe fifteen then. Did he have sex with her, Mr. Savich?”
“Don’t dwell on it, Marilyn. Did you ever hear his first name?”
“Both my mom and Aunt Cordie called him Papa. I heard him tell Tammy to call him Malcolm. So I guess he had to be Malcolm Gilliam. Do you know what? I just saw him in my mind. He was handsome, real good-looking, but old, you know?
“Once, about six months later, I remember Tommy and Tammy talking about him. Tammy waved this postcard in front of my nose, said it was from her granddaddy. I said he was my granddaddy, too, but she laughed, said I didn’t know Granddaddy like she did. She said he sent the postcard all the way from Montreal.”
“How did he know where they were, do you remember?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Savich. They didn’t talk about that.”
“Were there other postcards or letters?”
“Yeah, some, along with wads of cash, for three or four years, then they stopped.”
Savich leaned over and patted her hand. “You have helped us immensely. Thank you.”
Because Marilyn was so proud of her new home, Savich and Sherlock drank some sodas with her and ate a couple of her favorite Fig Newtons. She showed them the table she was making to match the beautiful chairs. The last thing Marilyn said to Savich when she walked them to Sherlock’s Volvo was, “I
’m sure sorry about your Porsche, Mr. Savich. I saw it blow up on TV. Now you’ve got to ride in this stuffy thing.”
Savich patted her cheek, kissed her lightly. “As soon as I can I’m going to go out and get myself something you’ll really like.”
“Then make it one of those new Corvettes, red of course. Unless you have enough money for a Ferrari.”
They waved until both she and her barn were out of sight. When they drove onto the country road again, Savich said, “Malcolm Gilliam. I’ll bet you anything his parents were named either Moses or Grace or a combination of the two.”
CHAPTER 34
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA SATURDAY AFTERNOON
THE SATURDAY AFTERNOON traffic was sluggish as they approached Richmond, people hanging out of their cars, enjoying the break in the weather.
Dix exited the downtown expressway and worked his way over to West Grace Street to the Richmond Police Department headquarters.
“There’s some irony in the street name,” Ruth remarked.
For a Saturday afternoon there was lots of activity, more than Dix had seen since his days in New York. They passed a woman sobbing into her hands, a man ranting about his mechanic cheating him, and a cop filling out papers next to a teenager who looked scared to death. Dix was thinking he should have left Rob and Rafe in the car with Brewster, but then Detective Morales came forward, his hand outstretched. After the introductions, the detective led them to the second floor. He eyed the boys and spoke quietly into his cell phone.
Rafe whispered to his brother, “Hey, would you look at that scar? How cool is that? Bet he was in a gunfight.”
Detective Morales said over his shoulder, “Yep, a bunch of Colombian drug dealers were holed up in the warehouse district, and we stormed the place. This is my souvenir.” He ran a finger lightly over the pale scar. “My wife thinks it’s pretty cool, too.
“Ah, Linus, these two hotshots are Rob and Rafe Noble. While I’m dealing with their dad, Sheriff Noble, and Special Agent Warnecki, I’m hoping you could break away from chasing down bank robbers to give them a tour of our fine facilities.”
Officer Linus Craig couldn’t have been over twenty-two, Ruth thought as she shook his beefy hand. He had to be six-five, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds on a light day. She’d wager he’d played football in college, probably offensive line. His broken nose hadn’t healed quite straight, and he had the sweetest smile. He grinned at Rob and Rafe, shook their hands, then leaned close to the boys. “You guys want to see the lineup room? It’s down the hall in the detective division. Hey, I’ll hang some numbers on you, let you live the experience. We can see how tall you are, too.”
The boys didn’t give them a backward glance. Detective Morales, dark-haired and dark-eyed, already sporting a five o’clock shadow, laughed as he led them to a small conference room down the hall. “I’ve got three teenagers of my own. They wanted me to put them in a cell overnight. I settled on the lineup thing. They didn’t stop talking about it all day.” He opened the door to the conference room and gestured them in.
“A nice setup you’ve got here,” Dix told him as he accepted a cup of coffee.
“The place is brand-new, up and running in 2002. None of that smell city police stations have, that combination of dampness, cheap room deodorizer, and eau de criminal. Not yet. It’s the best part of having new digs. So you’re an FBI agent,” he said without pause to Ruth. “How’d you and Sheriff Noble hook up? You guys married? Those your boys?”
“No, we’re not married,” Dix said easily. “We just met a week ago when this all started, Detective Morales.”
“Call me Cesar.”
Dix nodded, sat forward, and clasped her hands in front of him. “I’m Dix, and this is Ruth. Ruth is the agent Dempsey and Slater fired on last Saturday night. We met with Ruth’s boss in Washington this morning, and I’m real glad to find you here at work today, to meet you personally.”
Ruth said, “We both know about weekend work, Sheriff. The devil never sleeps.”
Dix said, “Sorry to tie up your staff with the boys, Cesar. It’s been a rough week for them, with people they know dying, our own house getting shot up. I wanted to show them we’re dealing with it, calm them down a little, and I didn’t want to leave them alone.”
“I understand,” Morales said. “Officer Craig can handle the kids, and I’ve got time to fill you in on what we’re doing.”
“You mentioned you’re working on some information from someone called Eddie Skanky?”
Detective Morales nodded. “Yes, I’ve also got two of my detectives working the usual stuff—credit cards, phone calls, bank accounts. They’ve leaned on Dempsey’s girlfriend and their business associates
—you want to call them that—but lowlifes like that never have anything to tell you unless they’re up on charges and need some leverage to deal down.
“Eddie Skanky is a local thug who’s been sent up twice by Detective Marilyn Honniger. She got him again on a parole violation and he’s promised to put his nose to the grindstone if she doesn’t toss him back in jail. Seems he knew Slater and Dempsey, both in prison and out. We’re waiting for him to give up a name.”
“A name would be a good start,” Dix said, “but we have to be sure he’s not pulling a name out of the newspaper to stay out of prison.”
“Some of the people who were close to the victims are prominent, respected people,” Ruth explained. “
