Ruth said, “Sean will take his cues from what Rob and Rafe do, which is to sit there, eyes glued to the screen, shoveling in buckets of popcorn.”
Dix jumped up and began pacing. “Sorry, guys, I can’t help it. I need to get more information on David Caldicott before Ruth and I go to Atlanta.”
Savich said, “You can sit down, Dix, MAX has already checked him out. There were no red flags, no criminal record, nothing questionable. He’s thirty-three, as I said, more a loner than not, he keeps to himself, no wife—presents himself to the world as a talented geek.
“He’s played violin with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra for nearly three years. Word is he’s very good.”
“Sounds straightforward,” Dix said. “But all of you know it isn’t, it simply can’t be.”
Sherlock chewed more popcorn. “Dillon will let you know if anything else pops. Now, what did Thomas Pallack say to Jules Advere when he was lying on the floor?”
Dix didn’t have to consult his notebook. “He said, ‘My wife’s name is Charlotte. Do you understand? Don’t forget it.’ “
Sherlock hummed. “Seems a mite of an overreaction, doesn’t it? Rather than showing concern about Mr. Advere’s collapse? Surely that’s odd.”
Savich said, “To us, sure, but to them? Who knows? Okay, Thomas Pallack and Charlotte Pallack have been married two years and eleven months, not that long a time after Christie disappeared.”
“Other than a big-time politico,” Dix said, “what else is Thomas Pallack?”
“There’s no shortage of information on him. Pallack made a huge fortune in oil—drilling, refining, distributing, had his fingers in every slice of the pipeline pie. Like Chappy told you, he’s invested broadly now.
“When he got out of the oil business in the early nineties, he went big into private equities. It wasn’t all that risky for him because he knew a whole lot of powerful financial people who probably owed him. He’s made several killings in those ventures working with his high-roller cronies. The SEC has wanted to chat with him over the years, but they haven’t gotten past his phalanx of lawyers yet. The lawyers plow the IRS under every couple of years too, when they have the gall to audit him.
“Recently he’s expressed an interest in an ambassadorship, not to Chad or Slovenia, but a major country in Europe. That may be why he’s raised such big bucks on the national political level. On the surface he’s like any number of other wealthy individuals looking for a payoff from a sitting president, but there’s quite a snag—” Savich gave them a manic grin.
Ruth finally threw popcorn at him. “Talk, boss.”
Savich said, “Well, the thing is, Thomas Pallack speaks to his parents.”
Sherlock said, “That’s a big crime?”
“Well, the thing is—they’re long dead, more than thirty years dead.”
CHAPTER 20
Everyone stared at Savich. Dix said slowly, “You’re telling me this wealthy ‘old guy believes in spirits? Believes he actually speaks to them?”
Savich nodded. “I was looking into another case for Agent Cheney Stone in San Francisco, and Pallack’s name appeared on a client list of a psychic medium who was murdered six months ago. Pallack has been seeing one since his parents’ deaths in 1977, every Wednesday and Saturday. I assume he’s still doing it. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Dix said, “Why would anyone do that?” Savich said, “Well, that info led to something else about Pallack that could explain a great deal. Pallack’s parents were brutally murdered in their Southampton estate on February 17, 1977.”
Ruth sat forward, hands on her knees. “Whoa—bad ending. That makes the spirit deal more understandable, I guess.” Dix asked, “Was the murderer caught?”
“Yes, but not by the local cops. It was their forty-one-year-old son, Thomas Pallack, who hired a battalion of investigators to find him. They nailed him when the police finally searched the basement of a neighbor’s house. Courtney James is his name; he’s in Attica for life. James was a trust-fund baby, lots of old money. After James’s parents retired to Italy, he lived alone in the family manse. He was quiet, smart, kept to himself. He managed his father’s banks, commuted into New York City every day, regular as clockwork. No one had a bad word to say about him.
“The investigators found the knife he’d used on the Pallacks in the basement. Their dried blood was on it—at least it was their blood type, no DNA then. Rumors began to churn that he’d killed some other people before the Pallacks, that he was a serial murderer, and they were just his latest victims.