The Fix (Amos Decker 3)

in all his children. Along with ambition.”

She suddenly looked away, and for a moment Decker thought she might burst into tears. She rubbed her mouth and turned back to them.

“My father is…was a huge influence on me.”

Decker said, “I’m sure. And you wanted to meet with us because your father told you something?”

“Things,” she said. “I wrote them down on the flight in.”

She handed the paper to Decker. He looked down at it.

Bogart said, “Can you read them out loud, Decker?”

Decker appeared not to have heard him.

Jules stared impatiently at the silent Decker for a few moments and then said sharply, as though she were giving a business presentation, “One, he told me to take care of my mother. Two, he said for me to get married and have a family. Because life was too short. Three, he told me that above all I was to remember that he loved me.”

Bogart said, “And was this unusual?”

“My father was attentive and caring, but, yes, these particular statements were unusual because he had never spoken to me about these things before. At least not like that.”

Jamison said, “So were you concerned?”

“I point-blank asked him if something was wrong. He said no. Just that he’d been thinking about life in general and wanted me to know these things. He joked that he must be getting old, but it still struck me as odd.”

“Did you talk to anyone else about it?” asked Bogart.

“No. I was going to phone my siblings to see if he’d a similar conversation with them, but then I got busy. By the time I got around to thinking about doing it I got the call about Dad.”

Decker held up the list. “You have a number four marked here but nothing beside it.”

Jules reached in her pocket and pulled out a key. “He sent me this the next day.”

Decker took the key and looked it over. “Appears to be a safe deposit box key,” he said, handing it across to Bogart.

“It is,” said Jules. “He has a box at a bank in downtown McLean. He’s had it for years.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“I assumed it was just things one puts in a safe deposit box. I’ve never seen inside it.”

“Why would he send you the key?”

“I don’t know. I was going to call him, but then, like I said, I got distracted with business. I assumed I would have plenty of time to talk to him about it. I just thought it might have something to do with his estate planning. It would make sense that he would involve me. He’d named me executrix a couple of years ago.” She added in an explanatory note, “I’m the oldest. That stuff sort of fell to me by virtue of birth order.”

“But your father obviously had confidence in you too,” said Jamison.

“I hoped he did.”

Decker looked at Bogart. “Can we look inside it?”

Bogart glanced at Jules. “If your mother is a signatory on the box we’ll need her permission. Otherwise, we’ll have to get a warrant.”

“Get the warrant, because I’m not disturbing my mom right now. She needs to rest, not worry about signing papers.”

Bogart pulled out his phone and stepped from the room.

Jules looked around the space and her expression changed from flint to despair. “I grew up in this house. I love every nook and cranny of it.”

Jamison said, “I can see why. It’s beautiful. So warm and inviting. Did your mother do the decorating?”

Jules nodded. “She had an eye for that. Dad was great at his business. But Mom did everything else. She was the perfect partner. Wonderful hostess, a great sounding board when he needed it. And she raised four kids, mostly on her own because Dad was always traveling back then.”

Jamison said, “Wealth like this doesn’t come easy. A lot of hard work went into it.”

“Yeah,” said Jules absently.

“So his words to you, given what happened, make sense,” said Decker. “Sort of parting advice?”

She looked up at him, her face reddening. “So you’re suggesting he told me to get married and have kids before he goes and murders someone and then blows his own head off? How screwed up is that?” she added shrilly.

Decker said imperturbably, “But he might not have thought he had a choice.”

“What does that mean?”

“Did you know your father was sick?”

“What do you mean, sick?”

“He had an inoperable malignant brain tumor. He was terminal.”

Jamison gave a little gasp at Decker’s blunt words, but he kept his gaze squarely on Jules.

Tears appeared in Jules’s eyes. “W-what?” she stammered.

Decker sat down across from her. “The autopsy revealed the tumor and an aneurysm. He had maybe a few months left to live. You’re saying you didn’t know?”

She shook her head as the tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks.

Jamison pulled some clean tissues from a pack in her purse and handed them to Decker, who passed them to Jules. She wiped her eyes.

“Do you think your mother knew?” asked Decker.

She shook her head. “Impossible. If Mom knew we all would have known.”

“Even if he didn’t want the children to know?” asked Jamison.

She took a few moments to compose herself. “Wouldn’t have mattered. My mother is incapable of keeping something like that secret.”

Decker nodded. “Understood. Is there any reason you can think of for your father having done something like this?”

She barked, “You might as well ask me why the sun won’t be coming up tomorrow. This is…this can’t be happening.” The next instant, she bent over and started to sob uncontrollably.

Decker looked at Jamison with an awkward expression. Jamison rose and knelt down next to Jules, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and offering more tissues. “Decker, go get her some water,” she hissed.

Decker left the room and found the kitchen, a large, airy space that looked like it should be in the pages of an architectural design magazine. He opened some cupboards. In one he saw some medicine bottles. He quickly looked at the labels. One was for increasing bone density; another was Zoloft. He found the glasses in another cupboard, filled one at the tap, and walked back to the library. He handed it to Jamison, who helped Jules to drink it.

They heard a car drive up to the front door. Decker left the room again and walked down the hall in time to see the front door fly open. A woman stormed in and threw her coat and bag down on the hardwood floor. Behind her Decker could see an airport taxi gliding back down the paved driveway.

The woman was in her early thirties, with brown hair cut short, glasses, and the same tall, lean build as Jules.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

Decker held out his FBI credential. “I take it you’re one of the daughters.”

“Samantha. Where’s my mother?”

“Sedated. Your sister Jules is in the library.”

Samantha Dabney brushed past Decker and hurried down the hall. Decker followed. He got there in time to see her kneel down and hug her still-weeping sibling. Jamison rose and backed off, giving the women space.

When Jules finally composed herself, she sat up.

Samantha said, “What the hell is going on? Why is the FBI here?”

Jules said, “I told you what happened, Sam. Did you think they wouldn’t be investigating? Dad mur…Dad shot someone. Right outside of the FBI building.”

Samantha collapsed into the chair that Jamison had been sitting in. “I know that’s what you told me. But it…it can’t be, Jules. You know that. Why would he do this? He had so much to live for.”

“Daddy was terminal. He had a brain tumor.”