The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [655]
“Don’t dwell on it, Marilyn. Did you ever hear his first name?”
“Both my mom and Aunt Cordie called him Papa. I heard him tell Tammy to call him Malcolm. So I guess he had to be Malcolm Gilliam. Do you know what? I just saw him in my mind. He was handsome, real good-looking, but old, you know?
“Once, about six months later, I remember Tommy and Tammy talking about him. Tammy waved this postcard in front of my nose, said it was from her granddaddy. I said he was my granddaddy, too, but she laughed, said I didn’t know Granddaddy like she did. She said he sent the postcard all the way from Montreal.”
“How did he know where they were, do you remember?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Savich. They didn’t talk about that.”
“Were there other postcards or letters?”
“Yeah, some, along with wads of cash, for three or four years, then they stopped.”
Savich leaned over and patted her hand. “You have helped us immensely. Thank you.”
Because Marilyn was so proud of her new home, Savich and Sherlock drank some sodas with her and ate a couple of her favorite Fig Newtons. She showed them the table she was making to match the beautiful chairs. The last thing Marilyn said to Savich when she walked them to Sherlock’s Volvo was, “I’m sure sorry about your Porsche, Mr. Savich. I saw it blow up on TV. Now you’ve got to ride in this stuffy thing.”
Savich patted her cheek, kissed her lightly. “As soon as I can I’m going to go out and get myself something you’ll really like.”
“Then make it one of those new Corvettes, red of course. Unless you have enough money for a Ferrari.”
They waved until both she and her barn were out of sight. When they drove onto the country road again, Savich said, “Malcolm Gilliam. I’ll bet you anything his parents were named either Moses or Grace or a combination of the two.”
CHAPTER 34
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
THE SATURDAY AFTERNOON traffic was sluggish as they approached Richmond, people hanging out of their cars, enjoying the break in the weather.
Dix exited the downtown expressway and worked his way over to West Grace Street to the Richmond Police Department headquarters.
“There’s some irony in the street name,” Ruth remarked.
For a Saturday afternoon there was lots of activity, more than Dix had seen since his days in New York. They passed a woman sobbing into her hands, a man ranting about his mechanic cheating him, and a cop filling out papers next to a teenager who looked scared to death. Dix was thinking he should have left Rob and Rafe in the car with Brewster, but then Detective Morales came forward, his hand outstretched. After the introductions, the detective led them to the second floor. He eyed the boys and spoke quietly into his cell phone.
Rafe whispered to his brother, “Hey, would you look at that scar? How cool is that? Bet he was in a gunfight.”
Detective Morales said over his shoulder, “Yep, a bunch of Colombian drug dealers were holed up in the warehouse district, and we stormed the place. This is my souvenir.” He ran a finger lightly over the pale scar. “My wife thinks it’s pretty cool, too.
“Ah, Linus, these two hotshots are Rob and Rafe Noble. While I’m dealing with their dad, Sheriff Noble, and Special Agent Warnecki, I’m hoping you could break away from chasing down bank robbers to give them a tour of our fine facilities.”
Officer Linus Craig couldn’t have been over twenty-two, Ruth thought as she shook his beefy hand. He had to be six-five, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds on a light day. She’d wager he’d played football in college, probably offensive line. His broken nose hadn’t healed quite straight, and he had the