Tail Spin

the ability escaped him, probably in the next thirty minutes, he said, who knew but God?
    “Before I left him a few minutes ago, one of the nurses brought him a pint of pistachio ice cream, his favorite. He grinned at me as he spooned it down. He looked calm. He told me he loved me, then smiled and offered me a bite of ice cream. I took a very small bite, but he teased me and told me I could even have one more small bite. We laughed, and I squeezed his arm and told him we were going to be together for a long time, it didn’t matter what came down the road and he’d best accept that. And he said, yes, he liked the sound of that.”
    Molly raised her face to Jack. “He kissed me, Jack, the sweetest kiss you can imagine. I can still taste the pistachio ice cream on his lips.” She fell silent for a moment, looking down at her twisting hands.
    Then she nodded toward Savich and Sherlock, smiled at Rachael, and said, “I got all the way downstairs when I remembered I’d forgotten to tell him it was Kelly’s birthday tomorrow. I wanted to tell him what we were giving her. Perhaps he’d remember when she came to visit him.
    “I heard the shouts when I stepped off the elevator.” She stopped, stared at a Monet water lily print on the wall. “I knew, Jack, I knew instantly what he’d done, what I’d enabled him to do.” She lowered her face into her hands and wept. The room was quiet, the only sound Molly’s ugly, raw tears. She raised her face. “Do you know I signed the birthday card from both of us, as always? It’s a funny card—it says she needs a new bedmate, her teddy bear is all used up.”
    Jack touched his fingers to her face. He wanted to tell her maybe it was better this way, but his heart couldn’t accept that.
    She said, “Whoever was trying to kill Timothy—he doesn’t have to bother now.”
    Jack said, “If he killed Arthur, he has to pay for it, Molly. He tried to kill Tim—what is it now?—four times? He’s got to pay for that, too.”
    Molly said clearly, “And what about me, Jack? I wanted to believe him, you see, he knew I wanted to believe the gun was for his protection. He gave me a way out.” She paused, and Jack could feel her grief and her awful guilt. She placed her palm over her chest. “But in my heart, I knew he was going to kill himself. I knew it. I am the one responsible for his death, not this maniac.”
    Savich walked to her and sat down beside her. He took her hands in his. “Molly, listen to me. What you know in your heart, it must stay in your heart. It would do no good to burden your family with this.”
    Savich rose. “You couldn’t have known, not for sure. What Timothy did, it was his own decision. You made it easier for him, that’s all.
    “When I walk out this door, Molly, the investigation into Dr. Timothy MacLean’s death is closed.”

FIFTY-SEVEN
    Tuesday afternoon
    Rachael walked into Jimmy’s study and stood in the middle of the room. The rich brown draperies were partially drawn, framing only a bit of afternoon sunlight. She smelled him still, the aroma of his rich Turkish cigarettes. She sank down onto the burgundy leather sofa, leaned her head back, and stared at the bookshelf behind his desk. She could see the dust beginning to gather on the bindings. Books could be dusted, she thought, but you had to live at close quarters with them to keep them fresh, keep their pages alive.
    She looked down at her watch. Nearly four o’clock. Jack would be back by six, he’d said, and she knew he hated leaving her alone, even in the middle of the hot, sunlit afternoon.
    She looked again at Jimmy’s desk, the few papers on top in neat piles, the computer screen dark and silent. She drew in a deep breath and forced herself to sit in the wonderfully comfortable high-backed burgundy leather desk chair. She straightened in the well of the desk.
    She had time. It was something that had to be done. She opened the top drawer and began sorting through papers. She made piles that had to be handled when his will went through probate, invoices to be paid, a few catalogs he’d evidently marked for order.
    She’d sorted through the papers in most of the desk when she opened the bottom drawer and found a beautiful hand-carved bubinga wood pen box. She lifted it out carefully. Sure enough, there were a good dozen pens inside, some of them gifts from foreign countries, from ambassadors he’d visited in his travels. There was a slip of paper at the bottom of the