Riptide

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?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, they told Detective Gordon to pull her head out of her armpit and try for a bit of objectivity. The woman’s really got it in for our gal.”

Adam made a rude noise. “Let Detective Gordon get hives over it for all we care. Neither Thomas nor I ever believed they were going to charge her with murder. But a material witness? That’s possible. And you know as well as I do that the cops couldn’t protect her from this stalker. Nope, that’s our job. Now, what do you have on McCallum?”

Adam wasn’t expecting anything, so he wasn’t disappointed when Hatch sighed and said, “Not a thing as of yet. A real pro spearheaded this operation, boss, just like you thought.”

“Unfortunately, it can’t be Krimakov because Thomas finally got him tracked down. He was living on Crete, and as of a week ago, he’s dead. I’m not sure of the exact date. But it was before McCallum was run down in Albany. I guess Krimakov could have been involved, but he certainly wasn’t ru

“Nah, the guy’s dead. This is a new nutcase, fresh out of the woodwork, and he’s picked Becca.”

Adam scratched his head and added, “No, I don’t think so, Hatch. It’s got to be some sort of conspiracy, there’s just no other answer. Lots of folk involved. But why did they focus on Ms. Matlock? Why put her in the middle? I keep coming back to Krimakov, but I know, logically, that it just can’t be. Someone, something else, is driving this. How’s the governor?”

“I hear his neck is a bit sore, but he’ll live. He doesn’t know a thing, that’s what he claims. He’s very upset about McCallum.”

Adam sat there and thought and thought. The same questions over and over again. No answers.

Silence.

“Put out the cigarette, Hatch. I know about your girlfriend. She loves silk lingerie and expensive steaks. You can’t afford to lose your job.”

“Okay, boss.”

Adam heard some papers shuffling, heard some mild curses, and smiled. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, of course there’s no positive ID on that skeleton that popped out of Ms. Matlock’s basement wall. For sure it was a teenage girl who got her head bashed in some ten or more years ago. I did find out something sort of neat, though.”

“Yeah?”

“It turns out there was an eighteen-year-old girl who leaves Riptide, supposedly eloping. Nobody knows who the boyfriend was though. Now ain’t that a neat coincidence?”

“I’ll say. When?”

“Twelve years ago.”

“No one’s heard from her since?”

“I’m not completely sure about that. If she’s still unaccounted for and they decide she’s a good bet, then they’ll do DNA tests on the bones.”

Adam said, “They’ll need something from her-like hair on a brush, an old envelope that would have her saliva, barring that, then a family member would have to give up some blood.”

“Yeah. Thing is, though, it wouldn’t be admissible in court if it ever came to it. It’ll take some time, a couple of weeks. No one sees any big rush on it.”

“I don’t like the feel of this, Hatch. We’ve got this other mess and now this damned skeleton falling out of Becca’s basement wall. It’s enough to make a man give up football.”

“Nah, you’ve always told me that God created the fall just for football. You’ll be watching football when you throw that last pigskin into the end zone in the sky, if they still have the sport that many aeons from now. You’ll probably lobby God to have pro football in Heaven. Stop whining, boss. You’ll figure everything out. You usually do. Hey, I hear that Maine’s one beautiful place. That true?”

Adam stared at the phone for a moment. He had been whining. He said, “Yeah. I just wish I had some time to enjoy it.” He suddenly yelled into the receiver, “No smoking, Hatch. If you even think about it, I’ll know it. Now, call me tomorrow at this same time.”

“You got it, boss.”

“No smoking.”

Silence.

Becca said very quietly, “Who is Krimakov?”

Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he’d spent his first night in Jacob Marley’s house. She’d opened the door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was losing it.

“Who is Krimakov?”

He said easily, “He’s a drug dealer who used to be involved with the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He’s dead now.”

“What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?”

“I don’t know. Why did you open the door without knocking, Becca?”

“I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going on. I knew you wouldn’t tell me. I also came up to get you for breakfast. It’s ready downstairs. You’re still lying. This doesn’t have anything to do with drug dealing.”

He had the gall to shrug.

“If I had my kitchen knife, I’d run at you, right this minute.”

“And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can’t you just accept that I’m here to do a job and that job is to make sure that you don’t get wiped out? Get off your high horse.”

He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him still. Hell, after seeing him all civilized that entire evening with four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn’t have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn’t gay, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.

“Who are you?”

He sighed and tucked in his shirt. Then he flipped the sheet and blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.

When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She’d heard Krimakov’s name. It didn’t matter. She’d never hear it again. The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free. To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn’t Thomas said anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and headed downstairs.

She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon, just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch’s fantasies, the fresh cantaloupe she’d sliced, ripe and sweet.

Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that much down.

He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, “What is this? No questions right in my face? No bitching at me? By God, could it be that you’re sulking?”

That got her, just as he hoped it would.

“How would you like that nice sticky syrup down the back of your neck?”