references to an “accomplice,” since the cops didn’t believe she’d done it herself. Nope, she must have had a man do the deed, though they never found one. They still believed it, only they were smart enough not to come right out and say it to her face. Or to his face.
Cheney knew Julia hadn’t killed her husband, hadn’t had a partner, it was as simple as that. So while the police were trying to find the man they believed was her cohort and now her enemy, he had to start at the beginning to solve the murder of her husband.
He looked up when she came into August’s study, where Cheney was seated at the desk, reviewing copies of the files. “Why were the cops so convinced you killed your husband?”
“Oh, they still are, you know that as well as I do.”
“Okay, yes. Why?”
“Because they believed—believe—I was tired of being tied to an old man, yes, a very rich old man, they thought, no matter his fame or the esteem in which he was held. And I wanted his money. There were rumors about a lover, of course, but I’m not telling you anything new, am I? You’re reading all about that, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I have no idea where those particular rumors came from, who started them, or why.” She splayed her fingers in front of her. “The tabloids even tossed out names, one of them poor Zion Leftwitz, August’s civil attorney, a very unassuming man who starts at his own shadow. And, naturally, most of the psychics in the area—Wallace Tammerlane, Bevlin Wagner, and Soldan Meissen. They didn’t mention Kathryn Golden, I suppose because they didn’t want to reach that far, and besides, she probably didn’t have the strength needed to kill August. For a while they leaned toward Bevlin Wagner simply because in the entire lot of psychics in August’s circle, he’s the one closest to my age. I have to tell you, Bevlin was bewildered.” She actually laughed, hiccupped, and said, “Sorry.”
“Bewildered? He wasn’t flattered?”
“Oh no. He worshipped August. He would have cut off his hands for August. He looked at me but didn’t really see me, all he saw was his god. Well, not until after. As I told you, Bevlin proposed to me. I’m not sure if it was because of a newly discovered passion for me, or whether he wanted to protect August’s widow, but I was as nice as could be when I turned him down. I’m glad the police didn’t find out about the marriage proposal, otherwise they would probably have homed in on poor Bevlin again.”
“I’ve read there were also rumors August planned to divorce you—another motive.”
She nodded. “Yes, I know. Another part of the lover angle— but they didn’t find a scintilla of evidence there was a lover. Still, even when they couldn’t find anyone to fit the bill, they were still clinging to it when they came to the house Thursday night, and early Sunday morning.”
“Did you volunteer to take a lie detector test?”
“No. My lawyer advised me against it, said there was no benefit to me, just risk.”
“Maybe your lawyer believed you were guilty too.”
She said slowly, “No, I can’t accept that. His name is Brian Huff. He and August had been friends for twenty- odd years, and I liked him. He liked me. When I told him I was innocent, he said, ‘Of course you are.’ I can’t imagine his insisting on representing me if he believed I’d killed his friend and client, the man who kept him on a nice fat retainer in case of litigation.”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s a very big gun. Okay, would you take a lie detector test now? Get the cops focused on the here and now, and dump the baggage they’ve been mired in for the last six months?”
“Do you honestly think that would change their minds?”
“They’re a cynical bunch, so probably not, but still, it couldn’t hurt.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
Cheney sat back in August Ransom’s big leather chair, leaned his head back in his hands. “Julia, tell me about your boy.”
She looked as if he’d struck her. “The files,” she said. “That’s in the murder files?”
“Yes, of course. Tell me about him, Julia.” He rose and walked to her, took her hand in his. “Please, Julia, it’s important I know everything.”
She sighed, felt his hand squeeze hers. “It’s hard.”
“I imagine it is, but you need to let me in, all right? You ready to do that?”
She gave him a long look, saw the concern in his eyes, felt the caring in him, the need—to help her? Yes, she thought, he really did want to help her. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Lincoln— Linc—was his name. He was six years old when one of his friends ran him over on his skateboard and knocked him into the sidewalk. He hit his head, fell into a coma, and never woke up.
“I stayed with him for the three weeks it took him to die.”
He frowned a moment, looking down at the files that hadn’t included something important. He asked her, “His father was with you?”
“No, his father was dead.”
“Dead? What happened, Julia?”
All right, all of it. “Ben Taylor flew one of the Saud family’s private jets. Only three months before Linc’s accident, terrorists managed to plant a bomb on the plane. The plane exploded over the desert in a ball of flame. Ben, his copilot, two flight attendants, and all six passengers died.
“Dozens of people were apprehended after the murders, but then it sort of faded away, probably because it was distant cousins who were killed and not any of the royal family proper. I think if King Fahd had been on that plane, the Saudis would have joined hands with the U.S. to find bin Laden. King Fahd died shortly thereafter, and Abdallah took over.
