He slipped it into his jacket pocket. He looked at the stack of thin notebooks and realized he had indeed found August Ransom’s journals. But how did they get here? Three folded sheets of stationery stuck out from under the cover of the very first notebook. He opened the first one, and stared down at a note pasted together out of words cut from a newspaper. He read:
Mr. Pallack, I have August’s journals. He told me all about you, and now I have proof. I want five hundred thousand dollars. Tomorrow noon leave the money in a carry-on bag on the foot of the statue in Washington Square.
Dix quickly read the other two notes, none dated so he didn’t know how far apart they’d been sent. The demands totaled two million dollars. He stared thoughtfully at the second note, read the final line several times:
We’ve had such a lovely thing going here, haven’t we? But August never believed I was greedy even when others said I was. You won’t hear from me again.
But of course Pallack had heard from the blackmailer again. The third note was short, simply instructed Pallack to leave a million dollars in a briefcase by the first jewelry counter just inside the entrance of Neiman Marcus, again at noon. It wasn’t signed, but the blackmailer had written Hasta Luega, whatever that was supposed to mean. More blackmail notes to come? Or had it indeed been the last demand?
Dix read them all once more, and realized that the tone, the implied intimacy of the words, bothered him. It hit him between the eyes—of course, it sounded like Julia Ransom had written them.
It all fell into place. Pallack had hired Makepeace to kill Julia because he believed she was the blackmailer.
But Dix believed her when she’d said she’d never even seen any journals, that she really didn’t think they’d even existed. So Pallack had been wrong.
Who then? It took Dix only a moment to realize it must have been another of Pallack’s psychics, probably none other than Soldan Meissen.
Meissen and August Ransom had known each other for a long time. Meissen must have known about the journals, even seen them. After August Ransom was murdered, he could have gotten into Julia’s house, stolen the journals, and discovered he had a gold mine. He’s started off with the blackmail, then lured Pallack in as a client.
Dix wondered what Pallack had thought when he finally tumbled to the fact that Meissen was not only his blackmailer but had made Pallack believe he could communicate with his parents, convincing him by using conversation notes lifted from August Ransom’s journals. Dix remembered clearly on the tape recording Sherlock had made of their interview with Pallack, how he’d sensed he’d had similar conversations with his parents before, a sort of deja vu.
Did it all become clear to you the moment you voiced that understanding, Pallack? Did you realize then that Meissen had a lovely scam going on you? All that money you paid him and it wasn’t enough. He sucked you into being his client twice a week, made a fool of you.
Dix wondered if Pallack had paid the last million before he’d killed Meissen or if he’d paid the money to Makepeace instead.
The rage Pallack must have felt. He’d moved quickly, Dix thought, and Makepeace had moved quickly as well. How convenient that Pallack had his own private assassin close at hand.
Dix thumbed through the first journal, sessions with Thomas Pallack, but he didn’t see anything incriminating, only reminiscences. He picked up the last journal, opened it to the last page, and read:
Thomas is frightened of me. I’ve tried to speak to him about it, but he refuses. I sense he deeply regrets talking about that other woman. He spoke of her only because his mother kept asking him where she was, what he’d done to her, and then his mother laughed, such a laugh that my flesh crawled. And he told her he’d met a woman who was her twin and he loved her the first instant he saw her. But she wouldn’t have him. He’d had to—Thomas shook his head, shot a look at me, and didn’t say any more, but of course, he’d already said too much, and he knew he had.
Here he is still taking orders from a woman thirty years dead. Though I’m not his psychiatrist, I’ve told him this link with his mother is unhealthy, counseled him it’s time to leave the dead alone, and look to his own future. He was abusive.
It was the last entry.
Dix could barely breathe. Christie, he thought, you were that woman, and he wanted to weep with the knowledge of it. He’d known she was dead, but the proof of it was finally staring him in the face.
Dix pulled out his cell phone, turned on the camera, and took pictures of the last pages in Ransom’s last journal. It wouldn’t serve as legal proof, but it was the hard truth nonetheless. He wished he had time to photograph everything, but when he looked at his watch, he realized he had to leave. He closed the journal, placed it at the bottom of the dozen or so others. He placed them back in the accordion file, pulled the rubber band around it, and slid it in the safe, exactly where he’d found it, closed the safe, and put the Picasso over it, and began to set everything back in place.