CHAPTER 39
CALIFORNIA STREET
Savich saw a flash of irritation on Thomas Pallack’s face as he turned from his window on the thirty-sixth floor of the Maiden-Pallack building on California Street and looked at the two men and two women who stood in his office doorway. Then he saw a look of unease, perhaps fear, but it was gone quickly. Savich recognized the formidable intelligence, the suspicion in Pallack’s eyes, and thought,
Thomas Pallack looked at each of them in turn, assessing them, Savich thought, for what sort of threat they posed to him. He stood motionless now, no expression on his face, and fingered the business card Savich had given to his assistant. When he waved to his assistant standing in the open doorway, she nodded and let herself out of the office, after a quick searching look at her boss.
Pallack said, “The view would be splendid if the fog weren’t lying so thick over the city and the Marin Headlands, there”— he pointed—”behind the Golden Gate.”
They all dutifully stared out the huge window. Only one of the Golden Gate Bridge’s suspension towers peaked above the fog.
“The fog usually burns off by noon,” he continued, “but not today, unfortunately. Mrs. Potts tells me all three of you are FBI agents and for some reason I don’t understand, you, my dear Julia, have come with them.
“Let me say both Charlotte and I are distressed at all your trouble. It has all been an immense shock to us, as well—we are very sorry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pallack,” Julia said.
He inclined his head to her, nodding. “Perhaps that is why you’re here with the agents? They’re protecting you from this maniac?”
“That’s certainly true, Mr. Pallack.”
“You used to call me Thomas.”
“Yes, Thomas, I will.”
He said, “I see from your card that you’re Special Agent Dillon Savich. I hope you are all here to tell me you’ve caught the people responsible for all this.”
Savich said, “Not as yet.”
“A pity. Do these agents have names?”
Savich introduced Sherlock and Cheney, each of them flashing their shields. He motioned them to sit in the stiff modern chairs facing his desk.
“Now you may tell me what I can do for you.”
Savich said, “As part of protecting Mrs. Ransom and investigating her difficulties, Mr. Pallack, we are reviewing Dr. August Ransom’s murder. We believe the two may be related. We would appreciate any assistance you’re able to provide us.”
Thomas Pallack gave them a slight bow of his head.
Savich said, “We understand you were a client of Dr. Ransom’s for many years.”
Thomas Pallack nodded, sat back in the very comfortable-looking leather chair behind his very modern desk, all glass and polished steel, and folded his hands on his belly. He’d eased considerably, Savich saw, felt back in control of his universe, and that was what Savich wanted. Pallack said, his voice expansive and smooth with confidence, “Surely you must know the SFPD interviewed me after August’s murder, along with his other clients. They would have all those records. Unfortunately I wasn’t of much help, nor were any of his other clients, as I understand. So, I don’t know how I can help you now.”
“You are obviously a very intelligent, very successful man, Mr. Pallack. Perhaps over the intervening months you’ve recalled or wondered about some details that could assist us? How long were you with Dr. Ransom?”
“Over ten years when he died.”
“You were pleased with his efforts on your part?”
“Yes, of course, or I wouldn’t have stayed with him that long. August, as you know, was able to engage my dear parents for me in dialogue, pass along to me what they were saying and feeling, their advice and counsel on business problems, for example. My father was an incredible businessman, and I value his opinions. Our sessions were deeply meaningful to me.”
Cheney sat forward, picked it up. “Do you find Soldan Meissen as helpful as Dr. Ransom, sir?”
Thomas Pallack turned thoughtful, perhaps a pose, Cheney didn’t know, but he watched the man carefully. Pallack fiddled with an expensive pen, tapped it against an onyx paperweight, buying himself thinking time, Cheney thought. He saw Sherlock was watching Pallack as intently as he was.
In point of fact, Sherlock had formed a picture of Thomas Pallack in her mind in the preceding days and she realized now she wasn’t that far off, except for his eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a megalomaniac or a political ideologue, they were dark gray turbulent eyes, a brooding poet’s eyes maybe, or a killer’s eyes. She didn’t know which. She shook her head at herself. No, Thomas Pallack was an extraordinarily successful businessman, very rich, still in full control of his empire at nearly seventy, accustomed to using his power. It was possible he was nothing more than he appeared—a man with one clearly insane obsession, but many people had obsessions or fixations of some kind. He’d communicated with his murdered parents for many decades now, but he was still able to run an empire. And there was something about him that drew you, that made you want to listen to him, hear what he had to say.
The silence stretched on for a moment. No one attempted to break it. Thomas said finally, “You asked me
