Sherlock said, “I guess we’d need some evidence for that—like fourteen eyewitnesses.”
“They’d still sue. Actually, I’ve been thinking about another way to get together with them—a special invitation they might actually accept. I’ll let you know if I can work it out.”
Savich’s cell phone sang out “Camptown Races.” When he punched off, he turned to her. “Roderick Lloyd, the gun-happy yahoo at Roy Bob’s garage in Parlow? Ollie says he wants to deal. He’s willing to testify it was Perky who told him what to do.”
“That’s all well and good,” Sherlock said, “but does he have a clue who hired Perky?”
“No.”
“That’s convenient.”
Savich said, “Lloyd’s lawyer found out Perky couldn’t roll on him because she’s dead, so why not sing? It always warms my heart to see a lawyer at work.”
She grinned, leaned her head back against the headrest. She felt the wind tear through her hair, felt the sting on her face. She looked over at him and said, “It’s Saturday. Let’s get Sean and go play some touch football in High Banks Park.”
Savich said, “Sean’s getting pretty good. He doesn’t try to jump on our backs any longer.” Sex and a nap could wait. “High Banks Park? Why not?”
FORTY-FIVE
Rachael and Jack stood in the open doorway, Jack lusting after Savich’s Porsche as he pulled out of the driveway. He looked around at the well-lit neighborhood. Everything quiet, nothing moving. Still—“I’m going to check around, okay?”
Rachael nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll clean up here. Jack, be careful.”
He nodded and headed around to the side of the house.
She went back into the living room, fluffed two English antique silk pillows, and set them carefully against the back of the sofa. She looked around the magnificent room. This house is mine now, she thought, still having difficulty believing it was true. But she hated what it had cost her. Only six weeks she’d had with Jimmy. With her father.
Rachael was stuffing pizza boxes into the recycle bin in the pantry when Jack called out, “It looks clear.”
“In here!”
“You know,” he said as he walked into the kitchen, only to stop cold, charmed by that skinny braid dipping around her cheek, “it was nice having Savich and Sherlock over. I can see Sean making a diving tackle on his mother to bring her down—”
“—and claiming he had to do it, didn’t think a touch would stop her—”
“—and Savich standing over the two of them laughing his head off.”
Rachael made tea while Jack loaded the few dishes into the dishwasher. “Do you know, what just came to me? I was wondering what Laurel would look like if she changed her clothes, colored her hair, maybe put on a bit of lipstick.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen as long as she’s married to Stefanos,” Jack said. “Seems to me that guy was a jerk from the very beginning.”
“I wonder why she didn’t kick him out? Divorce him and send him packing back to Greece.”
Jack shrugged. “Maybe she will now that her father’s dead. Maybe he forced her to stay with the guy.”
Rachael handed him a couple of clean glasses. “You really think Mr. Abbott senior kept her married to Kostas?”
“Why else would she have put up with him except for threats from the old man?”
Rachael said, “Well, her father took my father away from my mother, threatened my mother while sending her a bloody check.” She realized her voice had gone up. The old man—dear heavens, he was her grandfather—he was dead, his eldest son dead, as well. There was no changing that. And here she was living in their house, alone, a house she hadn’t even known about until such a short time ago. “Jimmy told me when Laurel met Stefanos, she fell really hard for him, never saw any of the rot below the surface.”
Jack turned on the dishwasher. “Seems weird to me the old man wouldn’t have checked him out thoroughly, seen the rot. So why did he let Stefanos marry his daughter?”
“Good question. Jimmy said Stefanos had a big problem—namely he needed a huge influx of money, and Laurel was his solution. And evidently she wanted him badly. She was thirty-five, her biological clock ticking.”
Rachael took the two napkins Jack had wadded up and began to methodically smooth them out and fold them. He watched her for a moment, said, “They’re dirty, Rachael.”
“What? Oh, the napkins. It’s just that they’re so beautiful, so well made and . . . I’m losing it. I’ll wash them tomorrow. By hand.” She stacked them neatly on the counter. “Jimmy showed me some photos of Laurel when she was young. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was smiling, full of hope. He said being married to Stefanos made her what she is today. It’s sad.”
A dark eyebrow went up. “Sad? Give her something sharp and she’d slit your throat, Rachael.”
“Yeah, I know. I also know she’s capable of a killing rage because I’ve seen her rage up close and personal. It’s stark and ugly. I can see it breaking over her when Jimmy told her he was going public with what he’d done.
“She could have killed him—for herself, for her family, for the business, any and all of it. But her husband? Would he even care? Does he care about anything? And Quincy? I think he’s got dark wormy things inside him, but kill his own brother? I just don’t know.
“If Laurel was the ringleader, it only makes sense she would want me gone, too. I suppose I could tell her and Quincy that I’m not going to give Jimmy’s confession for him, but—” Rachael shrugged. “I don’t know yet what I want to do. I suppose I could tell them I’ve dropped it, lie straight out. I’m not very good, but I could practice until I convinced myself. Uncle Gillette, now, he would have made a great spy. He could lie his way out of a pig convention even with bacon grease smeared all over his mouth.”
Jack smiled. “I’ve learned in my years with the FBI that people are never what they seem. We’ll see. Don’t forget, two people carried you down that dock, dumped you into the lake. We only know one of them for sure—Perky.”
He added over his shoulder as he opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a wedge of Parmesan cheese, “Who was the other?”