Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [45]
Sean gurgled very close to Savich’s ear.
He held his son back and smiled into that beloved little face that looked more like him than Sherlock. Sean had his dark hair, not Sherlock’s curly red hair. As for his eyes, they were as dark as his father’s, not that sweet, soft blue of his mother’s. “You want to know something? It’s four o’clock in the morning and here we are wide awake. Your mama’s going to think we’re both nuts.”
Sean yawned then and stuck three fingers into his mouth. Savich kissed his forehead and stood, gently laying his son over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re ready to pack it in again.”
He went to his son’s room and dimmed the light. He laid him on his back and pulled a yellow baby blanket over his light diaper shirt.
“You go to sleep now, hear? I’m even going to sing you one of my favorite songs. Your mama always laughs her head off when I sing her this one.” He sang a country-and-western song about a man who loved his Chevy truck so much that he was buried with the engine and all four hubcaps, special edition, all silver. Sean looked mesmerized by his father’s deep, rich voice. He was out after just two verses. One good thing about country-and-western music—there was always another verse. Savich paused a moment, smiled down at the precious human being that still jolted him when he realized that Sean was, indeed, his very own child, part of him. Just as Savich had been his father’s child. He felt a sharp pull somewhere in the region of his heart. He missed his dad, always would.
Who was this Thomas Matlock, who claimed to have known his father?
He went back to his study.
MAX beeped as he walked in. “Good for you,” Savich said, sitting back down. “What have we got on this Thomas Matlock guy?”
TWELVE
Adam said, “You mean they’re giving up trying to find her on the Outer Banks?”
Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched behind a car somewhere, calling on his cell phone, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes caused eye infections. “Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all, they’re counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing this guy who shot the governor. That’s why they’re searching high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show down there. I hear he’s cursing up a blue streak, wondering where she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her and she ain’t anywhere, like smoke, he says, and the others grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you’ll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you who duped him, he’d want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to stick it on.”
“Thanks for sharing that, Hatch.”
“Knew you’d like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don’t you?”
That wasn’t the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, “Something like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra’s finally come to the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn’t anywhere near the Outer Banks?”
“That’s it.”
“I don’t think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time has passed for them to find her now. I think we’re home free—well, at least for the moment.”
Silence.
“Hatch, I know you’re lighting a cigarette. Put it out right now or I’ll fire you.”
Silence.
“Is it out?”
“Yeah, boss. I swear it’s out. I didn’t even get one decent puff.”
“Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?”
“They’re talking to their counterparts all over the country, just like the Feebs are. But hey—nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective Morales is a wreck, probably hasn’t slept for three days. All he can talk about is how she called him, repeated to him that she’d told him everything, and he wasn’t able to talk her in. There’s this other detective, a woman name of Letitia Gordon, who evidently hates Ms. Matlock’s guts. Claims she’s a liar, a nutcase, and probably a murderer. Old