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She jerked up, yelled, “I am not stupid! We’ll see who’s stupid before this is over!” She stopped when the guard started toward her, looking worried, and eased back down in her seat. She drew a deep breath. “I saw on the news this morning there was a fire at your house in Georgetown last night. I hope Agent Sherlock and your little boy are all right. Such a pity you weren’t there.”
It all slid into place. “And that fire at my house happened on the same day you had Veronica stabbed. Hard to miss that, Marsia. It took you long enough to bring it up, but you couldn’t help yourself.” He leaned forward. “Are you finally taking credit for something you’ve done?”
An arched dark eyebrow went up. “Come, Agent Savich, you’re being dramatic again. One never knows when a fire can start. Faulty wiring, leaving the oven on, who knows? You can never be sure. Anyone can die at any time, can’t they? Even in a cafeteria surrounded by a hundred people.”
He half rose and leaned toward her, his voice hard. “That was your biggest mistake, Marsia. You tried to kill my family, and you failed. I’m going to find the man you hired, and that crime will keep you in prison for the rest of your life, this time in maximum security.”
She leaped to the bait. “You’re going to what? Find a nonexistent man I supposedly hired? You, a no-talent cop? Look at your boorish little excuse for art—whittling! I’ll be back in my studio soon, sculpting the female form as only a true artist can envision it. What you do is laughable, pitiful.” She paused, got control, and gave him a full-bodied sneer. “Actually, it’s too bad I’m not content to whittle like you do, lots of wood here, you know?”
“You’d have to chew the wood, Marsia, no knives for prisoners. I doubt a shiv would do the job.”
Fury and hatred pumped off her in waves. Savich sat back, gave her his own sneer. “Your sculptures are grotesque, random pieces of metal unrecognizable as anything meaningful or inspiring. You said you admired my grandmother’s paintings. Sarah Elliott’s art is in museums. And what you call your art, Marsia? Nothing you’ve ever done will gain you that kind of recognition. You’re the one who’s pitiful. You’ll be in an institution for the rest of your natural life, with nothing to do but seduce other prisoners in return for less and less, until you’re too old, and they turn on you.”
She was panting, hitting her tied fists against the tabletop. “You bastard! You’ll never prove a thing. Fact is, Dillon, Veronica Lake was a loser in life, but in death, she’ll be my salvation. And you? We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Savich looked at the woman who wanted not only him to die, but also Sherlock and Sean. But now he knew. She’d taunted him with it.
His voice was dismissive. “You’ll find prison slowly leaches the life out of you, Marsia, hollows you out until you have no real substance. Life becomes a matter of enduring, nothing more. You really think you can get away with murdering Veronica? Get away with setting my house on fire, endangering Sherlock and my son? Are you that stupid?”
She screamed at him, “Just try to screw with me! You’re the one who’ll regret it! I always win!”
Savich said to the guard, who seemed frozen in place, “I’m done with her. Take her back to her cell.”
