Double Take Page 7

  When the front door closed, Evelyn patted Dix’s cheek. “She didn’t know you and you didn’t know her. It’s over, Dix, all questions answered. Go to bed now and get some sleep.”

  CHAPTER 13

  At eight o’clock Saturday morning, the Sherlocks sat down with Dix at the breakfast table. They’d already worked out in their downstairs gym and still wore their workout clothes. They looked fit, their faces still shiny with exertion and good health. There was no makeup at all on Evelyn’s face. She looked beautiful. Dix took a bite of his sliced grapefruit. “I called Savich and Sherlock last night, told them what happened. And Christie’s father, of course.” And Ruth.

  “A difficult call to make,” said Judge Sherlock.

  “It was very hard.” Chappy had been stone silent, and Dix pictured the stark grief in his eyes again, grief that had lessened over the past three years, now brought back to full strength, though he had known, had accepted, that Christie was dead.“I’m sorry, Chappy,” he’d said, “sorry for all of us. This woman looked very much like Christie, but she wasn’t.” So inadequate, but there was simply nothing else to say. Chappy hadn’t broken down, and Dix was immensely grateful for that.

  He’d called Ruth on her cell so she could have some privacy from the boys. He knew she was trying to keep the immense relief out of her voice. As for himself, he’d tried to keep his voice as flat and steady as he could. As God was his witness, he didn’t know what he really felt, at the core of him, where murky questions and even murkier feelings tangled and snarled, and years of memories heaved to the surface to draw him back. He knew only that he’d wanted Christie to be alive—beyond that, he simply didn’t know.

  Dix watched Judge Sherlock carefully place four slices of crispy turkey bacon on a slice of toast, fold it over, and take a big bite. A BLT without the LT. Corman said, “Savich and Lacey surely knew what happened; they didn’t want to bother you until you were ready. Neither was surprised that Charlotte Pallack wasn’t your wife.”

  “They didn’t tell me they’d already spoken to you, sir. Actually I can’t imagine either of them being surprised it wasn’t Christie, being they’re cops and have seen too much to believe in happy endings. As have judges.”

  It wasn’t Christie, he thought again, and kept his head down, not wanting them to see the shadow of grief he knew showed on his face. You don’t want to burden folks with your own pain. It isn’t fair, his mother had once told him, and he hadn’t ever forgotten it.

  “We got it all resolved quickly,” Evelyn said matter-of-factly, “and that’s what’s important now. You didn’t have to wait any longer than necessary to know the truth.”

  He shot her a quick smile. She was exactly right. He’d been able to find out before he’d sunk into the abyss.

  “Thank you both for taking me in on such short notice, for getting the Pallacks over here, and, well, for being here for me. I’m in your debt.”

  Rather than politely declining the offer, Judge Sherlock nodded. “I like a sheriff owing me. Can’t hurt, who knows?”

  Evelyn laughed. “He never misses a trick, Dix. You’ve always got to watch him.” Something passed between the two of them, something Dix had seen pass between his own parents, something he knew had passed between him and Christie—genuine affection. But there was another face there now—Ruth’s face— and he thought again of how very lucky he was. He knew when he got home he would do what he had to do to make it all legal so he and Ruth could get on with their lives. And the boys could settle once again into the normalcy of a family with both a father and a mother. He said to his hosts, “I was expecting the grapefruit to lemon my lips, but it’s sweet.”

  Isabel came into the dining room. “Dix, there’s someone for you on the phone. You can take it out here, if you like, in the hallway.”

  Dix raised an eyebrow. Who knew he was here other than Chappy, Savich, Sherlock, and Ruth, who would have called his cell? He followed Isabel out of the dining room and picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Noble? Dix? This is Charlotte Pallack.”

  He nearly dropped the phone. He would have been less surprised if it had been the IRS. “Good morning, Mrs. Pallack.”

  “Come now, Dix, do call me Charlotte.”

  He said nothing, waited. What was all this about?

  She said in a rush, “Will you have lunch with me today?”

  After he absorbed that, he said carefully, “You and your husband?”

  “No, no, only me. We didn’t get a chance to talk last evening— my husband always dives right into politics and I, well, I’m from the South, you’re now from the South, I wanted you to tell me how everything moves down there now since I’ve been gone for such a long time. Both my husband and I are very interested in politics back home.”

  That was one of the thinnest excuses he’d ever heard in his life and he didn’t know what to say. Virginia politics? Fact was, he wanted to go home. Even if he caught the ten o’clock flight, Dix would still miss Rob’s baseball game, but at least he’d be home. “I have to get home, Mrs.—Charlotte. I have two teenage boys waiting for me, and a baseball game.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “It’s only one lunch, Dix. Like I said, I’d like to have a brief visit with someone from back home, share experiences, you know, stuff only someone who lives there would understand. And of course my husband dines on political scandal and intrigue. As a sheriff you surely know what’s going on in Richmond.”

  She was digging the hole deeper. Why was she doing this? Had she really been coming on to him last night? If so, what in heaven’s name did she expect from him today? It sure wasn’t a small-town sheriff’s perspective on Virginia political malfeasance. Maybe it was something else, maybe there was something she could only tell him in private, without her husband around. He said, “All right. I’m sorry, but I don’t know any restaurants in San Francisco.”

  “Do you like fish?”

  At his yes, she said, “How about Port Louis on Lombard Street. It’s not very far from the Sherlocks’ house. They have some of the best seafood in San Francisco.”

  “Okay. Give me the address and tell me how to get there.”

  A few minutes later, Dix walked back into the dining room. He looked at the Sherlocks. “That was Charlotte Pallack. She wants to have lunch, talk about shared southern experience, Richmond political scandals, whatever.” He streaked his hand through his hair. “I’m driving myself nuts, driving you nuts too. I doubt seeing her is one of my best ideas—actually, it might very well be the stupidest thing I’ve agreed to in a very long time.” He frowned. “My gut is doing the salsa, but—what I’m saying is, I think I should meet her, see if maybe there’s something she wants to tell me that she couldn’t with her husband here.”

  “At least she had that,” Evelyn said, then added when Dix looked blank, “If she hadn’t had the very handy southern connection as a hook, I wonder how she would have gotten you to agree.”

  “What I’m wondering,” Judge Sherlock said, slowly rising, “is what it is she has to say to you that she can’t say in front of Thomas. It may be much simpler than you think.”

  Evelyn said. “Charlotte isn’t stupid—” She tapped her fingernails on the white tablecloth for a moment, then grinned over at him. “Maybe it’s all very straightforward like Corman said— Charlotte simply wants to see you—she fell victim to those French cuffs of Corman’s you were wearing last night.”

  CHAPTER 14

  After Dix booked a later flight, he checked in with Ruth with his new arrival time. He knew she was loaded with questions, ready to fire away, but he cut her off. "I don’t have any answers now, sweetheart, but I will.”

  Sweetheart? Ruth felt honey smoothing down the bristles. Sweetheart?

  Well. She sat back in her chair. “Okay, you got me. Smooth move.”

  She thought she could see him grinning into his cell.

  “Listen, Ruth, the thing is I don’t even have the right questions yet. I’ll tell you a
ll about it when I get home. Please be patient.”

  She huffed, sputtered, and laughed. "You’re such a damned cop.”

  But that was only part of it, she thought as she punched off her cell. She was a cop, too, who happened to love him.

  Sweetheart. It had a certain ring to it. She was humming until she got back to the interview transcript of a drifter who’d butchered his way through the Northeast. They’d caught up with him when he’d lost his temper in a bar and broken a bottle of Coors over another customer’s head.

  Dix drove Judge Sherlock’s ancient black Chevy K5 Blazer down the hill to Lombard Street.

  "At noon there won’t be a single parking space within a mile of the restaurant, so don’t waste your time looking. Use the parking garage that’s in the same block,” Isabel had told him. She looked him up and down. “You look tough and dangerous— more macho without those French cuffs.”

  He laughed. He wore black jeans, short black boots, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. Usual fare. Tough? Well, okay, that was probably a good thing.

  Judge Sherlock shook his hand and gave him a look clear as a neon sign: Watch your ass with that woman.

  When he saw Charlotte Pallack waiting for him in front of Port Louis, he did another double take, felt the memory of the awful hollowness that had ground him under for so very long. But he got himself together quickly. She wasn’t Christie. He prayed he wasn’t making a good-sized mistake, giving her the wrong impression, making her think he was coming on to her.

  He smiled, and stuck out his hand, forcing her to take it and not jump in for a hug, which he knew in his gut was what she wanted. “Mrs. Pallack.”

  “No, no, it’s Charlotte, please, Dix.”

  He nodded and they went in. They both ordered the blackened halibut.

  “Very New Orleans,” he said as he handed the menus back to the red-jacketed waiter.

  She only nodded, and immediately launched into questions, not about shared southern experience, not about the two sitting Virginia senators or the governor, but questions about him.

  He went answer-lite, keeping things as impersonal as possible. She began asking the same questions again, phrasing them a bit differently. He’d give it to her, she was dogged. When, finally, she wanted to know how his wife had died, he knew Christie was who she really wanted to know about.

  He looked into her beautiful eyes, eyes that didn’t have Christie behind them. He found himself watching her face closely as he said, “My wife suddenly disappeared over three years ago. She hasn’t been found.”

  He stopped, swallowed, said nothing more.

  Their halibut arrived. It was so hot and spicy Dix had to force himself to eat it. It roiled like nasty thoughts in his belly. He picked up a breadstick. It tasted like chalk.

  “You don’t know what happened to her?”

  “No.”

  “You think she’s dead, don’t you, Dix? You don’t think she could have run away, nothing like that, do you?”

  “No. She’s dead. Why are you so concerned, Charlotte?”

  “I’m interested because it’s something that hurt you very much, Dix. I hate that.”

  Maybe Evelyn was right—maybe she was interested in him. Why? Because it gave her a kick to flex her skills with a man who’d so obviously focused on her last night? She was another man’s wife, but evidently, at least on the surface, she had set her sights on him. He’d been an idiot to accept this lunch offer. But the cop part of him was curious. It was time to turn this around.

  He asked her, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “A brother.”

  “Is he your only sibling?”

  She paused a moment, then slowly nodded.

  He arched a dark brow. So there was something about her brother. He let it go for the moment, and asked, “Where’d you go to school?”

  “Boston. I fell in love with a German guy—big, blond, had a brick between his ears—and ran away with him to Munich. That didn’t work out at all. My parents were pissed, but at least I didn’t marry him.”

  “Are your folks rich?”

  She laughed, nodded for the waiter to pour her more of the smooth dry Chardonnay. She gave him a perfect Gallic shrug. “Rich, poor, what does it matter? Bottom line, one makes choices. One either regrets the choices or doesn’t.”

  “Oh, money matters, all right. Don’t forget, I’m a cop. I’ve seen how many times money matters too much. Why’d you marry a rich man, one old enough to be your father?”

  She actually looked like he’d punched her in the stomach. “That—that isn’t very kind of you, Dix. Why I married him is really none of your business.”

  “What do your folks think of your husband?”

  “My parents are dead. A long time ago. I’ve been on my own for a while now.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “If you must know, three years.” Her voice sharpened. “Any more questions, Dix?”

  “Yeah, let’s cut to it, Charlotte. Why did you invite me to have lunch with you?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. With her eyes down, she looked so much like Christie he nearly lost his breath. She was wearing a wrap-around silk dress in a pale shade of blue that Christie had favored. It had a deep V-neck, and very long sleeves that fell nearly over her fingers. He saw that her breasts were bigger than Christie’s—but that could be simple surgery. What the hell was he thinking?

  He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to know if she wanted to jump his bones. He never wanted to see this Christie look-alike again in his life. It didn’t matter that she probably had some issues with her brother. He didn’t care. He wanted to go home. He wanted to hug his boys. He wanted to make love to Ruth and call her sweetheart again. He wanted Brewster to jump on him when he walked through the front door, his tail wagging furiously.

  Charlotte leaned forward. “You want to know why I called you? Okay, Sheriff Noble, last night you couldn’t stop staring at me. You said I reminded you of someone you knew a while back, someone beautiful. I’m not stupid, I know it had to be your wife Christie. You said your wife’s dead, Dix. That means she’s gone. For a long time now. So, what’s wrong with me?”

  So she wanted to amuse herself with him, nothing more than that. He rose, pulled a fifty out of his wallet and laid it next to his plate, realized it wasn’t enough, and tossed down two more twenties. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Charlotte. You’re a beautiful woman and you know it. Now, I’ve got to get to the airport.” He looked one more time at her face, couldn’t help himself. He tried to be a cop, dammit, he was a cop, good at seeing what was in a person’s mind, but he couldn’t get beyond Christie’s expression, one he’d seen on her face when she didn’t know exactly what to say to get what she wanted.

  He forced himself to smile, to step back both physically and emotionally, and gentled his voice. “I have to go home, Charlotte. I have to forget your face, forget how you look so much like her it freezes my heart. Go back to your husband—your choice, your life.”

  She rose quickly, grabbed his shirtsleeve. “Wait, Dix, wait!” The long dress sleeve fell back. He clearly saw the bracelet around her right wrist, the beautifully faceted diamonds glittering in their small circular settings.

  Dix froze. It looked like the bracelet he’d given Christie in Rome on their second honeymoon, on the day of their eighth wedding anniversary, the bracelet she’d worn every single day since that magic drizzling afternoon they’d watched Pietro Magni himself meticulously etch in the words Dix wanted, so pleased with his creation he couldn’t stop kissing Christie’s hand.

  CHAPTER 15

  Dix picked up Charlotte’s purse and jacket, grabbed her hand, and pulled her out onto the sidewalk into a cacophony of noise, cars, and people thick on Lombard Street during the noon hour. He walked quickly with her close to his side, away from the restaurant, across Lombard, to the parking garage. He pulled her up the stairs to the second level. It was quieter up here, above the din on
the street below.

  She was trying to pull free of him, panting now. “What’s wrong, Dix? What’s going on with you? You’re frightening me!”

  Maybe she was frightened, he wasn’t sure. He realized almost any woman would be frantic to get away from a man who’d dragged her into a garage without any people around. He saw questions in her eyes—not Christie’s eyes, hers—and something else. Excitement? He didn’t release her. He looked down into her face and said very precisely, “Tell me where you got that bracelet.”

  Charlotte Pallack blinked. She was clearly surprised. “Bracelet? What—oh, this.” She shook back the sleeve and rolled her hand back and forth, making the individual diamond circles sparkle and dance. “Why ever do you want to know about this bracelet?”

  “Where did you get it, Charlotte?”

  “Oh, all right. My husband gave it to me as a wedding present. He said he got it in Paris. Why, for God’s sake? Why do you care?”

  In that instant Dix the husband became Dix the cop. He smiled at her, released her wrist, stepped back from her, and managed, somehow, to smile. “Sorry about this, Charlotte.” He looked down a moment, felt his breathing hitch. He tried to shrug it off, but couldn’t quite do it. “Your bracelet—my wife Christie had a bracelet a lot like yours, and it shook me to my feet. She loved that bracelet, always wore it. Seeing it on your wrist—well—”

  Her hand was on his forearm and the bracelet winked and glittered. “Oh, Dix, I’m so sorry. I had no idea at all. Well, that’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Maybe Christie and I are more alike than just our looks. What do you think?”

  He said honestly, looking at her again, “I don’t know you, Charlotte. I have no idea how alike you and Christie are.”