Point Blank

Stanford, she’s another matter.”
    After dropping that bomb, Cynthia gave her full attention to her shrimp salad. Ruth took a sip of her white wine. “What about you, Chappy, do you know if your brother was sleeping with anyone else?”
    Dix shot her a look, a ghost of a smile on his mouth before he speared a water chestnut out of his shrimp salad.
    “Gloria and Twister sleeping together? Nah, maybe a long time ago, but she’s way too old for him now,”
    Chappy said. “Fact is, Twister likes ’em young. Even Cynthia’s long in the tooth for Twister’s tastes. You best accept the end is in sight, Cynthia.”
    Ruth said, “So Erin Bushnell was the right age for him?”
    “Early twenties? Yeah, that’s right, but what do I know, Agent Ruth? Really, what do I know? Me and Twister, we haven’t gotten along since before you were born—too much alike, I suppose, and it makes our pots bubble and boil. Sounds like it’s time you ask him, watch him sputter a bit.” His smile was malicious.
    After Mrs. Goss had cleared off the table, she brought in a big New York cheesecake and set it with some panache in the middle of the table, and handed Chappy a knife. As he cut them all slices, Ruth said, “I really like your house, Chappy. Why did you name it Tara?”
    “Because when I brought Tony and Christie’s mama here I told her she’d never be hungry again.”
    Tony said to Ruth, “My mother had a trust fund the size of the Rhode Island State budget.”
    Chappy laughed. “Makes a cute story. I like the name Tara. It appeals to something way down deep inside me. The architecture’s real close, except, of course, we’ve got lots of nice big bathrooms.”
    Thirty minutes later Dix pulled out onto the long driveway. Ruth said, “We’ve already got fingerprints for those two men and IAFIS is trying to match what we’ve got. Why all that fancy talk about the FBI?”
    Dix grunted, shoved on his dark aviator glasses.
    “Setting a cat among the pigeons, were you?”
    He grinned at her. “Who knows what might come out of that? The three of them always, I repeat, always put on a show for visitors. You start them on a topic and they’ll go with it. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but they were really rather tame today. Erin Bushnell’s death took a lot of the fun out of it for them. Walt’s death, too.”
    Ruth nodded. “I agree there were strong feelings about Erin, but I couldn’t figure out who felt what.”
    “These folks are good. They’ve had years of practice.”
    “I’ve seen dysfunctional families before, and I’m probably part of one myself, but those three are champions.”
    Dix laughed. “You might have asked Chappy about him and Erin, to see the looks on their faces.”
    “I hate to ask you this, but do you think one of your family could be involved in Erin’s murder?”
    He was silent as he turned onto Mount Olive Road. “When Christie disappeared, I thought about every possibility, including someone in the family being involved. And after all these years they’d have to do a whole lot to surprise me. But I don’t see any of them killing somebody. And yes, I’ve been wrong lots of times.”
    A short time later, they stood in front of Helen Rafferty’s desk. Dix slipped off his aviator glasses and smiled down at Helen, who looked harried.
    Dix said, leaning close, “I need to speak to you, Helen. Five minutes, in the lounge?”
    “I—Well, I don’t suppose you’ll take a rain check, Sheriff?”
    “I would prefer now. This is very important.”
    There were two employees in the Stanislaus administration employee lounge, hunched over a green Formica table, a bag of Fritos between them. Dix flipped out his badge and waved them out. Ruth sat beside Helen and looked at her for several moments, judging her mood. She turned on her FBI interview voice, calm, inviting. “Tell us about Dr. Holcombe and Erin Bushnell, Ms. Rafferty.”
    Helen looked from Ruth to Dix, who was standing with his shoulders against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
    She burst into tears.

CHAPTER 20
    PHILADELPHIAWEDNESDAY

    SAVICH AND SHERLOCK sat opposite Elsa Bender in the starkly modern living room of Jon Bender’
    s home on Linderman Lane on the Main Line. Although it was very warm in the living room, a cashmere afghan covered her legs, a thick wool sweater draped over her hunched shoulders. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face, fastened in a clip at the base of her neck. Her hands