He nearly jumped out of his skin when his cell blasted out a turkey squawk, a sound guaranteed to wake him from the deepest sleep. He saw the name, answered immediately, instantly alarmed. “Sherlock? What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is Elizabeth all right?”
“Yes, Rome, everything is fine. How would you like to come over for breakfast? Dillon is making pancakes, with blueberries dotted on top for Sean.”
Blueberry pancakes, one of his favorites. “Bacon?”
Sherlock laughed. “Of course.”
Rome said, “And I’ve got some news for you guys. Give me twenty-five minutes.”
When Rome arrived in the Savich kitchen doorway only fifteen minutes later, after a fast shower and little traffic on a Saturday morning, Savich was standing at the stove flipping pancakes, while Sherlock set an extra place for him. Savich said something that made her laugh as she pulled warmed syrup out of the microwave. Elizabeth was measuring Sean against the back-door frame, marking his height with a blue marker that hung from it on a string. The back door was open to a lovely morning breeze coming through the screen. Astro saw bacon in Sherlock’s hand and leaped a good three feet, yipping madly.
Sherlock, laughing at Astro, saw him. “Rome! You made good time. Come in and pour yourself a cup of coffee. You can sit down next to Elizabeth when she’s through measuring our five-year-old giant. I promise Dillon’s coffee is always perfect. And wait ’til you taste his pancakes, though in all honesty, I think mine are better.”
Elizabeth grinned over at him and said, “Maybe not a giant, but Sean is going to be as tall as you are, Dillon, maybe taller.” She gave Sean a tap on the shoulder. “He’s already taller than most of the weeds in my back garden.”
Rome walked to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Weeds? I thought your highness lived in one of those fancy crescent deals in the very best part of London where weeds are banned.”
“I got special dispensation,” she said without pause. “And yes, I do have a small garden.” She passed a stick of crispy bacon to him. Astro looked like he might leap for it, so Rome only ate half and gave Astro the rest. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “There has to be bacon in heaven.”
Savich, the vegetarian, gave him a raised eyebrow. “I hope you’re hungry, Rome. I tripled the recipe.”
Silence reigned for five minutes once everyone was seatedaround the table and the pancakes were served. When Sherlock saw they were all slowing down, she said, “Elizabeth, tell Rome about your dream.”
Elizabeth poured more syrup on her last bite of pancake, chewed, and swallowed. “I dreamed again about the two men who attacked me that night in London. The first couple of times, the nightmares scared me to death, but over time, I’ve gotten more used to them. They’re always a little different. This time I could actually see the flash of the knife as the man straddling me screamed, ‘Hold the bitch down! I’m going to cut up that pretty face!’ I heard excitement, pleasure in his voice.”
Rome said, “Was it a young voice, Elizabeth?”
His matter-of-fact tone pulled her back from the terror of the dream, focused her mind. “Yes, I’d say early to mid-twenties.”
“Remembering it now, do you believe he wanted to disfigure you, out of spite, hatred, whatever—or kill you?”
“Well, since he wanted to carve up my face, for whatever reason, I know in my gut he wanted to kill me. And he was happy about it.”
Sherlock said, “That sounds personal, really personal.”
“It does indeed,” Savich said. “Your attackers weren’t simply hired, Elizabeth, they were a part of it. How that fits in with Aboud remains to be seen. Rome, you told Sherlock you have news for us?”
“Well, to be honest, it’s more a hunch, but a good one,” and Rome told them about his own dream and his call to Mrs. Cynthia Hendricks, once the widow of Wilson Ballou. “She was still pissed at the FBI for hounding her in 1978. I apologized, told her we would be sending Wilson Ballou’s wedding ring back to her.” He stopped, gave them a grin. “When I told her that, she said she’d put his wedding ring together with his class ring and give them to Ballou’s son.”
He looked around the table at the blank faces. “The class ring. It wasn’t with the skeleton, and when Ballou’s house wassearched in 1978, there was no mention of finding it. I’m hoping the class ring can lead us to whatever it was that Ballou stole, whatever it was that got him killed. It’s possible the longitude we’re missing might be scratched onto it, or hidden inside it. And Mrs. Hendricks has it. Elizabeth, I’d like to go in person and ask Mrs. Hendricks if she’ll let me examine it. If she agrees, I’d like you to drive with me to Baskin Ridge to see it. It’s only about an hour and a half away, and there’s nothing here in Washington for us to deal with. What do you say?”
Sean said around a mouthful of pancake, “I think Mom and I should go with you to visit Mrs. Hendricks, Uncle Rome. Everyone loves Mom, and maybe the lady will give us all some cookies.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Cynthia Hendricks’s home
Baskin Ridge, Delaware
Saturday
With the promise his mom would make him cookies at home, Sean agreed to let Rome and Elizabeth drive to see Mrs. Hendricks without him. After what Rome hoped had been an apologetic and self-deprecating phone call, she’d reluctantly agreed. Rome pulled into a driveway, parked beside a Ford Escape. It was a lovely ranch-style home with a yard full of flowering bushes, oaks, and maples. Hanging from a thick oak branch was a much-used tire on a thick rope. The lawn was freshly mowed and in the summer heat the smell was amazing.
When Mrs. Cynthia Hendricks opened the door to Rome and Elizabeth, his first thought was that she didn’t look like the grandmother he was expecting. In a photo he’d seen of her taken in her early thirties in 1978, she was very pretty—small and blond, her pale blue eyes frightened and defiant. She was still small, barely came to Rome’s shoulder, but now, her once frightened and defiant eyes were hard and knowing. Life had made her a person who hadn’t taken crap from anyone in a very long time. She was wearing white pants and a white blouse, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, flip-flops on her feet. He smiled at her. “Mrs. Hendricks?”
She looked Rome up and down. “Of course, I’m Mrs. Hendricks. So you’re Special Agent Roman Foxe, and I do indeed see you weren’t even on the planet when those idiot agents gnawed at me like dogs with a bone back in ’78. I’ll never forget those snotty-nosed agents with their shiny black shoes, acting like I was guilty as sin when they had no proof of anything.” She took a deep breath. Rome knew she’d been waiting to get that bile out of her system; he couldn’t blame her.
“For whatever reason you said you wanted to look at Wilson’s class ring. Well, come in, come in. I’ve got some coffee brewed and ready. My husband, Alex, is down at the lumberyard. He and one of our sons run it. And you,” she added, looking finally at Elizabeth, “you don’t look like an agent. Who are you, his girlfriend?”
