Double Take - Catherine Coulter [17]
Maitland nodded, started pacing in front of Savich’s desk. “I’ve read some of his reports. He’s got good recall. Did you know he’s got a law degree?”
Savich grinned. “I say thank the Lord he crossed over to the side of the angels.”
Maitland grunted, unconsciously flexed an impressive bicep. “Yep, we need him more than the world needs another damned lawyer.”
“He started out as a prosecutor, but couldn’t accept all the plea bargains they have to make to keep the system from imploding—he couldn’t see a whole lot of justice in that, didn’t think he was making much of a difference.”
Maitland nodded. “You know the SAC out in San Francisco— Bert Cartwright? He’s one smart guy, but he bitches about Stone being a hot dog—not covering other people’s butts is how I translate that.”
“You think?” Savich grinned.
“Of course you and Sherlock are the original hot dogs, if I don’t count your dad. Buck Savich drove everyone nuts.” Jimmy Maitland paused a moment and Savich knew he was thinking back.
Savich felt the brief dig of loss. He regretted that his dad had never met Sherlock, and had never known Sean. Then he eased away the memory of his larger-than-life father.
Maitland said, “I assume the SFPD has protection on Julia Ransom.”
“Yes. When Cheney called he said Captain Frank Paulette was in charge. They’re reopening the investigation into Dr. Ransom’s murder, but still there’s some talk about her being involved since she was their primary suspect six months ago.”
“But nothing came of it,” Maitland said. “She wasn’t arrested.”
“No,” Savich said, “and now there’s an attempt on her life. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Who is Julia Ransom? Ruth wondered. Julia Ransom—her name sounds familiar. But Ruth couldn’t place it. Because she was a cop, and cops were always curious, and, after all, she did know Cheney Stone, Ruth couldn’t walk away. Besides, she didn’t see much point in walking back to her desk to wait to see Dillon, her brain squirreling around in crazy circles. Eavesdropping was a relief, in fact, from the numbing disbelief that had smacked her in the face at seven-thirty that morning. She’d take it, even temporarily, take anything to distract her, even for a minute, from the weight of Dix’s news. No matter what scales you used, the bottom line was that Dix’s three-year-gone wife, Christie, was either dead or she wasn’t. No possible middle ground. Ruth couldn’t help it, she had a horrible premonition about which way the scales were going to tilt.
She heard Dillon say, “I think if this guy is a pro we might catch him, and Cheney says that was the impression he got.”
Maitland tapped his fingertip on the image of the man’s face in the sketch. “Look at those dead eyes—the sketch artist nailed that. Okay, we’ve used the facial recognition program now on a good half-dozen sketches—and come up with hits. See what you can do with this.”
Ruth knew Dillon was anxious to do just that. “I’ll get back to you on this, sir.”
Maitland, still strong enough to take on his four grown sons, stretched his back and said, “What a mess this is going to be. The SFPD is going to have to go digging again into all the people Ransom harmed or killed over the years with his free medical advice.”
“He didn’t give much medical advice,” Savich said. “His big rep was as a medium, and that means he communicated with the dead.”
Maitland grunted at that. “I remember reading that Edgar Cayce told cancer patients to use peach pits. Now, how about money trails?”
Savich said, “Always lots of them, but to my understanding, the SFPD didn’t find anything definitive on the widow.
“August Ransom’s estate was short