“Sounds like you and Dix need to get to the hospital too, see to his wounds. You promise me you’re okay, Ruth?”

“I’d better be. Dix looks like he wants to start a brawl. We’ll call you from the hospital, Dillon, let you know everyone’s status.”

Savich heard Dix yelling at someone in the background. He pulled off at the next exit. “It’s back we go to the city,” he said. “Even though I can’t tell you for certain where Makepeace is, I want to get over to Julia’s house and find those journals. They’re at the center of this thing, Sherlock. I think we’ll find some answers when we find those journals.”

“Are you going to let Julia come with us?”

“It’s a tough call, but you know, Julia knows every nook and cranny in her own house. We need her. Captain Paulette will provide enough people to keep Makepeace away, if he so happens to show up there.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Sherlock said.

CHAPTER 49

At two o’clock that afternoon, Julia, with Savich, Sherlock, and Cheney close behind her, unlocked the front door of her house and stepped in. The large entryway was filled with shadows, empty and silent. She shuddered. “It seems like I’ve been gone years rather than days,” Julia said. “It’s like a stranger’s house.”

Cheney took her hand. “We don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, Julia.” He frowned at Savich, who raised his hand. “Listen, Cheney, we’ve already discussed this into the ground. We’ve got to find those journals. Both you and Julia said Kathryn Golden put extraordinary emphasis on them. Julia knows this house, knows all its hiding places. They’ve got to be here, so let’s get busy. The sooner we find those journals, the sooner we’re out of here. Julia, you said you already searched your husband’s study, but we’ll start there.”

“I didn’t really search everywhere, simply gathered all his things up.”

“Okay, then you and Cheney go to the study. Cheney knows more about hiding places than a drug dealer. Sherlock and I will start here in the living room.”

When they were alone, Savich walked to the front windows and pulled back the thick draperies. He saw a man across the street dressed in an aloha shirt, trimming a neighbor’s bushes. Another man was mowing a yard. Both were undercover cops.

He joined Sherlock in front of the painting over the mantel. “So that’s Dr. August Ransom,” he said. “His eyes are dark and intense, just like Wallace Tammerlane and Bevlin Wagner.” Were they a necessity, he wondered, for the psychic package? He glanced into a mirror on the wall beside the fireplace, and his own dark intense eyes stared back at him.

“Let’s get to work.”

There weren’t any wall safes behind paintings, there weren’t any safes behind the books that filled the single bookshelf against one wall. Sherlock checked the floorboards—no hollow sounds, nothing under the carpet.

“Well, I say we do the kitchen next,” she said. “I vote for the Sub-Zero freezer.”

Julia and Cheney walked into the living room, Cheney shaking his head. “Nothing. We even moved his big desk aside to check the floorboards. Zilch, nada.”

Julia said, “I’m thinking I should check August’s bedroom next. I did only a quick clean-out. He worked in there as well.” She turned to leave the living room when in that moment there was a very slight creaking of an oak plank overhead.

They all stared upward. Cheney already had his SIG pulled. Savich placed his finger on his lips. “Julia, how would he get in the house without any of the cops outside seeing him?”

She looked perfectly blank, then, “I remember. There are some ancient fire stairs hanging from outside the attic window, bolted to the side of the house. They’re mostly covered with vines and hushes because August thought they were an eyesore, wanted them hidden.”

Cheney said, lowering his voice, “We’re not going to take any chances with Julia. She and I are going to hunker down in the kitchen pantry; it’s probably the safest place in the house. We’ll be as quiet as we can.”

Savich said, “I don’t care what happens, keep Julia safe. Sherlock, you’re with me.”

Once Cheney and Julia had disappeared, Savich and Sherlock walked to the foot of the grand staircase, and stood quietly, listening.

There was not a whisper of a sound.

“Maybe it was only a creak from an old house,” Sherlock whispered.

“Possible.” He motioned her to the other side of the stairs, opposite the door to the living room, beneath the staircase.