Hemlock Bay

11

Washington, D.C.

Three days later

“You go to bed now, Lily. No arguments. You look like a ghost out of A Christmas Carol.”

Lily managed a small smile and did as she was told. She was still weak, and the long plane trip back east had knocked her flat. She awoke an hour later to hear Dillon and Sherlock talking to Sean. They cuddled, hugged, and kissed him until finally he was so exhausted he hollered big time for about two minutes. Then he was out like the proverbial light. His nursery was right next to the guest room, where she lay quietly in the dim light. She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear itched her cheek. She wiped it away.

She closed her eyes when she heard her door open slightly. No, she wasn’t ready to see anyone just yet, although she loved them both dearly for caring about her so very much. She pretended to be asleep. When she heard them go downstairs, she got up and went into the baby’s room. Sean was sleeping on his knees, his butt in the air, two fingers in his mouth, his precious face turned toward her. He looked just like his father, but he had his mother’s dreamy blue eyes. She lightly rubbed her fingers over his back. So small, so very perfect.

She cried for the beauty of this little boy and for the loss of Beth.

Late that evening, over a good-sized helping of Dillon’s lasagna, she said, “Have you checked back with your office? Did they find Marilyn Warluski?”

Savich said, “Not yet. They found the boyfriend, Tony Fallon, but he claims she hasn’t contacted him. But there were a couple of folk in Bar Harbor who identified a photo of her, said they’d seen her recently. They’re going back to put his feet to the coals. We’ll know something soon.”

“We hope,” Sherlock said. Then she smiled. “You should have seen Dillon’s mother when we picked up Sean-she didn’t want us to take him. She said we’d promised her at least a week with him all to herself, but we’d lied; it was barely a week. She was shouting ‘Foul’ even as we were pulling out of her driveway.”

Savich shook his head. “Now he’ll be so spoiled that we’ll actually have to say no to him a couple of times to get him grounded back into reality.”

“I bet Mom would love to baby-sit him on a regular basis,” Lily said.

“Well,” Savich said, “she’s got her own life. She’s his treat; two or three times a week he gets big doses of Grandma. It works well that way. Our na

Lily was laughing, looking over at Sean, who was seated in his walker, a nifty contraption that let him scoot all over the downstairs. If he ran into something, he just changed directions.

Savich said, “Those wheels are bad for the floor, but Sherlock and I decided we’d just have them refinished when he moves on to crawling and walking.”

Lily said slowly, “Isn’t it strange? I never imagined you with a kid, Dillon.”

Savich smiled and helped her down on his big stuffed chair. “I didn’t either, but here came Sherlock, blasted right into my comfortable life, and it just seemed like the right thing. We’re very lucky, Lily. Now, sweetheart, we’ve been traveling all day and you’re jet-lagged, probably really bad what with the surgery a week ago. I want you to sleep at least ten hours before you face the world here in Washington tomorrow.”

“You and Sherlock have to be jet-lagged too. Even though you travel a lot and you are FBI agents, you-”

The front doorbell rang.

Savich walked around Sean, who was speeding toward the front door. It was Simon Russo. Savich knew him as a man of immense energy and focus, a man who just didn’t quit. And now Simon was looking beyond him to the living room.

“Simon, it’s good to see you. What the devil are you doing here?”

Simon gri

“No we don’t. Come on in. No, the paintings are in the vault in the Beezler-Wexler Gallery, safe as can be.”

“Good, good. I’d like you to arrange for me to see them, Savich.”

“So you said. First, however, you need a cup of tea and a slice of apple pie. My mom made it.”

“Oh, not your blasted tea. Coffee, please, Savich, I’m begging you. Coffee, black. Then we can see the paintings.”

“Simon, come on in and say hello to Sherlock and meet my sister, Lily.”

Simon shook his head and asked, “Not until tomorrow? How early?”

“Get a grip, Simon. Come along. Hey, guys, look who just flew through our front door? Simon Russo.”

Lily’s first impression of Simon Russo was that he was too good-looking, that he was a man who looked like a Raphaelesque angel, hair black and thick and a bit too long. Yeah, the angel Gabriel, probably, the head angel, the big kahuna. He was taller than her brother, long and lean, his eyes brighter and bluer than a winter sky over San Francisco Bay, and he looked distracted. He hadn’t shaved. He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a white dress shirt, a yellow-and-red tie, and a tweed jacket. He looked like a gangster academic, an odd combination, but it was true. Or maybe a nerd gangster, what with a name like Simon. He also looked like he knew things, maybe dangerous things. Lily was sure all the way to her bones that she wouldn’t trust him if he pledged his name in blood.

Red lights flashed in her brain. No, she wouldn’t let herself even see him as a man. He was an expert who wanted to see her Sarah Elliott paintings for some reason. He was Dillon’s friend. She wouldn’t have to worry about him. Still, she found herself drawing back into the big chair, just in case.

“Simon!” Sherlock was across the living room in under three seconds, her arms thrown around him, laughing and squeezing him. She came barely to his chin. He was hugging her, kissing her bouncing hair. She pulled back finally, kissed his scratchy cheek, and said, “Goodness, you’re here in a hurry. Yes, I know it isn’t us you want to see, it’s those paintings. Well, you’ll just have to wait until morning.”

Lily watched him hug her sister-in-law close once again, kiss her hair once again, and say, “I love you, Sherlock, I’d love to keep kissing you, but Dillon can kill me in a fair fight. The only time I ever beat him up, he was sick with the flu, and even then it was close. He also fights dirty. I don’t want him to mess up my perfect teeth.” He lifted her over his head, then slowly lowered her.

Savich said, crossing his arms over his chest, “You kiss her hair again and I’ll have to see about those teeth.”

Simon said, “Okay, I’ll stay focused on the paintings, but, Sherlock, I want you to know that I wanted you first.” He started to kiss her again, then sighed deeply. “Oh, what the hell.”

Then he turned those dark blue eyes on Lily, and he smiled at her, far too nice a smile, and she wished she could just stand up and walk out of the room. He was dangerous.

“Why,” she said, not moving out of her chair, actually pressing her back against the cushions, “are you so hot to see my paintings?”

Savich frowned at her, his head cocked to one side. She sounded mad, like she wanted to kick Simon through a window. He said easily, “Lily, sweetheart, this is Simon Russo. You’ve heard me talk about him over the years. Remember, we roomed together our senior year at MIT?”

“Maybe,” Lily said. “But what does he want with my paintings?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s a big-time dealer in the art world. He’s the one I called to ask how much Grandmother’s paintings are worth in today’s market.”

“I remember you,” she said to Simon. “I was sixteen when you came home with Dillon on Christmas your senior year. Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?”