“Moving right along,” Savich said, “time to get you caught up.” He and Sherlock proceeded to fill them in about their meetings with Congresswoman McManus and the Barbeaus.

“The thing is,” Sherlock said, “neither Dillon nor I think Pierre Barbeau is the person behind the attempts on MacLean’s life. Now, Mrs. Barbeau—she’s something else, a real piece of work.” Sherlock shrugged. “She’s grieving hard, as torn up as her husband, but her level of anger at Dr. MacLean—I don’t know. I simply don’t.”

Ollie said, “Did you guys pick up any vibes about McManus? Do you think she had her husband murdered?”

Savich nodded. “I think she’s capable of having him killed.”

Sherlock said, “She’s got a real temper, but she’s learned how to control it—had to, I guess, since spewing venom at her colleagues on the floor of the House of Representatives wouldn’t make her any friends. She’s an impressive woman, though. I’d rather have her on my side any day.”

Savich shrugged. “Is she the one behind the attempts on Timothy’s life? I hate to say it, but I don’t think so. There’s no motive, unless it would be revenge for his stirring everything up, maybe creating a scandal that could annoy her for a time.”

“I think she has too much to lose for that,” Sherlock said. “Unless she knew there were too many loose ends surrounding her husband’s murder, maybe worried a new investigation would turn up something too easily.”

Rachael said, “Then where does this leave us?”

Astro Mighty Dog raised his head and barked once.

Rachael went over to sit on the floor beside him, petting him until he rolled onto his back, all four feet sticking in the air.

Savich said, “There’s Lomas Clapman, the rich guy who stole his partner’s ideas and may have committed fraud. But again, I can’t see that as a motive.”

Ollie said, “It always comes back to how the killer knew MacLean had talked. The bartender said he wasn’t aware of any other customers listening, but he couldn’t be sure. He said he never told another soul, so this remains a mystery.”

Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a disk. “All Timothy’s files are on this disk. If he hadn’t backed them up, the fire would have destroyed all his patient notes. And just who set the fire?”

Ollie said, “We’ve reviewed all the files with our forensic psychiatrists, done a lot of checking, but there aren’t any other patients they can point to as having the motive to kill Dr. MacLean. Sure, there’s some ugly stuff here and there, but murder?” Ollie shook his head. “And let’s face it, who would kill his shrink on speculation—he hasn’t told the world your secrets, but he might? It doesn’t make sense.”

Everyone thought about that for a moment.

Rachael said, “Tomorrow morning, Jack and I are going to see Jimmy’s lawyer, Brady Cullifer. If there are skeletons, he may be able to tell us about them.”

Savich sat back on the sofa, laced his fingers over his belly. “I spoke to the ME about Perky’s unexpected death. Turns out it wasn’t foul play. She died of a pulmonary embolism—a blood clot to her lungs. It’s a major surgical risk, the ME said. So there you have it.

“I then paid a visit to our two wounded bad guys from Parlow and Slipper Hollow—Roderick Lloyd and Donley Everett. Lloyd still refuses to speak to us, and as for Everett, he’s already signed a full confession. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know who hired Perky. I don’t think he’s lying.” Savich sat forward. “There’s no reason for Lloyd to know that Perky is dead. Maybe we can convince him she rolled. What do you think, Sherlock?”

“I can’t imagine Lloyd’s lawyer not knowing she’s dead, but it’s worth a shot.” She didn’t sound optimistic.

“What about the fourth guy?” Jack asked. “What’s his name?”

“Marion Croop,” Sherlock said. “We just got word from the field office in Miami that when they found him, he started a firefight. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C.

Friday morning

Rachael ladled hot, thick oatmeal into Jack’s bowl.

He stared down at it, then up at her.

“What? Come on, dig in while the steam is still pouring off it. It’s good for you, and I make the best oatmeal in Kentucky. Here’s some brown sugar.” She spooned some over the oatmeal.

He gave her a pitiful look. “Could I have some Cheerios instead?”

Rachael punched him in the shoulder. “What is this? Here I decide to cook you my very best breakfast since you’re here as my bodyguard, and reward you because there weren’t any break-ins last night, and you want Cheerios? Out of a box?”

“With nonfat milk?”

She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Maybe some sliced banana?”

She laughed, went to the pantry, and disappeared inside. She came out again a moment later. “Sorry, Jack, no Cheerios. It’s either oatmeal or you’re out of luck.”

He took a bite of oatmeal and chewed slowly, then swallowed.

“Well? What do you think?”

“The truth?”

“Of course. Come on, Jack, I can take it.”

“It’s gotta be the best oatmeal in Kentucky.”

“Yeah, yeah, but we’re not in Kentucky, you jerk.” She threw a napkin at him and dug into her own oatmeal. “All right, all right, I’ll get you some Cheerios.”

They ate in companionable silence. It was an odd feeling, Rachael thought, as she watched the morning sunlight pour through the window over the kitchen sink, having someone at the breakfast table with her. After Jimmy died, and the days were empty and passed slowly until she flew to Sicily, she’d begun to doubt she’d ever begin her morning with a smile again. And then someone drugged her and threw her into Black Rock Lake.

“Thank you, Jack.”

He licked his spoon and held out his empty bowl. “For what?”

“You’re here. I’m not alone. Did you sleep well?”

He’d slept in one of the antique-filled bedrooms three doors down from Rachael. Her father’s bedroom remained untouched at the other end of the long corridor. The bed, in truth, had been hard as a rock and he’d had to stretch for five minutes that morning to get the kinks out.