Riptide

The thing of it was, Letitia Gordon thought as she walked to the bed where the young woman lay staring at her with dread, her dyed hair tangled and dirty about her face, she wanted to stand very straight in front of that man, perhaps salute and then do exactly what he told her to do. And here was Hector, acting so deferential, like this guy was the president or, more important, the police commissioner. Whatever he was, this man wore power like a second skin.

“Ms. Matlock, in case you don’t remember, I’m Detective Gordon and this is Detective Morales.”

“I remember both of you very clearly,” Becca said, and concentrated on clearing the sheen of tears out of her eyes. These people couldn’t hurt her now, Adam and her father wouldn’t let them. And she wouldn’t, either. She’d been through enough now that a couple of hard-assed cops couldn’t intimidate her.

“Good,” Detective Gordon said, then she caught herself looking over at Mr. Matlock, as if for approval of her approach. She cleared her throat. “Your father said we could ask you a couple of questions.”

“All right.”

“Why did you run, Ms. Matlock?”

“After my mother died and I’d buried her, there was no reason for me to stay. He found me at the hotel where I was hiding, and I knew he would get me. None of you believed me, and so I didn’t think I had a choice. I ran.”

“Look, Ms. Matlock,” Detective Gordon said, coming closer, “we still aren’t certain there was a man after you, calling you, threatening you.”

Adam said mildly, knowing until he and Thomas had discussed it, Krimakov’s probable identity would remain under wraps to the NYPD, “Then who do you think kicked her out of a moving car at One Police Plaza? A damned ghost?”

“Maybe it was her accomplice,” Detective Gordon said, whirling on Adam, “you know, the guy who shot Governor Bledsoe.”

Becca didn’t say anything. Thomas saw she was pulling away, even though she hadn’t moved a finger, trying to draw into herself. She looked unutterably tired.

“Also,” Detective Gordon added, not looking at Mr. Matlock, “our psychiatrist reported that he believed you have big problems, Ms. Matlock, lots of unresolved issues.”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “Unresolved issues? I love shrink talk, Detective. Do tell us what that means.”

“He believes that she was obsessed with Governor Bledsoe, that she had to have his attention, and that was why she made up these stories about this guy calling her and stalking her, threatening to kill the governor if she didn’t stop sleeping with him.”

Adam laughed. He actually laughed. “Jesus,” he said. “That’s amazing.”

“I’m sure that old woman who was blown up in front of the Metropolitan Museum didn’t think it was fu

“Let me get this straight,” Adam said mildly. “You now think she blew up that old woman to get the governor’s attention?”

“I told you the truth,” Becca said, cutting in before Letitia Gordon could blast Adam. “I told you that he phoned me and told me to look out my window, which happens to face the park and the museum. He killed that poor old woman, and you didn’t do anything about it.”

“Of course we did,” Detective Morales said, his voice soothing and low. “It’s just that there were a lot of conflicting stories coming in.”

“Yes,” Becca said. “Like the ones Dick McCallum told the cops in Albany that made all of you disbelieve me. This guy probably paid off Dick McCallum to lie about me, and then he murdered him, too. I don’t understand why it isn’t clear to you now.”

Detective Gordon said, “Because you ran, Ms. Matlock. You wouldn’t come in and speak to us, you just called Detective Morales from wherever you were hiding. You’re at the center of all this. You, only you. Tell us what’s going on, Ms. Matlock.”

“I believe that’s enough for the time being,” Thomas said, and calmly moved to stand between the two New York detectives and his daughter. “I am very disappointed in both of you. Neither of you is listening. You are not using your brains. Now, let’s get this perfectly clear: Since you’re having difficulties logically integrating all the facts, I want you to focus on catching the man who kidnapped my daughter and shoved her out of his car right in front of cop headquarters. I trust you people have been trying to find witnesses? Questioning them? Trying to get some sort of composite on this guy?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Detective Morales said. As for Detective Gordon, she wanted to tell him to go hire his damned daughter a fancy lawyer, that Dick McCallum had been murdered, that she could have had something to do with that, too, maybe revenge, since McCallum had blown the whistle on her. She opened her mouth, all worked up, but Thomas Matlock said quietly, “Actually, detectives, I am a director with the CIA. I am now terminating this conversation. You may leave.”

Both detectives were out of there in under five seconds, Detective Gordon leading the way, Morales on her heels, looking both apologetic and scared.

Becca just shook her head, back and forth, back and forth. “They didn’t even want to know anything about him. Don’t they have to believe me now that Dick McCallum was murdered, too?”

“One would think,” Adam said, his eyes narrowed, still looking at the now-empty doorway. “New York’s finest aren’t shining in this particular instance. Now, not to worry, Becca.”

“I think Detective Gordon needs to be pulled off this case,” Thomas said. “For whatever reason, she made up her mind about you early on and is now refusing to be objective. I’ll make a call.”

“I want to leave this place, Adam. I want to go far away, forever.”

“I’m sorry, Becca, but there’s not going to be any forever yet,” Thomas said. “Krimakov got what he wanted. I’m out in the open now. The problem is that you still are, too. Now I’m going to make that call.” Thomas walked out of the hospital room, his head down, deep in thought, as he pulled out his cell phone.

The Feds arrived forty-five minutes later.

The first man into the room came to a fast stop and stared. He cleared his throat. He straightened his dark blue tie. He looked as if he wished his wing tips were shinier. “Mr. Matlock, sir, we didn’t know you were involved, we had no idea, didn’t know she was related to you-”

“No, of course you didn’t, Mr. Hawley. Do come in, gentlemen, and meet my daughter.”

He leaned over her and lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Becca, here are two guys who want to talk to you, not batter you like the NYPD detectives, just talk a bit. You tell them when you’re tired and don’t want to talk anymore, okay?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice so thin Adam swore she was fading away right before his eyes. If he hadn’t been worried sick, Adam would have enjoyed watching Thomas turn his power onto the FBI guys, but he didn’t. Now Adam wondered how Thomas knew Tellie Hawley, a longtime FBI guy who had a reputation for eating crooks for breakfast. He never cut anyone any slack. He was sometimes very scary, sometimes a rogue, admired by his contemporaries and occasionally distressing to his superiors.

“Hey, Adam,” Hawley said. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough why you’re here. Where’s Savich?”

“He and Sherlock will be in a bit later.” Adam nodded then to Scratch Cobb, a tough-looking little man who wore elevator shoes that brought him up to Adam’s chin. He got his nickname years before, when it was said that he scratched and scratched until he found the answers in a high-profile case. “Scratch, good to see you again. How’s tricks?”

“Tricks is good, Adam. How’s it going, my boy?”

“I’m surviving.” Adam took Becca’s hand and lightly squeezed it. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “The guy standing to the left has hemorrhoids. The big one with the mean eyes, Hawley, will want to cross the line, but he doesn’t dare try it, not with your dad here. Actually, he has five dogs and they rule his house. Now, go get ’em, tiger.”