Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [71]
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
“He’s still here, Adam. He’s close. I can feel him. It’s like something very black and heavy crawling over my skin.”
He said nothing.
“But why? I don’t understand why he picked me. Why is he doing this to me?”
Again, Adam said nothing, but he thought, If Krimakov is really dead, then there isn’t a motive, and I don’t have the foggiest idea, either, why he picked you.
BECCA couldn’t get Linda Cartwright out of her mind. She kept picturing her, lying there, her face smashed, and no one to take care of her for hour upon hour.
Sherlock handed her a cup of coffee, steam rising from the mug like cigarette smoke. “You only slept a couple of hours, Becca. Here, drink this.”
“None of us slept for more than a couple of hours,” Becca said. “Where are Adam and Savich?”
“Adam is out talking to Dave and Chuck. They took over outside patrol. He’s going to get some other people here, some of his own people, to free up these guys.”
“Maybe Hatch is coming.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, Becca added, “I heard Adam talking to him on the phone. Yeah, I was eavesdropping, so Adam had to tell me. He said Hatch speaks six languages, has lots of contacts, is really smart, and smokes. Adam is always trying to get him to stop smoking by threatening to fire him.”
Sherlock laughed and lifted her mug to toast Becca’s. “I want to meet this guy. If he dares to light up a cigarette, Savich won’t threaten to fire him, he’ll take his head off.”
“So Adam doesn’t work for Thomas?”
“No, not now. They’ve been friends for a very long time. Adam is sort of like a son to Thomas. No, I won’t tell you any more about him.”
Becca didn’t say anything.
“Listen, Becca, it doesn’t matter. Right now, my husband is concerned that the local cops won’t be able to do a thing about Linda Cartwright because they’re going in completely blind. But we agreed this is the way we’ll play it for a while. The cops have been there for a while now, Becca. They’re taking care of her. But they won’t be able to figure anything out because we’re holding back. That really sticks in everyone’s craw, probably always will.”
“Sherlock, do you know who Krimakov is?”
Sherlock couldn’t help it, her eyes gave her away before she could pull down the automatic blinders, and she wanted to kick herself. She shrugged. “Yes, I know. But it would have to be his ghost who killed Linda Cartwright. Evidently, Thomas got information that he was killed in an auto accident a short time ago in Crete, where he supposedly lived. So it’s all academic. If he’s dead, then he can’t have anything to do with this.”
“And Thomas has double-checked that this guy is really dead?”
“I would assume so.”
“If this Krimakov were alive, and he were behind this terror, why would he be doing it to me in particular? He’s what—Russian? What could he possibly have against me? Why would Thomas think it was him?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, lying cleanly now because she’d had time to slip her mask into place.
“Who is Thomas, Sherlock? Please, you’ve got to tell me.”
“Forget him, Becca,” she said over her shoulder. “Drop it. Give it time. Now, I want some more coffee. Can I make you some toast or something?”
“No, nothing.” Who was this Thomas person? Why all the secrecy? It made no sense to her. She looked over at the single telephone. It was nearly nine o’clock on Thursday morning. Nothing from him. Maybe he was scared now, maybe he knew they were getting close, maybe he would go away. Still, she sat there staring at that black phone like it was a snake about to bite her.
The last person any of them wanted to see arrived midmorning.
“The door looks good,” Sheriff Gaffney said when Becca opened it. “What with all this mess, I didn’t think you’d worry so much about how your front door looked.”
Becca said, “You never know, do you, Sheriff? Would you like to come in? Is there any news about