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CHAPTER
70
DECKER’S KNEES WERE ACHING. Partly from the rain. Partly from old football injuries.
And partly from the fact that they were crammed up against the dashboard of Jamison’s clown car, with the steering wheel basically resting in his crotch.
I really have to get my own damn ride.
The windshield wipers slung the rain off and more immediately replaced it. With each rotation of the wipers, Decker’s mind seemed to swivel as well.
His thoughts had centered on something that might be valuable.
Cecilia Randall had spoken to them.
Shortly thereafter, Cecilia Randall was murdered.
They had spoken to the Dabneys. Shortly thereafter, they had almost been murdered.
Was it cause and effect? If so, how?
He cast his mind back to their discussions with the housekeeper.
She had thought that Ellie Dabney had come from money. Turns out she hadn’t. So how did that explain the house purchase and Walter Dabney buying a Porsche while still working at the NSA as a low-level grunt? That could be explained by Dabney spying. Ellie Dabney had myriad health issues, miscarriages among them. Three of the daughters were tall and athletic-looking but were hampered by breathing problems. Samantha was missing toes, Amanda part of an arm. The Dabneys were wonderful people, Randall had told them, none better in her mind.
And then someone had put a bullet in her head.
Then he and Brown had talked to the Dabneys about the doll.
They had found the other dolls with the same hidden compartments.
They had left there, gone to dinner, come back to Brown’s, and very nearly been massacred by a team of killers with submachine guns.
Again, cause and effect? And in both instances the cause perhaps had been conversations at the Dabney house.
Is the place bugged?
Maybe by whoever had ambushed Decker at Berkshire’s old house in the woods? And was the same force behind the hit team last night?
And then there were the dolls. How exactly did they come into play? As Ellie had said in defense of her husband, Walter Dabney had not walked around with dolls. He presumably hadn’t carried any to his office, stuffed them with secrets, and then handed them off to a third party, only to retrieve them so they could be returned to his daughters. That hardly made sense. A man walking around with dolls would have been noticed. You couldn’t exactly walk into the NSA carrying a doll.
But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe that exchange was on the other end.
Decker suddenly whipped the wheel around and pointed his car in a new direction.
He parked across the street from Cecilia Randall’s home. The police had gone, but the door to her place was partially open. He got out of the car, hustled across the street as the rain pelted him, and knocked on the door.
No one answered. He took out his gun, edged the door open, and peered inside.
“FBI. Anybody here?”
Again, there was no answer. But he heard the creak of floorboards and looked up.
Someone was upstairs.
He quietly made his way up the stairs and took a quick look around. There were only two rooms up here. And only one had a light on.
He scuttled over to that door and was about to put his hand on the knob when it turned.
He stepped back, his gun aimed at the door.
The woman screamed when she saw him and dropped the box she was holding. “Oh my God, what do you want!” she yelled. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Decker dug into his pocket and pulled out his credentials. “I’m with the FBI. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The woman staggered sideways and gripped the doorjamb. “Oh, sweet Jesus, you nearly scared me to death.”
Decker put his gun away and studied her.
She was black, thin, and around forty, with short graying hair.
“Who are you?” asked Decker.
“I’m Rhonda Kaine.”
“What are you doing here?”
“This is my mother’s house.”
“Cecilia Randall was your mother?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She looked down at the box. “I just came by to pick up some things. Don’t know what I’m going to do with this place. Sell it, I guess.”
“Do you live in the area?”
“Baltimore, so not that far.” She gazed up at him with a stern expression. “You people find out who did this?”
“Not yet. But since you’re here, do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“The police have already talked to me.”
“My questions might be different.”
“Look, as far as I know, Momma had no enemies. Nobody who’d want to hurt her. She worked hard, went to church, she raised me, and she was a good person. I think somebody came here to rob her. I’ve been begging her to get out of this neighborhood. This is the house where I grew up. The neighborhood was okay back then, but not now. There’re dudes around here who’ll kill you for a quarter.”
“I don’t disagree, but I don’t think that’s what happened to her.”
“Why not?”
“You just said your mother worked hard for a living. She worked for the Dabneys, correct?”
“That’s right. For well over thirty years.”
“So you must have known them too.”
“I did. When I was little I would go over there with her.”
“So you knew the daughters?”
“I’d play with them. I was a little older. Sometimes, I’d watch Jules or Samantha. When Natalie was a baby I’d change her diaper
