Savich said, “Ramsey, I’ll speak to Agent Anchor and get all the reports on the cabin where Emma was kept. There’s bound to be some physical evidence left. I’ll get MAXINE to work on child molesters who have an M.O. using disguises.”
Ramsey said, “Emma said he smoked, had bad teeth, and drank. Once when she was coming out of a nightmare, she remembered he’d said that he needed her more than God needed him.”
Molly said, “He also used twine to tie her up.” She swallowed and looked down. “He used twine because she was just a little girl.”
“That’s a start,” Savich said.
Sherlock patted Molly’s shoulder as she said, “Dillon and I took a week’s vacation. We’re at your command.”
“I already told them,” Savich said, pulling her down onto his lap. “They haven’t applauded just yet, but when they see what we can do, they’ll do handsprings. I’ll also speak to the police in Denver. We can add stuff from forensics from the explosion. Sherlock can help us by translating what you know into data for MAXINE.”
“Then we push a button and MAXINE becomes the brightest Cuisinart on the planet,” Sherlock said. “While Dillon talks to the cops, why don’t we make a list of all the things you guys can remember.
“Where,” Sherlock began, “do you think Louey Santera planned to go if he did manage to get the Mercedes off the estate?”
“Nowhere,” Molly said. “He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He was scared and he lost it. He did that sometimes.”
“This time it was fatal,” Ramsey said. “Poor bastard.”
“Not a poor bastard if he was the one who staged Emma’s kidnapping,” Molly said, her voice hard. “How will we prove it if he was behind it?”
“Follow the money,” Savich said. “I’ll get a warrant to search through all Santera’s financial records. There’s always something there, always.”
“You don’t need a warrant. I’ll get the records.” Mason Lord stood in the kitchen doorway, Gunther standing right behind his right shoulder.
“I’d just as soon you didn’t do anything, Mr. Lord,” Savich said. “It’s our job. Let us do it on the up and up. Admittedly it takes a bit longer. On the other hand, it’s legal. There are advantages to being really legal in this situation.”
Mason said, “I know Louey’s accountant. I will speak personally with him. Warren will plead to tell me everything he knows, to show me every record he’s ever entered. Warren has always been useful and informative.”
“You know,” Sherlock said slowly, eyeing Mason Lord, wondering how he could be so utterly different from her own father yet look so remarkably like him. Both men had power, but they were on opposite sides of the law. “Just maybe since Mr. Lord and Mr. Santera’s accountant are such good acquaintances, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. What do you think, Judge Hunt? Does that sound kosher enough to you? Would evidence from such a source give the defense a shot at an appeal?”
“Not that I can see. Hey, why not? We’re on Mason Lord’s turf. Let him glean information for the case.” He grinned at Lord. “I would discourage breaking and entering, though.”
In that instant Molly realized her father had been standing there stiff as a poker. Now she saw him ease up, saw those aristocratic hands unclench, the long lean fingers uncurl. The cops were admitting him. They wanted to involve him. He didn’t smile, no, he’d never go that far, but there was something in his expression that held at least some degree more warmth than usual.
WARREN O’Dell was completely bald-probably through shaving-and looked like a longshoreman, exactly the opposite from what you’d expect of an accountant. He did wear wire-rimmed glasses, though. He had something of the look of Michael Jordan.
When he spoke, you saw he had yellow teeth from too much smoking. He had calluses on the pads of his fingers and his palms. He spared one glance for Ramsey, his full attention on Mason Lord. Then he did a double take. “I know you,” he said, staring hard.
Ramsey smiled and said, “I’m Ramsey Hunt.”
“You’re that federal judge in California who jumped over the railing and chopped up a group of terrorists in your courtroom.”
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