Point Blank by Catherine Coulter
“Of course she’s dead,” he assured her. “But there’s a vicious old man out there who’s as insane and violent as Tammy was. He wants to avenge her by killing me. And he wants to hurt Sherlock. Help us, Marilyn. Tell us who he is.”
“Moses Grace?” she whispered, her face now pale, the old fear back in her eyes. “That old man everyone’s talking about? And that teenage girl he’s got with him? Claudia?”
Savich nodded.
“Oh God, do you think he knows about this property?”
He said matter-of-factly, “No, I have no reason to believe he does. The location of this barn wasn’t in any newspaper accounts. And believe me, Marilyn, if he’d somehow found out about this place, he’d have been here months ago. He doesn’t know. Believe me.”
“Okay, that’s a good thing. But you think Moses Grace is Tammy’s grandfather?”
“Yes, he may very well be. He’s too old to be her father.”
“I don’t want him to kill you, Mr. Savich.” She nodded at Sherlock’s sling. “Did he do that?”
“Yes, he did,” Savich said.
“You’re right about it not being Tammy’s daddy. He left when she and Tommy were real young.”
“Okay. You told me your mother and Tammy’s mother were sisters or half-sisters. Tell us what you remember about any other relatives, Marilyn—names, where they lived, whatever.”
“It’s hard to talk about them, Mr. Savich, but I’ll try.” She waved them toward the mahogany chairs again. “Sit down, sit down. Okay. Good.” Then she stopped talking. She stretched her legs out in front of her and stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets.
She said finally, slowly, as if the words were being pulled out of her against her will, “Dalton, Kansas, that’s where I grew up with my mom. Tammy and Tommy lived with their mom in Lucas City, a little farming town maybe fifteen miles away. There weren’t ever any daddies around that I can remember. But both moms had been married, I’m sure of that. Tammy’s mom was Aunt Cordie. Cordelia Tuttle—Tuttle was her husband’s name, but like I said, he was long gone. My daddy’s name was Warluski, so my mom was Marva Warluski. My old man took off before I was even born.
“My mom used to say that Cordie had the brain of a mushroom and was meaner than a copperhead snake, just look at Tommy and Tammy, carbon copies of her. Whenever Tommy and Tammy beat me up, my mom said it was okay as long as I still had my neck because I had to toughen up.
“I used to hide when they came to visit.” She paused for a moment, her face twisted. “They always found me, and they walloped me anyway. My mom called me a wuss.”
“Do you remember other aunts or uncles?”
Marilyn shook her head. “My mom never spoke of any. Aunt Cordie didn’t, either.”
“And both your mom and Tammy’s mom died, is that right, Marilyn?”
Marilyn’s eyes popped open. “Yes, Mr. Savich, they died when we were all teenagers. That’s when Tommy and Tammy took me away, told me I had to do exactly what they said or they’d put me in a hole filled with snakes.”
“How did they die?”
“Tommy said they broke into this old lady’s house to take her social security money, but she wouldn’t tell them where she kept it. A neighbor heard the old lady screaming and called the police. They ran out of there, the cops chasing them, and one of the cops shot out a rear tire. Mom couldn’t hold the car on the road, and they hit a tree. Killed them both.”
Sherlock felt a wave of revulsion and swallowed. Marilyn spoke so matter-of-factly about it. She saw Dillon’s expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes were darker and hard. He said, “Think now what your mom’s maiden name was.”
“My mom’s name was Marva Gilliam.”
“Was that Cordie’s name, too?”
“Aunt Cordie—yes, she was Gilliam, too, because they were sisters, not half sisters.”
“Good. Very good. So she was Cordelia Gilliam. Did your grandfather and grandmother ever come around?”
She closed her eyes again. “I don’t ever remember a grandmother. But Granddaddy—yeah, I remember him. He never stayed with us, only with Aunt Cordie. I was maybe six years old when he came. Something must have happened because he suddenly left. Maybe he did something bad and had to run. He was mean, Mr. Savich, as mean as Aunt Cordie and Tommy and Tammy. He’d hit Tammy upside the head, then he’d cuddle her and stroke her hair. It scared me to death. It wasn’t right, I see that now. What he’d do when he cuddled Tammy wasn’t right.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“After my mom was killed he came real late one night, to Tommy and Tammy’s house. We were packing because the social workers were coming and we had to get out fast. He stuffed a whole bunch of money in Tammy’s hands, and then he kissed her, with his mouth open, patted her face, and left. I remember Tammy ran out after him. She didn’t come back for maybe an hour.” Marilyn looked at Savich. “I haven’t thought about that in years. I really didn’t realize . . . but Tammy was maybe fifteen then. Did he have sex with her, Mr. Savich?”
“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 hi
“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 sweetest smile. He grinned at Rob and Rafe, shook their hands, then leaned close to the boys. “You guys want to see the lineup room? It’s down the hall in the detective division. Hey, I’ll hang some numbers on you, let you live the experience. We can see how tall you are, too.”
The boys didn’t give them a backward glance. Detective Morales, dark-haired and dark-eyed, already sporting a five o’clock shadow, laughed as he led them to a small conference room down the hall. “I’ve got three teenagers of my own. They wanted me to put them in a cell overnight. I settled on the lineup thing. They didn’t stop talking about it all day.” He opened the door to the conference room and gestured them in.
“A nice setup you’ve got here,” Dix told him as he accepted a cup of coffee.
“The place is brand-new, up and running in 2002. None of that smell city police stations have, that combination of dampness, cheap room deodorizer, and eau de criminal. Not yet. It’s the best part of having new digs. So you’re an FBI agent,” he said without pause to Ruth. “How’d you and Sheriff Noble hook up? You guys married? Those your boys?”
“No, we’re not married,” Dix said easily. “We just met a week ago when this all started, Detective Morales.”
“Call me Cesar.”
Dix nodded, sat forward, and clasped her hands in front of him. “I’m Dix, and this is Ruth. Ruth is the agent Dempsey and Slater fired on last Saturday night. We met with Ruth’s boss in Washington this morning, and I’m real glad to find you here at work today, to meet you personally.”
Ruth said, “We both know about weekend work, Sheriff. The devil never sleeps.”
Dix said, “Sorry to tie up your staff with the boys, Cesar. It’s been a rough week for them, with people they know dying, our own house getting shot up. I wanted to show them we’re dealing with it, calm them down a little, and I didn’t want to leave them alone.”
“I understand,” Morales said. “Officer Craig can handle the kids, and I’ve got time to fill you in on what we’re doing.”
“You mentioned you’re working on some information from someone called Eddie Skanky?”
Detective Morales nodded. “Yes, I’ve also got two of my detectives working the usual stuff—credit cards, phone calls, bank accounts. They’ve leaned on Dempsey’s girlfriend and their business associates—you want to call them that—but lowlifes like that never have anything to tell you unless they’re up on charges and need some leverage to deal down.
“Eddie Skanky is a local thug who’s been sent up twice by Detective Marilyn Honniger. She got him again on a parole violation and he’s promised to put his nose to the grindstone if she doesn’t toss him back in jail. Seems he knew Slater and Dempsey, both in prison and out. We’re waiting for him to give up a name.”
“A name would be a good start,” Dix said, “but we have to be sure he’s not pulling a name out of the newspaper to stay out of prison.”
“Some of the people who were close to the victims are prominent, respected people,” Ruth explained. “Let’s hope he brings in something solid, or they’ll laugh at us.”
“I understand,” Detective Morales said. “I hear everything, and I know some of those people are relatives of yours, Sheriff. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes on this one.”
Dix sighed deeply, muttered under his breath, and said, meeting Morales’s eyes, “Yes, it could get real messy. I pray no one in the family is involved, mostly for the boys’ sake. I wouldn’t want to have to tell them something like that. But we’ll deal with whatever comes.”
They left a short time later, dragging Rob and Rafe, who didn’t want to detach themselves from Officer Craig. Dix unlocked the Range Rover to a hysterically barking Brewster, and everyone settled in. Ruth waited until the boys were plugged into a computer game before she said quietly, “I like Detective Morales. I’m glad we stopped here to meet him. It makes a difference when you know the other person. He’s a straight-up guy. He’ll come up with a name for us. I just don’t know if it will be in time.” At his raised eyebrow, she said smoothly, “By Tuesday.”
Dix grinned as he checked the boys in the rearview mirror, and murmured, “They’re still dealing with losing their mother. I hope we’re wrong about Gordon.”
“Hey, Dad, did I tell you how Officer Craig took us to booking? Showed us their fancy new fingerprinting machine? It’s newer than yours.”
Rafe said, “He showed me how to look like a real rough character in the lineup booth, how to slouch and turn my sneakers up on the edges.”
“The lineup, huh? Maybe next time Officer Craig can dump you in a holding cell, lock you up for a couple of hours so you can keep company with some of the city’s more upstanding citizens.”
The boys hooted and settled back into their game. If a wild cacophony of gunshots and car crashes counted as settling in, Ruth thought.
Dix passed an old truck, nodded to the farmer who waved him ahead, and eased the Range Rover around him.
CHAPTER 35
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY NIGHT
SAVICH AND SHERLOCK sat in the Volvo in their driveway, the engine idling, heater running. Savich stared at his laptop. MAX was in satellite communication with the communications center in the Hoover Building. A large-scale map of the Washington, D.C., area appeared on the screen.
Sherlock said, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Our neighbors to the north had Malcolm Gilliam in custody for nine years. If they’d only kept him incarcerated none of this would have happened.”
“I wish he’d been in prison rather than in a mental hospital,” Savich said. “It’s a pity the Canadian Supreme Court ruling in 1991 changed their criminal code. They made it easier to escape criminal culpability by claiming insanity.”
“But still,” Sherlock said, “he brutally kills two people in Quebec and they let him out in nine years?”
Savich rolled his shoulders and stretched. “Once his lawyers managed to convince a jury he wasn’t criminally responsible because he was hallucinating and delusional at the time of the crimes, it wasn’t lawful for them to hold him in custody any longer. Something about cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Unless,” Sherlock said, “they could prove he still posed a risk to the public. He must have learned the rules really well.” She looked at MAX’s screen for a moment and panned the map westward. “So, Dillon, if they deemed Moses was no longer a danger to the public, the Institut Philippe Pinel couldn’t monitor him after he was released?”
“He was scheduled to see his multidisciplinary support group weekly, but he was legally free to leave. So he hacked off his locator bracelet, skipped out, and came back to the United States two years ago. Then we lose track of him until he picks up Claudia and beats that homeless man to death eight months ago in Birmingham.”
“You know he must see Claudia as another Tammy.”
“Probably. Claudia is the same age as Tammy was. And now the two of them have gone on their own killing spree.”
Savich opened a JPEG file on MAX. “You haven’t seen this photo yet, Sherlock. It was taken three weeks before Moses’s trial.”
She leaned over to stare at the photo of a rather distinguished-looking, middle-aged man with thick gray hair, a thin ascetic face, and an aquiline nose. His nicel
Savich nodded and began to massage her neck and shoulders to ease the tension. “It’d be nice, though, to have a photo from when he got out of the Canadian institute after nine years. We’re still working on that.”
She studied MAX’s screen again. “He’s aged thirty years, and not well, since this was taken.”
“He’s very ill, Sherlock, and maybe that’s got a lot to do with how old and worn he looks. He was being treated for pulmonary tuberculosis reactivation at Philippe Pinel. They didn’t finish treating him before he skipped out. When I told Dr. Breaker his symptoms, he said it sounded like the infection had progressed to the cavitary stage—destroyed enough tissue to form big holes in his lungs. Dr. Breaker thinks he’s in the end stages.”
“I guess more people were exposed to tuberculosis back then. So a disease he probably got in childhood is going to do him in. At least there’ll be some kind of justice for him.”
“If this satellite link to the communications center holds up, we’ll be helping him get justice sooner than that,” Savich said.
“I sure hope so, Dillon, or we’ll never get any sleep.”
“We still have some time before midnight,” Savich said. He pulled her onto his lap, kissed her behind the ear, and smoothed her soft hair with his hand. “Rest a moment. It’s only been two days since you got your arm sliced up.”
He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “Moses called at exactly midnight the last time. We won’t stay out much later than that. Dane and Ben should be here about now.”
At midnight sharp Savich’s cell phone rang. He pulled out of his driveway and next to the curb, and let the car idle again. He gave everyone a thumbs-up and answered it.