“Well, sure, that’s Charlotte.”
“Actually, it’s my wife, Christie Noble.”
David Caldicott began shaking his head back and forth. “Man, no, that’s not possible. I swear I never realized —” He gulped, stilled, and Dix could see that he was scared now, and for good reason. What was it?
“Mr. Caldicott, when exactly did your sister marry Mr. Thomas Pallack?”
David Caldicott’s head jerked up. “What? Mr. Pallack? You want to know about that old dude?”
“Yes,” Ruth said. “When did they marry?”
“About three years ago.”
“The date, Mr. Caldicott.”
“I don’t remember—well, let me see.” He jumped to his feet, nearly ran to the fireplace and pulled down a photo album from atop the mantel.
“Here, Charlotte sent this to me.” He flipped it open. “They were married on August third, yes, almost three years ago.”
Ruth held out her hand, took the photo album from David Caldicott. She thumbed through it. There were only six photos in it. She paused. So this was Charlotte Pallack, Christie’s twin, this vibrant beautiful woman standing next to a man twice her age. He was beautifully dressed, but even his Savile Row suit couldn’t hide the belly growing there. Still, he looked fit, his color good, his once-black hair receding, and laced with white. No jowls, no bags beneath his eyes—good cosmetic surgery. She thought he looked smart and ruthless, like he could snap his fingers and make a small nation crumble. She said, “Mr. Caldicott, how did your sister meet Mr. Pallack?”
“How should I know, Agent Warnecki? I mean—” Dix was looking at him as if he was ready to tear his heart out. He swallowed, retrenched. “My sister has this thing for older guys. Well, not specifically older, but they had to be rich, really rich so she could have anything she wanted. She hated poverty— we were raised in foster homes after our mom died. I was lucky, but Charlotte wasn’t, she couldn’t fit, I guess, always wanted to get out. Mr. Pallack is very rich, he’s powerful, and he adores her. So I guess it’s all good with her now.” He shrugged, tried a smile. “Old, young—hey, I like Whitney and she looks like jailbait. She still gets carded, and she’s over thirty. Now that makes me laugh.”
“You were telling us how your sister met Mr. Pallack.”
“I’m sorry. I really don’t know, just that they got married shortly after they met. That’s what Charlotte told me. Love at first sight, she said.”
“Did your sister ever visit you at Stanislaus, Mr. Caldicott?”
“No, Agent Warnecki, I don’t think she ever did.” He jumped to his feet, waved his hands around a bit. Ruth looked at those hands, the beautiful long thin fingers, the short buffed nails. She wanted to hear him play the violin.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Caldicott?” Dix said as he too rose. “Nothing, really. I have to go grovel, tell Whitney I’ll barbecue the steaks tonight.” He looked desperate. “She won’t let me touch her until she forgives me, that’s what she does when she’s really pissed at me.” He moaned.
Dix said, “Did you ever speak to my wife other than the time she complimented you after a recital?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. I went into Maestro to buy stuff, like every other student. She’d be around. I remember I saw her once with you. She kissed you and pushed you into the sheriff’s office. I remember she was laughing. She was real pretty.”
Dix studied his face. Caldicott seemed too young, yet he wasn’t more than three or four years younger than Dix himself. He seemed immature somehow, not yet fully adult. Who knew the roads he’d trekked, where they’d led him? He was a musician, evidently a very good one. Maybe that was it. Why not spend the night, go listen to him play? It would give Dix more time to think of another way to approach him.
“The symphony is playing tonight?”
“Yes.” He beamed. “I’m playing Rachmaninoff’s 1890 Romance for Violin and Piano.”
“We would like to hear you perform.”
“Oh man, that’d be great. Please do. I really don’t have anything else to tell you guys. I hardly ever speak to Charlotte, only the occasional e-mail, and never to Mr. Pallack. Please, I need to go find Whitney before she turns me into a eunuch.”
Dix shook his hand. Ruth nodded at him, smiled. “We might be seeing you this evening, Mr. Caldicott.”
Damned if his eyes didn’t light up. Dix saw the first hint of resemblance between him and Charlotte and between him and Christie. It was the tilt of his eyes, how his smile widened and lightened them.
When Dix pulled out of the Caldicott driveway in the rented Taurus, Ruth said, “I’d wager my knickers he’s lying. I just don’t know about what and why.”
“I don’t know,” Dix said. “I simply don’t know.” Dix and Ruth didn’t get to hear David Caldicott play Rachmaninoff’s 1890 Romance for Violin and Piano that night. At six o’clock, they got a call from Savich.
CHAPTER 23
SAN FRANCISCO
It took Cheney twenty minutes to realize that the SFPD believed the two attempts on Julia Ransom’s life were evidence of a falling-out between her and her partner in the murder of her husband. He’d talked to the inspectors, read the files Frank had given him early that morning at headquarters. The investigation hadn’t been superficial, exactly, but neither had he seen any sign of real dogged grit—the kind of persistence that should have been there in the case of a murdered celebrity. The initial focus was on the widow, and it never wavered. There were several
