Double Take
Page 12
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Chappy was so rich he could probably bankroll the state of Virginia single-handedly for at least two days, a man who knew his own power and used it ruthlessly in business and at home, to keep his heir, Tony, and his heir’s wife, Cynthia, under his thumb. He was standing by his big antique mahogany desk, looking every inch the tall, lean aristocrat in a beautiful pale blue cashmere turtleneck sweater and black bespoke wool slacks. Dix always felt like a mutt standing next to him. Dix looked closely at his face. Chappy looked haggard, nearly frantic, not a sharp edge in sight, no malice brimming in his eyes, no hint he was a man who could blast a killing verbal blow in a smooth ironic voice. Chappy’s pupils were dilated, his face pale with shock.
What was happening here? What had he heard about Christie? Dix’s heart pounded hard and fast.
“Chappy.” Dix laid his hands on the older man’s shoulders, steadying him. “What’s wrong? What is this about Christie?”
Chappy shook himself, and Dix saw the effort it took to get himself together. “Jules saw Christie.”
“Jules?”
“Yes, you know Christie’s godfather—Jules Advere. You’ve met him over the years, Dix, don’t you remember? He’s been living in San Francisco for the past year, claimed he wanted a big city with a slower pace. He lives in Sea Cliff, right on the ocean, his house looks toward the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Yes, okay. You say he saw Christie?”
“He called me, said he saw her.”
Dix’s hands fell away. He took a step back. He stared blindly at his father-in-law, shaking his head back and forth, his brain blank. He had to make himself breathe. He had to get spit in his mouth so he could talk. No, it wasn’t possible.
Chappy grabbed Dix’s wrist. “You know if anyone else had told me that, I’d have dismissed it out of hand, maybe even belted them, hut not Jules. He was there when Christie was born. He knew her all her life. He might be older than I am but he’s not senile, Dix, and he’s still got the eyesight of an owl. Truth is, I’d trust him with everything but my money.”
And that was saying something indeed. Dix had met Jules Advere perhaps a dozen times before Christie had simply up and vanished that long-ago day. He pictured him in his mind the day Jules had flown into Richmond from some weird place like Latvia, a short, older man with a big dark mustache and a good-sized paunch on him that made Chappy razz him endlessly. He’d worked as hard as anyone trying to find Christie, did everything he could to comfort the boys. He’d even hired his own private investigator—but with no luck. No one had had an ounce of luck.
Jules had seen Christie? No, that was impossible. Dix had long ago accepted that Christie was dead, killed by some psychopath and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, and it had sunk him deep into himself for too long a time, and nearly brought his sons into the pit with him. He thought about his sons, Rob and Rafe, what this news could do to them. He wasn’t going to say a word about this to them. Not yet.
He was a cop and he had to take a step back, had to get it together. “Chappy, where did Jules say he’d seen her? In San Francisco? Did he speak to her? Come on now, get your thoughts together and tell me everything.”
Chappy slumped down onto a three-hundred-year-old Hepplewhite chair covered with what looked like the original green-and-white-striped brocade. He looked down at his Italian loafers. Dix saw his hands were trembling. Chappy said, “He was attending a fundraiser at one of those big yahoo penthouses on Russian Hill, given by a man supporting a senatorial candidate. Jules said it was this guy’s wife—he said there was no doubt in his mind. She was Christie.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Thomas Pallack. I’ve done business with him. He was here in Maestro once, maybe three and a half years ago, before Christie disappeared. He only stayed a couple of days. I don’t think he met Christie, though. He’s decades older than even the income tax laws, and he’s wealthy, made his money in oil and diversified. Like I said, it’s his wife, that’s what Jules said—his wife is Christie.”
Dix said slowly, patiently, “You know that’s impossible, Chappy. You know it.”
“I know it, but still, Dix, I’m just not as certain as you are. Yes, yes, I know she’d never have left you willingly. She loved you and the boys more than anything. Hell’s bells, she even loved me, even tolerated her brother’s idiot wife. But Jules swore it was her. It shook him so much to actually see her he told me he thought he was having a heart attack—searing pain all up his right side and he couldn’t breathe. He said he whispered ‘Christie’ to her and Thomas kneeled down beside him while they were calling 911. He said Pallack leaned close and said, ‘My wife’s name is Charlotte. Do you understand? Don’t forget it.’ Jules said Christie looked down at him like a hostess would at someone who was ruining her party, a sort of polite forbearance because the last thing she wanted was for this old buzzard to die on her beautiful oak parquet floor. Admittedly he felt really sick at this point, even admitted he didn’t see any recognition in her eyes when she looked at him, and that bothered him because, you see, he knew it was her.”
What was happening here? What had he heard about Christie? Dix’s heart pounded hard and fast.
“Chappy.” Dix laid his hands on the older man’s shoulders, steadying him. “What’s wrong? What is this about Christie?”
Chappy shook himself, and Dix saw the effort it took to get himself together. “Jules saw Christie.”
“Jules?”
“Yes, you know Christie’s godfather—Jules Advere. You’ve met him over the years, Dix, don’t you remember? He’s been living in San Francisco for the past year, claimed he wanted a big city with a slower pace. He lives in Sea Cliff, right on the ocean, his house looks toward the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Yes, okay. You say he saw Christie?”
“He called me, said he saw her.”
Dix’s hands fell away. He took a step back. He stared blindly at his father-in-law, shaking his head back and forth, his brain blank. He had to make himself breathe. He had to get spit in his mouth so he could talk. No, it wasn’t possible.
Chappy grabbed Dix’s wrist. “You know if anyone else had told me that, I’d have dismissed it out of hand, maybe even belted them, hut not Jules. He was there when Christie was born. He knew her all her life. He might be older than I am but he’s not senile, Dix, and he’s still got the eyesight of an owl. Truth is, I’d trust him with everything but my money.”
And that was saying something indeed. Dix had met Jules Advere perhaps a dozen times before Christie had simply up and vanished that long-ago day. He pictured him in his mind the day Jules had flown into Richmond from some weird place like Latvia, a short, older man with a big dark mustache and a good-sized paunch on him that made Chappy razz him endlessly. He’d worked as hard as anyone trying to find Christie, did everything he could to comfort the boys. He’d even hired his own private investigator—but with no luck. No one had had an ounce of luck.
Jules had seen Christie? No, that was impossible. Dix had long ago accepted that Christie was dead, killed by some psychopath and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, and it had sunk him deep into himself for too long a time, and nearly brought his sons into the pit with him. He thought about his sons, Rob and Rafe, what this news could do to them. He wasn’t going to say a word about this to them. Not yet.
He was a cop and he had to take a step back, had to get it together. “Chappy, where did Jules say he’d seen her? In San Francisco? Did he speak to her? Come on now, get your thoughts together and tell me everything.”
Chappy slumped down onto a three-hundred-year-old Hepplewhite chair covered with what looked like the original green-and-white-striped brocade. He looked down at his Italian loafers. Dix saw his hands were trembling. Chappy said, “He was attending a fundraiser at one of those big yahoo penthouses on Russian Hill, given by a man supporting a senatorial candidate. Jules said it was this guy’s wife—he said there was no doubt in his mind. She was Christie.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Thomas Pallack. I’ve done business with him. He was here in Maestro once, maybe three and a half years ago, before Christie disappeared. He only stayed a couple of days. I don’t think he met Christie, though. He’s decades older than even the income tax laws, and he’s wealthy, made his money in oil and diversified. Like I said, it’s his wife, that’s what Jules said—his wife is Christie.”
Dix said slowly, patiently, “You know that’s impossible, Chappy. You know it.”
“I know it, but still, Dix, I’m just not as certain as you are. Yes, yes, I know she’d never have left you willingly. She loved you and the boys more than anything. Hell’s bells, she even loved me, even tolerated her brother’s idiot wife. But Jules swore it was her. It shook him so much to actually see her he told me he thought he was having a heart attack—searing pain all up his right side and he couldn’t breathe. He said he whispered ‘Christie’ to her and Thomas kneeled down beside him while they were calling 911. He said Pallack leaned close and said, ‘My wife’s name is Charlotte. Do you understand? Don’t forget it.’ Jules said Christie looked down at him like a hostess would at someone who was ruining her party, a sort of polite forbearance because the last thing she wanted was for this old buzzard to die on her beautiful oak parquet floor. Admittedly he felt really sick at this point, even admitted he didn’t see any recognition in her eyes when she looked at him, and that bothered him because, you see, he knew it was her.”
