“Thank you. I agree,” Savich said. “She named it The Lame Man in the Square. I have eight of her paintings, seven on display at the Corcoran. I change them out maybe three or four times a year.”
“I’d want all of them around me all the time,” Rachael said.
The doorbell rang again. Savich, Sean behind him, Astro leaping and barking on his heels, went to answer the door. In a moment, agents Dane Carver and Ollie Hamish walked into the living room.
After Rachael met Dane and Ollie and Astro Mighty Dog had been petted until he collapsed on his back, legs in the air, tongue lolling, Sherlock said from the kitchen doorway, “Mr. Maitland called. He can’t make it. Let’s eat first, then we’ll sort things out.”
“Sort what things out, Mama?” Sean asked.
“Come wash your hands, Sean,” Savich said, and led him to the half bath.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t offer to help you.” Rachael immediately jumped to her feet. “Anything I can do now?”
“Sherlock cooked?” Ollie said, not moving.
“Tell us you cooked, Savich,” Dane said as he walked back into the living room. “Right?”
“Ingrates,” Sherlock said.
Savich laughed as he wiped his son’s now clean hands. “Yes, I did. Meat lasagna for you barbarians, vegetable lasagna for me and Sean.”
“I made the Caesar salad,” Sherlock said.
“Give her a lettuce leaf and she can make it dance,” Savich said.
They all learned about Sean’s first football game with three neighborhood kids, two on a side, and how he threw the best, longest touchdown pass ever, how Marty had tackled Paul, bloodying his lip, and all the other convoluted details until it was time for dessert.
Sherlock sliced the apple pie into even pieces, every eye at the table on her knife. Between bites of ice cream and pie, Sean told them about his new computer game, Dora the Explorer . “I already know Spanish, so that’s easy.”
“He speaks Spanish with Gabriella, his nanny,” Sherlock said. “I’m thinking Dillon and I should learn Spanish, to keep up with him.”
There was a lot of laughter, something Rachael thought had disappeared from her life. There was no talk of business until Sherlock came back downstairs after putting Sean to bed and Savich came inside after walking Astro Mighty Dog for the night.
“All right,” Sherlock said. “Let’s get to it.”
Rachael sat forward. “Dinner was such fun I forgot all the misery, but now it’s coming back.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Jack said. “We had a big surprise waiting for us when we got back to the senator’s—to Rachael’s house.”
“What, for heaven’s sake?”
Rachael said, “My ex-fiancé was standing on the doorstep.”
Jack sat back on the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest. “Rachael came to a dead stop when she saw him, and I nearly shot him because for all I knew he was there waiting to kill her. I only made an insignificant move toward him and I thought the little wuss was going to puke.”
Rachael said, “That’s because his bookies were probably after him, and he was already on edge. You’ve got to admit, Jack, he did recover quickly.”
“Yeah, he did, but only because he knew you were looking at him and he didn’t want you to think he was a coward. Then the jerk acted like you were still going to marry him. He even tried to kiss you.”
“You didn’t clock him, did you, Jack?” Ollie asked.
Jack was silent for a moment, his brows drawn together. “For a moment there, I gotta admit it was close.”
“What is the ex-fiancé’s name?” Sherlock asked as she poured more of Savich’s excellent coffee into Rachael’s cup.
“Jerol Springer.”
“I’ve been wondering what kind of name that is,” Jack said. “I mean, it’s almost like that guy on TV. I tell you, Rachael, I can’t believe you ever considered marrying that idiot.”
“Well, it never came to marriage, and not because of his name,” Rachael said, sipped the coffee and closed her eyes a moment in pleasure. She said, “You know, Dillon’s coffee’s as good as mine.”
There was a discreet snort; no one believed her.
Ollie said, “Why is Mr. Springer an ex? He wasn’t faithful?”
“Oh no, he was faithful as a tick, as far as I know. The moron gambled too much and I found out about it. Actually, his bookie sent one of his yahoos to visit me, something that makes a person see things very clearly, let me tell you. Evidently Jerol wasn’t such a hot gambler. He was always looking over his shoulder.”
“He was into the horses?” Dane asked.
“Horses, dogs, football—pro and college—beach volley-ball, soccer, the first guy to belch after drinking beer, you name it, he’d bet on it, and lose. So when Jerol saw Jack, he thought he was there to break his kneecaps. When he found out Jack was only an FBI agent, I thought he was going to cry with relief. I hadn’t seen him for a good six months.”
Dane said, “Maybe he was there because he’d heard Rachael was the late Senator Abbott’s daughter, and he saw cash registers ca-chinging in his brain.”
Rachael said, “I think you’re right. Do you know what Jack did? He pretended he was living there with me, cozied himself up all over me, even draped his arm around my shoulders while Jerol was standing there looking hopeful.”
Jack grinned hugely. “It sent him on his way fast.” He frowned at Rachael. “You were being far too nice to him.”
Rachael reached in her purse and pulled out a Smith & Wesson pistol. “If he’d hassled me, I would have shot him in the foot. It was my father’s. It’s got a nice feel to it.”
“Then he wouldn’t have been able to leave,” Ollie observed.
“Oh dear, you’re right.” Rachael fell silent, sipped her coffee, her eyes on Astro, who was sleeping off vegetable lasagna from Sean’s plate on a rug in front of the fireplace.
Jack liked the Sigma Series, you pointed at what you wanted to shoot and fired, but still . . . “I don’t like your having a gun; it’s not a toy.”
“Jeez, you think? Jack, you’ve seen me shoot. I’m probably better than you. Be quiet.”