Tail Spin

and so we went out walking. It was nice, last night, the moon was nearly full, and so we walked in High Banks Park. Maybe an hour, give or take. We went into a gallery that was having a special showing and was open late. We stayed there until nearly midnight, then we stopped at a bar. We drank too much, but it didn’t help. We came back here. I didn’t check the time. We went to bed. I woke up when Tommy rang up a few minutes ago.”
    “The name of the gallery, Mr. Barbeau?” Sherlock asked, her pen poised above her small black notebook.
    “The Penyon Gallery on Wisconsin.”
    “What was the special showing?”
    “American artists, modern stuff, you know, all squiggles and blobs of thick paint, something Jean David did with great enthusiasm when he was three, only he didn’t use paints.” He gave a brief ghastly smile, his voice hitching on his son’s name. He raised his left arm to press his fingers briefly to his forehead. No bullet wound in that arm, for sure.
    Sherlock waited a beat, then asked, “The name of the bar?”
    “Who remembers the name of a bar? I certainly don’t. We’d never been there before. I remember it wasn’t very far from the gallery.”
    Sherlock leaned in close. “What did you and your wife talk about, Mr. Barbeau?”
    “Nothing, really. Nothing important. We are both too miserable to do anything but exist right now However, to be honest here, because we can’t seem to help ourselves, we occasionally speak about our son, and we did talk about Jean David while we walked in the park last night. We spoke about how much we loved him, how this shouldn’t have happened, how unfair it all is, how because of the threats from people like you, our son is dead.”
    Savich’s eyebrow shot up. “Threats?”
    Another shrug. “It would have come to threats if the authorities had gotten their hands on Jean David before he died. They would have threatened to deport us, freeze all our bank accounts, and send him to prison if he refused to sign a confession admitting to everything they could think of, even things he knew nothing about.”
    “You have quite an imagination, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said easily. “But the fact is, none of that happened. Your son’s misdeeds died with him. I doubt the CIA will ever discover exactly what and how much your son passed on to the terrorists.”
    “He didn’t help the terrorists! Maybe some of it got to them, but the point is, he didn’t realize ... It was all that woman’s fault. She seduced him, twisted him up.” He stopped, shook his head. “Jean David was so young, so innocent until she got hold of him.”
    Jean David Barbeau was twenty-six when he drowned. Savich and Sherlock remained quiet.
    Pierre said, “At least it wasn’t raining last night. Dreadful weather here, simply dreadful.”
    “Your English is excellent, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said.
    “It should be. My father was always traveling here to the States with me and my mother in tow. He consulted with Amtrak, you know, and we lived here for long stretches of time. I attended American private schools, attended Harvard for two years before going back to France to finish my education.”
    “And your wife?”
    “She, too, traveled widely with her family. She is one of those few people who can pick up a language like that.” He snapped his fingers and looked sour. “She speaks five languages. Five. I’ve always believed three languages quite enough, but five? It’s a bit over the top, I think.”
    Savich, who spoke only English, said, “So that’s why Jean David was born in New Jersey. You are travelers like your parents.”
    “If you must know, we were visiting friends at their beach house in Cape May. Jean David came three weeks early and so he is an American citizen, something we never intended or wanted.”
    At that meaty insult, Sherlock said, “As it turned out, it might have been better for everyone if Jean David wasn’t born here. The CIA would have been pleased if he’d joined his father at the French National Police, as well, Mr. Barbeau.”
    His breathing sped up. He looked at Sherlock like he wanted to hit her. Just as suddenly, the anger died in his eyes. No, Savich thought it was more like his eyes themselves died. He pictured Sean’s beloved face, and couldn’t begin to imagine the pain of losing his son.
    Savich said, “We would like to speak to your wife.”
    He started to protest, then simply turned and yelled, “Estelle!”
    Mrs. Barbeau,