Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(61)
She jerked up, yelled, “I am not stupid! We’ll see who’s stupid before this is over!” She stopped when the guard started toward her, looking worried, and eased back down in her seat. She drew a deep breath. “I saw on the news this morning there was a fire at your house in Georgetown last night. I hope Agent Sherlock and your little boy are all right. Such a pity you weren’t there.”
It all slid into place. “And that fire at my house happened on the same day you had Veronica stabbed. Hard to miss that, Marsia. It took you long enough to bring it up, but you couldn’t help yourself.” He leaned forward. “Are you finally taking credit for something you’ve done?”
An arched dark eyebrow went up. “Come, Agent Savich, you’re being dramatic again. One never knows when a fire can start. Faulty wiring, leaving the oven on, who knows? You can never be sure. Anyone can die at any time, can’t they? Even in a cafeteria surrounded by a hundred people.”
He half rose and leaned toward her, his voice hard. “That was your biggest mistake, Marsia. You tried to kill my family, and you failed. I’m going to find the man you hired, and that crime will keep you in prison for the rest of your life, this time in maximum security.”
She leaped to the bait. “You’re going to what? Find a nonexistent man I supposedly hired? You, a no-talent cop? Look at your boorish little excuse for art—whittling! I’ll be back in my studio soon, sculpting the female form as only a true artist can envision it. What you do is laughable, pitiful.” She paused, got control, and gave him a full-bodied sneer. “Actually, it’s too bad I’m not content to whittle like you do, lots of wood here, you know?”
“You’d have to chew the wood, Marsia, no knives for prisoners. I doubt a shiv would do the job.”
Fury and hatred pumped off her in waves. Savich sat back, gave her his own sneer. “Your sculptures are grotesque, random pieces of metal unrecognizable as anything meaningful or inspiring. You said you admired my grandmother’s paintings. Sarah Elliott’s art is in museums. And what you call your art, Marsia? Nothing you’ve ever done will gain you that kind of recognition. You’re the one who’s pitiful. You’ll be in an institution for the rest of your natural life, with nothing to do but seduce other prisoners in return for less and less, until you’re too old, and they turn on you.”
She was panting, hitting her tied fists against the tabletop. “You bastard! You’ll never prove a thing. Fact is, Dillon, Veronica Lake was a loser in life, but in death, she’ll be my salvation. And you? We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Savich looked at the woman who wanted not only him to die, but also Sherlock and Sean. But now he knew. She’d taunted him with it.
His voice was dismissive. “You’ll find prison slowly leaches the life out of you, Marsia, hollows you out until you have no real substance. Life becomes a matter of enduring, nothing more. You really think you can get away with murdering Veronica? Get away with setting my house on fire, endangering Sherlock and my son? Are you that stupid?”
She screamed at him, “Just try to screw with me! You’re the one who’ll regret it! I always win!”
Savich said to the guard, who seemed frozen in place, “I’m done with her. Take her back to her cell.”
39
ST. LUMIS
TUESDAY MORNING
Mrs. Filly was no longer a gypsy. She was all businesswoman: black slacks, a slouchy black linen jacket over a white sweater, a string of pearls around her neck. She was explaining to a couple of parents why she didn’t carry Winnie the Pooh puzzles while trying to keep an eye on their four children roaming around the store, yelling and pointing, praying they wouldn’t try to pull any of the puzzles apart.
Pippa’s cell buzzed with a text from Dillon. She read it and looked up at Chief Wilde. “Dillon says he’s sure Marsia Gay is behind the fire at his house, says it makes sense Black Hoodie could have struck me down to lure him away from his house, then driven to D.C. and set the fire while he was away. He wants us to find out how Black Hoodie’s connected to Marsia Gay here in St. Lumis.”
“Marsia Gay? Who’s she?”
“All I remember is she was arrested for attempted murder some months ago. I’ll read up on her on my tablet when we get back to Mrs. Trumbo’s. It was Dillon who arrested her. She’d be in the D.C. Jail awaiting trial.”
Wilde said, “But why lure him away? Wouldn’t she want him in the house? See him in the flames like Major Trumbo? Wasn’t that the point?”
“I don’t know, but whoever set the fire knew Sherlock and their little boy were there.”
“It’s about revenge, then, and she went after family first. It would have been possible for Gay to communicate through a visitor, her lawyer, or maybe through another prisoner. I had one prisoner in Philadelphia who asked his priest to mail a letter for him. Did Savich tell you how he connected the fire specifically to Gay?”
Pippa said, “He’ll tell us when we see him again. Did the priest mail the letter?”
“You bet. The priest felt sorry for him, believed he was falsely accused, which he wasn’t. And yes, he’s in jail now for fifteen to life. The prisoner, not the priest.”
She reached into her pocket but came up empty. “I keep forgetting Black Hoodie took my cell. Call up the photo of the red-box puzzle Dillon sent to you. Let’s compare it to the original.” She pointed toward Mrs. Filly’s Major Trumbo puzzle on a shelf next to them. Wilde stared from it to Dillon’s puzzle. He said, “Aside from Major Trumbo getting burned alive and the dead birds on the pier and human bones on the sidewalk, the main difference is it looks homemade.”