know what I think? They’ve got nothing else useful. There hasn’t
been a peep out of them in the way of exploratory questions.”
“You found out quite a lot, Savich,” Thomas said. “All those accidents.
Doesn’t seem possible, does it? Or very likely.”
“Oh, no,” Savich said. “Not possible at all. That was the conclusion
their agents drew. Krimakov murdered all of them. Hey, wait
a minute, when you knew him, there weren’t any computers.”
“There wasn’t much beyond great big suckers, like the IBM
mainframes,” Thomas said.
Sherlock said, “I wouldn’t even want to try to figure out the
odds of all those people in one family dying in accidents. They are
astronomical, though.”
“Krimakov killed all those people,” Becca said, then shook her
head. “He must have, but how could he kill his own wife, his two
stepchildren? Good grief, he burned his own little boy? No, that
would truly make him a monster. What is going on here?”
“He didn’t kill his own child,” Adam said.
“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock said. “But the kid won’t ever lead any
kind of normal life if he survives all the skin grafts and the infections.
Was his getting burned an accident?”
Thomas said, “Listen, all of this makes sense, but it’s still supposition.”
Savich said, “I’ve put Krimakov’s aged photo into the Facial
Recognition Algorithm program that’s in place now at the Bureau.
It matches photos or even drawings to convicted felons. It compares,
for example, the length of the nose, its shape, the exact distance
between facial bones, the length of the eyes. You get the drift.
It’ll spit out if there’s anyone resembling him who’s committed
crimes either in Europe or in the United States. The database isn’t
all that complete yet, but it can’t hurt.”
“He was a spy,” Sherlock said. “Maybe he was a convicted felon,
too. It’s just possible he’s done bad stuff other places and got
nabbed. If that’s so, then there’ll be a match and just maybe there’ll
be more information available on Krimakov.”
“It’s a long shot, but what the hell,” Adam said. “Good work, you
guys.” Adam paused a moment, then cleared his throat. “Maybe it
wasn’t such a lame idea for Thomas to bring you guys on board.
Hey, you’ve even got a cute kid.”
The tension eased when they heard Sean sucking his fingers.
Sherlock said as she lightly rubbed her son’s back, “Hey, Becca, I
like your hair back to its natural color.”
“I don’t think it’s quite the right color,” Adam said, stroking his
fingers thoughtfully over his chin. “It still looks a little fake, a bit on
the brassy side.”
Becca got him in the belly with her fist, not hard, since he’d
eaten at least four slices of pizza covered with olives and artichokes.
Of course he was right and she just laughed now. “It will grow out.
At least it’s not a muddy brown anymore.”
Thomas thought she looked beautiful, her hair, just like Allison’s,
straight and shiny to her shoulders, held back from her face with
two gold clips.
Becca cleared her throat and said in a short lull in the conversation,
“Does anyone know how Krimakov found me?”
The chewing continued, but she could nearly feel the strength
of all that IQ power, all that experience, turned to her question.
Her father took a drink of Pellegrino, then set the bottle down
on the Japanese coaster at his elbow. “I can’t be certain,” he said.
“But you’re more in the public view now, Becca, what with your
speech writing for Governor Bledsoe. I remember several articles
about you. Maybe Krimakov read the articles. Naturally he knows
the name Matlock very well. He must have checked into it, found
out about your mother, seen her travel plans to Washington. He’s a
very smart man, very focused when he wants to be.”
“It makes sense,” Sherlock said. “I don’t have another more
likely scenario.”
Sherlock was looking very serious, but one eye was on her small
son. Becca remembered Adam saying something about Sherlock
taking down an insane psychopath in some sort of maze. It was
hard to imagine until she remembered Sherlock clipping Tyler on