Chapter Forty-one
Rome’s house
Wilton Place, Washington, D.C.
Saturday morning
She’d said in an emotionless voice, “Wilson was murdered, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am. Agent Ballou was shot through the back of the head and buried near the Calmett River outside Bensonville, Virginia.”
In the same emotionless voice she’d said, “I assume you people no longer believe I killed him, that I shot him in the head and buried him myself?”
“You were right, Mrs. Hendricks, about his involvement with criminals.”
“Yes, this time he was.”
“Thank you. About the key, I have no idea, Agent Foxe.”
“We’ve finished examining the wedding ring. I’ll send it to you.”
“Thank you, Agent Foxe. I know you aren’t to blame for all the torment—your parents probably hadn’t even met yet when Wilson was killed. I’ll put the wedding ring in with his class ring. Perhaps his son will wish to have them, although I doubt it. His father was never around much and so he wasn’t important in his young life.”
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.”
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 seated around the table and the pancakes were served. When Sherlock saw they were all slowing down, she said, “Elizabeth, tell Rome about your dream.”
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?”
Sherlock said, “That sounds personal, really personal.”
He looked around the table at the blank faces. “The class ring. It wasn’t with the skeleton, and when Ballou’s house was searched 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?”