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Mason said, “Elizabeth Beatrice’s father is Viscount Bellamy of Grace Hall in Hampshire.”
Eve didn’t change expressions. “I don’t suppose you gave her daddy a load of bearer bonds to overlook how you make your living?”
Ramsey said, “Enough cattiness, Eve. We’re here to speak to your father.”
Eve didn’t move from the doorway. “Ah, Ramsey, how lovely to see you. I trust Molly and your children are well? I heard Emma played at Kennedy Center last night. Did it go well?”
Ramsey said, “Your father, Eve. Now.”
She smiled at Savich. “And certainly I remember you, Agent Savich, Mr. Tough FBI. You and your wife have a little boy, I believe. What do you three gentlemen want with my father?”
Ramsey said, “We want to know where he’s stashed Molly and Sherlock.”
Eve cocked her head to one side, studied each of their faces. “Your wives are missing? That makes no sense unless they decided to do a runner on you two fine gentlemen. All right, I see from your faces you’re dead serious. You can speak to my father, but I know he didn’t have anything to do with their, what? Disappearance?”
“Move, Eve.” Ramsey walked directly at her and she stepped out of his way before he plowed into her.
They walked down a short hallway and stepped into an Italian Renaissance palazzo. It looked like a museum setting, replete with tapestries, old faded carpets, and paintings grouped around the gold-veined marble fireplace. Elizabeth Beatrice would wager one of them was an original Caravaggio, cast into relief with special lighting.
Savich glanced around the huge space, out the far windows to the vast desert beyond. He imagined Sean flying his drone from one end of the long main room to the other. He’d never met Rule Shaker, only seen pictures. He had to admit to surprise seeing the man in the flesh. Like Mason, Savich knew he was ruthless, a hard-nosed powerhouse, a man who ruled his world just as Mason ruled his. It was strange to see such a man top out at five foot eight. He was sleek, that was the word, in better shape than Savich imagined most men were at sixty years of age, and his dark hair, surprisingly, was white flecked only at his temples. His face was hard and his eyes dark, five-o’clock beard scruff on his cheeks. He was wearing black shorts and a tight black sleeveless T-shirt, wiping his face with a monogrammed white towel. He’d obviously just finished a workout.
When Shaker spoke, his voice was a deep rich baritone. “Carlo was concerned when he saw you, Mason. He called me right away. I can’t say this is a pleasure, but it’s certainly a surprise. You’ll have to explain why you think you’re welcome here. Ramsey, you’re looking well. And Agent Savich, isn’t it? I recognize you though we’ve never met. And who is this lovely young lady?”
Mason said, his voice calm, “Rule, this is my wife, Elizabeth Beatrice.”
Rule Shaker gave her a smile full of charm and appreciation. “The one thing I’ve always admired about Mason is his taste in women.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shaker. I’m told my taste in men is superb as well. Your home is spectacular. I feel like I’ve walked into an old Tuscany villa. Is that an original Titian beside the Caravaggio?”
Shaker gave a brief look toward the fireplace, gave her a closer look, nodded. “It’s time for you to tell me why you’re here, Mason.”
Ramsey took a step toward Shaker, towering over him. “You know why we’re here. What have you done with Molly and Agent Sherlock?”
