Insidious (FBI Thriller 20)

“Oh, come on, Agent—”

“Where were you, Alexander?”

“I was at home asleep. Alone. Where do you think? At some nightclub drinking my brains out? I certainly wasn’t at the hospital disarming a guard and killing Willig. I’m sure there are cameras at the hospital. Look at them. You won’t see me.” He paused. “But you’ve already looked, haven’t you?”

“Yes, we looked, and no, we didn’t see you,” Savich said.

Alexander rose. “I want to go home.”

“Where were you this afternoon about four o’clock?”

“Why?” Gardener asked.

“Tell us where you were, Alexander,” Savich said.

“I was in my office at the Smithsonian, finishing the paperwork for the acquisition of one of Johnny Cash’s guitars. Would you like my secretary’s number?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Alexander recited the number. “What happened this afternoon?”

Savich stood. “A crime that might be related. You can go now, Alexander. Venus asked me to tell you that she believes it best for both of you if you stay at a hotel until this is cleared up. She’s booked you a suite at the Dupont Circle Hotel. Isabel is sending clothes over. You’re to call her if you need anything else.”

There was an instant of hot silence. Alexander half rose, leaning again toward Savich, this time nearly snarling. “You and I both know this banishment from my home is your doing, Savich. I won’t forget it.”

Gardener laid his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Alexander.”

Savich said, his voice matter-of-fact, even gentle, “Agent Hamish will escort both of you out of the building. Thank you for coming.”

Savich and Sherlock watched them walk down the long hall to the elevator. Sherlock said, “That went about as expected. He didn’t do it, Dillon. He’s perfect for it, from his supercilious nose down to his Gucci tassels. Makes you want to run with the evidence and try to nail him to the wall. But he’s not a moron. It’s all too pat, too convenient, and wheeled right up to our doorstep and dumped so we’d have to step in it. Makes me nuts.”

Savich cursed, nothing really nasty, but still, it surprised her. He was upset. “And someone went to a great deal of trouble to make us believe he’s guilty. So here we are, twisting in the wind. Sorry, sweetheart, I lost it.”

She hugged him. “I think I heard Sean say something like that under his breath just the other day. No worries.”

Savich lightly ran his fingertips down her cheek. “My heroine of JFK. It has a nice ring to it.”

“I sort of like it, too, but one has to be modest, you know?” She kissed him. “There are too many threads dangling to deal with tonight. Tomorrow morning we’ll have the videos. Maybe we’ll see who pushed Delsey into traffic.”

“If Delsey’s smart, she’ll go back to Stanislaus and put all of this behind her.”

Sherlock didn’t think she would and knew Dillon didn’t think so, either. The heart wants what the heart wants. All too true. She’d watched Delsey and Rob in Captain Ramirez’s office. Even though Delsey was furious with Rob, there was still something between them, something deep and urgent, maybe even something lasting. She said, “You know Sean’s over at Lily and Simon’s house for a sleepover. I always think the house feels different without him. I know I’ll keep listening for him—those little snorts he makes in his sleep, his bare feet padding to the bathroom.”

“Tonight, Lily and Simon will hear the little snorts and the padding feet.” He pulled her against him, brought her close. Since they were alone, she leaned up and nibbled on his chin, then kissed him, whispered in his mouth, “Let’s go home, Dillon, and make everything right again with the world.”

He looked down at her beloved face. “What a nice idea,” he said.

49

* * *

SANTA MONICA

THURSDAY EVENING

Gloria Swanson knew if she ever got famous enough to write a memoir, this day would rank right up there with winning her first Oscar.

She’d been called back that morning for a second audition for the role of Detective Belle DeWitt in Hard Line, a new HBO cop series, slated for release in January. It was the part she’d been waiting for since she’d moved to L.A. two years ago, and she knew she’d nailed it. She kept staring at her cell phone, willing it to ring. Euphoria didn’t come close to how she felt, until she took that call from Detective Arturo Loomis of the Santa Monica police warning her she was on a list and could be the Starlet Slasher’s next victim. He told her the smart thing to do was to leave town for a while. Like that would ever happen, not when the gold ring was nearly on her finger. Besides, she wasn’t the kind to run away.

She cursed herself for not getting a gun when she’d first arrived in L.A., but thanks to Detective Loomis, she’d get one now. She drove her Toyota to East L.A. and bought a .22 revolver from a street kid who’d knocked a hundred bucks off the price for the butt-ugly little gun because she was so beautiful.

One of her long-ago boyfriends in Toledo, a bad boy her parents knew nothing about, had taught her how to ride a hog, roll a joint, and how to aim and shoot a pistol. No way was she going to be number seven on that madman’s hit list.

She’d known Deborah Connelly, sure, she lived only two streets away, but not much more than to say hello. She hadn’t particularly liked Deborah, a holier-than-thou sort of girl, playing the good girl in a town where it paid to know when to accept an offer and to know who was doing the offering. She had to admit she’d been surprised when Deborah got her role in The Crown Prince. Well, she hadn’t finished it, had she? Gloria felt a stab of guilt and said a prayer for Deborah. It was too bad no one had warned her.

Her cell played the theme from Happy Days. It was her agent, Austin DeLone. Casting had called to offer her the part. He was as euphoric as she was, as her parents would be when she called them with the news. She bought a bottle of good champagne, opened it in her living room, drank deeply, and let emotion wash over her. She turned on some music and drank as she danced, right out of the bottle.

Finally, she was on her way to being a star. The part of Detective Belle DeWitt was perfect for her. She was hot and smart and street savvy. So what if Gloria was sleeping with the producer? He was easy enough to please, the old horndog. And he hadn’t been toying with her, he’d gotten her the audition, probably thrown in a good word for her. It was the way of the show-business world, something her parents couldn’t begin to understand or accept. Her agent hadn’t believed they’d even let her in the door, but they’d ushered her in, openly admired what they saw—a caramel-skinned, six-foot gorgeous Amazon with perfect white teeth, thanks to her dentist mom.