Ransom?
Julia said, “I’ll come out with Agent Stone. He’ll want to keep me within sight at all times. He’s the one who saved me Thursday night, you know.”
And it was done. She’d nailed coming with him very efficiently, no fuss at all. Cheney could have told her he actually welcomed her company, and he did want her close, but he liked that smug, triumphant expression on her face. It was better than the empty fear.
“I can still ditch you,” he told her when they were finally alone again.
“Nah, you can’t get away from me now. Besides, I can tell you all about Wallace and Bevlin.” She lowered her voice to a Transylvanian whisper. “Stuff that will make you shudder and turn pale, roll your eyes back in your head, jerk up in your bed in the middle of the night out of a sound sleep, sweating, your heart booming like a native drum. You haven’t seen their old interview records yet, have you?”
“No. It’s Sunday. Frank said he’d get all the files ready for me tomorrow morning. I’ll go over to Bryant Street and look at them before I come here to pick you up. I have this feeling, though, that since you were always their focus, there won’t be a lot of in-depth information on any other players.”
“Yes, I was their only focus.”
“Yes, I realize that. You wanna know something else? Don’t you think Tammerlane and Wagner could be related—they look like father and son?”
“I haven’t really noticed before, but yes, maybe you’re right. They do hang out together quite a bit. Bevlin lives in Sausalito— you’re going to love his house. He asked me to marry him a couple of months ago.”
She nodded. “Yep. And dear Wallace asked me for a date at about the same time. I figured that since I’m no beauty, it was because I’m rich. But both of them are quite well off financially, what with the lucrative book deals and their group consultations that bring in something like a thousand bucks an hour. Maybe they would both like to live in this beautiful house with me.”
“A thousand bucks an hour? What a racket.”
“A racket? Maybe, but—”
“But what?”
“Come on back to August’s study. I’ve got lots and lots of tapes, of August and Wallace, even a few of Bevlin on TV. Also some of Kathryn Golden, another psychic medium. You’ll want to speak to her too. Let’s see what you think after you’ve seen them.”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“The mediums—do they see themselves as something like priests—the great connectors between those left behind and those in the beyond?”
“Something like that.
“And one each of Tammerlane’s and Wagner’s.”
She nodded. “Yes, and Kathryn Golden too. Come and watch the videos and tell me August isn’t for real, Cheney.”
CHAPTER 22
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
David Caldicott lived on Lily Pond Lane in Buckhead. His hundred-year-old wooden house, set back from the road, was funky, no other word for it, with its pale blue and bright yellow paint job, seven bicycles lined up on the deep front porch, and a good dozen glorious old magnolia trees pressing against the house on all sides, making it one glorious fire hazard. Yet the big house fit in nicely with the other well-tended homes on either side. It was the charming one, the one that drew the eye and a smile.
They knew he was home, but had decided not to call him first. This was to be a surprise.
A young girl, nicely tanned, wearing short shorts and a halter top, her hair in a ponytail, opened the door and stared at them. She was chewing gum. She blew a lovely big bubble and popped it, splatting it over her mouth and half her face.
Dix said, “How old are you?”
She gave him a huge grin through the bubble gum, pulled it off her face and suddenly she didn’t look like a teenager anymore. “Goodness, I love you, whoever you are. I’m thirty-three. You did think I was really young, right? If not, please lie. My ego needs a boost right now. David’s being a real jerk and I’m ready to drop-kick him out the window except it’s his damned house.” She shrugged. “Come on in. You want to see him, right?”
“Right,” Ruth said. “I’m Special Agent Ruth Warnecki, FBI, and this is Sheriff Dixon Noble.”
They badged and shielded her as she popped another bubble, looked startled, then shook their hands. “Hey, I’m Whitney Jones. You here to arrest David? Was he smuggling violins from Russia? A stolen Stradivarius maybe?”
“Not that we know of,” Ruth said. “No, we need to speak to him about another matter. We’ll keep the smuggling in mind, though.”
“I know the FBI has this stolen art section, right? He’s guilty as sin, I know it. David! Come on down, you’ve got cops here to speak to you or arrest you, or something.”
