Virginia poured some whiskey into one glass and some wine into another. She set both glasses on the coffee table and sat down beside Cabot, tucked one leg under her thigh and rested her left arm along the back of the sofa cushions.
“How bad was the conversation with Xavier’s mother?” she asked.
“Bad.” Cabot picked up the whiskey, took a healthy swallow and set the glass down. “At first she didn’t believe me. She thought it was some sort of bizarre joke and that Xavier had put me up to it. When she realized I was telling her the truth – that Xavier had gotten tangled up in an ongoing investigation – she was shocked and then furious.”
“Predictable. She’s a mom, after all.”
“Xavier got on the phone. He tried to calm her down but that only made things worse. She got back on the phone with me and made me promise that I would put Xavier on the first available flight tomorrow morning. I explained that the police would want to interview Xavier again. She said she was going to fly to Seattle herself to deal with the cops. I said that was fine by me. Then Xavier’s father, Emerson Kennington, called.”
“Your uncle?”
“Biologically speaking, yes. He yelled at me for a while. Said something about having his lawyer deal with me. I told him his son had helped identify a man wanted on murder charges. That just made him even madder. Then he yelled at Xavier.”
“Is Emerson Kennington getting on the next flight to Seattle to see Xavier and make sure he’s okay?”
“Yep. The happy family will be reunited sometime tomorrow in the offices of Cutler, Sutter and Salinas. Reality TV can’t begin to compete with the Kenningtons when it comes to drama.”
“Well, at least Xavier will realize that his dad does care about him, even if Emerson is divorcing Xavier’s mother.”
Cabot drank some more whiskey and lowered the glass. “It’s the comment about the lawyer that I found interesting.”
“Do you really think that Xavier’s father will try to sue you because Xavier got kidnapped? That seems pretty far-fetched.”
“You know as well as I do that you can sue somebody over anything. That’s not what I found curious.”
“What, then?”
“Emerson mentioned the lawyer by name – Burleigh.”
“Who is Burleigh – oh, wait. Is that the lawyer who is going to fly up here to have you sign some legal papers as soon as you’re free?”
“The very same.”
“So it looks like Xavier’s father will probably try to make sure you don’t get that twenty-five-thousand-dollar bequest.”
Cabot shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”
“You don’t care about the money, do you?”
“Got to admit it would have come in handy. But, no, I don’t give a damn about the money. The bequest means that, in the end, the old man decided not to disown my mother.”
“It means more than that,” Virginia said. “It means that your grandfather acknowledged you as a full member of the Kennington family.”
Cabot drank some more whiskey.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess it means that, too.”
Virginia smiled. “Whether or not you want to be a member.”
Cabot grimaced. “There is that part.”
“But that’s how it goes with families, isn’t it? Sometimes you get a choice but most of the time you don’t.”
He looked at her. “And when you don’t get a choice?”
“You deal with it.” Virginia paused a beat. “Helps to have some family on your side, though.”
“I’ve got plenty on my side,” Cabot said. “Anson, Max and Jack.”
“True. And now you’ve got Xavier, too.”
Cabot thought about that. “The kid’s okay. He kept his head today.”
“I think he’s decided who he wants to be when he grows up.”
Cabot eyed her warily. “Who?”
“Got a hunch he’s going to pattern himself after his long-lost cousin Cabot.”
Cabot groaned. “His parents won’t like that.”
“No,” Virginia said. “But that’s only because at this point they don’t know how lucky they are that Xavier is choosing you as a role model.”
“I don’t want to be anyone’s role model.”
Virginia swirled the wine in her glass. “You had one.”
“Anson.”
“Yep. Looks like it’s your turn.”
Cabot turned his head and fixed her with his intent gaze. “Something you should know.”
“What?”
“By now the cops will have searched Fleming’s house. They’ll have tagged and bagged almost all of the Quinton Zane memorial crap that I found in the closet.”
“Almost all?”
“I discovered Abigail Watkins’s journal in a file cabinet in that closet.”
Virginia took a breath. “You didn’t tell the cops about it, did you?”
“No. They don’t need it to build a case against Tucker Fleming. But we do need it.”
“Because it might give us more background about Quinton Zane,” Virginia said. “Judging by the photo we found in Rose Gilbert’s nightstand, Abigail Watkins knew Zane at least a couple of years before he founded his cult.”
“Which means she probably knew more about him than anyone else we know who is still alive. And we need all the information we can get.”
“Where is the journal now?” Virginia asked.
“Anson stashed it in his safe-deposit box at his bank along with your mother’s math book. We don’t have time to study it now. Got to wrap things up with Tucker Fleming first. Still a lot of loose ends.”
“Do you think that Abigail Watkins was Tucker Fleming’s mother?”
“I think that’s a very real possibility,” Cabot said. He paused for a beat. “It fits with everything else that’s happened, and the timing works. Fleming is twenty-four, according to the cops. That would mean that he was born a couple of years before Zane founded the cult.”
“Abigail never mentioned having a child – which would make sense if Zane forced her to give the baby up for adoption.”
“That would definitely explain a few things,” Cabot agreed. “Still leaves us with the interesting question of just how Fleming discovered the truth about his biological father.”
Virginia mulled that over for a moment. “Tell me again about how he thinks he’s been getting messages from Quinton Zane.”
“I told you everything I know. The one thing I’m sure of is that Zane was not sending messages to Tucker Fleming.”
“Really? What makes you so certain?”
“He’s too smart to risk exposing himself by sending messages about a missing inheritance to a son he’s never even met.”
“Don’t be too sure. After all, if Tucker Fleming really is his son —”
“Fleming may actually be Zane’s son,” Cabot said. “But Zane is a card-carrying sociopath. He wouldn’t give a damn about anyone else, including his own offspring.”
“Unless he thought he could use Fleming as a stalking horse to find the money that our mothers hid all those years ago,” Virginia said.
“I don’t think so. Tucker Fleming is the working definition of a loose cannon. I don’t think a cold-blooded strategist like Quinton Zane would have wanted to take the risk of trying to manipulate him in order to carry out such a delicate task. Fleming is just too unpredictable and impulsive.”
“Maybe Zane assumed he had no choice and went with the best available option.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t feel right. I need to keep looking.”
“We,” Virginia said.
“What?”
“We need to keep looking.”
Cabot was silent for a few seconds. She knew he was going into his zone. She waited, willing him to understand.
After a moment he raised his hand and touched the side of her face. His eyes got a little hot.
“Yes,” he said. “We need to keep looking.”
“If you don’t mind, I would like you to come to bed with me tonight,” she said.
“Is this an experiment?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said.
“I want to sleep with you,” she said.
She took his hand and led him down the hall to her bedroom.