Insidious (FBI Thriller 20)
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ON THE WAY TO MILLSTOCK, MARYLAND
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich turned the Porsche onto I-95, heading north to Millstock, Maryland, to interview Ms. Marsia Gay in her studio. “I know, we could have asked her to come to the Hoover Building, but—”
“But she’s an artist, you’re an artist, and you want to see where and how she works.”
“I’m not really an— Well, yeah, you might be partially right.”
Sherlock sat back and closed her eyes.
Savich sighed. “It’s been a long day and what do we have to show for it? Another actress murdered in Santa Monica, and our prime weasel dead. Officer Golinowski didn’t remember anything at all, thanks to all the propofol and ketamine the killer put in that syringe.”
“It’s the middle of the night, he’s trying to stay awake, sees the tech coming, asks for ID, and the killer gets close enough to stick the needle in his jugular vein before he can react. He must have been out fast.”
“At least the killer didn’t murder Golinowski, too,” Savich said. “Ben is pretty steamed at him. I bet he won’t like the write-up he gets in his file.”
“He deserves it,” Sherlock said. “Now we’ve got no possible ace in the hole. It’s depressing.”
“Let it go for now, Sherlock. We’ve got Marsia Gay to think about.”
“I’ve got to admit I’m curious about her metal sculpting. She seemed straightforward and very nice last night at the mansion, dealt well with Venus and the family. I liked her. I found it interesting she knew about your grandmother, worshipped her, in fact, even noticed the scars on your fingers. Do you think she did her research on your grandmother to suck up, or was her appreciation for real?”
“If she’d wanted to suck up, she would have checked me out,” Savich said, and grinned at her. “But why? It’s Venus she should care about.”
“And she appeared to. She’s good-looking, talented, probably makes a lot of money. She certainly seems to think highly of Rob.”
But what did Rob think about her, Savich wondered, clearly remembering the stunned look on his face when he’d seen Delsey Freestone. He said, “Now we’ll see how she behaves in her own environment.”
Sherlock looked over at a lime-green car with a teenager singing at the top of his lungs, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
Savich maneuvered the Porsche around an SUV filled with small children, all of them laughing and yelling like hyenas, felt a moment of sympathy for the woman driving. As he went past her, she gave him a smile, with dimples. So she liked chaos, did she? He said, “It’d be simple if it was Alexander who was behind Willig’s killing, but you know, I don’t think it is. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that you’ve got to work to really know another person, what ignites them, what enrages them, to figure out what they’re really like at their core.”
“I know your core, Dillon. It’s solid. Maybe even awesome.”
He laughed. “Same goes for yours, sweetheart. But what do we know about Alexander? He can behave like a self-absorbed egotist, all me me me. But is there maybe a spark of decency? A bit of love for someone other than himself? And Veronica, does she really love Venus as much as it appears she does, as much as she says she does?”
“I really like Veronica, always have. I do hope she’s for real. As for Alexander, after our interview with him, I’m inclined to say what you see is what you get—a selfish man.”
Sherlock felt the familiar g-force when Dillon pulled out around a white Impala and gave the Porsche the go-ahead. The Impala driver, a natty-looking octogenarian, looked pissed until he saw the Porsche, then he gave them a thumbs-up and a smile lit up by big white false teeth.
Savich gave the Impala driver a nod. “Maybe it could be Alexander, except for the shooting. That still makes no sense to me. I know our killer realized the jig was up with the arsenic, but why would Alexander up the ante by hiring Willig to shoot Venus in broad daylight?”
“Don’t forget he could have gotten away with it if we hadn’t delayed leaving. So maybe it was reckless, but not all that stupid. On the other hand, he failed, and it signed his death warrant.”
Savich sighed. “Yeah, there is that.”
37
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MARSIA GAY’S STUDIO
MILLSTOCK, MARYLAND
WEDNESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON
Savich turned off I-95 at the Millstock exit. Neither he nor Sherlock had ever visited this bedroom community. They saw quickly enough that it was a hub with a tangle of crossing and crisscrossing concrete highways curving off in every direction. They heard horns honking before they saw a long line of stopped cars. Rush-hour traffic? No, something else, probably an accident. Savich smelled frustration and impatience thick in the air. Sure enough there was a pileup maybe a quarter of a mile ahead. Everyone was blocked.
Sherlock said, “Take that right, Dillon, let’s see if we can go around.”
Savich pulled the Porsche off onto Buckley Street, and continued on side streets until they came to a small warehouse district. A good dozen warehouses faced one another in a long line. They weren’t abandoned and decrepit like some of their counterparts in Washington, D.C., with homeless people and drug addicts huddled in doorways. These warehouses looked like they’d been taken over by yuppies and the artist crowd for many years now, and gentrified.
Savich stopped the Porsche in front of the very last warehouse on the right. Unlike its neighbors, this warehouse exterior was stained aluminum siding, looked old enough to be condemned. Until they stepped inside and beheld a miracle—modern and shiny white walls, two art deco boxes containing palm trees, happy as could be, given the broad light coming in from the high windows. There was a brand-new elevator, mailboxes by the door, and three mirrors reflecting a big expanse of tile floor.
“Why do they keep the outside looking so derelict?” Sherlock wondered as they stepped onto the elevator and punched the third, and top, floor.
“Maybe it’s as simple as running out of money. Or maybe they want to keep the salesmen away.”
She laughed. “Or the management company. If they haven’t bothered to check out the interior, the rent might stay low.”
Savich thought she might be right. The elevator took them swiftly to the third floor and its three suites, the end one, 666—wasn’t that a kick—Marsia Gay’s studio. They heard a hammer pound in rhythmic time, then the low buzz of a welder.