game against the hated Panthers of Crescent City.”
Maitland shook his head. “Baseball, basketball, football, snow-boarding, driving my car—my damned boys littered the landscape with their broken bones. Dix might wish they’d take up a rock band, or something that’d be safer.” He waved to Sherlock, who was discussing a bizarre Little Rock, Arkansas, murder case with Dane Carver. He remembered that Dane and Cheney had gone to Loyola Law School. He wondered which one of them had ranked higher in his class.
“Hey, Ruth,” Savich called out, “come tell me what you think of this sketch.”
CHAPTER 10
Ruth knew Dillon was perfectly aware that she’d been eavesdropping, and yet here he was letting her off the hook, even involving her. She looked down at the sketch smoothed out on his desktop. A good-looking black man wearing glasses—he looked focused, like he knew exactly who he was and where he was going in life. She said without hesitation, “He’s a pro. And since we’ve got lots of pros entered in the database, the chances are good we’ll get a name. Look at those eyes—this guy is empty to his soul.”
“Nah, not empty. Just cold. Hey, you needed something?”
Then Savich looked at her face, really looked, and said, “Close the door.”
She closed it.
“Okay, Ruth, sit down.”
She sat.
“Because cops can’t stand not to know everything that’s going on, you were distracted for a couple of minutes listening to that conversation about Cheney Stone and Julia Ransom. But something’s going on. Nothing’s happened to Dix, has it?”
“Oh no. Well, yes, it has. Dix called me from the Richmond airport. He’s on his way to San Francisco.” She gave him a desperate look. “It’s about his missing wife—Christie. Christie’s godfather called Chappy, swore he’d seen her.”
A dark eyebrow shot up. He said slowly, “It’s not Christie, Ruth. She’s long dead. You know it, Dix knows it. But he has to go check this out, you know that too. Now, tell me what her godfather said.”
“The godfather’s name is Jules Advere. He was positive it was Christie he saw even though he admitted she showed no signs of recognizing him.”
And then Ruth repeated the story she heard from Dix, about what happened at the fancy fundraiser at the high-roller’s penthouse on Russian Hill in San Francisco.
She felt drained when she finished. Savich studied her face, saw the anxiety in her dark eyes. “San Francisco,” he said slowly. “Do you mind if I give my father-in-law a call? Ask him if he knows these people—Charlotte and Thomas Pallack?”
“No, I don’t mind. I’m sure Dix wouldn’t either.”
“Sherlock’s dad, Corman Sherlock, is a judge and a native San Franciscan, a rare breed I’m told, and he’s into everything local. Also, he’s got money, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows these people socially. Maybe he can solve this problem right away, without any fuss.”
She said, “I was picturing Dix walking up to this dripping-gold penthouse, ringing the doorbell, this snooty butler telling him that the lady of the house wasn’t available. He didn’t exactly have a plan except maybe climbing up the side of the house to her bedroom to get a look at her.”
Savich leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his belly, never taking his eyes off her face. He said slowly, “I agree with Dix. His wife was murdered. What was it, three years ago?”
“More than three years ago now. About this trip to the coast— Dix lied to the boys, asked me to keep a close eye on them this weekend. I gather Chappy will be around as well.” Ruth laughed then, ugly and raw, and then she gulped. “Dillon, what if it is
Christie?”
Savich rose and came around the desk. She stood up as well. He took her in his arms, hugged her, said against her hair, “It’s not. Now, try not to make yourself nuts with this. You can eavesdrop on all my conversations that sound interesting.”
“Dillon, call your father-in-law now. Please. If it could be clean and fast—that’d be great, it would be best for Dix, for all of us.”
“I hesitate to do this without Dix’s permission, Ruth.”
“You know he’d want you to, Dillon. Please, for all of us. This is so important, and not only to me.”
Savich gave her a long look, checked his Mickey Mouse watch. “It’s about seven o’clock on the West Coast.” He nodded her to a chair, pulled out his cell, and dialed.
“Sherlock residence.”
“Good morning, Isabel. This is Dillon Savich. How are you?”
“Agent Savich! What a pleasure to hear your voice, sir. I’m surely fine, thank you. How’s my baby?”
“She’s fine, Isabel, keeps me in line.”
“How’s my baby’s baby boy?”
“Sean’s the only one who runs right over her.”
Isabel laughed. “Good, good. I’ll bet he’s a perfect little boy. Let me get judge Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s father was on the line in an instant. “This is a nice surprise, Savich. Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”
