Jack touched his fingers to her face. He wanted to tell her maybe it was better this way, but his heart couldn’t accept that.
She said, “Whoever was trying to kill Timothy—he doesn’t have to bother now.”
Jack said, “If he killed Arthur, he has to pay for it, Molly. He tried to kill Tim—what is it now?—four times? He’s got to pay for that, too.”
Molly said clearly, “And what about me, Jack? I wanted to believe him, you see, he knew I wanted to believe the gun was for his protection. He gave me a way out.” She paused, and Jack could feel her grief and her awful guilt. She placed her palm over her chest. “But in my heart, I knew he was going to kill himself. I knew it. I am the one responsible for his death, not this maniac.”
Savich walked to her and sat down beside her. He took her hands in his. “Molly, listen to me. What you know in your heart, it must stay in your heart. It would do no good to burden your family with this.”
Savich rose. “You couldn’t have known, not for sure. What Timothy did, it was his own decision. You made it easier for him, that’s all.
“When I walk out this door, Molly, the investigation into Dr. Timothy MacLean’s death is closed.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Rachael walked into Jimmy’s study and stood in the middle of the room. The rich brown draperies were partially drawn, framing only a bit of afternoon sunlight. She smelled him still, the aroma of his rich Turkish cigarettes. She sank down onto the burgundy leather sofa, leaned her head back, and stared at the bookshelf behind his desk. She could see the dust beginning to gather on the bindings. Books could be dusted, she thought, but you had to live at close quarters with them to keep them fresh, keep their pages alive.
She looked down at her watch. Nearly four o’clock. Jack would be back by six, he’d said, and she knew he hated leaving her alone, even in the middle of the hot, sunlit afternoon.
She looked again at Jimmy’s desk, the few papers on top in neat piles, the computer screen dark and silent. She drew in a deep breath and forced herself to sit in the wonderfully comfortable high-backed burgundy leather desk chair. She straightened in the well of the desk.
She had time. It was something that had to be done. She opened the top drawer and began sorting through papers. She made piles that had to be handled when his will went through probate, invoices to be paid, a few catalogs he’d evidently marked for order.
She’d sorted through the papers in most of the desk when she opened the bottom drawer and found a beautiful hand-carved bubinga wood pen box. She lifted it out carefully. Sure enough, there were a good dozen pens inside, some of them gifts from foreign countries, from ambassadors he’d visited in his travels. There was a slip of paper at the bottom of the box with three pairs of numbers written on it. A safe combination.
Rachael hadn’t even thought about a safe. She looked around but didn’t see one. If she owned a safe, she’d keep it in the room where she spent most of her time. She searched the bookshelves, looked under the carpet, and when she lifted a Durbin Monk Irish countryside painting, there it was, built into the wall. She dialed in the numbers and it opened easily.
Inside she found an accordion file that was filled with insurance documents and a journal from the year before showing all his appointments for twelve months. Behind the last page of the journal, she found an envelope labeled “Will & Testament of John James Abbott.”
His will. She hadn’t thought about whether he had a copy. Jimmy had told her she would inherit a third of his estate, her two sisters the other two-thirds, and this included his shares in the family business. He’d said once, she remembered now, that when he was sworn into the Senate, he turned his proxy for the voting shares over to Laurel, to distance himself from his financial interests while he was in office. She began to read.
It couldn’t be right.
She read it again, and yet a third time.
She found Brady Cullifer’s number in Jimmy’s Rolodex and dialed. He’d just returned to his office from court and came on the line.
“Brady, I just read Jimmy’s will. There’s something very wrong here.”
An hour later, she heard a car pull into the driveway. Not Jack— not yet. It was Brady, walking swiftly up the flagstone path to the house.
She met him at the front door.
“Rachael, I couldn’t believe it when you called me. There must be some mistake here, there must be. I’ve brought the original will. We’ll compare them, all right? Jack isn’t back?”
“He’ll be back soon. He’s still at that meeting at the FBI.”
Rachael spread the will she’d found on Jimmy’s desktop. Brady lay his beside it. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said, and the two of them bent down.
“Rachael? Where are you?”
Rachael straightened, a smile on her face. “In here, Sherlock. Come in.” She walked over to the door to the study. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“Jack asked me to come. What’s going on? Oh, hello, Mr. Cullifer.”
“It’s Agent Sherlock, isn’t it?”
Sherlock smiled at him, nodded.
Rachael grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “I found Jimmy’s will, only it doesn’t say what it’s supposed to say. I called Brady and he brought over the original so we could compare them.”
“A forgery, Mr. Cullifer?”
“I don’t know, Agent Sherlock. We’ve just begun to study them.”
All three of them leaned over the desk to compare the two wills.
Sherlock read the first page and looked at them. “They’re different, Mr. Cullifer. We’ve got a forgery here.” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t you know it? This was all about money. Why does it always have to be about money?”
She should have detected something in Cullifer’s steady, monotonous voice, but she didn’t until she tensed at a dark voice close to her ear. “Some days I think the angels aren’t on our side. You’re very unexpected, Agent,” and at the moment the last word sank into her brain, he struck her hard with the butt of his gun.
She heard Rachael yell as she fell to the floor.
“Stefanos! What—”
He struck Rachael, and watched dispassionately as her eyes went wide with shock, then blurred with pain, and closed, and she fell beside Sherlock. A trickle of blood snaked down her cheek.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Savich frowned, lightly tapped his fingertips on his cell phone. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked in a low voice, leaning close, momentarily blocking out the mellifluous voice of federal prosecutor Dickie Franks.
“Sherlock isn’t answering. We have a deal. Anytime one of us calls the other, we always pick up, doesn’t matter if we’re in the shower or out running. Her phone’s on, so she should answer. This is the second time I’ve called.”
He was ready to seize up when Faith Hill sang out “The Way You Love Me.” “Sherlock? It’s about time, where—Dr. Bentley?”
Every eye at the conference table swiveled to look at Savich. When he punched off his cell, Savich said, “That was Dr. Bentley. Greg Nichols was poisoned by a massive dose of superwarfarin, a rat poison. Dr. Bentley said there was still a lot of it in his bowels, so he may have ingested it with a recent meal, maybe the cioppino they talked about. Jack and I need to head out, find out who served him his lunch yesterday.”
The three federal prosecutors began debating alternatives again. Dickie was saying, “I was thinking it’s time we simply hauled the Abbotts’ butts down here. We can handle their lawyers.”
Janice Arden, the veteran of the three, said, “Or we could wait to see if Savich finds proof of who poisoned Nichols.”
Savich wasn’t listening. He was too worried. “Jack, try Rachael’s cell phone.”
“I did. She’s not picking up.”
“Try her landline.”
There was no answer. Savich didn’t say a word, simply dialed his own landline.
