Free No Police Like Holmes by Dan Andriacco Page A

Mac’s protégés, poor kid. And nearby, the woman with gray-blond hair that I recalled from last night’s party sat alone, picking at a salad. Several tables away Lynda Teal was not alone. Seated obscenely close to Hugh Matheson, she seemed to hang on the lawyer’s every word, a level of attention I myself had once commanded. Apparently she wanted to be his friend, too.
    I went through the salad bar, picking up cottage cheese, tomatoes, onions, and peppers, while eschewing the greasy slices of pepperoni even though I love the stuff. For dessert I grabbed a banana. When I had piled my tray high with nutritious food - and made a mental note to tell Lynda about that article I read saying neurotic people live longer - I maneuvered through the sparsely populated dining room as if searching for a seat in a crowded bar. Finally I stopped at the woman sitting by herself.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said. “Mind if I sit here?”
    â€œNot at all. I’ve been deserted.”
    Her name tag identified her as Molly Crocker from Cincinnati. Well, the Cincinnati contingent was a big one. She was in her early forties, I estimated, and took no pains to appease the Cult of Youth and Beauty. The gray streaks in her ash blond hair were untouched by dye. The hair itself had been cut in an unflattering page boy she might have done herself with a pair of scissors and no mirror. But she had a good face, handsome if not pretty. And the eyes behind her magenta glasses were lively. She was clothed in a simple print dress that bulged slightly at the tummy. Too many cookies and late night snacks or was she expecting an addition to her family? This time I remembered to check for a wedding ring - and saw one.
    â€œHaving fun?” she asked.
    â€œFun doesn’t begin to describe it,” I assured her. “I’m Jeff Cody, Sebastian McCabe’s brother-in-law.”
    â€œMolly Crocker. I saw you at Mac’s party, but we didn’t formally meet.”
    â€œRight. Since you’re from Cincinnati, what can you tell me about that dude?” I pointed discreetly at Hugh Matheson.
    â€œHugh? Enormously successful in his field, but you must know that. Just last week he won a damage award for six and a half million dollars based on a woman’s loss of pleasure as a result of unnecessary radiation treatments to her uterus. The total award against the doctor and the radiologist, lawyer’s fees included, was eight million three hundred thousand, of which Hugh took a third.”
    I stopped peeling my banana, impressed. “You’re really up on that stuff.”
    She chuckled. “I ought to be.”
    â€œOpposing counsel?” I guessed.
    â€œI was the judge in the case.”
    I dropped the banana. “Obviously you know a lot more about Matheson than what you read in People magazine.”
    Judge Crocker pushed away her salad, half eaten. “That’s a valid deduction. What’s your interest, Jeff?”
    My main interest was in showing up Mac in the sleuthing department, with getting Ralph off my back a close second. But total candor was not called for in this situation.
    â€œI’m fascinated with the collector mentality,” I replied. “Chalmers spent - what, forty years? - building his collection, then today I heard that Matheson is a Holmes collector as well.”
    She nodded. “You’ve hit on a good phrase there. I know both of those men and they do share a certain ‘collector mentality.’ It isn’t restricted to Sherlock Holmes, either, especially not with Hugh.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I looked across the room at Matheson and Lynda. He gestured with his hands, the classic motion signaling a slit throat. Lynda laughed.
    â€œI mean,” Judge Crocker said, “that he also collects women.”
    * * *
    I took my cup of decaffeinated coffee and plunked myself down next to Lynda.
    â€œJeff!” said she, so startled she