Knock Out

11

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Sunday

Mr. Maitland said, “She’s gone.”

Savich pulled his cell phone closer to his ear. “Who’s gone?”

“Melissa—Lissy—Smiley. You remember, Savich, the sixteen-year-old-girl bank robber you put in the hospital six days ago for repairs? I just got a call from Agent Daugherty guarding her at Washington Memorial.”

“What do you mean she’s gone? She died?” Savich said, half an eye on Sean and his buddy Marty, who were shooting baskets at the hoop set beside his garage door. Both children were pretty good if you took into account their combined ages barely reached ten and the basket hoop was three feet lower than usual. They had a lot of misses. He’d painted the garage door three months before. Time to give it another coat.

“No, no, a guy walked up smooth as silk to our agent sitting in his chair outside Lissy Smiley’s room, pulled his FBI creds out of his jacket pocket, let Daugherty see his SIG clipped to his waist in the process, and told him he was there to take a shift, give Daugherty some rest. Daugherty had no reason to question what he said, and, I will admit, it’s Sunday after all, and the Red Sox and Yankees were playing. It did occur to Daugherty to check with his supervisor during the seventh-inning stretch to ask when he was expected back, since he hadn’t been notified about any change, and his supervisor proceeds to tell him there was no replacement sent and he was an idiot. He topped it off by not remembering the agent’s name. Long and short of it was Ms. Smiley was long gone with the guy by the time anybody got back to the hospital. The guy was the getaway driver for the Gang of Four.”

“Pretty impressive. I wonder where he got the fake ID,” Savich said.

“I don’t know that yet, but I will know soon. I’ll tell you, Daugherty will be cleaning toilets on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building until Christmas. This isn’t good, Savich.”

Sean shouted, “Did you see that, Papa? I made two free throws in a row!”

Marty Perry, Sean’s best friend since they were both two, yelled over him, “Mr. Savich, Sean wasn’t behind the free-throw line! He’s cheating. You give me the ball, Sean, or I won’t let you play my sax. It’s my turn!”

“Well, I won’t let you play my piano.” Sean ran away with the ball, Marty ran after him, and the two of them went at it. At least they rolled around in the thick summer grass rather than on the concrete driveway. The basketball—kid-sized and bright orange—went rolling out into the street, hit a fire hydrant, and came to a bouncing stop against the curb.

Astro, Sean’s Scottie, and Marty’s big golden retriever, Burma, were dancing around them, barking as loud as they could, tails wagging furiously.

Savich said into his cell, “Excuse me, sir, but I’ve got to separate two warring basketball factions and rescue the ball. I’ll call you back with Sherlock in a couple of minutes.”

“I had four warring factions in my house, in any sport you can name. Call me back when you can,” Maitland said, laughed, and hung up. He had four grown sons, all bruisers.

Since it was safer to let both children pummel him rather than each other, Savich soon had both kids climbing on top of him, trying to hold his arms down on the grass. Marty’s mom, Lucy, trotted up, stared down at Savich, and grinned. “Ah, I think they might have you pinned, Dillon. Tell you what, let me take these ferocious wrestlers off your hands. Come on, Marty, let go of Dillon’s arm,” she said to her daughter as she peeled her off Savich. “As for you, Burma, stop licking faces. Come on, boy. That’s it. You too, Astro.” She said to Savich, “I can see I owe you or Sherlock a favor here for physical distress. Okay, Marty, Sean, how about both of you come with me. The magic genie sent some fresh lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies, extra walnuts.”

Sean and Marty instantly forgot their wrestling match with Savich and their own disagreement, and jumped to their feet, yelling together in victory. Savich hoped she’d made a couple dozen cookies, since both kids had hollow legs.

“I’m the champ!” Sean yelled. “Extra walnuts?”

“Yep, I asked the genie especially for extra walnuts, just for you, Sean.”

Marty was torn. “I don’t know, Mom. Mr. Savich was saying he’d play with us, you know, show us some moves.”

Burma, tongue lolling, barked, Astro joined in, and the two children laughed.

“You’ll need your strength,” Savich said. “Cookies first.”

Lucy said, “You might have to fight those mighty dogs for the cookies. You’d best hurry now, guys, chocolate chips don’t last forever, you know.”

The little boy and little girl went whooping across the front yard and next door to the Perry house, the dogs racing beside them. Lucy gave Savich a hand up, patted his shoulder, and took off after them. She called over her shoulder, “I’ll bring Sean and Astro home in an hour or so.”

He was dusting himself off when Sherlock appeared in the open doorway, wearing white shorts and a flowy pink top. She was lightly tanned, her hair pulled up in a curl-packed ponytail, the sandals on her feet showing off toenails painted a soft pink. She looked about sixteen. Savich felt the familiar kick in his blood when she waved and smiled at him. Ah, he thought, a hot afternoon, a fan stirring up the air over the bed, the blinds pulled, and blessed quiet—surely some things were meant to be. On the other hand, maybe not. There was Mr. Maitland to call back. He sighed and thought maybe they’d have some time this evening. Around eight o’clock might be lovely, not dark yet in the deep summer—he’d check her scar as the air cooled down around them, and who knew? Maybe Sean would miraculously be eager to climb into his own bed.

Fat chance.

“I’d sure like some lemonade too,” Savich called out.

Sherlock laughed. “Then you’ve got to help me denude the Meyer lemon tree.”

He looked at her closely. “You’re not doing that, are you? Remember, your spleen became history only two months ago. Rest, Sherlock, you’ve got to rest.”

“Yeah, yeah, I was growing mold. It’s good to be back to work, back to doing important things, like making lemonade.” She touched her lingers to his cheek. “I’m okay. I won’t overdo, I promise.”

“You already did. You came roaring down to the Georgetown bank. Ruth told me you were outside running after that fourth robber, that Dane had to grab you.”

“Nah, it wasn’t any big deal—oh, all right, that was a little much, but I’m better every day, Dillon. Don’t worry.”

Still, he worried, and she knew he worried, and they’d both be worried for another month or so, until she was one hundred percent again.