TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [91]
The young woman turned quickly and disappeared through an arched doorway to the left. She immediately came back, heels loud and sharp on the marble floor, her face flushed. She apologized for leaving them in the entryway, and showed them into the starkly modern, entirely white living room. Savich hated white on white, but the view of all the historic residences through the floor-to-ceiling windows was very nice indeed. He saw his Porsche hugging the curb, boxed in now by a Beemer and a Mercedes, royalty, to his mind, surrounded by minions.
A good five minutes passed before Pierre Barbeau and his wife, Estelle, appeared in the doorway, both wearing casual chic, which for her meant tight designer jeans, a jeweled belt, and a silk blouse, and for Pierre, a short-sleeved golf shirt, black pants, and Italian loafers. He was holding a Diet Coke. Mrs. Barbeau looked like a thoroughbred—thin, sharp bones, the angle of her head arrogant, her chin high, and she stood straight and tall. She knew her own worth, Savich thought, and her opinion of her own worth was very high indeed. He looked more closely and saw the pain in her dark eyes, the new lines etched around her mouth. How fragile she looked in her expensive clothes. There was no doubt in his mind the woman was hurting.
Pierre Barbeau looked exhausted, like he was slowly bleeding, the life draining out of him. His black eyes were sunken and shadowed, his flesh loose on his face. There was no way this man could have planned and executed an escape for his son, not with his ravaged face and dead eyes. Pierre Barbeau looked like an old man who no longer cared about anything. He said as he paused in the doorway, “Tommy from downstairs told us two FBI agents were here. I do not understand. What would the FBI want to speak to us about?” Neither he nor Mrs. Barbeau appeared to want names or a handshake, which was fine by Savich.
Savich said pleasantly, “I believe you are both acquainted with Dr. Timothy MacLean?” He didn’t move from where he and Sherlock stood by a corner window that looked back toward DuPont Circle over the roofs of a dozen historic buildings.
Because Pierre Barbeau’s face was already stark with misery, Savich saw only a small change at the mention of MacLean’s name. He looked like he wanted to spit in contempt, but wasn’t able to dial it up. He sneered instead. As for Mrs. Barbeau, there was instant dagger-cold viciousness in her eyes, her hatred for Timothy instantly overcoming her grief. Savich didn’t want to, but he knew he should fan that hatred if he wanted to find out the truth as quickly as possible. They walked slowly into the living room and sat together on a white sofa, Pierre still clutching the Diet Coke. Savich and Sherlock sat opposite them.
Pierre Barbeau squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, but not to the same arrogant height as his wife’s, and kept his sneer in place. He said, his voice low, an old man’s tremor sliding through it, “Dr. MacLean? Well, yes, both my wife and I have known Timothy and Molly for many years now, but in reality who can you ever really know?” He shrugged. “Oh, we were friends, shared meals, talked about our families, our children . . .” He swallowed, and his hand trembled when he brought up the Coke can to rub his cheek. To wipe away tears he knew could roll down his face any moment? “We knew their children, they knew Jean David.”
If Sherlock closed her eyes and only heard him speak, she’d have thought he sounded very sexy with that lovely accent, not so heavy that he sounded like a cartoon to an American ear. But looking at him, she saw a man utterly beaten down, like Atlas, holding the weight of the world, but ready to drop it.
“Yes, we are acquaintances,” Estelle said, her accent more pronounced. “Most everyone in our circle is acquainted with him. I will instruct Lissy to bring us coffee.”
“We’re fine, Mrs. Barbeau,” Savich said. He watched them exchange a look, then move closer together—protection from