Insidious (FBI Thriller 20)

“And what were your impressions, Ms. Gay?”

“Please call me Marsia, sort of a weird name, I know, but my mom is very—whimsical. If it had been up to my dad, I’d have been a Jane or an Ann.”

Savich nodded. “Marsia, what did you think of the family? I assume you googled all of them, learned about them?”

“Yes, of course, and Rob told me a lot about them as well. A lot of his information was a decade out of date, though.” She shrugged. “But people are people, and they don’t change unless something happens to them and they’re forced to, so they were pretty much what I expected. I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted them to like me. I trust they did, at least they didn’t seem to want to throw me out the window.

“I’ve got to say, though, that Glynis surprised me, with that lip-lock she put on Rob. You see, he’d never said anything about her, probably because she was a teenager when he left. I was struck by her beauty, and how bone-deep mean she is.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked her.

“I have a feeling she wouldn’t hesitate to do anything at all to get what she wants.” She paused a moment. “I got the impression last night that just maybe she wants to have Rob.”

“Nah,” Sherlock said. “Glynis wanted to rub your nose in it, that’s all. You’re basically her age and you’re very accomplished, successful in your own right. Glynis is rich, sure, but not by her own hands. I think you made her feel inferior and Glynis retaliated the only way she knows how. She’d find it amusing to take Rob away from you, I think, to prove herself better than you, but she’s not going to try that hard. Too much work. If I were you I’d watch my back with her, though.”

Marsia nodded. “I will.”

Savich’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out and read the text, slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. He said, “Ms. Gay, ten years ago both your parents died in an airplane accident. You were a teenager. It must have been difficult for you.”

Marsia froze. She picked up a glass of water and drank it down. Slowly, she turned back and gave Savich a slight smile. “That question threw me right back to when the headmistress of my school called me out of class to see my parents’ lawyer. Mom and Dad were flying to Granada, Spain, and crashed in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Because my parents were very nearly divorced, the irony of their dying together slaps you in the face.” She paused a moment, drank more water. “I quickly learned the two of them were deeply in debt and there was no money. My relatives didn’t know me and didn’t want me, so that meant foster care for me until I graduated high school. I had three different fosters—they were all okay, no problems, except for one son, and I broke his finger. There’s nothing more, really.”

“I should say there is a lot more, Ms. Gay,” Sherlock said. She saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “You worked two waitressing jobs to put yourself through art school. Two years ago, you made your first big sale. And now you’re considered an artist on the rise. That shows me you didn’t need your parents’ money, you had grit and talent. What you’ve accomplished is admirable, Ms. Gay.”

Marsia shook her head, wiped her eyes with her fist. “You’re very kind. I’ll tell you, it feels good to know that you’re not going to be out on the street.” She paused, looked around at the big airy space. “Do you know what? I was able to buy this whole building three weeks ago—it was a real steal.”

Sherlock smiled. “Will you make improvements to the outside?”

“Oh no, given the way it looks, everyone steers clear of my building. I intend to keep all its original patina.”

Savich said, “The man who tried to kill Mrs. Rasmussen on Monday, Vincent Willig, was murdered early this morning in George Washington University Hospital.”

Marsia stared at them. “He what? Murdered? But why?”

“Because,” Sherlock said, “he was ready to take Venus Rasmussen’s offer of one hundred thousand dollars to give up the name of the person who hired him. Where were you last night, Ms. Gay, after you left the Rasmussens’?”

Marsia reared back as if she’d been slapped. “Fun time is over, I see. You want to know where I was? But I have nothing to do with anything.”

“Yes, you do,” Savich said. “You are currently seeing Rob Rasmussen. Like everyone else near Mrs. Rasmussen, he is a person of interest. And now so are you. Please tell us where you were, Ms. Gay.”

“Here, I was here, sleeping, all night. And yes, I was alone. Rob dropped me off, said he had work to do and couldn’t stay. But I assure you, once I was here, I never left.”

Savich said, “Is your relationship with Rob serious? Are you planning to marry him?”

Marsia took a deep breath, settled herself. “You certainly got down and dirty. I was beginning to think we were friends.” She shook her head. “No, that’s stupid. You’re here to interview me, see if I have a motive for killing Mrs. Rasmussen, for killing this Mr. Willig. Is that his name?”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock said. “Did you know him, Ms. Gay?”

“Goodness, no, how could I? And now he’s dead, murdered. You have no idea who did this? Tried to kill Mrs. Rasmussen and now Mr. Willig?”

“We will, soon,” Savich said. “You didn’t answer my question, Ms. Gay. Your relationship with Rob Rasmussen—what are your intentions?”

“I’ve thought about it, certainly, asked myself if Rob and I have a future. Marriage, kids, the whole works. To be honest, I haven’t made up my mind. As for Rob, I just don’t know.” She smiled. “Like many men, Rob doesn’t like to discuss the future. He’s a here-and-now kind of guy.”

Savich gave Ms. Marsia Gay one last look. Talent, looks, brains, all in one neat package. He hoped she was what she seemed. After a long beat of silence he stood, Sherlock following him. “Thank you for showing us your studio and answering our questions. We’ll be in touch.” He and Sherlock left the studio.

* * *

“Who texted you?” Sherlock asked once they were back in the Porsche.

Savich had just fastened his seat belt and was pulling away from the warehouse. “That was Cam. Agent Poker called her from Las Vegas. There was an anonymous sketch left in their field office lobby of Molly Harbinger’s murder scene. The Serial is there front and center, just as that burglar, Sallas, would have seen him. They think Sallas left it there, or had someone do it for him, to get the cops and the media off his back. There’s been no other sign of him. He’s disappeared.”