“I’ll deal with it tomorrow, sir.” Savich rose and walked Jimmy Maitland to the front door.
“This place,” Maitland said, taking one last sweeping look. “I remember one night when your grandmother came down those stairs wearing this lemon yellow chiffon gown. Lord, she must have been at least seventy-five then but she was a queen. You’ve done well with it, Savich. Your brother the artist still pissed at you that she gave you the house?”
“Not too pissed now. He got over it.”
“I hate that modern stuff. Tell Ryan to go Impressionist, can’t go wrong there. As for that dolphin of yours I bought, I still like it. Nice work. Oh yeah, take care of Sherlock.” He paused a moment, carefully wrapped his unlit cigar in a handkerchief and slid it into his jacket pocket, then walked to the front door. He lowered his voice. “I suppose you know what you’re doing.” He nodded toward the living room where Sherlock was sitting still as a stone, still staring down at her shoes.
“I sure hope so, sir.”
“It’s been what? Five years since Claire died?”
“Yes, five years.”
“Sherlock is getting high marks in the Bureau.”
“She deserves them. I’m glad I was bright enough to latch onto her right out of training. She’s a plus to the Unit.”
“I imagine she’s also other things to you, but that’s none of my business. Make sure it remains none of my business. You take care of her, all right, Savich? And yourself. And call when you need backup.”
“Yes, sir, I will.” Savich paused just a moment, then turned, smiled, and strolled back into the living room, whistling.
She said immediately, “What dolphin was Mr. Maitland talking about?”
“I told you I whittled. The dolphin was a piece my sister stole out of here and put on consignment in the Lampton Gallery. She was all over me to quit the FBI when the piece sold. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my boss bought it.”
“I see,” she said slowly. “Do you happen, by any chance, to have any more whittled pieces around here?”
“A couple.”
He was clearly uncomfortable. She just smiled at him. “Have you ever carved teak?”
“Oh yes, but my favorite is maple.”
“You’ve been doing it a long time. Some of the scars on your hands look very old.”
“Since I was a kid.”
She said nothing more.
It was chilly in Boston, the sky a dull gray, the clouds fat with rain. The buildings looked old and tired, ready to fold in on themselves. Lacey shivered in the small interrogation room, waiting for them to bring in Marlin Jones. She would have given about anything to be in San Francisco at that moment, where everything was at least two hundred years newer and the chances were really good that it was sunny. Then she remembered what was in Boston and shook her head. Where was Marlin Jones? Naturally his lawyer, Big John Bullock, would be with him. She hoped she could talk him into leaving her alone with Marlin. Just five minutes; that’s all she wanted. Dillon was close by, just outside, speaking with the two homicide detectives in charge of Marlin Jones’s case. Lots of people behind the two-way mirror would be watching and listening.
She heard leg shackles pounding hard. She looked up. Marlin stood in the doorway. He looked hard and tough, all gentle edges carved off him. He stared at her for a very long time, not moving, not saying a word. Then, finally, terrifyingly, he smiled. He lifted his shackled hands and waved his fingers at her. “Hey, Marty, how’s your arm? I remember how that felt, throwing that knife at you, watching it hit you, dig right into your skin. It went in so easy. Still hurt from my knife, Marty?”
“No, Marlin, I’m just fine. How’s your belly? Can you stand up straight yet? You got a big scar to show for my bullet?”
He grew utterly still. The vicious light in his eyes went out, leaving them dark and opaque. “You’ve still got that smart mouth on you, Marty. That wasn’t an act you put on for me. You need a man to teach you how to behave.”