Double Take

out about the marriage proposal, otherwise they would probably have homed in on poor Bevlin again.”
    “I’ve read there were also rumors August planned to divorce you—another motive.”
    She nodded. “Yes, I know. Another part of the lover angle— but they didn’t find a scintilla of evidence there was a lover. Still, even when they couldn’t find anyone to fit the bill, they were still clinging to it when they came to the house Thursday night, and early Sunday morning.”
    “Did you volunteer to take a lie detector test?”
    “No. My lawyer advised me against it, said there was no benefit to me, just risk.”
    “Maybe your lawyer believed you were guilty too.”
    She said slowly, “No, I can’t accept that. His name is Brian Huff. He and August had been friends for twenty-odd years, and I liked him. He liked me. When I told him I was innocent, he said, ‘Of course you are.’ I can’t imagine his insisting on representing me if he believed I’d killed his friend and client, the man who kept him on a nice fat retainer in case of litigation.”
    “I’ve heard of him. He’s a very big gun. Okay, would you take a lie detector test now? Get the cops focused on the here and now, and dump the baggage they’ve been mired in for the last six months?”
    “Do you honestly think that would change their minds?”
    “They’re a cynical bunch, so probably not, but still, it couldn’t hurt.”
    “Then I’ll do it.”
    Cheney sat back in August Ransom’s big leather chair, leaned his head back in his hands. “Julia, tell me about your boy.”
    She looked as if he’d struck her. “The files,” she said. “That’s in the murder files?”
    “Yes, of course. Tell me about him, Julia.” He rose and walked to her, took her hand in his. “Please, Julia, it’s important I know everything.”
    She sighed, felt his hand squeeze hers. “It’s hard.”
    “I imagine it is, but you need to let me in, all right? You ready to do that?”
    She gave him a long look, saw the concern in his eyes, felt the caring in him, the need—to help her? Yes, she thought, he really did want to help her. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Lincoln— Linc—was his name. He was six years old when one of his friends ran him over on his skateboard and knocked him into the sidewalk. He hit his head, fell into a coma, and never woke up.
    “I stayed with him for the three weeks it took him to die.”
    He frowned a moment, looking down at the files that hadn’t included something important. He asked her, “His father was with you?”
    “No, his father was dead.”
    “Dead? What happened, Julia?”
    All right, all of it. “Ben Taylor flew one of the Saud family’s private jets. Only three months before Linc’s accident, terrorists managed to plant a bomb on the plane. The plane exploded over the desert in a ball of flame. Ben, his copilot, two flight attendants, and all six passengers died.
    “Dozens of people were apprehended after the murders, but then it sort of faded away, probably because it was distant cousins who were killed and not any of the royal family proper. I think if King Fahd had been on that plane, the Saudis would have joined hands with the U.S. to find bin Laden. King Fahd died shortly thereafter, and Abdallah took over.
    “What really surprised me was that a week after Linc’s funeral I received a check for half a million dollars delivered by special messenger from King Fahd, along with his regrets and condolences.”
    “I’m sorry about your husband.”
    “Thank you. The thing is, Ben was an ex-Army Ranger. I learned too late he wasn’t a domestic sort of guy and never would be, even though he did try for a while. He loved flying, and most of all he loved his status as a pilot for the royal family. He loved being in the Middle East, practically lived in Saudi Arabia. He lived like a prince in Riyadh.” She stopped, sighed again. “I was disillusioned, of course. I was very close to asking him for a divorce. It wasn’t fair to Linc to hardly ever see his father; it wasn’t fair to me either. But then, all of a sudden, Ben was dead. And then Linc.”
    Cheney wanted to comfort her, he really did, but what came out of his mouth, all matter-of-fact, was “How did you meet August Ransom?”
    “I worked for the Hartford Courant. I wrote an article about him. When Linc was in the hospital, he came, every single day. When Linc died, he, well, he helped me, comforted me. I came to believe he could