Riptide

shirt. "We've got a neat mystery here,
    Sean. Who the hell is Thomas Matlock? How did he know my father?
    He was an excellent friend? I don't remember ever hearing
    my father mention his name.
    "MAX, let me get you started on this. Find out about this man
    for me." He punched in a series of keys, then sat back, Sean bouncing
    from foot to foot on his stomach, watching MAX do his thing.
    Savich reached up and flicked the drool off Sean's chin. "You're
    teething, champ. It's not going to be a pretty sight for the next several
    months, so that book says. You don't seem like you're feeling
    any pain. Believe me, that's a relief for both of us."
    Sean gurgled very close to Savich's ear.
    He held his son back and smiled into that splendid little face that
    looked more like him than Sherlock. Sean had his dark hair, not
    Sherlock's curly red hair. As for his eyes, they were as dark as his father's,
    not that sweet, soft blue of his mothers. "You want to know
    something? It's four o'clock in the morning and here we are wide
    awake. Your mama's going to think we're both nuts."
    Sean yawned then and stuck three fingers into his mouth.
    Savich kissed his forehead and stood, gently laying his son over his
    shoulder. "Let's see if you're ready to pack it in again."
    He went to his son's room and dimmed the light. He laid him
    on his back and pulled a yellow baby blanket over his light diaper
    shirt.
    "You go to sleep now, hear? I'm even going to sing you one of
    my favorite songs. Your mama always laughs her head off when I
    sing her this one." He sang a country-and-western song about a
    man who loved his Chevy truck so much that he was buried with
    the engine and all four hubcaps, special edition, all silver. Sean

looked mesmerized by his father's deep, rich voice. He was out after
    just two verses. One good thing about country-and-western
    music--there was always another verse. Savich paused a moment,
    smiled down at the precious human being that still jolted him
    when he realized that he was, indeed, his very own child, part of
    him. Just as Savich had been his father's child. He felt a sharp pull
    somewhere in the region of his heart. He missed his dad, always
    would.
    Who was this Thomas Matlock, who claimed to have known his
    father?
    He went back to his study.
    MAX beeped as he walked in. "Good for you," Savich said, sitting
    back down. "What have we got on this Thomas Matlock
    guy?"

Chapter 12

    Adam said, "You mean they're giving up trying to find her on the
    Outer Banks?"
    Adam knew that Hatch, his right hand, was sitting crouched in a
    phone booth somewhere, his dark sunglasses pressed so close to his
    eyes that his eyelashes got tangled, got into his eyes, and sometimes
    caused eye infections. "Yeah, boss. Since they have no leads at all,
    they're counting on Becca knowing something, maybe even knowing
    this guy who shot the governor. That's why they're searching
    high and low for her. Agent Ezra John is the SAC running the show
    down there. I hear he's cursing up a blue streak, wondering where
    she could have hidden herself. Says they looked everywhere for her
    and she just ain't anywhere, just like smoke, he says, and the others
    grin behind their hands. Oh yeah, you'll love this, boss. Old Ezra believes
    that Ms. Matlock is a lot smarter than anyone gave her credit
    for, keeping out of sight like she is. If he knew it was you that duped
    him, he'd want to put your head on a pike and find some bridge to
    stick it on."
    "Thanks for sharing that, Hatch."
    "Knew you'd like it. You and old Ezra go back a long ways, don't
    you?"
    That wasn't the half of it, Adam thought, and said only, "Something
    like that. Okay now. In other words, Ezra's finally come to
    the conclusion that she conned him? That she isn't anywhere near
    the Outer Banks?"

"That's it."
    "I don't think I need to fiddle them anymore. Too much time
    has passed for them to find her now. I think we're home free--
    well, at least for the moment."
    Silence.
    "Hatch, I know you're lighting a cigarette in a closed phone
    booth. Put it out right now or I'll fire you."
    Silence.
    "Is it out?"
    "Yeah, boss. I swear it's out. I didn't even get one decent puff."
    "Swell news for your lungs. Now, what about the NYPD?"
    "They're talking to their counterparts all over the country, just
    like the Feebs are. But hey--nothing, nada, zippo. This Detective
    Morales is a wreck, probably hasn't slept for three days. All he can
    talk about is how she called him, repeated to