Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(81)
He sat forward, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, how old is Ronald Pomfrey?”
She typed. “He’s thirty-six. Young enough to be Black Hoodie.”
“Sure is. And Marsia is in her late twenties. That puts them both at MICA, but, Cinelli, there are years between them.”
“Well, Ronald didn’t go to MICA until he was thirty. He was an assistant manager in a hotel in Baltimore his mother managed before she married Major Trumbo. So we have Marsia Gay and Ronald Pomfrey at the same place, same time. That doesn’t prove they knew each other, but it’s way more than a start.”
Wilde said, “You’re thinking Marsia Gay was the girlfriend at the cabin in the Poconos when Major Trumbo died?”
“If she was the girlfriend, then Mrs. Trumbo lied about knowing her.”
Wilde smiled. “Okay, we’re getting somewhere, Cinelli. I can think of a bunch of phone calls to make, but they’ll have to wait until the morning. Maybe it’s time to call it a night.” He rose and stretched. “You want a taco?”
52
MINNA SAVICH’S HOUSE
TUESDAY NIGHT
After a dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and an excellent vegetable frittata for Savich, everyone adjourned to the living room. With Savich’s mother and Senator Monroe cheering him on, Sean played a video racing game with his dad that Sherlock had rescued from the house. She stood in the doorway of the living room, her cell against her ear, listening to their logistics expert, Janet Mickelson, who never seemed to run out of new wrinkles in the home repairs, from replacing the old wiring in the kitchen to another week’s delay in shipping the living room draperies she and Dillon had picked out. Sherlock knew she should be taking notes, but she only listened as Janet addressed one problem after another.
“Sherlock, I saved the good news for last, guaranteed to bring a smile. My contractor can start work in the morning, and he promised when he’s done with the painting, there’ll be absolutely no more smoke smell in the house. All of Sean’s new bedroom furniture will be ready for delivery as soon as the painting’s done, exactly what he wanted. So, we’re all on the same page. I’m still hopeful we’ll be done a week before Christmas.” She paused. “Well, unless they delay the inspections, which, alas, is known to happen more often than I’d like.”
The week before Christmas seemed like a perfect new mantra. When Sherlock punched off, she stood a moment in the arched doorway and looked at her mother-in-law, her shoulder touching Robert Monroe’s as she laughed at Sean’s super-serious efforts to beat his father, or rather Magic John. It struck her what a blessing it was to have this time with Dillon’s mom, and to really get to know the senator, who’d been a rock, tossing in the occasional nugget on what to do about this or that problem concerning the house. Sherlock had no doubt Sean was having the time of his life being the only kid in a house with four adults. Not to mention Gabriella, who was helping Minna, picking up Sean from school and shepherding him to all his activities. When they finally moved back home, Sherlock imagined it would take a month to convince Sean he wasn’t the king of the universe. She watched her son clap his hands and chair-dance next to his father. Dillon was distracted, the great part of his brain still focused on what he’d have to do next to keep Rebekah Clarkson, and of course his own family, safe.
When Savich took Sean to bed, he listened with half an ear while his over-the-moon-excited son crowed about beating him. To calm Sean down, Savich sang him a new country-western song that had been floating around in his head the past week about a long-distance truck driver named Ed and a pretty young thing outside Yuma, Arizona. Ed woke up from sleeping with the angels in the middle of the desert, his wallet, his water bottle, and his truck long gone. Sean was out before Ed woke up.
When Sherlock joined him in the larger of Minna’s two guest bedrooms, she found him sitting on one side of the queen-size bed, which was, admittedly, a bit small for the two of them, wearing only his black boxers, his hands clasped between his knees, muttering to himself.
She rubbed his shoulder until she had his attention. “Tonight was good for everyone, Dillon. You needed the distraction to let your brain simmer a bit.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “Time to sleep. Talk about a long day, not to mention the small dollop of excitement. Nothing like a hostage rescue to put an end to it. But it’s over now. Duvall is alive, and MAX is working. You have to close your mind down, stop your angsting, all right? You needn’t worry about Rebekah. Her husband’s with her when Griffin isn’t. She’ll be fine, and we’re all safe for now. Get your very fine self into bed.” Sherlock kissed him again and watched him climb into bed and pull the covers to his chest. She looked down at him, gave him what she hoped was a sexy grin. “I’ll be right with you, gorgeous. I’m thinking Mama needs to make you forget your name.”
She sashayed to the dresser with a mirror hanging above it and started brushing her hair. She heard him humming, a new country-western song. She frowned. “Do you know what I can’t get my brain around, Dillon? How did anyone find out Rebekah knew about the Big Take? Her grandfather made her promise never to tell a soul, and she didn’t. Until last week Rebekah believed the Big Take was only one of his made-up adventures.”
After Sherlock made him forget his name, Savich fell boneless into a deep sleep.