Double Take

He dropped her hands, opened the guest room door, and pushed her inside. “Nice room,” he said, looking around at the pale yellow walls and the white bedspread, and started to close the door.

“Hey, wait, don’t go just yet,” she said, holding the door open, but then she stalled. What was she to say? I’ve known you for all of five days and I want to jump you? She managed a smile. “So much has happened to me since Thursday night, it’s really set me to thinking about my life and what I was going to do with it.

“When I met Sean Savich, I saw Linc in him and I wanted to cry, and forget about the past and the future both. I was sucked right back into that black hole of grief. But then that adorable little boy took my hand, told me he beat his mama at computer games, and he began explaining the strategies of a game called Pajama Sam. And I laughed, couldn’t help myself, and I climbed right back out of that hole.” She paused a moment. “Do you know he told me his dad was giving him a skateboard for his next birthday? He said his dad had been a champ a way long time ago, and he was going to give him lessons. I wanted to yell at him never to get near a skateboard, but then I realized, perhaps for the first time, that what happened to Linc ... it had been a stupid accident, tragic and heartbreaking, but no one’s fault, and it was over, not forgotten, never forgotten, but over, no one to blame, certainly not the skateboard Linc loved so much.”

“So what did you say to Sean?”

“I told him when I came back east, I wanted to drop by and take a few skateboard turns with him and his dad. I told him I had a few moves that might astonish him. He told me that would be cool, and he high-fived me.”

He slowly drew her into his arms and held her, his hand against the back of her head, and pressed her lightly against his shoulder. “He’s a great kid. I’ll bet Linc was a great kid too. Did Linc look like you, Julia?”

She pulled back and he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. Then she swallowed and smiled. “Nope, Linc looked just like his father.”

“I think I heard Sherlock say the same thing about Sean.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Cheney, for getting sentimental on you—”

“No, no, shush, it’s okay.” He hooked her hair behind her ears and cupped her face in his palms. “There’s so much going on here, Julia, so much we still have no clue about. I hate not being in control and I know you feel the same. But everything will be resolved, you’ll see. Now, we’re both very tired. Do you think you can sleep?”

“Oh yes, but I’d probably sleep better if—well, never mind that. If you find you can’t sleep on your monk’s cot down in the Sherlocks’ gym, you can always lift some weights. You’re such a puny little guy, after all.”

He laughed. “Mrs. Sherlock told me the cot wasn’t too bad, she’d slept there once when she was so mad at her husband even three guest rooms away was too close to him. Don’t worry, Julia— Makepeace has no clue where you are. Even Frank Paulette doesn’t know, which means no leaks through the SFPD.”

“I’m not worried, at least not right this minute. Cheney—it’s odd, isn’t it? Look where we are on a Tuesday night, all that’s happened, how we met all of five days ago.”

“Nights,” he said, “it was five nights ago.” And Cheney couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and kissed her mouth, felt warmth and acceptance, and a leap of excitement that could have easily brought him down. He had to leave her but he didn’t want to. This was really bad timing. He pulled back, touched his fingertips to her nose, smoothed her eyebrows, and wanted to ask her to tell him all her secrets. But now wasn’t the time, dammit. “Good night, Julia.”

Julia felt suddenly so alive she could jump right out of her skin, and here he was saying good night to her? Five days—who cared if they’d met an hour ago? “Oh my. Well, good night, Cheney.”

“Don’t worry, Julia.”

He stood, unmoving in the hallway, until she closed her bedroom door. Earlier, Wallace Tammerlane had looked at the two of them and said something about life continually amazing him. Wallace didn’t know a single blessed thing about amazement.

Cheney walked slowly down to the gym, eyed the narrow cot, and sighed. It would be a long night, even if there were only a short number of hours left in it.

In the next guest room down the hall, Dix was lying on his back, his arms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, trying to ground himself, to order his squirreling thoughts, but it was difficult. They’d only arrived in San Francisco yesterday, and between then and now they’d done nothing but work and talk and talk. He supposed he’d agreed with Savich that he shouldn’t see Thomas Pallack, but he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to take that old man’s wrinkled neck in his hands and squeeze until he told the truth.

He still didn’t know a single thing. Bless Sherlock for recording their interview with Thomas Pallack. He’d played it twice. He wanted to face Pallack down, he wanted to find that damned bracelet. What he wanted, dammit, was the truth. What he wanted was to find Christie.

But all he could do was lie there, stewing, his problem-solving ability dead in the water.

He liked Julia Ransom, didn’t want Makepeace to kill her. He wondered what had happened to the kidnapped psychic, but his brain just kept neon-flashing Charlotte and Thomas Pallack, and he wanted to know so badly he didn’t think he could stand it. Maybe he should force himself to finally call Charlotte, maybe make a date to meet at the Hyatt, although in his gut, he knew he wouldn’t find out anything useful. Charlotte was way too smart. The only thing he’d get from her was more syrup-sweet lies. It was very possible too she was using him to gain information just as he was her.

Ruth came up on her elbow beside him. “I miss the boys and Brewster.”

“I do too.”

“We’ll find out everything soon, Dix, have some faith. You know patience is one of a cop’s main virtues, so stop making yourself crazy. I know all this is complicated and Julia Ransom is now in the mix with this Makepeace character, but we’ll find out about Christie. Keep the faith.”

He brought Ruth against him, momentarily distracted with her warm breath on his neck. “It’s hard,” he said. “Now my mind jumped to David Caldicott. I know if he left willingly it was because he was involved in Christie’s disappearance and our visit scared him badly.”

“So you think he took off, maybe left the country?”