TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [112]
Estelle made no pretense of civility. She came to stand in the living room doorway, but no closer. It was true, she didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was very pale. And, Sherlock thought, that bathrobe was very thick for June. Could it have been a woman on those hospital tapes?
Estelle repeated what her husband had told them, probably because she’d listened to their conversation, Sherlock thought cynically.
Finally, Pierre threw up his hands. “Will you tell us what has happened?”
Savich said, looking Pierre right in the eyes, “A man pretending to be a physician tried to kill Dr. MacLean last night around midnight.”
A moment of silence, then Estelle shrugged. “It is a pity, and a pity he failed.
“Oh, I see. You believe my husband is the one who tried to kill that miserable excuse for a doctor? For a friend? I will tell you, he did not. We were together—all night. I want you to leave.”
Sherlock eyed Estelle’s right arm. There could easily be a bandage beneath her robe. No, surely it was a man on the tapes—the walk, the posture, surely, but he wore loose clothing. Estelle was nearly as tall as her husband.
Short of having both Barbeaus strip to the waist, there was no way to be sure.
Savich wanted to go back to bed and sleep for a few hours or have Sherlock seduce him again. Both, actually.
There was light traffic on Wisconsin. Savich’s foot went down heavy on the Porsche’s gas pedal. Then he sighed, slacked off a bit, sighed again.
“You want to know what I’m thinking?”
She touched his hand, felt his fingers slowly relax. “Tell me.”
“This persistence—obsession—you said. I simply can’t see anyone we’ve spoken to being that dogged, that determined to kill Dr. MacLean. Maybe we should speak to Lomas Clapman, maybe he murdered a dozen people and Dr. MacLean’s forgotten about it.”
“I think our killer is right under our noses. We’re missing something and that’s because we’re tired. It’s been a wild week, Dillon. We’ve got to spend some time putting everything we know down on a timeline—and we’ve got to take some time to let it percolate.”
Savich thought she was right.
She said, “I’m thinking we could arrange a little party tonight with Rachael’s aunt and uncle, and maybe Stefanos. It would give us a chance to talk to them. You think they’d accept an invitation to the old family manse if Rachael asked them real nice?”
Savich laughed. “Yeah, maybe if we sent a SWAT team with the invitation. And if we brought them in for questioning, they would come with a half-dozen lawyers, refuse to answer any questions, and demand we arrest them or release them. Then they’d try to sue the FBI out of existence.”
Sherlock said, “I guess we’d need some evidence for that—like fourteen eyewitnesses.”
“They’d still sue. Actually, I’ve been thinking about another way to get together with them—a special invitation they might actually accept. I’ll let you know if I can work it out.”
Savich’s cell phone sang out “Camptown Races.” When he punched off, he turned to her. “Roderick Lloyd, the gun-happy yahoo at Roy Bob’s garage in Parlow? Ollie says he wants to deal. He’s willing to testify it was Perky who told him what to do.”
“That’s all well and good,” Sherlock said, “but does he have a clue who hired Perky?”
“No.”
“That’s convenient.”
Savich said, “Lloyd’s lawyer found out Perky couldn’t roll on him because she’s dead, so why not sing? It always warms my heart to see a lawyer at work.”
She grinned, leaned her head back against the headrest. She felt the wind tear through her hair, felt the sting on her face. She looked over at him and said, “It’s Saturday. Let’s get Sean and go play some touch football in High Banks Park.”
Savich said, “Sean’s getting pretty good. He doesn’t try to jump on our backs any longer.” Sex and a nap could wait. “High Banks Park? Why not?”
FORTY-FIVE
Rachael and Jack stood in the open doorway, Jack lusting after Savich’s Porsche as he pulled out of the driveway. He looked around at the well-lit neighborhood. Everything quiet, nothing moving. Still—“I’m going to