Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(47)
He said easily as he got to his feet, “Good evening, Congressman. Mrs. Manvers and I were reading letters written to her by her grandfather. They’re very interesting. In this last one he mentions his best friend, Nate, and how he, Nate, wasn’t the lucky one.” Griffin held out the card to Manvers. Griffin said nothing more. Rebekah said nothing, either, but her face was flushed.
Manvers quickly read the card, looked down at the pile of letters on the white carpet, and slowly, he eased. He stepped forward and took his wife’s hand, brought her close against him, and kissed her cheek. Then he smiled at her and read the birthday card again. “I don’t understand. What is this all about?”
Griffin said, confiding now, man-to-man, “I think it’s time to add your own thoughts to this mystery, sir. Rebekah, tell your husband about Nate Elderby.”
Manvers cocked an eyebrow. “Nate Elderby?”
“I was very little when Nate died, and honestly I don’t remember him, even though he must have been around a lot. Rich, do you remember what happened?”
“The police ruled Elderby was drinking, fell overboard, and drowned. Why the interest now?”
Rebekah said, “I’m not sure. It’s sort of like a blank canvas I’m trying to fill in. Rich, after those two men tried to kidnap me, I wanted to do something, to help somehow. That’s why I’m showing Agent Hammersmith my grandfather’s letters. I hoped we might find something.” She shrugged. “But probably not.”
Griffin said, “Do you know of any trouble between the two men back in the nineties? Any idea what her grandfather meant by Nate not being lucky?”
Manvers said, “No, I don’t remember his ever talking about Nate with me, but it’s possible I’ve forgotten. It was a long time ago.” He looked down at his wife and lightly kissed her cheek. “Believe me, sweetheart, after you told me about your séance with Zoltan, I’ve given your grandfather a lot of thought. I honestly don’t know if this Big Take was real, but maybe when your grandfather wrote that Nate wasn’t lucky, he was referring to this Big Take. Maybe they were partners but then Elderby drowned, leaving your grandfather with the prize, whatever it was. Would that make sense?”
Rebekah shook her head. She pulled away from her husband and began to pace the bedroom. She paused a moment to straighten an impressionist painting of a field of lavender, a painting she’d selected herself. She looked from Griffin to her husband. “I remember clearly that Grandfather was devastated when Nate died. Even as young as I was, I remember him crying. Could the two of them have stolen a huge amount of money?”
Manvers said, “I trust not, but all we can do now, Rebekah, is to keep you safe until the authorities find out who attacked you.”
Rebekah thought of the poem and her promise to her grandfather. She only nodded.
When Griffin left a few minutes later, Manvers was holding Rebekah, stroking her hair. Griffin heard him say, “I’m so sorry about all this, Rebekah. I know Thursday was terrifying for you. But I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”
Griffin started to call Savich but decided his boss and Cinelli had enough on their plates at the moment. He was surprised when he realized he was driving toward the Savich house in Georgetown, but he didn’t stop. Something was nagging at him. He dialed Sherlock. On the third ring, she said, “Griffin? What time is it? Oh goodness, it’s not all that late. I was wiped out and went to bed early, out like a light. What’s up?”
He felt foolish and guilty for waking her. Nothing was wrong. “Sorry I woke you, but with Savich gone, I guess I wanted to check in with you, make sure everything was all right. I’m close by if there’s anything you need.”
She laughed. “I’m fine without Dillon for a night. Hey, maybe even two nights.” She paused, and he could picture her smiling into her cell phone. “I’m okay, Griffin. Thank you for checking.”
In that instant, he heard a sound blast, a loud whoosh, like a giant grill lighting. He knew that sound. “Sherlock, there’s a fire starting at your house. Get out now! I’m calling 911. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Go!”
30
ST. LUMIS
CHIEF WILDE’S COTTAGE
MONDAY NIGHT
Savich, Pippa, and Chief Wilde sat in the cozy living room dominated by an oversize ancient sofa, both ratty and charming. Pippa laughed and pointed. “Your mom? Grandmother?”
“Actually, my great-uncle Marlbury’s third wife, Irene. Yeah, I know it’s chintz, that’s the word she used.” He shrugged. “I haven’t gotten around to buying much of anything new.” He stared at the sofa, realizing he’d been in St. Lumis three years and hadn’t even tried to make this rented cottage his home. What he’d been doing was marking time. And for what?
He walked to the fireplace and set a match to the wadded-up newspapers he’d stuffed between logs. He rose, wiped his hands on his jeans. “The fire should get going soon. Odd how quick it’s turned into November.”
He looked at the two FBI agents drinking coffee in his living room and marveled at what life could dish up with no warning at all. He’d told Cinelli the truth. The red box, the puzzle pieces of St. Lumis, the attack on her—he hadn’t realized how much he missed feeling the excitement, the beating pulse of real police work. He hadn’t felt anything like that since he’d left Philadelphia. He looked over at Agent Cinelli, at the drying clumps of hair still sticky with her blood. Her thick French braid was in bad shape, long blond hanks hanging around her face. Every few minutes she shoved the hair behind her ears only to have it slither back. At least she didn’t need stitches. He’d pulled the skin together with butterfly strips. He looked at her hands, covered with ointment and wrapped in soft gauze. Did she feel the same sort of excitement he did after all she’d been through? There was an intense focus in her eyes as she reported to Agent Savich what she’d already told him.