"It's kind of you to say that, Douglas. Would you like some more brandy?"
At his nod, she returned to the kitchen. She heard him moving about the living room. Then she didn't hear his footsteps. She frowned, walking slowly out of the kitchen. He wasn't in the living room. He wasn't in the bathroom. She stood in her bedroom doorway watching him look at the framed photos on her dresser. There were three of them, two of Belinda by herself, and one with both of them smiling at the camera.
"You were seventeen when I took that picture of you and Belinda at Fisherman's Wharf. Do you remember that day? It was one of the few perfectly clear sunny days and you guys took me to Pier Thirty-nine. We bought walnut fudge and ate some horrible fast food. I believe it was Mexican."
She remembered, vaguely. His details astounded her.
"I remember everything. You were so beautiful, Lacey, so full of fun, so innocent."
"So was Belinda, only she was always far prettier than I. She could have been a supermodel, you know that. She was very close to making it when she met you. She gave it all up because you wanted her to be there only for you. Come into the living room, Douglas."
When they were seated again, she said, "I can't help you with your wife. However, I do think you and Candice should discuss things thoroughly."
"She bores me."
Lacey sighed. She was exhausted. She wanted him to leave, just leave and go back to San Francisco. It was odd, but since they'd caught Marlin Jones, she'd felt herself withdrawing from Douglas. It was as if Belinda's murder had somehow bound them together, but not anymore. "You know one thing still disturbs me," she said slowly, lightly stroking her fingertips over the yellow silk arm of the sofa. "I suppose Dad told you that Marlin Jones denied killing Belinda."
"Yes, he told me that. What do you think?"
"I agree with Father. He's a psychopath. He probably skips a woman's name every time he recites them. Why did he happen not to recite Belinda's name? I don't know. Random chance? He probably doesn't know either. It has to be coincidence. There's simply no other explanation." She sat forward, clasping her hands between her knees. "But you know me, Douglas, I'm going to have to check to make triple certain that he did kill Belinda."
"Of course he killed her, Lacey. There's absolutely no other choice."
"You're right, of course, it's just that-" She broke off and dredged up a smile for a very nice man she'd known for nearly twelve years. "I'm sorry. It's still so painful for you as well. How long are you staying in Washington?"
He shrugged and rose when she did. "Drop it all now, Lacey. Don't do any more searching. That kook killed all those poor women. Let him rot for what he did." He walked to her, his smile deep, his eyes intent.
She took a step back, turning quickly out of the living room into the small front hallway. He followed her.
"Will you let it all go now, Lacey?"
She took another step toward the front door. "It is all gone. Just details now, Douglas, nothing more than silly details. Shall we have dinner tomorrow night? Maybe you'll have made some decisions about Candice." Were they going to perform this same act every couple of weeks? Would he leave after tomorrow night? She hoped so. She hoped he'd leave for good. She was exhausted.
He brightened at that and took her hands between his. "It's good to see you again, Lacey. I wish I could see you all the time, but-"
"Yes, 'but,' " she agreed and stepped back. "I'll see you here about seven tomorrow night."
Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland nodded to Lacey but said to Savich, "I heard from Captain Dougherty that Sherlock here didn't do what she was told to do, that she wrote her own script. He let some of it drop, then I pried the rest of it out of him. John Dougherty and I go way back. He's a good man, fair and hard."
Savich didn't change expression, merely cocked his head to one side in question. "She got the job done, sir."
"I don't like having my agents knifed, Savich. What the hell did she do?"
"I can answer that, sir."
Both men turned to look at her.
"It better be good, Agent Sherlock," Jimmy Maitland said, and broke a pencil between two fingers. Maitland had been a Special Agent for twenty-five years. He was bald, built like a bull, and held a black belt in karate. His wife was five foot nothing, blond, and punched her husband whenever she wanted to. They had four boys, all over six foot three. She punched them whenever she wanted to as well.