Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(57)

For a moment, Mrs. Trumbo froze, then she shook her head. “Why would you think I’d have the faintest idea why Maude Filly framed the major in a window? I will say she can be a vicious old bat about the major when the mood strikes her, not that I blame her.” She paused, eased the cream closer to Pippa. “I know you like your coffee black, Chief. Do you know, when Major Trumbo asked me to marry him, he was so nervous, the poor man. It took me a while to realize Maude had been smart to divorce him. He became a real pain in the butt, nasty old bugger, until he had the good taste to croak.” She nodded toward the mantel. “Ms. Cinelli knows his ashes are in that lovely urn. Six pounds is all that’s left of him, and believe me, it’s more than enough. Ms. Cinelli, would you like some cream? Sugar? I have real, raw, and fake.”

Pippa said, “Black is perfect, thank you. Mrs. Filly told me you’d been seeing Major Trumbo while they were still married. She said you claimed you didn’t know, and you were clever enough to use all your assets.”

“Well, now, that’s the truth, isn’t it? Poor Maude never had much in the way of assets. I’ve always wondered what’s with all the snake and monster puzzles.” She gave one final look at their plates, nodded to herself, and left them alone.

Wilde forked up a bite of scrambled eggs. “You made that up, didn’t you? Mrs. Filly didn’t say that about Mrs. Trumbo’s assets.” He gave a little shudder. “Her assets don’t bear thinking about.”

Pippa chewed on a piece of bacon and smiled. “So sue me. I wanted to see what she had to say about Mrs. Filly.”

He raised his coffee and saluted her. “We can talk to her more seriously after we’ve spoken to Mrs. Filly.”

She crunched on another piece of bacon. “Thank you, Wilde. Wilde—that doesn’t feel right. Does anyone call you by your first name? It’s Matthew, right?”

“Actually, no one calls me Matthew. Even my mom started calling me Wilde when I turned thirteen. There was nothing I wouldn’t try, including joyriding my uncle Tommy’s prized BMW nearly off a cliff, and brawling with my friends after a football game, coming home with a banged-up face. It’s been Wilde since that first bloody nose.”

She laughed, then sobered quickly. He saw it.

Wilde added some pepper to his eggs, offered it to her. “Back to business, then. I’m thinking it’s you and me who need to find out who set the fire at Savich’s house, if it’s someone from town.”

Pippa turned down the pepper. “Makes sense it is.”

“I want to visit that old grocery store, too, see what we can find.”

Pippa saw he was looking at her bandaged wrists. “Don’t even think about it, Wilde. No doctor.”

“Let me see them.”

She rolled her eyes, stuck out her hands. The gauze bandages were in place. “All right, no doctor.” He picked up a slice of crispy bacon, pointed it at her. “I like to see tough on the hoof, but take three aspirin, okay?”

Mrs. Trumbo wasn’t at the reception desk when they left the dining room to go upstairs to Pippa’s honeymoon suite. “Black Hoodie took my key along with everything else.” She stepped behind the desk and took the master key from its hook on the key rack. “Do you think he could have come here?”

“Let’s go see.”

She unlocked the door and Wilde simply pushed her away and went in first, his gun drawn.

“All clear,” he called out a moment later only to see she was right on his heels.

Pippa looked around the room. “I don’t think anything’s been touched. Well, Wilde, what do you think of my room? Does it meet your expectations?”

He stopped and stared at the circular bed and the bordello-red draperies. “This is amazing.”

“Ah, there’s my tablet, right where I left it. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll take a shower and change.” She picked up her tablet and punched in her password. “Take a look at my notes, under ‘Red Box.’ I’ll be fast.”

He sat down on a plush red-as-sin circular chair by the window and opened the file while Pippa carried some clothes into the bathroom. “If you have questions, jot them down in the notes section.”

When she came out of the bathroom eleven minutes later, he looked up and saw an FBI agent—black pants, white blouse, a kick-ass black leather jacket, and low-heeled black boots, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. “You have my Walther?”

She pulled back her jacket to show him.

“You clean up well, Cinelli. Your notes are thorough, but they show how little we know. It’s time to go check out Mrs. Filly’s assets.”





37


HOME OF ZOLTAN

TUESDAY MORNING

Savich started his Porsche, listened to his baby roar to life, and smiled. He always did. He loved the sound of those cylinders. His cell sang out Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower.” He frowned. “It’s Sonja Grayson, the lead prosecutor in Marsia Gay’s trial.” Ever since Grayson had told him Veronica Lake had agreed to make a deal with the prosecution and testify against Marsia Gay, he had been waiting for this call. He knew exactly what had happened. “Ms. Grayson?” He said nothing, only listened. Finally, he punched off.

Sherlock laid her hand on his. “Veronica’s dead, isn’t she?”