TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [111]
“You have quite an imagination, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said easily. “But the fact is, none of that happened. Your son’s misdeeds died with him. I doubt the CIA will ever discover exactly what and how much your son passed on to the terrorists.”
“He didn’t help the terrorists! Maybe some of it got to them, but the point is, he didn’t realize . . . It was all that woman’s fault. She seduced him, twisted him up.” He stopped, shook his head. “Jean David was so young, so innocent until she got hold of him.”
Jean David Barbeau was twenty-six when he drowned. Savich and Sherlock remained quiet.
Pierre said, “At least it wasn’t raining last night. Dreadful weather here, simply dreadful.”
“Your English is excellent, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said.
“It should be. My father was always traveling here to the States with me and my mother in tow. He consulted with Amtrak, you know, and we lived here for long stretches of time. I attended American private schools, attended Harvard for two years before going back to France to finish my education.”
“And your wife?”
“She, too, traveled widely with her family. She is one of those few people who can pick up a language like that.” He snapped his fingers and looked sour. “She speaks five languages. Five. I’ve always believed three languages quite enough, but five? It’s a bit over the top, I think.”
Savich, who spoke only English, said, “So that’s why Jean David was born in New Jersey. You are travelers like your parents.”
“If you must know, we were visiting friends at their beach house in Cape May. Jean David came three weeks early and so he is an American citizen, something we never intended or wanted.”
At that meaty insult, Sherlock said, “As it turned out, it might have been better for everyone if Jean David wasn’t born here. The CIA would have been pleased if he’d joined his father at the French National Police, as well, Mr. Barbeau.”
His breathing sped up. He looked at Sherlock like he wanted to hit her. Just as suddenly, the anger died in his eyes. No, Savich thought it was more like his eyes themselves died. He pictured Sean’s beloved face, and couldn’t begin to imagine the pain of losing his son.
Savich said, “We would like to speak to your wife.”
He started to protest, then simply turned and yelled, “Estelle!”
Mrs. Barbeau, covered from neck to mid-calf in a thick white robe, her hair wrapped up in a white towel, appeared at the end of the hall. She’d known they were there, naturally, but she’d been staying back. “Go away,” she called out. “I am not dressed. It is Saturday morning. Leave us alone. We have nothing more to say to you.”
Sherlock called out, “I understand you and your husband visited the Penyon Gallery last evening. What did you think of the special exhibit?”
“It was pitiful. We saw nothing to interest us. I am not feeling well. I will not come any closer, I do not wish for you to become as ill as I am.”
“Your illness, it came on very quickly,” Sherlock said. “Since you were all about town last night.”
“Yes, it came on quickly. Go away.”
Savich stepped closer to Pierre, clamped a hand around his right arm, to check once and for all that he was not the one Nurse Louise had shot. He felt thick material, but no bandage. Pierre didn’t jerk away, he very slowly pulled away. Had he flinched at all? Savich knew he’d tightened, he’d felt his muscles tense. Perhaps a very minor wound, Savich thought again, if Pierre was the man Nurse Louise shot.
Why couldn’t anything be easy?
Sherlock called out, “So you didn’t like the artists?”
“Not particularly,” Estelle said. “It was all what I call commercial oatmeal—nothing of interest or import. Go away. Leave us alone. I am ill.”
Savich said pleasantly, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Barbeau, why don’t you join us in the living room. We will be brief and we promise to stay three feet from you so you won’t have to worry about being arrested for infecting