Tail Spin

who was supposedly our friend. Kill him? Gladly, but I did not.”
    “Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said, “we appreciate that you would feel very strongly about this, that you are grieving. You assured Dr. MacLean that Jean David had no way of knowing the woman he was involved with fronted for a terrorist group headquartered in Damascus, and that she passed classified information to them that he had given her.
    “I’m happy to tell you that two days ago, Homeland Security arrested her and most if not all of her associates, a lovely present to our country that Dr. MacLean helped make possible. She has admitted to seducing your son, to manipulating him to get information for her terrorist group.”
    “Yes, we heard of the arrests, naturally,” Estelle said, dismissal in her voice, “but I paid no particular attention because that has nothing at all to do with us or France. This woman—it does not matter what lies she tells.”
    Estelle rose to stand beside her husband. “None of this had anything to do with Jean David—nothing, do you hear me? He was an innocent boy, and whatever happened, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. Don’t you understand? Our son is dead.”
    Savich realized he’d thought Pierre Barbeau a strong suspect in the attempts on MacLean’s life, but not now, not after meeting him, watching him, listening to him. This man looked shattered, he looked ready to bury himself in his misery.
    MacLean was right. If anyone in this family was trying to off him, it was Estelle Barbeau. Her grief was as great and as consuming as her husband’s, but there was violence and promise in her eyes. She said, her voice calmer now, more conciliatory, “This is very painful for us, Agent Savich. I do not know why you wish to dredge it up. My husband told you we had nothing to do with any attempts on Dr. MacLean’s life. So what is your point? What do you want? Our son is dead, he is beyond your silly American laws.”
    “Silly?” Sherlock couldn’t help herself, she lost it. “I wonder how silly you would consider our laws if a terrorist group blew up the Eiffel Tower.”
    Estelle flipped her hand. “But such a thing would not happen. We live in peace with our Muslim countrymen.”
    Now that was a claim that wouldn’t bear scrutiny.
    Savich took a breath and said, “Mrs. Barbeau, if you would please give us your whereabouts on these two dates.” He looked down at his notebook to confirm the dates when Estelle rode right over him.
    “Our son is beyond any pain you would inflict upon him for his youthful lapse in judgment. He was a boy, only a boy, an idealist, and a woman trapped him. An old story, to be sure, a tried-and-true one that will happen again and again. Jean David is dead. Let him and his name rest in peace. I hope Dr. MacLean dies. He should die, but neither of us is responsible for any attempts on his worthless life. How many times must we tell you that?”
    Savich said, “The most recent attempt put him in the hospital.”
    Pierre looked bewildered, Savich thought, no mistaking it. “You honestly believe that Estelle or I would try to kill Tim—Dr. MacLean? That is nonsense, absolute nonsense. Yes, we blame him for Jean David’s death, but to actually try three times to kill him? That is absurd. Your FBI is absurd.”
    Sherlock said, “On the contrary, it makes a great deal of sense, sir. There is your belief that he is responsible and there is revenge. And what would happen if Dr. MacLean decided to go public with your son’s activities?
    “If this became known, would you still be received at embassy functions here in Washington? In New York? What about your job here?
    “Indeed, sir, I can’t imagine you could have happily continued your career with the French National Police. Tell me, sir, did you imagine what it would be like to return to France to face your family and friends, all of them knowing what your son did? Could you imagine bearing that? Could you imagine your wife bearing that?”
    It was too much, and Sherlock wanted to kick herself. If they were innocent, she had caused needless pain for these grieving parents.
    Estelle waved a fist at them, the diamonds glittering madly off a huge ring on her right hand. “You listen to me. What our son did or did not do, none of it is important any longer. Jean David is dead, do you hear me? He is dead! All his thoughts, his deeds, his beliefs dead, drowned in a tragic accident—your damned Coast Guard couldn’t even find