Catherine Coulter - Riptide

Thomas had been terrified. And he’d done something unconscionable. He escorted a very pretty young woman, one of the assistants in his office, to an Italian embassy function, then to a Smithsonian exhibit. The third time he was with her, he was simply walking her to her car from the office because the skies had suddenly opened up and rain was pouring down and he had a big umbrella.

A man had jumped out of an alley and shot her between the eyes, not more than six feet away. Thomas hadn’t caught him. He knew it was Krimakov even before he’d received that letter written in Vasili’s stark, elegant hand: “Your mistress is dead. Enjoy yourself. When I discover your wife and child, they will be next.”

That had been seventeen years before.

Thomas had considered seeing Allison that weekend. He had canceled, and she’d known why, of course. He sat back in his chair, pillowing his head on his arms. He read the e-mail from Adam. Consider Krimakov.

But Krimakov was finally dead. The irony of it didn’t escape him. Krimakov was gone, out of his life, forever. It was all over. He could have finally been with Allison. But it was too late, just too late. But now someone was terrorizing Becca. He just didn’t understand what was going on. He wished he could learn about Dick McCallum, but as of yet, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary. No big deposits, no new accounts, no big expenditures on his credit cards, no strangers reported near him, nothing suspicious or unexpected in his apartment. Simply nothing.

Thomas remembered telling Adam how there were only two other people-besides Adam-who knew the real story. His wife and Buck Savich, both dead now. Buck had died of a heart attack some six years before. But there was Buck’s son, and he was very much alive, and Thomas realized now that he needed him, needed him very much.

The man knew all about monsters. He knew how to find them.

Georgetown

Washington, D.C.

Dillon Savich, head of the Criminal Apprehension Unit of the FBI, booted up his laptop MAX and saw there was an e-mail from someone he didn’t know. He shifted his six-month-old son, Sean, to his other shoulder and punched up the message.

Sean burped. “Good one,” Savich said, and rubbed his son’s back in slow circles. He heard him begin to suck his fingers, felt his small body relax into his shoulder. He read:

Your father was an excellent friend and a fine man. I trusted him implicitly. He believed you would change the course of criminal investigations. He was very proud of you. I desperately need your help. Thomas Matlock.

Sean reared back suddenly and patted his father’s whiskered cheek with his wet fingers. Savich stroked his son’s small fingers and dried them on his cotton shirt. “We’ve got a neat mystery here, Sean. Who the hell is Thomas Matlock? How did he know my father? He was an excellent friend? I don’t remember ever hearing my father mention his name.

“MAX, let me get you started on this. Find out about this man for me.” He punched in a series of keys, then sat back, Sean bouncing from foot to foot on his stomach, watching MAX do his thing.

Savich reached up and flicked the drool off Sean’s chin. “You’re teething, champ. It’s not going to be a pretty sight for the next several months, so that book says. You don’t seem like you’re feeling any pain. Believe me, that’s a relief for both of us.”

Sean gurgled very close to Savich’s ear.

He held his son back and smiled into that splendid little face that looked more like him than Sherlock. Sean had his dark hair, not Sherlock’s curly red hair. As for his eyes, they were as dark as his father’s, not that sweet, soft blue of his mother’s. “You want to know something? It’s four o’clock in the morning and here we are wide awake. Your mama’s going to think we’re both nuts.”

Sean yawned then and stuck three fingers into his mouth. Savich kissed his forehead and stood, gently laying his son over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re ready to pack it in again.”

He went to his son’s room and dimmed the light. He laid him on his back and pulled a yellow baby blanket over his light diaper shirt.

“You go to sleep now, hear? I’m even going to sing you one of my favorite songs. Your mama always laughs her head off when I sing her this one.” He sang a country-and-western song about a man who loved his Chevy truck so much that he was buried with the engine and all four hub-caps, special edition, all silver. Sean looked mesmerized by his father’s deep, rich voice. He was out after just two verses. One good thing about country-and-western music-there was always another verse. Savich paused a moment, smiled down at the precious human being that still jolted him when he realized that Sean was, indeed, his very own child, part of him. Just as Savich had been his father’s child. He felt a sharp pull somewhere in the region of his heart. He missed his dad, always would.

Who was this Thomas Matlock, who claimed to have known his father?

He went back to his study.

MAX beeped as he walked in. “Good for you,” Savich said, sitting back down. “What have we got on this Thomas Matlock guy?”

Adam said, “You mean they’re giving up trying to find her on the Outer Banks?”

Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched in a phone booth somewhere, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes caused eye infections. “Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all, they’re counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing this guy who shot the governor. That’s why they’re searching high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show down there. I hear he’s cursing up a blue streak, wondering where she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her and she just ain’t anywhere, just like smoke, he says, and the others grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you’ll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes that Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you who duped him, he’d want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to stick it on.”

“Thanks for sharing that, Hatch.”

“Knew you’d like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don’t you?”

That wasn’t the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, “Something like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra’s finally come to the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn’t anywhere near the Outer Banks?”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time has passed for them to find her now. I think we’re home free-well, at least for the moment.”

Silence.

“Hatch, I know you’re lighting a cigarette in a closed phone booth. Put it out right now or I’ll fire you.”

Silence.

“Is it out?”

“Yeah, boss. I swear it’s out. I didn’t even get one decent puff.”

“Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?”

“They’re talking to their counterparts all over the country, just like the Feebs are. But hey-nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective Morales is a wreck, probably hasn’t slept for three days. All he can talk about is how she called him, repeated to him that she’d told him everything, and he wasn’t able to talk her in. There’s this other detective, a woman name of Letitia Gordon, who evidently hates Ms. Matlock’s guts. Claims she’s a liar, a nutcase, and probably a murderer. Old Letitia really wants to bring her down. She’s pushing everyone to charge Ms. Matlock with the murder of that old bag lady outside the Metropolitan Museum. You know, the murder Ms. Matlock reported? The one the stalker did to get her attention?”