Tail Spin

SEVENTEEN

Washington Memorial Hospital Washington, D.C.

Tuesday morning

Chief of Neurological Services Dr. Connor Bingham said to Savich and Sherlock, “Dr. MacLean regained consciousness an hour ago. He was in considerable pain from the broken ribs and the cut in his chest, so he’s medicated, a bit on the drowsy side. Maybe all the physical stimulation, the noise and activity of the helicopter ride, helped speed his awakening. But he is by no means a normal man, as you’ll see. With his dementia, he’ll never be.

“When you speak to him, keep it short. If you have questions afterwards, I’m available.”

As a matter of course, Savich and Sherlock showed their IDs to the agent posted outside Dr. MacLean’s room, even though they knew one another.

Agent Tom Tomlin was tall and rangy, his dark eyes alight at the sight of Sherlock as he said, those eyes of his never leaving her face, “Agent Sherlock, my mom sent me a photo from the San Francisco Chronicle.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet, andunfolded the newspaper clipping. “See, here you are standing in front of a burning house, your face blacker than mine, your clothes torn anddirty, and I can tell you’re wearing a Kevlar vest. My mom told me to ask you out. She was really bummed when I told her you were married.” He beamed at her.

Her father had sent her the same photo. Sherlock grinned. “It took forever to get all the black smoke off. And the smell. It’s still like a faint perfume.”

Savich gave Agent Tomlin a terrifying smile before taking Sherlock’s hand and leading her into Dr. MacLean’s room.

Dr. MacLean moaned. They moved to stand on either side of his bed, staring down at gray eyes darkened with confusion.

“Dr. MacLean?” Sherlock waited until the gray eyes focused on her face. “I’m Agent Sherlock and this is Agent Savich. We’re FBI. We work with Jack Crowne. Don’t worry about a thing. You’re safe. You’re protected. We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The gray eyes, a bit blurred, blinked at them. “You’re friends of Jackson’s? I want him to marry my daughter, you know, but my wife thinks he’s too old for her. She’s a freshman at Columbia this fall.”

“He might make a better uncle,” Savich said. “Remember, that’s about the same number of years that separated Prince Charles and Diana. Look what came of that.”

“Maybe so. Oh my, I never had such great drugs, even back in college. I feel like flying right off this rock-hard excuse for a bed and out that window, maybe buzz the White House. Is the weather nice?”

“Yes, bright sunshine, and it might hit eighty-five today.”

“I have a real good friend who’s a pharmacist and a killer at bridge. After I buzz over his house in Chevy Chase, hopefully ruin the bridge hand he’s playing, I think I’ll fly clear to the West Coast. I don’t want to go back to Lexington—my family are a bunch of nags and doomsayers. And my wife Molly—I tried to make her listen to reason, but she’s got her own rules for reason and won’t listen to mine. Molly kept pushing me until we were on a plane back to Lexington. And then I had to come back here again—but wait now. What kind of sense does that make? Oh, I remember. There was a plane wreck— Jackson was piloting. Is he all right?”

Savich saw his sudden alarm and said, “Jack is fine now, just headaches from the concussion and some pain from a gash in his leg.”

“Good, good, he’s okay then. I’ll tell you, even with these excellent pain meds, I still feel like I’m hurting all over.”

“Understandable. You got thrown around quite a bit. There was a bomb on board the Cessna, but Jack managed to bring it down in a narrow valley. He pulled you out before the plane exploded. You are hurt all over, sir.”

Sherlock said, “Dr. MacLean, we need to ask you some questions, to try to get a better handle on all of this.”

MacLean closed his eyes, appeared to go to sleep, but he didn’t. He said, eyes still closed, “Jackson had questions, too. He wanted me to tell him the names of my patients who live locally, as the majority do since my practice is here, so the FBI could interview them. I couldn’t do that, of course. My patients must have their privacy. They don’t deserve to be singled out, to have others find out they’re seeing me, and speculate why. I didn’t—”

“Dr. MacLean,” Savich said, interrupting him smoothly, “the fact is, with this disease—do you remember that you have frontal lobe dementia?”

He nodded. “How do you like that for a crappy roll of the dice? The disease starts in the front lobes, then continues all the way back, wrecks everything in its path. I’ll end up like an Alzheimer’s patient, lying in the fetal position, waiting to die, all alone in my own brain, the most terrifying thing I can imagine.”

That was the truth, Savich thought, and wondered how he’d deal with something as devastating as that if it hit him. He said, “I wouldn’t like it at all. You know this disease causes you to say things that are inappropriate?”

“I’m a doctor, Agent Savich. I’m not stupid. I know all of this. I did a lot of reading about it after I was diagnosed at Duke.”

Savich continued. “Sometimes you remember what you’ve said and other times you don’t.”

“Sorry what did you say?”

“Sometimes you—”

“That was an attempt at a bad joke, Agent Savich,” Dr. MacLean said, grinning up at him. “But please understand, no matter what was wrong with me, I would have sworn on the grave of my grandpa that nothing could make me say anything to anyone about my patients. It’s my goal to help them, not harm them.” He paused and sighed. “But I know I have. Jackson told me.”

“You’ve already spoken about three of your patients to a friend and layperson, in public. It would appear that one of your patients found out about it, and you scared him or her so badly that he or she has made three attempts on your life. Two attempted hit-and-runs, here and in Lexington, and then the bomb on your plane on your flight back to Washington. If it weren’t for Jack’s piloting skills, you’d be dead, as would he.”

“It’s so bloody difficult to believe I could do something like that.”

“I imagine it is,” Sherlock said. “We need you to tell us about the patients you spoke about to your tennis partner, Arthur Dolan. Perhaps we’ll eventually need the names of all your patients, but it’s likely the person who wants you dead is one of the three, particularly since Arthur Dolan was killed shortly thereafter up in New Jersey.”

His haggard face suddenly looked austere. “That’s ridiculous. I never said anything to Arthur about my patients. He died in an auto accident, always did drive too fast. Molly was screaming murder, but I told her to take a Valium, everyone said it was an accident.” He suddenly seemed to calm, and said, his voice light, “Do you know, Arthur had a great backhand, but he was slow. I usually won our matches. Still, I’ll miss playing with him. It was such good exercise. He’d come down here one week, I’d go north the next. He was also a golfer, better at it than at tennis. Arthur and I only talked about sports, he didn’t know anything else.

“Now, as for that car nearly hitting me in Lexington, I know it was a drunk driver. The cops agreed.” He sighed. “Poor Arthur. At least for him, it was fast and clean and over with.”

“And the first attempted hit-and-run here in Washington, sir?” Sherlock asked.

“It was the Plank area, lots of drugs there. Maybe it was someone whacked out on heroin. The guy split. I would, too, after being such a jerk.”

Why all this denial? Savich wondered. Or had his brain simply reduced it to nothing, only a footnote, and who cared? Savich said, And the bomb in your plane?”

There was dismissal in his light voice. “That’s a no-brainer. Jackson’s a federal cop, he has enemies, don’t you think? Bad guys who want revenge?”

Savich met Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, then focused again on Dr. MacLean’s face, those gray eyes clear now, filled with sharp intelligence, insult, and fear. “You don’t remember speaking about three of your patients to Arthur Dolan?”

His clear, smart eyes focused solidly on Savich’s face. Anger washed color over his pale face. “What the devil do you mean? Tell tales of my patients to a friend? Naturally not. What kind of professional ethics do you think I have? Besides, I told you, we only talked about sports.”

Down the rabbit hole, Savich thought. He said patiently, “No, sir, it has nothing to do with your ethics, it has to do with your disease.

“When we were investigating the first attempt on your life, we found a bartender at your golf club in Chevy Chase who’s known you and admired you for years. He said he remembers listening to you speak to Arthur Dolan over martinis. He remembers you speaking about three of your patients, all well known, and that’s why the bartender listened, and didn’t forget.” Unfortunately, the bartender had been working so he didn’t hear all that much, but enough to know something was very wrong.

Dr. MacLean looked affronted, then, inexplicably, the anger and insult died out of his eyes and he began to laugh. The laugh must have hurt his ribs or his chest because he drew up short, breathed lightly for a moment, then said, his voice suddenly confiding, deep and rich, like a storyteller’s, “Was one of the names Lomas Clapman?”

“Yes,” Savich said. “Why don’t you tell us about him.”

Dr. MacLean’s eyes glittered; he looked suddenly revved, excited, and there was something mischievous in his manner, like he was flirting with make-believe and being drawn right into it. “Clapman’s an idiot, a buffoon, all puffed up in his belief he’s got the biggest brain in the known universe. He worships himself, lives happily mired in self-deception. Ah, how he hates Bill Gates. He always calls Gates ‘a little bugger.’ I mentioned that many people think Bill Gates is not only extraordinarily smart, he’s a stand-up guy, what with his foundation doing more good for people than any of the so-called relief agencies. Why not see if he could outdo Gates’s foundation? He could certainly afford it.

“You see, I was trying to pull him away from this obsession he has with Gates, trying to channel his energies toward a positive goal. It didn’t work. He yelled at me. You know what? I leaned back in my chair and laughed back at him. He threw a paperweight at me and stormed out.” Dr. MacLean shook his head, still laughing. “What an unprincipled yahoo. I didn’t see him again after that. He didn’t even call to cancel his weekly appointments.”

Before the disease had struck him, Sherlock doubted she would have ever heard Dr. MacLean speak in that sneering, dismissive, mocking voice about a patient. Had he really laughed at his patient? She doubted it. She wondered if he would remember speaking like this to her and Dillon. She said, “Did Mr. Clapman tell you anything that, if made public, could hurt him?”

“Yes, certainly,” MacLean said, no hesitation at all, not a single protest about physician ethics or scruples. “Lomas built his company on the back of his supposed best friend and partner. He sold his first plane design, some sort of low-flying tactical aircraft, to the government back in the early eighties—fact was, Lomas stole his friend’s idea and schematics right out from under him. His partner was an inventor, his head in a different reality, and he didn’t even notice when Lomas put the patents under his own name. As for the partnership agreement, it didn’t cover the patents. The poor schmuck killed himself maybe fifteen years ago, dead broke. Can you believe that?”

Sherlock said, “Was Mr. Clapman seeing you because he felt guilty about what he did?”

“No, not really. He thought he deserved every unethical dime in his coffers. Nah, he saw me once a week because he wanted to brag about how great he was, and I was forced to sit there for fifty minutes and listen to him. His wife left him, you know, and I can’t say I blame her.”

Savich said, “If that got out, I imagine it would have considerable negative impact on Mr. Chapman personally and on his company, not in mention lawsuits from his partner’s widow and family.”

“You think Lomas tried to kill me? Excuse me, is trying to kill me? To keep me quiet?”

“Possibly,” said Savich. “But you know, it just doesn’t seem enough to me.”

MacLean laughed. “Lomas also falsified performance trial data, massaged the stats on his fighters to meet government requirements. I told him to put a halt to that, that it would come to light, things like that always did. I remember he actually giggled, said it was all history now, anyway.”

“Bingo,” Sherlock said.

MacLean stared at them, a drug-happy smile on his face, his eyes glittering, a bit manic. “You think old Lomas would try to knock me off for that? He told me straight out that everybody does it, that the Pentagon knows everyone does it, and so they simply make allowances, they even have tables that show the range of acceptable deviations, that sort of thing. He said it was all a big game.”

Sherlock said easily, “Could you tell us exactly why Lomas Clapman was seeing you, Dr. MacLean?”

“He was impotent. After all the tests and a couple of tubs of Viagra, his doctor recommended he see me, see if his inability to sustain an erection was mental or emotional.”

Savich said, “Did you help him?”

“I’ll tell you, Agent Savich, Lomas is so filled with envy and arrogance, I think it would take God himself to help him.” MacLean closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the pillow, and sighed.

EIGHTEEN

Savich said, “The bartender our agent spoke to said you also talked about Dolores McManus, a congresswoman from Georgia.” And Savich waited to see if he would continue to talk with candor and cynicism, or would revert to the psychiatrist renowned for his discretion.

MacLean closed his eyes for a moment, hummed deep in his throat, carefully rearranged himself a bit to ease his ribs. They watched him give his pain med button a couple of pushes. Several minutes passed in silence. MacLean sighed and said, “Sorry, I just wanted to float about for a little bit, such a lovely feeling. These drugs are first-rate. Ah, Dolores—you strip away all the glitz and glamour and the attention her position has brought her, and what you’ve got is one simple basic human being—not many frills or mental extras, if you know what I mean.

“I wanted to sleep with her, I knew I could please her, but she wasn’t interested.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. This was a kick. She said, “Dr. MacLean, you propositioned a patient?”

“Oh no, I merely thought about it. I could tell she’d never see me that way.” He sighed. “Even though she’s nearly as old as I am, she still has gorgeous breasts, nicer than Molly’s. Three kids’ll make your breasts sag, Molly tells me, and then says to count my blessings. Molly’s always been big into counting blessings. Even with all this crap, she still tells me I’m her biggest blessing.” He continued without pause, “It was difficult to keep my eyes on Dolores’s face, to listen to all her crowing. She was so proud of being on the A-list, wouldn’t shut up about all the famous people who call her by her first name. Then she’d switch gears and crow for the umpteenth time about how her background hasn’t slowed her down. She’d been a housewife with a college degree in communications, no work experience of any note, raising two kids, but she had one major asset— her mouth. She never hesitated to mix it up with the mayor, the governor, the newspapers, the phone company. It was her successful assault on the EPA that got her elected to her first term. She cut them off at the knees about a local cleanup project they weren’t funding.

“Being elected to Washington simply gave her a bigger canvas. I have to admit, watching her take on all comers—it’s a treat. She can spin on a dime, make you believe you just left the room when in reality you were actually coming through the door. It’s her only talent, and makes her the perfect politician. As for substance, I guess she has about as much as any of her colleagues.”

Sherlock asked, “Do you remember telling Arthur Dolan if she had anything in her past that could harm her if made public? Something so grave she’d feel threatened?”

“I never told Arthur a thing, I’ve already told you that. I wouldn’t. Would she feel threatened enough to kill me? Of course not. Everything in her past is nickel-and-dime stuff—really nothing much at all, except that she murdered her husband.”

They stared flabbergasted at MacLean, saw his eyes go vague, the manic light die out. He was about to go under. He’d given himself one too many doses of the pain meds. This congresswoman murdered her husband? The bartender hadn’t heard anything about murder.

As if on cue, the door opened and Dr. Bingham looked in. He listened to MacLean’s vitals, but didn’t attempt to engage him in conversation. They all stood by his bed and watched him drift off.

Dr. Bingham nodded, then straightened.

Savich said quietly, “Do you have a moment?”

Sherlock shut down the small recorder in her bag as she left the room.

Once outside in the wide hallway, Dr. Bingham asked, “Was he alert? Did he make sense?”

Savich thought about how to describe one of the strangest interviews he’d ever tried to conduct. “He was alert, yes, and he made perfect sense, for the most part. But it was how he spoke of his patients, his family, his tennis partner—it was like there were no brakes between his thoughts and what came out of his mouth. He didn’t seem to realize he was saying outrageous things, vicious things, and he spoke so matter-of-factly. Without the requisite social buffing, I suppose his descriptions of his patients are painfully accurate.”

Sherlock said, “But his disdain, Dillon, his contempt for them— I simply can’t imagine that’s how he normally thinks of his patients. Then he’d become himself again, I guess you could say. Serious, ready to fight to the death for the privacy of his patients. It was an amazing interview.”

Dr. Bingham said, “Given his reputation, I would agree with that. It’s a very sad thing that’s happening to him, this dementia, and the resulting loss of sell. It’s a horrible thing, in fact, horrible.” Dr. Bingham shook their hands, walked away, his head down, hands in the pockets of his white coat, and Sherlock would swear she heard him humming.

Sherlock said, “Dillon, do you think it’s possible Dr. MacLean’s having us on, maybe making a lot of this stuff up?”

Savich shook his head. “He might have exaggerated part of it. I don’t know.” And to Agent Tomlin, he said, “Take good care of Dr. MacLean. This guy’s a huge target.”

“No one gets past me,” Tomlin said. “You can count on that, Agent Savich.”

Savich was aware of Tomlin staring at his wife until they entered one of the elevators at the end of the long corridor.

Sherlock said as she pressed the lobby button, “Are you inclined to believe that Congresswoman McManus murdered her husband?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

“I wonder if that was why she went to see a shrink—you know, bad dreams, guilt, remorse.”

“There’s that,” Savich said, and pulled her against him, kissing her until the elevator stopped at the third floor and a bleary-eyed intern staggered in.

NINETEEN

Slipper Hollow

Tuesday

“It’s a beautiful day,” Rachael said, shading her eyes and staring up at the clear blue summer sky, the thready white clouds. She pushed her hair behind her ears, tugged at the skinny braid. “Hard to believe there’s so much actual bad out there in Uncle Gillette’s world.”

“I fear bad is rampant in the land,” Jack said. “But it’s not right here.”

“Unlike Uncle Gillette, I never thought of Slipper Hollow as confining, never considered it a place to escape from. It was always a sanctuary, a haven where I’d be safe. Of course, I was a kid. Looking back now, I recognize that Mom was restless, wanted to go out on her own.”

He looked at the braid in her hair, plaited closer to her face this morning. When she leaned her head to the side, it cupped her cheek. He said, “I really like the braid.”

“What? Oh, thank yon. Jimmy liked it, too.” Her voice shook a bit on his name.

“For the most part,” Jack said, “I agreed with your father’s politics.”

“I did, too. Can you believe Uncle Gillette washed and ironed our clothes?”

“I nearly kissed him for it, but drew back at the last minute.”

“I kissed him enough for both of us. I believe he’s gathering all the reports he can find about Jimmy’s death. There are even film clips from the funeral. He said he’d have it all together for us by this afternoon.”

Jack nodded. He felt suddenly itchy felt his left elbow ache, something that tended to happen when something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t figure out what it could be. Slipper Hollow was a sanctuary, Rachael was right about that. It was cut off from the world; it was safe. Here they could enjoy the peace before they hunkered down to examine all the details of this psychotic situation. Psychotic? Jack thought about that for a moment. Odd, but psychotic was what came to mind. His elbow shouldn’t be itching, but it was, big-time. He chose to ignore it. “You’re not married,” he said.

“I was close, once, but I found out he liked to gamble, and that was a deal breaker. My grandfather had that problem. I remember hearing my mom and my grandmother talk about it.

“I told my mom about the guy I’d thought I loved and wanted to marry, told her I’d found out he gambled, and you know what she said? Not a single thing. She only listened.”

“Wise woman.”

“Yeah, the last thing a twenty-seven-year-old woman who thinks she knows everything needs to hear is that she’s an idiot and this is what she should do.”

Jack wanted to know everything about this man, but now wasn’t the time. “How old is your half brother?”

“Ben turned ten last week. He’s a pistol, that kid, a pro quarterback in the making, fast, agile, strong throwing arm. His dad is thinking he’s the next Joe Montana.”

“What have you been doing, Rachael? I mean, did you go to college? What?”

Her chin went up. “I’m an interior designer.”

She waited for him to laugh, to poke fun, to make a snide remark. He said, “I really like how Gillette did the house, particularly the kitchen. The tile job is incredible. Did you help with that?”

She nodded. “I remember drawing him a sketch of what I saw in my head, and he liked it.”

“You’ve got to be the most popular girl in your group.”

Rachael laughed. “It’s been so long since I’ve been around friends—you know, people you trust and like and don’t have to watch what you say when you’re around them? The kind who won’t hold it against you when you drink too much and act like an idiot.” She tucked her hair back again. “Since I went to Washington to see Jimmy, I’ve simply let them go by the wayside.”

“Did you work in Richmond?”

“After I graduated from the Everard School of Design, I joined Broderick Home Concepts. I was one of six designers on staff. I learned a lot, made a lot of contacts, and received a lot of glowing reports from clients. I had seed money lined up and was ready to go out on my own when my mom told me about Jimmy. I took a leave of absence, then Jimmy talked me into quitting Broderick, said he’d like nothing better than to set me up in Georgetown.” She swallowed. “He was so excited, maybe more than I was. He ...” She turned and walked away.

Jack grabbed her hand, pulled her against him, and wrapped his arms around her back. He realized they both smelled like the same soap, sort of sweet and tangy, like lavender, maybe. “It’ll be okay, Rachael.”

She leaned back. He saw she wasn’t crying, she was shaking with rage. “Six weeks, Jack. I only had a father for six weeks! It’s not fair, not fair.” She slammed her fist into his shoulder. “I want to bring them down. Dear Jesus, I even have their last name now, legally I’m a bloody Abbott.”

“Your father adopted you really fast.”

“I was just getting used to introducing myself as Rachael Abbott.”

“Keep his name. Do it to honor him. It doesn’t tie you to the others. We’ll get them, Rachael, we will. I’ll call Savich, see how much longer he wants you kept under wraps. Besides, you and I have a whole lot to discuss. I want every detail, Rachael, beginning with when you met your father for the first time. Have you finished writing up the detailed account of everything that Savich asked you to do?”

“No, I haven’t even started yet.”

“We’ll get to it. Come over here, let’s sit under that oak tree. Tell me again about the first time you met your father.”

She sat, wrapped her arms around her knees, and began talking. “Did I tell you what he said when he first saw me? He shouted, ‘Wait a minute—my God, a man can’t be this lucky.’ And he grabbed my hands and pulled me into his office, past his staff, people waiting. Like I told you, he never doubted for an instant I was his daughter. He was amazing. He had the most beautiful smile. It lit up his face, made these little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want to let me out of his sight. We talked for hours. He told me about what had happened all those years ago, how his father took him and his friend to Spain to get him to forget my mother, only he didn’t, not really. I told him what his father did to my mother, and he was tight-lipped. Of course I told him my mom didn’t tell me about it until after his father died because she was afraid.”

Rachael sucked in the fresh sweet summer air, and continued when Jack nodded. “He told me the first time in his life he really stood up for himself was when he made the decision to run for the Senate. He said he’d never felt so free as when he told his father to suck it up, it was his life and this was what he wanted. He said toward the end of the campaign, his father poured money into the coffers, probably put him over the top, got him elected.

“Then he laughed, shook his head. Right after Jimmy took his Senate seat, his father announced that he would now call the shots. Jimmy said he received detailed memos from the old man, telling him exactly what he wanted done. Naturally, he paid no attention. Jimmy told me his father had to manipulate and control everything and everyone until he died, supposedly issuing orders with his last breath. Jimmy said his mother probably died young just to escape him.”

Jack asked, “How did Laurel and Quincy react to their father?”

“They both worshipped and feared him, like he was a god, one who was omniscient, one who could smile upon you or crush you.”

“And how did they react to you?”

“The first time I met Laurel, her husband Stefanos Kostas, and Quincy was at dinner at Jimmy’s house. He’d told them only that he had a big surprise for them.” She looked up to see a rabbit sitting at the edge of the woods, seemingly content to stare at them. “I remember Laurel looking at me like I was a termite that just crawled out of the woodwork. Her niece? She couldn’t believe it. All she could do was gape at me, and then at Jimmy.” Rachael could hear Laurel saying, “Pardon me? What did you say, John?”

“This is my daughter, Rachael Janes, soon to be Rachael Janes Abbott. I’m adopting her so she’ll be mine legally, as she should have been from the beginning.

“Rachael, your uncle Quincy and your aunt Laurel and my brother-in-law Stefanos.” And he rubbed his hands together, he was that happy, that excited. He hugged her against his side, kissed her forehead. “Rachael Abbott—now that has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Quincy cleared his throat, looked beyond Rachael’s left shoulder. “She does perhaps resemble you a bit, but you must be responsible here, take your time to do things right. You must have DNA tests, make certain she is who she says she is.”

Jimmy said simply, “She’s my very image. Come on now, Quin, admit it. And there are simply some things you know to your soul. Listen to me, this is an evening to celebrate. I have another daughter I never knew about. I remember her mother, Angela, have thought of her often over the years. There is no doubt, and just looking at her, you know there’s no question as to her paternity. Now, let’s have some champagne.”

Rachael sipped the French champagne as she eyed the braised French snails and the French sauced beef tips. The only thing French she liked was baguettes, but there wasn’t any baguette. Laurel and Quincy were civil, but she knew they weren’t happy, knew they distrusted her, believed she’d suckered their brother. As for Stefanos Kostas, he looked at her like he’d just as soon have her sitting naked astride his lap, her tongue down his throat.

“What does Jacqueline have to say about this?” Quincy asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “Who cares what she thinks? I would like Rachael to meet her half sisters. I think they’d all get along well.” To Rachael, he said, “Elaine and Carla both live in Chicago, as I told you. They’re both married. I’m a grandfather twice over now.”

A long, long evening, Rachael thought, and felt her face had frozen into a rictus of a smile by the time Jimmy closed the door on his two siblings.

“They’ll come around,” Jimmy said, hugging her. “Don’t worry, “and he gave her a big sloppy kiss. “Fact is, they’ve got no choice.”

It seemed so long ago, a different life, but it wasn’t. She felt the sun warm on her face now as she looked over at Jack. “I remember thinking we could simply ignore them if they didn’t like me. As long as I live, I’ll remember how Jimmy never doubted me. Sure, I looked like him, but still he was powerful, rich, and famous, and I was nobody.

“Even if he’d been a serial killer, I’d have readily forgiven him.”

“What’d your mom say?”

Rachael smiled. “She was surprised because it never occurred to her he would even remember her. She’d warned me that a DNA test would be the proper thing to do, didn’t matter that I looked like him, andthat when it was brought up, I shouldn’t be insulted.”

And Rachael told Jack again about the night Jimmy broke down and told her about the little girl on the bicycle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such desolation in a person’s eyes, such misery, such despair—”

There was a yell.

“Rachael, Jack, come here!” It was Gillette and he was shouting from the front porch. “Hurry! Now!”

Without a pause, Jack drew his gun, grabbed Rachael’s hand, and they ran in a crouch, back to the house.

A spray of gunfire erupted as the three of them dove through the open front door.

TWENTY

Gillette slammed the door, crawled to the side, and reached over to shoot the dead bolt through. Bullets tore through the door, sending splinters flying. The beautiful high arched windows shattered, spewing glass shards everywhere. They heard bullets gouging the walls.

“Cover your heads,” Jack yelled, pulling Rachael beneath him. “Gillette, stay down.”

Round after round struck the house. No front window was left unshattered. Rachael struggled to breathe, and finally, Jack leaned up. She yelled over the shots, “Uncle Gillette, how did you know they were here?”

Gillette was panting as he pulled a wooden splinter out of the back of his hand. “There was a break in the perimeter alarm. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I knew it had to be trouble. Well, malfunctions sometimes happen, but I wasn’t about to take any chances, not with your situation, Rachael.”

Glory be, Jack thought, an alarm. The gunfire stopped for a moment. Jack said, “Both of you stay down, don’t go anywhere near that door or the windows.”

Gillette was already on his hands and knees. “I’ve got weapons upstairs. I’ll get them.”

“All right, but keep down. No marine hotdogging.”

Gillette laughed as he elbow crawled toward the stairs. Another spray of bullets tore through the line of front windows, striking a side wall, shattering a beautiful gilded mirror.

“Don’t you move a muscle, Rachael,” Jack said, elbowing his own way over to the window. At a break in the gunfire, he peered out, law a shadow of movement and returned fire with his Kimber. He had only one extra clip so he had to pace himself.

“They’re destroying this beautiful house,” Rachael said.

Gillette returned to the foyer, bent nearly double, clutching two rifles. He fell to his knees and crawled between two front windows to get to them.

Jack said, “Gillette, do you shoot as well as Rachael?”

“I’m a marine,” he said. “Who do you think taught her?”

“Good point. The two of you keep the guys out front contained. There are more, I know it, and I don’t want them coming in behind us. Back entrances, Gillette?”

“There’s only one back door. In the kitchen.”

“Keep your heads down,” Jack said, and kept low to the floor. He fell the heat of some of the bullets flying over his head on their way to thud into the walls. The gilded mirror finally crashed to the floor, wood and glass flying everywhere.

When Jack was out of the line of fire, he jumped to his feet and ran down the hallway toward the kitchen. He felt a stab of exquisite pain in his thigh, ignored it. He stepped into the kitchen at the exact moment a man came in the back door. Jack fell to his knees and rolled, four bullets stitching the cabinets behind him. He heard one dig into the beautiful marble floor.

And that really made him mad. He came up on his side and yelled, “Hey!”

The man fired again, but he was off by a good foot. Jack shot two rounds, both of them missing. The man was crouched behind the washing machine just inside the back door.

“What are you doing here?” Jack yelled over the pumping gunfire coming from the front of the house.

The man fired off another half-dozen rounds. Jack felt a sharp spear of wood hit his left arm. He gave a huge cry of pain and slammed his Kimber against the floor. He lay there, still and silent.

The man fired again. Then he slowly rose and looked beyond the kitchen table to where Jack lay nearly under one of the kitchen chairs. He took a step, then realized he didn’t see the gun, but it was too late.

Jack reared up and shot him.

The man grabbed his shoulder and sank to his knees. His gun dropped onto the floor and skidded against the wall. He toppled over, moaning. Jack walked to the man, struck the back of his head with the gun butt. One down, but of course there had to be one more. Whoever ordered this wasn’t about to take any more chances with only one shooter. No, this was a full-scale assassination squad. He heard two shooters in the front, and likely there was still one more in the back.

Jack pulled a wallet out of the man’s jacket pocket, then looked at the expanse of green lawn that went back for perhaps thirty feet to the forest, a seemingly impenetrable thick, vibrant green. He looked for movement, shadow play, anything to help him locate the other shooter. Or shooters. He was patient. He waited. Finally he saw a flash of movement. A man was trying to slide between two oak saplings, being careful because he’d heard the shot and the yell. By now he had to realize his partner was down.

The man held something in his hand—not a gun or a rifle. Jack realized he was speaking on a walkie-talkie, telling the team leader one was down in the kitchen. Jack saw the dark blue of his shirt when he shifted forward, probably to get a better look at the house, to try to see him. Big mistake, Jack thought. He lined up the shot and fired, but the man was good. He’d seen Jack’s shadow, seen a whisper of movement, he supposed, and dove to the ground, Jack’s bullet went into a tree and spewed up a whirlwind of leaves.

No way was he going to let that man go back around front to join his team. He stretched his arm up and grabbed an apple from the howl sitting on the breakfast table. He took aim at the trash can container off to his left and threw the apple. It struck hard. He saw the man jerk around, his gun arm swinging smoothly toward the container. Jack stood and fired.

The man didn’t make a sound.

Jack watched him pitch forward out of the forest and onto the grass.

He heard gunfire intensify at the front of the house. He prayed his one civilian and one marine were being careful. He thought the two of them could handle the front. He waited, listened. He was as convinced as he could be that there were no more shooters lurking in the forest. He ran flat out across the backyard, fanning his Kimber, so pumped with adrenaline he could hear his own heart thudding against his chest.

How had they found Slipper Hollow? Not hard, really. With the Internet, nothing was secret for long.

He fell to his knees and checked the man he’d shot. The bullet had gone straight through his heart. He pulled out his wallet, stuck it in with the other one in his pocket. He picked up the fallen walkie-talkie and clicked the speak button. He lowered his voice, crumpled leaves in his left hand to create the impression of static, and prayed. “Hey, it’s not going good here. What do you want me to do?”

“Clay, that you?”

He wasn’t expecting a woman’s voice. “Yeah, it’s me.”

He crumpled more leaves. “Hard to hear you.”

“What about Donley? You said he went in the back and you heard a shot. What happened?”

“He ... got ... clocked.”

“All right, all right, dammit, we’ll have to wait until dark to go in. They’re hillbillies, of course they’ve got weapons, probably coon rifles, so a frontal assault is out. Do you think you can get in the back?”

He rubbed his palm over the receiver. “It’s tough, I ...”

“Clay? Hey, wait, you’re not Clay—”

He heard her cursing, then the walkie-talkie went fuzzy.

Jack quickly began making his way around to the front, in a wide circle, hoping to come in behind the shooters, but truth be told, he wasn’t holding out much hope.

He heard a few more rounds of gunfire, then silence. He pictured the woman and her partner—they were pros, they wouldn’t panic, but they were facing a full-blown screwed-up fiasco. They’d know enough to get out of there fast. Somehow they’d been spotted, and their prey were armed and shooting back. They’d probably believed it would be easy, even though the shooter they’d sent to Par-low was presently residing in Franklin County Hospital. Did they know that? Probably. But what they couldn’t know was that an FBI agent was here with the hillbillies. And one of the hillbillies was a marine, the other a crack shot. What a nice surprise.

If they had a contingency plan, it was shot to hell now. He ran, hunkered down, ignoring the leaves whipping his face, ignoring the pain in his thigh, the blood seeping from the cut in his left arm, and tried to move as quickly and quietly as possible.

He heard something, and stopped on a dime. It sounded like a footstep, a single footstep.

Sunlight speared through the leaves overhead. Silence. Nothing. Then he heard an animal, probably a possum, running away, running horn him, he knew.

No footfalls, no one was near. How much farther?

He heard some fresh gunshots coming from Gillette and Rachael, but no return fire.

They were gone.

He ran straight out toward the edge of the forest until he saw the front of the house. He had to be close to their last position. They could still be nearby, see what he was going to do, kill him if he showed himself. Jack didn’t want to get shot. He nearly ran over their former position—saw the flattened leaves, the shells.

They were gone.

He ran all the way back to the road. When he burst out of the woods, he saw two figures in a late-model black Ford Expedition burning rubber down the road.

They’d had to leave their companions. Not a good idea—but they didn’t have a choice.

He ran back as fast as he could, yelled before he broke through the woods in front of Gillette’s house, “It’s Jack! They’re gone. Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”

Rachael flew out the splintered front door. “Jack! Are you all right? They ran?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Some glass in my arm and neck, nothing bad. Gillette’s okay, too. He went to check out back.”

“One of the guys is alive. I left him on the kitchen floor. Let’s get in the house,” he said, and grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.

Gillette came running out of the kitchen. “There’s blood on the floor, Jack, but the guy’s gone.”

He was a moron. He should have shot the goon in the leg. “He won’t get far,” Jack said. “There were two of them, actually. One’s dead at the back of the yard, right at the tree line. I took both their wallets. I’ll bet you these guys are in the system.”

Rachael said, “I’ll call Sheriff Hollyfield, tell him what happened and get him out here.”

“I’m going to look outside.”

When Jack walked into the kitchen five minutes later, he said, “The body’s gone. Our wounded guy carried him out. They must have another vehicle.”

“The sheriff will be here in thirty minutes, tops,” Rachael said.

“I forgot, I’ve got some critical information for him,” Jack said, and dialed him up, managed to catch him on the point of leaving his office. Jack gave Sheriff Hollyfield the license plate of the Ford Expedition.

Rachael ignored the objections of the men and went with Jack to track the shooters through the woods, the rifle pointed down at her side. Jack wasn’t happy, even though he knew she was a good shot. “There’s got to be blood,” he whispered. “Keep as quiet as you can.”

They found the blood trail quickly enough. “Look,” Jack said, going down on his knees. “He’s carrying his dead buddy. They can’t be too far ahead.”

The blood trail led back to the road, some thirty feet farther beyond where the Ford Expedition had peeled out.

Jack said, “They were careful enough to have two vehicles. The guy I shot in the shoulder, he needs major help fast.”

When they returned to the house, Jack called the nearest hospital. They’d already been alerted, he was told, by Sheriff Hollyfield.

“Gillette, are there any physicians close by that our wounded guy could find easily?”

Gillette shook his head. “No, unless he knows of one personally. Or has a phone book. Parlow’s the closest town. Everything’s so spread out around here, someone not familiar with the area couldn’t find his elbow.”

Jack phoned Dr. Post at the clinic, just in case. Nurse Harmon agreed to alert all the hospitals in the area. Then he called Savich.

Rachael listened to him with half an ear as she swept up the glass from the shattered front windows.

“We’re beyond lucky,” Jack was saying to Savich. “Without that perimeter alarm the shooters tripped when they came in, we’d have been in bad trouble since Rachael and I were out in the open.

“They didn’t know I was here, probably didn’t know Gillette was a marine, or that Rachael can shoot a quarter out of the air. Sheriff Hollyfield should be here soon, so everything seems covered.” He listened, then said, “I got wallets out of both guys I shot, but it’s like the shooter at Roy Bob’s garage—they removed all ID, credit cards, likely left everything in their vehicles. I can get some blood from the kitchen floor and from some leaves in the forest, get us some DNA. Yeah, all right.” Jack hung up. “Savich says enough is enough, said he never liked the idea of third time’s a charm. He wants Rachael back in Washington. And he wants you, Gillette, to take a vacation.”

“Yeah, like that’ll happen,” Gillette said. He sighed and looked around. He bent down, picked up a large hunk of glass. “I guess I’m not through with my house.”

“They’re going to put me in the same hospital room as Dr. MacLean, are they?” Rachael wondered aloud. “Well, forget that. I’ve got to call my mom. If they didn’t do a pretty good search to find out about Slipper Hollow, then they could have gotten to her.”

Gillette said, “I called while you and Jack were tracking blood in the woods. Everyone’s fine. I didn’t tell your mother about any of your trouble.”

Rachael said, “But shouldn’t we warn them? Shouldn’t they take a vacation?”

Jack shook his head. “Whoever ordered this hit doesn’t want more collateral damage than absolutely necessary. Parlow must have scared them but good. Limit the risks, limit the exposure. They knew it’d be beyond stupid to go after your mom and her family. And so they did something else.”

Rachael said, “Fine, aren’t you brilliant. Just what did they do? I didn’t think anyone knew about Slipper Hollow.”

Gillette sighed. “It wouldn’t be hard, Rachael, think about it.”

Jack said, “Gillette’s right. Not hard at all. They researched you, Rachael, found out about Gillette and where he lives. After the failure in Parlow, they must have looked for another destination, and found it.”

Gillette said, “I guess I wanted this place to be off the map. Nothing’s off the map in this day and age. I’m an idiot.” He shook his head. “Oh yeah, there would be FedEx records, property records, asking at the local post office where my P.O. box is, any number of ways to track me down.”

Jack said to Rachael, “I should have hauled your butt to the Arizona desert.”

Gillette looked over at his bullet-riddled front door, at all the beautiful windows, now shot to pieces, the gouges in the walls, the shattered hall mirror.

Jack said, “While we’re waiting for Sheriff Hollyfield, let’s start fixing that door and boarding up the windows. You gonna use FedEx to deliver new windows?”

“Probably, but I might take myself off their database,” Gillette said.

“I’m so sorry, Uncle Gillette,” Rachael said. “It’s all my fault.”

“Don’t piss me off, Rachael,” Gillette said, and tugged her braid.

It wasn’t until that evening, right before dark, that Jack discovered the gunmen had found and disabled Rachael’s Charger.

TWENTY-ONE

Washington Memorial Hospital Washington, D.C.

Wednesday morning

Dr. MacLean’s eyes weren’t drug-bright anymore; he was alert and laughing with a nurse when Savich and Sherlock came into his room.

He looked over at them, smiled. “I remember you two from yesterday. You’re the FBI agents who work with Jackson.” He shrugged. “Jackson told me the young lady with him—Rachael, I believe her name is—saved our hides after he brought the plane down. They left ten minutes ago, said you were on your way.”

The nurse, Louise Conver, gave Dr. MacLean a smile and left. “Yes,” Savich said, “we saw them in the lobby. They told us you’re feeling much better this morning.”

The neurologist had told them the disease was unpredictable and everyone was different. Savich prayed Dr. MacLean would remember enough of their conversation the day before so they wouldn’t have to begin all over.

MacLean said thoughtfully, “I always told his daddy I never liked the shortened version of his name, so he’ll stay Jackson to me. Fact is, I threw footballs with him, taught him how to pitch a curveball, gave him pointers on how to psychoanalyze his sister’s lemonade customers. He set up a stand right next to hers. Unlike Charlie Brown’s Lucy, Jackson charged ten cents for a three-minute reading and, ah, dispensing advice. He was ten years old, I believe.”

“How did he treat his customers?” Sherlock asked.

“I believe he looked at the men’s palms, and for the women, he swished the remains of the lemonade in the bottom of their paper cups and studied the arrangement of the pulp.

“That was the first time I realized how intuitive he was. His mother closed him down after he counseled a neighbor to stop sleeping with Mrs. Hinkley, who lived two blocks over. He and his sister Jennifer made a bundle that summer.

“Listen, I can tell something’s going on with him and that young lady—Rachael—but he claimed everything was fine, all the bandages were for dippy stuff, all the result of our plane crash. I told him my injuries hadn’t made me stupid, but evidently his had. Rachael laughed. Jackson said she was an interior designer. She told me since I’m not going to be in this room for much longer, she wouldn’t bother coming up with a new color scheme. She managed to distract me, and then they left, so I’m asking you: What’s going on with Jackson? Don’t try telling me it’s only about me and my problems.”

Savich nodded. “You’re right, he is involved in some pretty hinky things. But you know he’s good. He’ll be fine. Try not to worry. The staff told us your wife stayed with you all last evening. You must have been very pleased to have her back from Lexington. Are you expecting her this morning?”

Sherlock realized, watching Dr. MacLean’s face, that his wife was the ultimate distraction.

MacLean said in a huff, “I told Molly not to come back today, that I’m not going anywhere and she doesn’t have to worry—she’d just piss me off with all her nagging, her never-ending litany about finding us a little beach house in Bermuda. At least the rest of the family is still in Lexington. That crew would bring down the hospital. I threatened them on pain of death not to come here and drive me nuts.” He grinned real big. “Hey, I guess I already am nuts.”

Time to get to it. Sherlock dove right in. “Dr. MacLean, do you remember what we spoke about yesterday?”

“My brain might be executing a big-time tailspin into never-never land, but I do remember our conversation from yesterday. It’s true, sometimes I don’t. But yesterday, yeah, I remember everything. I told you about two of my patients, something I shouldn’t have done. But you’re FBI, so I suppose I have no choice since some jerk-face is trying to murder me. I’d sing it to you in an aria if I had to.

“Actually, telling you about those particular people was amusing. And you can call me Timothy.” They nodded, and he continued. “By the way, the FBI agent guarding my door, Tomlin, he’s come in a couple of times, told me I’m not to worry because he never snoozes on the job and he’s one tough bud, raised by a mom, a police lieutenant, who, according to him, shut down a gang in Detroit.” He grinned as he looked from Savich to Sherlock. “He also told me you guys were in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago, playing with psychic mediums. Talk about weird yahoos.”

“Agent Tomlin is a crackerjack,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t know his mom was such a hotshot.”

Timothy laughed. “I’ll tell him that next time he comes in to see me.”

Sherlock asked, “How are you feeling this morning, sir?”

“I still feel like I’m busted up all over, but I took a hit of pain meds maybe five minutes ago, so soon that will translate into feeling mighty fine, thank you.” He frowned, then said with all the innocence of a child, “I remember it clearly. I was telling you about Congresswoman Dolores McManus.”

“Yes,” Savich said. “And how she murdered her first husband.”

Timothy sighed, then smiled beatifically “Fact is, she popped out with it under hypnosis—you know, surprised the crap out of me. I couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. At first I thought she was pulling my leg, but no, that wasn’t possible, she was indeed well under.

“I only wish I’d instructed her to forget everything she’d told me when I brought her out of it, but I was so flustered by what she’d said, I didn’t.”

Sherlock said, “Why don’t you tell us exactly what she said so we can follow up on it.”

For several moments MacLean looked uncertain. Even after saying he’d tell them everything, they could see him battling with himself. Then the disease must have blunted his concerns, or his sense of self-preservation exerted itself, because he said, his voice smooth, like a man carrying on a superficial social conversation, “Like I told you already, Dolores was married young, to a trucker, had two kids, and managed to get herself a communications degree before she was twenty-five. Life happened, as it always does, but with her it took an interesting twist. She had a big mouth, you see, and she wasn’t afraid ofanything. She started getting a reputation for taking on the big dogs, sometimes even bringing them down. This made her adjust her thinking about what she wanted and how she was going to get it.

“Her trucker husband, however, didn’t want to get with the program. He wanted his wife waiting for him at home, a beer for him in her hand. He threatened to hurt her, to take the kids, whatever.

“She believed, she told me, that he would beat her. But the kids? The last one was out of the house in another six months so that wasn’t a problem. But he was—a great big honking problem.

“So Dolores got to thinking. Who would vote for a congress-woman with a macho trucker lor a husband? She knew this guy wouldn’t rocket her to the stars, which she felt she deserved. For her that was winning a political office, one that paid her. He would only underscore her lack of any working credentials and what had been, to date, a worthless education.

“Then, all of a sudden, this middle-aged woman proceeded to tell me that her husband was eighteen-wheeling on one of his regular runs through Alabama. When he pulled into his favorite truck stop to eat at the small diner, someone stepped out of the shadows and shot him dead.

“Then Dolores said, ‘Watch this,’ and she manufactured instant tears, told me this was how she acted when the cops came to her house—you know, ‘Oh, how horrible, it must be a mistake, not my Lukey, oh God, what am I going to do, what about my poor fatherless children,’ that sort of thing. Then she told me she swooned—the shock, you know. Then suddenly, she started laughing. She nearly hyperventilated she laughed so hard. She told me between hiccups how she’d hired this thug from Savannah to shoot Lukey, paid him five hundred bucks, told him where to do it. She was very pleased with herself, with her ultimate solution to getting elected to Congress. I was so shocked I brought her out of it. She remembered exactly what she’d said, of course, and so there it all was, the eight-hundred-pound moose in the middle of my office. I told her she was my patient and I would never break confidentiality. Still, I could tell she was spooked. I never expected to see her again, and I didn’t. You think Dolores is the one out to kill me?”

“She sounds like a better possibility than Lomas Clapman,” Savich said. “What she came to see you about professionally, any motive there if revealed?”

“Probably not, her stepfather sexually abused her, and she was having nightmares about it on and off during the past year. It was driving her nuts, and so she came to see me. What brought it on? She didn’t know but that was the reason for the hypnosis—to take her back, to relive it, I guess you could say, in a controlled environment. But this is what popped out.”

Savich nodded. “Okay, there was another patient the bartender heard you talking about, right? Pierre Barbeau.”

“Ah, yes, Pierre. I nearly forgot. Pierre is very smart, knows his way in and out of the intelligence community. I’ve known him and his wife, Estelle, and his son, Jean David, for years. Molly and I played golf with them, socialized a bit with them. We weren’t best friends, but we had a pleasant acquaintanceship, I guess you could call it.

“Anyway, Pierre’s a high-up liaison between the French National Police and our CIA. He’s arrogant and rather vain, but you’d expect that because he’s French, and over the years I just laughed at him when he’d go on and on about the superiority of the French. Blah blah blah, I tell him.

“Then, out of the blue, he called me, said he was in turmoil—that was his word—and he needed my help.

“Turns out it was about his son, Jean David, who, interestingly enough, was an American citizen, born unexpectedly three weeks early on vacation in Cape May, New Jersey, twenty-six years old, a Harvard graduate, very analytical, very bright, a nice guy, maybe even smarter than his old man, a strategic information analyst for the CIA, with a focus on the Middle East.

“Yeah, I can see you’re getting the picture here. About six months ago lean David got involved with a young woman who said she was a graduate student and worked part-time for a charitable group funding education in the Middle East. Of course, the group was only a cover, and she was actually gathering money here in the U.S. for terrorist groups, and recruiting. She found the gold at the end of the rainbow in Jean David.

“It wouldn’t have been all that big a deal if Jean David had, for example, been a Maytag repairman, but since he was an analyst in the CIA, we’re talking a major problem for him.

“About a month and a half ago Jean David let her see some sensitive material pinpointing the whereabouts of some of our operatives in Pakistan—showing off, I guess, to impress her.

“The CIA realized they had a big-ass problem almost immediately what with the murder of two operatives, and went on full alert. Jean David realized he was in deep trouble, so he told his father about the woman he’d met and fallen for.”

“Do you recall the name of this woman, Timothy?” Sherlock asked.

“It was something really sweet, like Mary—no, it was Anna. I don’t know her last name. Pierre didn’t know what to do. He came to me as a friend and in confidence to ask about the possibility of my defending his son legally from a psychiatric standpoint, maybe argue the boy was delusional or brainwashed and not legally responsible, and because he was worried about his son’s mental health. I told him that no psychiatric diagnosis would keep Jean David out of prison in a case like this. I agreed to see him, of course, but only if Jean David confessed his crime to the authorities. Many operatives might still be in danger, and the authorities needed to know about the security breach. In fact, I told Pierre it was ethically impossible for me to keep it a secret under these circumstances and that I would tell the authorities if Jean David did not.”

TWENTY-TWO

MacLean paused, closed his eyes, and Sherlock asked, “What happened, Timothy?”

“Now I’ve got to speak about Jean David in the past tense. I can’t tell you how I hate that. You already know about his death, don’t you?”

“Yes. Tell us what happened.”

“All right. A week after I spoke to Pierre, Jean David drowned in a boating accident on the Potomac. Bad weather hit—a squall, I guess you’d call it, vicious winds whipping up the water. The bad weather was expected but still Jean David and his father went out fishing for striped bass. Pierre always believed you caught more fish in the middle of a high storm. They were heading back because the fog was coming in real thick when the rocking and rolling got to him, and he got real sick and vomited over the side of the boat. Then it gets sketchy. A speedboat evidently didn’t see them in the rain and fog and rammed right into them. Pierre was tossed overboard. Jean David jumped in to save his father. So did one of the guys from the other boat. They managed to save Pierre, but Jean David drowned. Theysearched and searched, but they couldn’t find his body.

“Pierre was distraught, and as sick as he was, he kept diving and searching, but it was no use. Jean David was ruled dead, and his death was ruled accidental two weeks ago. Was it really an accident? I know what you’re thinking—Pierre and Jean David set it up between them to get him out of Washington. But, you see, there was the speedboat, and the people on board witnessed everything. They’d never heard of Pierre Barbeau. I believe that. I spoke to Pierre before he called me a murderer and hung up on me. He was grief-stricken. His son was dead and he blamed me for it. I strongly doubt Pierre could feign grief like that, at least not to me. I spoke to some mutual friends, and they agreed that both Pierre and Estelle were wrecks. He was their only child, and now he’s dead at twenty-six. Because of me.”

Sherlock said pleasantly, “You know that’s ridiculous, Dr. MacLean. As a psychiatrist, you also know that when people are grieving, particularly when they’ve lost a loved one in a stupid accident, they try to apportion blame. You know it’s natural, you’ve doubtless seen it countless times in your practice.

“Now, if you say something like that again, I will tell Molly and she’ll deal with you.”

He was frowning at her words, but at the threat about his wife, his mouth split into a grin. “Oh, all right, I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Damn, I sure wish Pierre had never asked to see me. I’ve waded in quagmires before, but I’ve never been sucked down quite so deep.”

Savich said, “So you told Pierre Barbeau that Jean David had to go to the authorities and confess or you were constrained morally and ethically to report him to the police?”

“Yes. It’s like being a priest in the confessional. If the person making the confession is planning to do imminent harm, the priest has no choice but to go to the authorities. Would I have gone to the police? Actually I forgot all about it once I was in Lexington. I would hope they know exactly what Jean David did by now, but tomorrow, maybe I’ll check in with the CIA, make sure nobody else is at risk.”

Sherlock said, “You don’t actually know if the CIA has tracked the information leak back to Jean David?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to the Barbeaus, either, since that afternoon when I called to express my condolences and Pierre screamed at me.

“But whatever the CIA has found, trust me, it won’t make the evening news. The CIA’ll keep it under wraps, particularly now that Jean David is dead. They’ll simply bury it.”

They would, of course, Savich knew, but perhaps he could find out what they knew and what they didn’t know, make sure for himselfthat all the other vulnerable operatives were safe. He said, “This is a tragedy that devastates, Timothy; it can make people act out of character, make them insane. I didn’t feel a motive with Lomas Clapman or Congresswoman McManus, but here, it’s bright and shiny, this beacon of grief. Do you think Pierre Barbeau could come after you, revenge for what he believes is your fault?”

MacLean squeezed his eyes closed and whispered, “This utter consumption of self by inconsolable grief—I’ve seen it before. But Pierre? I don’t know; I doubt it, though. I’ll tell you, any murder attempts from that quarter would come from Estelle. She’s the one who’d want me dead, not Pierre. Estelle would bust the balls off a coconut.

“I read people very well, agents, and I’ll tell you, what Pierre knows, Estelle knows. She’s the driver on that marriage bus. I’ll bet you Pierre didn’t tell her he was coming to ask me for help. But if he told her afterward, Estelle would see me as a danger to both her and her husband. Even with Jean David dead, she’d be afraid that I’d stir up talk. And of course there’s her family in France. I met them a couple of years ago. I’lltell you, I wouldn’t want to be on their bad side.

“I have other patients with what you might call embarrassing incidents in their pasts, but not with any more juice than these three.”

Savich said, “If you recall, Timothy, you blocked us from getting a list of all your patients. I hope you’ve since changed your mind. I really don’t want anyone to kill you on my watch.”

MacLean nodded. “You’ll have the list as soon as I can get my receptionist to go into the office and make you a disk.” They listened to him make the phone call. When he hung up, he said, “In a couple of hours she’ll bring it here. I’m seeing the specialist from Duke again this afternoon. I don’t know why he’s making the trip since there’s not a thing he can do but nod and try to look both wise and sorrowful about my condition. He’s going to tell me what to expect in the future. Isn’t that nice of him, the insensitive clod? As if I don’t already know what my life is going to be like before I croak—which might be soon, if the person out to kill me succeeds. Maybe that would be a good thing. Then this mess—namely me— would be history.”

Sherlock said, looking him straight in the eye, “Here’s what I think: none of us knows what medical science will come up with next. Whatever weird diseases we contract could be helped or even cured next week or maybe next year. We simply don’t know.

“I have a friend hanging on by his fingernails hoping for better antirejection drugs so he can have a pancreas transplant. And the thing is, it could happen. I know he wants to live. He has hope, boundless hope. As a doctor, sir, you should have hope, too.”

She paused, her voice a quiet promise. “We will do our very best to keep you safe. If someone knocks you off after we’ve worked our butts off to keep you alive, I’ll be extraordinarily pissed, Timothy. Forever.”

He stared at her for a moment, then grinned hugely, showing silver on his back teeth, before pressing his head into the hard hospital pillow.

When they left, Agent Tomlin’s sexy smile wasn’t returned. It fellright off his face when he realized Agent Sherlock was upset.

Sherlock looked straight ahead as she and Dillon walked to the elevator. “Given this horrible disease, given there’s no cure, and finally, given what will happen, without fail—I think I might kill myself if I were him. All the rest is hooey.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Savich said, as he pressed the button in the empty car. “You believe exactly what you told Timothy. Life gives and life takes. The thing is, you simply never know, can never predict, and given the pace of science, you put up with what’s on your plate, you do your best with the hand you’re dealt, and you hope.”

She leaned into him, sighed. “Some things are so sad. I hate feeling helpless.”

“I do, too.”

When the elevator doors slid open Savich and Sherlock stepped into the lobby to see Jack and Rachael walking toward them.

Jack said, “I just got a call from Ollie, and was on my way up to you guys. You won’t believe this. Timothy’s office was torched early this morning, his computer toasted, hard disk destroyed, all his hard-copy files burned to a crisp.”

Sherlock raised her eyes to the heavens. “Why can’t things ever shake out easy?” She kicked at a big ceramic flower pot with fake red geraniums in it.

“You don’t even seem concerned, Jack,” Savich said. “What do you know that we don’t?”

“It so happens Molly gave me his laptop, and it has all his patients on it.”

“Make note of this, Rachael. Jack here’s a prince,” Savich said. “I was looking forward to a lovely eggplant po’ boy for lunch, and now you’ve made that possible.”

“Eggplant?” Rachael repeated, and looked astonished. “An eggplant po’ boy?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, smiling, “grilled in only a soupcon of olive oil, available only in our cafeteria on the seventh floor of the Hoover building. Elaine Pomfrey makes the best vegetarian sandwiches in Washington, and this one she prepares especially for Dillon. Thank you, Jack, for having that great news.”

Savich said to Rachael, “You and Jack need to go to Senator Abbott’s house—your house—get all your stuff. Then we’re going to put you in a safe house.”

Rachael smiled at all three of them. “Nope, no safe house in this lifetime. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: I intend to have a chat this very afternoon with Aunt Laurel and Uncle Quincy, after I have some nice crispy fried chicken, maybe a biscuit and mashed potatoes in your famous cafeteria. But I don’t want to hear any more about hiding.”

Jack said to Savich, “I’ve got some more convincing to do, evidently.”

Sherlock said, “By the way, the blood samples from two of the shooters from Slipper Hollow are in the lab. We’ll soon know if those bozos are in the system. Still no word from any medical facilities about the guy you shot in Gillette’s kitchen, Jack.”

“Maybe they’re both dead,” Rachael said, and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Savich held up his hand. “It’s one o’clock. I’m starving. Let’s discuss this over my eggplant po’ boy.” He looked at Rachael. “And your fried chicken.”

Jack said, “What about the guy Rachael shot in Roy Bob’s garage? Roderick Lloyd?”

“He’s got himself a lawyer, still refuses to say a word,” Sherlock said. “Our agents searched his apartment, found some credit card receipts that might give us the gold. Lloyd has been to the Blue Fox restaurant over on Maynard four or five times in the past two weeks.

“Our agent found out Lloyd brought a Lolita with him the past three times, according to one of the waiters, who said she gave him her cell number. We should know who she is anytime now. As for Lloyd, at least he’s no longer a danger to anybody.”

Rachael said as they walked to the hospital parking lot, “I need a gun. Do you have one to lend me, Sherlock?”

“Look, Rachael, I know you’re a fine shot, I know your life is on the line here, but I’d be breaking the law if I gave you one.”

Not wonderful news, but Rachael said, “Okay, I understand. Hey, I wasn’t thinking—I bet Jimmy kept one at home.”

Savich and Jack both opened their mouths but Sherlock held up her hand. “No, guys, if there’s a gun at home, then what’s wrong with her defending herself? It’s not as if she’s not trained and might shoot somebody who doesn’t deserve it.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“I don’t like this,” Jack said. “I really don’t.”

“Get over it,” Sherlock said, and looked at her husband. “No, no, bad dog, keep quiet.”

They stopped by the Criminal Apprehension Unit on the fifth floor, introduced Rachael to all the agents present. Ollie showed her a photo of his wile and his little boy. In the cafeteria, while Savich was eating his eggplant po’ boy and Rachael was chewing on a fried chicken leg, Sherlock’s cell rang. She swallowed a bite of taco, then answered.

She hung up barely a minute later. “We’ve got the name of Lolita—the young girl who was with Roderick Lloyd. The cell phone number she gave the waiter is for a phone that belongs to a married grad student who admitted giving the phone to a hooker in exchange for her services. He gave us her name.”

Sherlock beamed. “Angel Snodgrass is in juvie over in Fairfax.” Twenty minutes later, she and Savich were in his new Porsche, zipping out of the Hoover garage.

TWENTY-THREE

Angel Snodgrass was sixteen years old, blessed with long, thick natural blond hair, soft baby-blue eyes, and a face clean of makeup.

She did indeed look like an angel. An undercover vice cop had busted her for soliciting outside the Grove Creek Inn at the big Hammerson mall in Fairfax.

“Angel? I’m Special Agent Savich and this is Special Agent Sherlock. FBI. We’d like to speak to you.”

She folded her very white hands on the table in front of her and stared at them. Her nails were short, clean, and nicely buffed. “Why are you special?”

Savich grinned. “The way I hear it, up until the time Hoover took over, the FBI was a mess—no background checks, no training, a playground for thugs. Hoover changed all that, announced his agents would from that time on be special, and so it became our title. There are lots of other special agents now, but we were the first.” Savich wasn’t at all sure if that was entirely true, but it sounded like it might be.

Angel thought about this for a while as she studied his face. “Who’s Hoover?” she asked.

“Ah, well, he was a long time ago. Where’s home, Angel?” he asked her.

“Since I’m not going back there, I’m not saying.”

“Why were you turning tricks?” Sherlock asked.

Angel shrugged. “I wanted a Big Mac. Lots of businessmen are in and out of the Grove Creek Inn, and there are lots of guys at the mall. Since I’m so young and pretty, they usually tip me real good, too. If that cop hadn’t nabbed me, I could have had a dozen Big Macs. Now, it’s just the crap they claim is food in this pit. What do you special guys want anyway?”

Had she been abused before she finally ran away? Savich knew this girl would get counseled here, that there would be a shot at straightening her out.

Sherlock sat forward in her chair. “We need your help, Angel. The waiter you gave your cell number to at the Blue Fox restaurant told us you were with Roderick Lloyd. We need you to tell us about him.”

“Why? What’d Roddy do?”

Savich studied her, her eyes, her body movements. “Thing is, Angel, Roddy’s a very bad man. He’s in a hospital in western Virginia right now because he tried to murder a woman. It’s good for her that she’s smart and fast, got herself a rifle and shot him instead.”

Angel nodded, tapped her fingers on the tabletop, tossed her head, sending all that beautiful blond hair swinging away from her head to settle again on her shoulders and down her back. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Roddy is always blowing hard, bragging, like that, telling me how important he is, how when there’s a problem, he’s the one folks call to solve it. He was all puffed up when he told me he had to go out of town for a couple of days, take care of this situation for a real important dude. He didn’t give me a name, if that’s what you’re wondering.

“I was wondering why Roddy hasn’t called me, then I realized my cell is dead and I can’t charge it since Roddy locked me out of his apartment. Is he going to die?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “but he’s not in terribly good shape. Lost the use of both of his hands for a while.”

“I was thinking he was a hit man, like that,” Angel said, looking over Savich’s right shoulder, her voice calm. “I can see him blowing it, too. I mean even in bed he was always too fast off the mark, didn’t really think things through, you know? No surprise he’d screw up a hit.”

“Did he tell you about this situation he had to handle?” Savich asked. He pulled a pack of sugarless gum from his pocket, offered her a stick.

She took it, peeled the wrapper with long white fingers, stuck it into her mouth. She chewed, then sighed. “Well, this isn’t a Big Mac, but it’s not bad. Thanks, Special Agent.”

“You’re welcome.” They chewed in companionable silence, then Savich said, “About the situation Roddy had to handle—we’d sure appreciate your telling us exactly what you know about it.”

A flicker of alarm widened her eyes.

Savich said easily, “The woman he tried to kill, the woman who shot him instead, she’s still in danger, from the people or person who hired Roddy. Did he tell you anything?”

Angel began tapping her fingers again on the scarred tabletop. Savich wasn’t blind, he saw the gleam in her innocent blue eyes. Ah, so they had a budding deal maker on their hands. “Nah,” Angel began, “he didn’t tell me a thing, and I don’t know anything—”

Savich interrupted her smoothly. “If you help us, I’ll make sure you get the reward. It’s ... ah ... I’m not really sure, maybe five hundred bucks, depending on the information.”

“That’s bullshit,” Angel said.

“Well, yeah,” Savich admitted, “but the thing is, it’d buy a lot of Big Macs and a new charger for your cell phone.”

“Hmm,” Angel said. “How do I know I can trust you? I mean, you’re pretty hot, but you’re still a federal cop. It’d take weeks, maybe years before I’d get the reward.”

Savich pulled out his wallet, saw her eyes were glued to it. He slowly peeled out five one-hundred-dollar bills, the entire amount he’d gotten from his ATM that morning. “To prove you can trust me, I’ll advance the reward. It’s yours if what you tell us is useful.” She never looked away from the stack of bills. “The first one’s on account,” Savich said, and pushed one of the bills to her, “to prove my good intent.” Angel grabbed it and stuffed it in her bra.

“There’s nothing like green next to your skin,” she said, and gave him a huge smile. “Okay, I can give you useful stuff. After three bourbons, straight up, Roddy started bitching, told me he should be paid more to handle this situation. Roddy always talked like that— you know, making words sound important. He said it was pissant dough for his talents, like that. I almost shouted at him, ‘Dude, you’re old and nasty, who’d want to pay you anything?’ But I had a nice place to stay and Roddy was easy and fast in bed, so I kept my trap shut. Roddy said it was a real rush deal. He was going in and out of this hick town like right now, and so he didn’t have time to check anything out, said he hated going in blind, but from what I could tell, that’s what he always did, just waltzed right in somewhere and hoped for the best. What a dumbass. Is that useful?”

“Not very,” Savich said, and fingered a second hundred, his eyes on her face.

Angel’s hands fluttered toward the second bill. She said, “Okay, I’ll admit I was listening when the phone rang—that’s how I knew he got the job. He knew whoever it was, and he was real respectful, assured whoever it was that he could handle anything, to trust him, lame stuff like that.”

“He didn’t say a name?”

“No, he listened, then kept telling whoever it was that he’d take care of it, no problem.”

“When he hung up, what did he say?”

“He said he had to move fast, that he had to drive to this hick town in Kentucky tomorrow, he had to leave real early Monday morning. Oh yeah, he wrote down lots of stuff. Directions, I guess. Then this photo came through his fax machine.”

Savich pushed the second hundred-dollar bill across the table. It disappeared into her bra.

“Okay, the fax—it was a woman, young, pretty, okay blond hair”—she tossed her head again—”but she had this real cool braid. So I asked him what he was going to do to her and he said, nothing much, just put out her lights, and he slogged down another shot of bourbon. While he poured, I picked up her photo—it was off a driver’s license, but like I said, I could tell she was pretty even though the picture was lousy. When I get a driver’s license I’m going to sleep with the guy taking the pictures so I can get me a good one.”

Savich began to smooth out the third one-hundred-dollar bill.

“He grabbed the fax from me, started talking to himself, like, ‘I need a full clip, maybe two, that’ll do it. Cheap bastards,’ on and on like that, you know?”

Bastards. Plural. Savich nodded. “Angel, by any chance did Roddy ever use your cell phone?”

She thought about that, and Savich could see her mental wheels spinning. “Well, yeah, maybe, a couple of times.”

“How long ago did the graduate student trade your services for a cell phone?”

“Well, I guess I should tell you I gave that grad student a smiley face when I was living with Roddy.”

“And you still have your cell?”

“Yeah, sure, but like I told you, it’s deader than the fish my uncle Bobby shot out of the water when he was aiming for my little brother.”

No, Savich thought, don’t go there. “I’d like to borrow your cell phone, Angel. I’ll return it. In fact, I’ll pay you a rental fee. What do you say?”

Greed gleamed in those innocent eyes. “How much you willing to pay me? It’s a good phone, lots of fancy things on it. Well, to be honest here, and that hurts real bad, I don’t think it’s got many minutes on it now.”

“However many minutes you’ve got will be perfect,” Savich said.

“You know, a cell phone’s like a guy; if you don’t plug him in every night, charge him good, you got nothing at all.”

Savich slid two bills across the table as Angel dug her cell phone out of her pocket. “I need some lipstick, but they wouldn’t give me my purse. They didn’t take my cell because it’s dead, I guess.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll return it nicely charged.” Savich rose, left the last hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Sherlock, why don’t you give Angel your lipstick. It’s a real pretty shade. See if you can’t make her earn that last hundred.”

He said to Angel, “I’ll see you soon. I think your information was so valuable that I’m going to speak to the people in charge and have all charges dropped.”

She gaped at him.

He held up his hand. “Wait, Angel. I will do this if you swear to me you’ll call this number.” He handed her a card. “This guy helps kids like you. Will you call him?”

He saw the lie in her eyes. “Oh yes, Mr. Special Agent, I’ll call ... Mr. Hanratty right away.”

He shook her hand and left her and Sherlock to look at the lipstick. He joined the assistant director of the facility, Mrs. Limber, in the hallway. “It’s going very well,” he told her. “Thanks for letting us deal with her alone. I’m going to see if I can’t get her released.”

Mrs. Limber, soft as a pillow and wearing huge glasses, patted his shoulder. “Angel has guts and brains, but she’s got a larcenous soul. Some do, you know.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know, but—”

“She’s also a freight train—she won’t stop. I see you’ve got Angel’s dead cell phone. Would you like to borrow a charger?”

Inside the small interview room, Sherlock smiled at the lovely shade of dark pink Angel smoothed on her lips. “Very nice. Yep, you keep it, the mirror, too.”

“I want a Big Mac,” Angel said, and tossed her hair.

Sherlock fingered the last hundred. “Why don’t you tell me how you met Roddy.”

When Sherlock found Savich, he was sitting under a tree in front of the detention facility humming and playing with Angel’s cell. He looked up. “Did she earn the last hundred?”

“Yep, and now our budding Donald Trump owns my lipstick, mirror, and a comb. Oh yeah, she told me you should keep her cell; with all the cash she got off you, she’s going to buy herself a Venus. She can’t wait to leave this place in the dust. I don’t know, Dillon, I just don’t know.”

“Sometimes you gotta cut the fish loose. You’re not going to believe what I found on the cell.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Baltimore, Maryland

Wednesday afternoon

“This has got to be heaven.”

Rachael stared around the large reception area on the thirtieth floor of the Abbott-Cavendish building on the corner of South Calvert Street. Her breathing quickened. “Oh my, would you look at those beauties. Jimmy told me Laurel is an expert on Chippendale furniture and filled the place with originals, but he never brought me here, said he couldn’t stand the stuff.” She looked around at the mint-condition Chippendale chairs and tables and felt her pulse race. “He was wrong,” she said, lightly running her fingers over a chair back. “How could anyone hate these? They’re exquisite. Just touch the wood, Jack, so smooth and perfect. It’s mahogany from the West Indies. And this chair leg—it’s called the cabriole leg, his signature form.”

Jack looked at the elegantly curved chair leg, at the turned feet, then back at her. He said slowly, “I knew you could come into my house and do this and that and it’d look a lot nicer than it does now, but you also know all about antiques?”

“Particularly Chippendale. Would you look at that lowboy, at the elaborate carving. It screams eighteenth century. Do you know he never used a maker’s mark? To prove authenticity, you need to be able to trace the piece back to the original invoice.”

What was a lowboy? Was she joking? An invoice from the eighteenth century?

Jack said, “No, I didn’t know that.” He listened to her talk about how Americans like Queen Anne splats and kidney-shaped seats, how they prefer cherrywood to mahogany. Those fancy cabriole legs sank at least three inches into the thick, expensive carpeting. You couldn’t pay him to sit in one of those chairs.

“And the three Turners,” Rachael went on. “Jimmy did like those paintings. I remember him telling me about them. They belonged to his mother.” She looked around the reception area, lust in her eyes. “To have a huge budget to decorate a space like this—wouldn’t that be something? I decorated a half-dozen commercial spaces in and around Richmond. I had to work my butt off to be both creative and cheap.”

“Did your clients appreciate what you did?”

“They all did, and that’s nice. Actually I prefer being in on the design process itself, though, creating a space for a specific look and a specific function. My client list was growing nicely before I went to meet Jimmy.”

They heard a throat clear and looked over at two young women and two young men seated behind a huge swath of highly polished mahogany, each seated at an individual computer station, all nicely dressed, all working industriously on keyboards or speaking in hushed voices on phones. Except for one young woman, who had a raised eyebrow and beautiful fingernails.

Jack smiled at Rachael, nodded toward the young woman. “Let’s go hassle that bright-eyed young lass at reception, see where our prey is.”

The young lass—her tag read Julia—looked suspicious at first, then fell victim to Jack’s smile, a phenomenon Rachael had already observed a couple of times. It seemed Julia couldn’t help herself, she loosened up, smiled back at him. “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

Jack opened his wallet, showed her his creds.

Julia’s smiled wavered.

“We’d like to see Ms. Kostas, Julia.”

“Ah, well, yes, may I tell her what it’s about?”

“No,” he said. Then he smiled that lethal smile again, lowered his voice. “National security.”

Julia immediately rang a number and spoke quietly.

“I’ll show you to her office,” she said. They followed her down a wide hallway with Stubbs horse paintings on the walls. There were half a dozen niches along the way holding antique vases filled with lush trailing ivy, warmed by small circular overhead lights.

Julia knocked lightly on a set of mahogany double doors, opened t hem, and they stepped into a large rectangular room furnished with spare, plain blond Scandinavian furniture, not a single antique in the place. Lots of windows filled the room with afternoon sunlight and views to die for, but still the office felt cold.

“Ms. Kostas, this is Special Agent Crowne and, ah ...” Julia turned brick red because she’d neglected to ask Rachael her name.

“I know who she is, Julia. You may leave us now.”

Jack had read all about Laurel Abbott Kostas on the drive over to Abbott Enterprises International headquarters in Baltimore. He’d studied several unflattering photos of her. She wasn’t by any stretch a beauty. Still, given the wealth factor, he’d expected her to have at least a hint of glam, designer everything, but there wasn’t a scintilla of pizzazz in this woman. Her eyes never left Rachael as she slowly walked toward them. Her hair was neither short nor long, salt-and-pepper, not a sophisticated salt-and-pepper like his mom’s, whose hair was cut in a swinging bob, but flat, drab, and coarse. She wore no earrings, no makeup to soften the sharp angles of her face. Her eyes beneath thick black brows were cold stone gray, her mouth pinched and small. She was wearing a plain gray suit and low-heeled pumps, her sole jewelry a wedding band. She didn’t look fat or thin; what she looked like was a cold and hard matron, or a prison warden. She wasn’t smiling. She looked older than her fifty-one years. He wondered what she’d looked like at twenty-one, what she’d looked like when she married Stefanos Kostas at age thirty-five.

“Hello, Aunt Laurel.”

Laurel Abbott Kostas looked at Rachael with a combination of distaste and indifference, and there was something else, something feral in those stone cold eyes of hers. “You are a bastard, Ms. Janes. It’s very possible you are not even my brother’s unfortunate mistake. I am not your aunt, nor are you and I on a first-name basis.”

Rachael said, “Actually, I’m no longer a bastard, which means you are indeed my aunt. Didn’t Jimmy tell you and Quincy that he adopted me? I became his legal daughter five days before his death. His lawyer, Mr. Cullifer, said the entire process took only five weeks, less time than it took the mechanic to fix his Jag, and then he smiled and said money and influence are very fine things.”

“A fine tale, Ms. Janes. You will not call the senator by that ridiculous low-class name. His name was John James Abbott Junior.”

“He told me until I could get used to the idea of calling him Dad, I was to call him Jimmy. And now I’ll never have that chance.”

Laurel Kostas’s hands clenched at her sides. “He did that to get back at us.” She sucked in a breath, calmed herself. Jack saw the take-no-prisoners iron in her, the formidable opponent who’d tear your heart out before breakfast, or, like Rachael had said, he could easily see her sucking the blood from your jugular. Old Man Abbott must have been proud of her. She looked briefly at Jack, dismissed him, then back at Rachael. “All right, you bullied your way in here. What’s this nonsense about national security? What do you really want?”

“We’re here about Jimmy’s death.”

Her eyes turned colder, if possible, and her mouth seamed as she said in her very precise voice, “What about his unfortunate death?”

“He didn’t just die, he was murdered.”

“That is absolute nonsense. Senator Abbott’s death was a tragic accident. It was ruled an accident by the police.”

“Greg Nichols, his senior staffer, knew it wasn’t an accident.”

“Everyone spoke to Greg Nichols. He was shocked and saddened by the tragedy. He believed it an accident, as well.

“It has nothing to do with you, Ms. Janes—yes, I will call you that until I have proof you have told me the truth. Brady Cullifer would have called both Quincy and me if you had been legally adopted; he would have warned us. But he did not.”

“Perhaps,” Rachael said, “Mr. Cullifer didn’t call you because he considered it a confidential matter.”

“There are no confidences in a family, Ms. Janes. However, regardless of any legalities, I will never recognize you as an Abbott. I want you to get out of here. I never want to look at your face after today. You managed to bilk my brother out of his money and his property, that wonderful house in Chevy Chase where we all grew up. It’s in your hands, a stranger’s hands. Bastard or not, you have won. Get out of here before I call security.”

Rachael said easily, “I brought security with me, Mrs. Kostas. Don’t you remember? This is Special Agent Jackson Crowne, with the FBI.”

Laurel put out her hand. Short buffed nails, clear polish, but the thumbnails were chewed to the quick. Jack handed her his shield, watched her study it for an aeon before handing it back. “So,” she said, “this pathetic girl managed to talk the FBI into revisiting this national tragedy. Has she accused us of murdering Senator Abbott?”

“Actually, ma’am, we have a lot of questions, not only about Senator Abbott’s death.”

“You won’t for much longer,” Laurel said, reaching for her phone, and she turned her back to them. Jack hoped she wasn’t calling her lawyer. He really didn’t want to have to deal with that.

Jack had faced down monsters during his years in the FBI’s Elite Crime Unit, and remembered every single one of them with utter clarity, but in this woman’s presence, listening to her low, clipped voice, he felt a sort of black coldness in her.

He purposefully turned away and led Rachael to the huge windows that looked toward the Inner Harbor, lined with shops filled with tourists, the blue water of the harbor dotted with pleasure craft, ferries, and fishing boats. It looked intensely alive, very different from this frozen world so high above it. He was losing it.

He said, “I know a little restaurant right on the Inner Harbor where I’d like to take you for dinner.”

Rachael nodded.

Jack couldn’t wait to get away from this cold, driven woman. It was very likely she wouldn’t talk to them. Had she held the family’s reputation so dear, had she believed her brother’s confession to the world would not only destroy her brother but cause irreparable damage to the family and to the Abbott holdings so much that she murdered her own brother? He couldn’t imagine it himself, it was too over the top.

They heard Laurel Kostas hang up the phone, and turned.

By the look on her face, she hadn’t gotten what she wanted. Jack was tempted to applaud, but he didn’t. He watched her face smooth out, and he knew to his gut that when this woman managed that slick-as-glass expression, she was in full control again.

She radiated power and malice.

“I spoke to my lawyer. He said he would call your superiors, who would deal with you, Agent Crowne. You will leave now. I will not speak to you.”

Rachael said, “But Mrs. Kostas, don’t you want to know if your brother’s death really was an accident? Don’t you care that someone might have murdered him and gotten away with it? Didn’t you love your brother?”

Jack saw feral rage on her face. She leaned forward, her palms splayed on the long expanse of smooth blond birch. “My brother’s drinking was unfortunate. Quincy and I told him many times to stop—at least not to drive when he drank too much—but he never listened to us, or to anyone. Quincy and I have wondered why he would drink to such an extent when his supposed precious daughter had magically returned to him. Both of us have wondered if he didn’t change his mind about you, if he was about to demand DNA tests, but didn’t have the chance—he died. Greg Nichols agrees it is strange, all of it, your appearance, my brother’s death.

“You should be thanking me that we didn’t push the police to investigate you, particularly since you are the only one to gain by his death. Why have you involved the FBI? You think they wouldn’t consider you a prime suspect?”

TWENTY-FIVE

She was good, Jack thought, very good, a deft manipulator. She’d managed to turn it all around, and what she said made sense. It was obvious to Jack that Rachael had never considered this. She looked poleaxed.

Jack said, “Ms. Kostas, I understand your father was quite the autocrat, that Rachael’s mother was so afraid of him she didn’t tell Rachael who her real father was until after Carter Blaine Abbott died.”

“That is nonsense. Absolute nonsense. My father was a great man, a brilliant man, a man with extraordinary vision. Look around you—he founded Abbott Enterprises fifty years ago with a small strip mall, and look what it is today: a power not only in the U.S. but in the world. Abbott is both respected and admired, and that is because of my father’s legacy.

“To his family he was kindness itself. But I will tell you this—he couldn’t abide fools or liars; he protected his children, took care of them. When he saw your mother, young as she was, he knew what she was, and so he saved his son from her.

“Did you show up on my brother’s doorstep because that scheming mother of yours needed money and you were the one who was to get it for her?”

Rachael wanted to kill her on the spot, to put her hands around her neck and ... but she said, her voice calm, even pleasant, “That was very well done, Mrs. Kostas. You put me on the defensive, a skill Jimmy said you have in spades. I would not like to own a company you wanted to acquire.

“But finding out about my father’s death isn’t about your spite, isn’t about your dislike for me. It’s about getting justice for a very fine man.”

Laurel slammed her fist on the desktop. “I know the truth, and it’s quite horrible and needless enough, without implying anyone else was involved. If you didn’t kill him, then the senator was drunk and he lost control of his car.”

“Surely you knew your brother didn’t have a single drink since he killed that little girl, Melissa Parks, in Delancey Park eighteen months ago, nor did he drive a car after that evening.

“You had meals with him, saw him in social settings. Surely you noticed he no longer drank, never drove? This is the truth. I know it to be the truth. Actually, he always drank club soda. Therefore, he couldn’t have been drunk, nor could he have been driving. Someone else was.”

“I will not speak further about this.”

“I know Jimmy told you and your husband, and Quincy, about what happened eighteen months ago. Moreover, he told you he couldn’t stand living with the guilt anymore and that he was going public with all of it. He said you and Quincy were both furious when he told you what he planned to do, that even though he would be the one ruined by his confession, you and Quincy didn’t agree. You felt it would blacken the family name, call into question the family honor, make business partners question the Abbott honesty. He said you and Quincy were enraged. He was disappointed because he wanted you both to understand, to support his decision to go public.”

Laurel drew herself up to her full five-nine height. She looked faintly bored. “Whatever aberrations my poor brother suffered from at the end of his life, they are no longer of any concern to anyone. I loved my brother very much. I admired him, but he wasn’t a strong man.”

“Not strong? I didn’t know him very long, ma’am, but I’d say he was one of the strongest people I ever met.”

“I want you to go now. I have nothing more to say to either of you.”

Rachael said, “There is something else, Mrs. Kostas. Did you and your brother, perhaps that lecherous husband of yours, drug me and tie my feet to a block of concrete and throw me in Black Rock Lake because you knew I was going to tell the world what my father had done?”

“You leave my husband out of this, you little bitch! You claim someone tried to kill you? Threw you into a lake?” She laughed, tossed her hands. “How very melodramatic you are. Who would possibly believe someone like you? You are nothing more than a temporary annoyance. Get out.”

Rachael said as she turned, “Actually, I’m far more than a temporary annoyance, Mrs. Kostas. I own Jimmy’s house. I have a third of his money, a third of his stock. I hope you contest the will. I hope you demand DNA testing. Yes, let’s do it, as publicly as you like. It will give me a chance to announce to the world what vipers you and your brother are.”

Laurel leaned forward on her desk, her hands fisted on the desktop. “Get out of here now!”

“I know why you’re trying to kill me. You’re afraid I’ll make Jimmy’s announcement for him. You’ve had three tries—three!—and yet here I am, standing in your office. Jimmy’s death was no accident, and you well know it. Just think about the reporters sleeping in your front yard, Mrs. Kostas, once everyone knows the truth.

“Enjoy this cold, soulless office while you can, ma’am, because you’re not going to be in here much longer.”

“What is going on here, Laurel? Julia told me the FBI was in your office. Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here, Ms. Janes?”

“She looks a bit red in the face, Quincy,” Stefanos Kostas said, stepping around his brother-in-law.

Jack and Rachael turned to see Quincy Abbott and Stefanos Kostas. Quincy was what Jack expected an Abbott to look like—very expensive Italian suit, black with very thin red stripes, a white shirt, a red tie. He was elegant, polished, and at that moment he looked more bewildered than angry. But there was one thing that was off— it was the toupee he wore. The color was perfect, but the style didn’t quite fit the shape of his head.

As for Kostas, Jack thought he looked like a dissipated playboy, a man who lived only for his own pleasure, for his own whims. He was handsome, Jack supposed, fit, well-dressed, but there was something off about him, too, and it wasn’t a toupee. He didn’t know at that moment what it was.

Rachael turned and said pleasantly, “Uncle Quincy, this is Special Agent Jackson Crowne. He’s here to find out what happened to my father and who tried to kill me last Friday night, Monday, and— goodness—yesterday, as well. But I’m sure you know all about that, don’t you?”

Quincy Abbott laughed, then looked sideways at his sister and said, “Sounds to me like a boyfriend gone nasty. Who have you been sleeping with?”

Rachael thought about her one-time fiancé from Richmond. What a fiasco that had been.

Stefanos waved his question away. “What’s this about killing you?”

Jack said pleasantly, “Perhaps you, sir, Mrs. Kostas, and Mr. Abbott could tell me where you were on Friday night.”

Quincy raised a brow. “I was at Mrs. Muriel Longworth’s welcome party for the new Italian ambassador. Stefanos, you came in later, as I recall.”

Stefanos nodded and looked at Rachael’s breasts.

“I will not dignify your question with a reply,” Laurel said.

Rachael said, “Uncle Quincy, Jimmy told you about killing that little girl.”

“Perhaps he did. I wasn’t much interested, to tell you the truth. Oh well, who cares now? The senator is dead and buried. I just wish he hadn’t left you our house. As for the stock, at least you don’t have enough to cause trouble.” He brightened. “You said someone is trying to kill you? Well then, have this FBI agent go find him and throw him in jail.” Quincy Abbott nodded to both of them, gave his sister a long look, turned on his designer heel, and left Laurel Kostas’s office.

Stefanos leaned against the door, arms across his chest, and said to his wife, “I’ve been shopping. Guido called me about this very lightweight wool I’m wearing. What do you think?” He looked at Rachael’s breasts again, knowing his wife was watching. If she’d been Laurel, she’d have shot him dead. But Laurel said nothing, didn’t appear to notice anything amiss.

The three of them, Rachael thought, didn’t appear to live on the same planet.

Rachael walked out, Jack right behind her.

Jack’s last memory of Laurel Abbott Kostas was of the cold, ripe malice in her eyes, her husband leaning against the door, like a beautifully suited lizard. He thought about Jukie Hayes, owner of a junkyard in Marlin, Kentucky a good ole boy who visited neighboring towns. He killed people and buried them under ancient wrecks of cars, between stacked tires, stuffed inside car trunks. He told Jack he liked the smell of the decaying bodies. Jack still had nightmares about Jukie, and the stack of bones he’d uncovered beneath a tarp thrown over a dozen steering wheels. Odd that a wealthy Greek playboy would remind him of Jukie, but he did.

Both of them breathed in the sea air as they walked down Calvert Street to the Inner Harbor. Jack laughed. “She’s a terror, Rachael, scares the crap out of me. Quincy doesn’t like her, but he knows she has the power. Is he afraid of her? I wonder.”

“I need to take a shower,” Rachael said. “That Stefanos Kostas is a dreadful man. And she didn’t appear to even notice he was eyeing me.”

Jack stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, put his hands on her shoulders, and said, “You held it together. You went after her. That was well done. I’m proud of you.”

Rachael stood very still, aware of people moving around them, aware that she felt good, and what he’d said. “Thank you. You said Quincy is afraid of his sister. Why?”

Jack dropped his hands and he and Rachael moved back into rhythm with the crowds of tourists. “He’s smooth as silk, terrified someone won’t believe he’s God’s gift to the world, and weak. He’s not in his sister’s league. As for the toupee, nothing said is too much. This was only the first salvo, Rachael.”

Madonna’s voice blared out “Like a Virgin.”

Rachael’s eyebrow went up when Jack pulled out his cell, flipped it open. “Yeah?”

He listened. His hand tightened on the phone. He listened for a very long time.

When he slipped his cell back into his jacket pocket, he said, “That was Savich. The guy I shot in the shoulder yesterday in Gillette’s kitchen—the woman on the walkie-talkie called him Donley—they ID’ed him from a blood sample from the kitchen floor. His name is Everett, Donley Everett. Turns out he showed up in Clapperville, Virginia, went to a local doctor’s house and forced the doctor to treat him. He didn’t kill the guy, thank God. Evidently Donley thought the doctor lived alone, and so he left him bound and gagged in the basement. Turns out the doctor’s wife had been on a business trip. She arrived home an hour after Everett left. They called the police, who put out an APB on him.”

“What’s Donley Everett’s physical status?”

“The doctor said he was running a fever when he showed up, that if he’d had that bullet in his shoulder for another day or so without treatment, he might very well have died. Everett forced him to remove the bullet with only a local anesthetic, which he did. He told Savich the guy didn’t make a sound.

“The doctor gave him a week’s worth of antibiotics, some heavy-duty pain meds. He said Everett would feel rotten for a while, but he thought he’d pull through. The doctor wasn’t very happy about that.

“Savich said the doctor was very relieved when Everett only tied him up in the basement.”

“What about the other guy at Slipper Hollow, the one you shot dead? You said the woman called him Clay?”

“Yes. There’s no word yet on his whereabouts. Savich thinks, and I agree, that Everett buried him somewhere deep in the sticks. Savich said they ran Clay’s first name through the system. He’s sending photos on my cell of two guys who seem promising, both with the first name Clay one of them is a known associate of Everett, so he’s the most promising.”

They waited next to a Starbucks, both staring down at the cell screen.

In another second, Jack was looking at a guy named Clay Clutt. But he wasn’t the man Jack had shot at the edge of the forest in Slipper Hollow.

He called back. “It’s not Clay Clutt.”

“Okay, Clutt was my warm-up. Here’s the second one. He’s worked with Everett in the past. Coming through now,” Savich said.

“Bingo,” Jack said to Savich a few minutes later. Clay Huggins. Rachael listened to him tell Savich about their meeting with Laurel Kostas, her husband, Stefanos Kostas, and Quincy Abbott. When he pocketed his cell, he said, “Both Donley Everett and Clay Huggins have sheets reaching to Kalamazoo, including suspected murder. Neither has been convicted. Savich is sending out agents to both gentlemen’s places of residence. He said he and Sherlock are going to Everett’s apartment, since it’s likely he’s holed up there, nursing his wounded shoulder and popping pain pills. Savich said it sounds like we stirred up the snakes, which is good. Let’s call it a day, Rachael. Let’s have that lobster.”

TWENTY-SIX

Washington, D.C.

Late Wednesday afternoon

When Savich pulled his Porsche to the curb half a block from Donley Everett’s apartment building, the sun was low in the sky, the June air soft and warm.

The apartment building was in the middle of a transitional neighborhood, where the old single-story houses from the forties and fifties were slowly being rehabbed or torn down. Unfortunately for the new, larger homes, the yards were still as minuscule as they’d always been. Everett’s apartment building looked maybe ten years old, well-maintained, with a redbrick facade.

Sherlock waved at Dane Carver and Ollie Hamish, who were just getting out of Ollie’s black Pacifica, behind them the two surveillance agents.

Savich and Sherlock watched as Ollie and Dane circled to the back of the building to check out exits. There weren’t many tenants around yet since federal offices, the bread and butter of the Washington workforce, were just now closing down for the day. They heard a baby gurgling happily through an open window on the second floor, heard the new country singer Chris Connelly singing about his cheating love raking over his heart. Savich liked Chris Connelly.

The lobby was small, one wall lined with green-painted mailboxes, a live palm tree in a metal pot against another, its fronds stretching wide.

Sherlock double-checked the mailboxes. “Yep, D. Everett in 4C.”

Savich looked at the two elevators. One was parked right there, the door open. He pushed the stop button, and they took the other one.

Donley Everett’s apartment was on the corner of the fourth floor. Savich punched in Dane’s number, said quietly, “Apartment 4C is on the east end of the building. I’ll bet you there’s a fire escape there.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Dane said. “There’s only one back exit. We got it covered. Our two other agents are outside the front doors, keeping an eye on the lobby. Holler if you want us up there, you know, you being such a wuss and all, you might need some backup.”

“That’s okay, Sherlock’ll take care of me.”

Sherlock pulled a stick of gum out of her pocket, popped it into her mouth, and began chewing. Savich positioned himself at the side of the door. She rapped smartly on Everett’s door and called out through the chewing gum, “FedEx for Mr. Donley Everett.”

She smiled straight ahead into the peephole and blew a big bubble, letting it splat against her mouth.

A man’s low voice said, “Go away, little girl. I’m not expecting anything from anybody.” There was pain in the voice, she heard it clearly.

Sherlock’s face disappeared from the peephole for a moment as if she were checking something. “It says here on the package, sir, that it’s from Gun Smith Euro, whatever that is. It’s sort of heavy. Wow, do you think it might be a gun? Did you order one? I’ve never seen a gun up close before. But hey, if you want it, I can’t leave it without a signature.”

“But I didn’t order a ... Wait a minute, you don’t want to touch that package, you hear me?” Everett released three locks, then jerked the door open to stare at the redheaded woman who’d blown such a big bubble before it popped, holding a SIG Sauer aimed at his chest. “FBI, Mr. Everett. Nice and easy now, hands behind your head and step back, one step.”

“Hey! FBI? Whoa ...”

Sherlock slowly lowered her SIG until it was aimed at his stomach. “A gut shot isn’t pretty, Mr. Everett, but hey, it’ll go nice with your shoulder.”

Everett stumbled backward, twisted suddenly, dove behind the black leather sofa, and fired.

The bullet was wide, struck and shattered a lamp.

“You idiot!” Sherlock yelled, and fired at his foot, which was showing from behind the sofa, missing his big toe by an inch. “The next bullet will go in your calf, then your knee, and you’ll be crawling around for the rest of your sorry life! Throw out that gun! Now!”

Savich moved around to the other end of the sofa. “Now, Everett, or when she shoots you in your left knee, I’ll get your right. Yep, there are two of us. Throw out the gun right now or you’re going to be in very great pain.”

They heard Everett cursing behind the sofa, then there was some back-and-forth discussion, blurred and contentious, as if he and his evil twin were arguing his odds.

“Gun out now!” Sherlock screamed.

The gun came flying out, skidded across the hallway floor. Sherlock stepped on a nice Kel Tec PF9 9mm. “Betcha when they dig slugs out of the Slipper Hollow house, we’re going to find a match. Now, Don, come out nice and slow.”

“Don’t shoot me!”

“Show me your face in two seconds and I’ll consider it.”

When he finally crawled out from behind the sofa, using only one hand, he looked clammy and pale, his eyes a bit dilated, and he was cupping his right arm, held up and close in a blue sling.

“Stand up!”

He managed to hoist himself to his feet. He held out his good hand, palm open, toward them. “Who are you? What is this?”

“Pay attention, Mr. Everett. We’re FBI,” Savich said, and pulled out his shield, waved it at Everett. “Why don’t you have a nice seat over on that La-Z-Boy? No stupid moves, Don. I don’t want to have to kill you on such a lovely summer day.” He punched in Dane’s number and said, “No problem here. We’ve got him. Come on up.”

Everett said, “It’s not lovely, it’s too hot, it sucks. Dude, can’t you see me? Look at my arm. I’m sick, real sick. What do you want? I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything about any Slipper Hollow.”

Sherlock turned to see Dane step into the room from the fire escape, and Ollie standing in the front doorway, both with their SIGs drawn.

“All cool here,” Sherlock said.

Dane and Ollie moved past them to look through the rest of the apartment. “Hey, what are you clowns doing? This is my place. Don’t you go through my drawers!”

“Be quiet or they might do more than just go through your drawers,” Sherlock said, and patted him down. “Now, to be honest here, Don, you did try to shoot me. However, I will say you look pretty down and out.” Sherlock got right in his face. “Do you remember that very nice doctor you visited in Virginia? The one who took out the bullet, pumped you full of painkillers and antibiotics? You didn’t even pay him. Nope, you hauled him down in his basement, all trussed up?”

“I didn’t hurt him, now, did I?”

“That was a good decision on your part,” Sherlock said. “We got a lovely DNA match from that gallon of blood you left on the kitchen floor in Slipper Hollow. The FBI agent who brought you down also identified you. We’ve got you, Don. Your pitiful butt is now ours forever.”

Everett said, “Fuckin’ DNA.”

“I’ll forgive your French this time, Don,” Sherlock said, “given your dismal situation.” She studied his gray face for a moment. “Hey, you’re hurting pretty bad, aren’t you? I’ll bet I can talk my boss here into taking you to the hospital if you tell us the truth about Slipper Hollow.”

He weaved where he stood, moaned, and Savich pushed him down onto the La-Z-Boy. “I wasn’t at no Slipper Hollow. I was huntin’ ducks,” Everett said, and looked up at Savich. “Mallards, a whole crap pile of them out at Eagle Lake. Look, I need another pain pill real bad. I was going to the bathroom to get one when you hammered on my door.” He shook his head. “I’m in such pain that it ruined my judgment. I looked at you close, real close before I opened that damned door. How could I know a pretty girl like you was a rat cop?”

“Hey, Dillon, the man here thinks I’m pretty for a rat cop—what do you think about that?”

“The lowlife has good taste.”

“There now, all of us agree. Why don’t you tell us where you buried Clay Huggins. You’re not in trouble over that since you’re not the one who shot him. I’ll bet you feel kind of bad about him being dead. He was a friend, wasn’t he—well, at least a professional ally? And now he’s rotting in a field somewhere like he wasn’t important enough to even stick in a casket.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Clay Higgins.”

“Clay Huggins.”

“Whatever.” He looked at Savich. “Dude, I want you to get out of here, leave me alone. I don’t know anything about any doctor in a basement, I was just agreeing with you to be cooperative. I want to take my pain pill and go back to bed. You didn’t even have a box from Gun Smith Euro, did you?”

“Sorry, no box. It really hurts me, Don, but occasionally I have to lie in my job.”

Savich said, “Okay, Don, listen up. It’s either a small, uncomfortable jail cell with Big Bubba for a roomie, or a nice hospital bed, with clean sheets. Up to you.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You know what, Don,” Savich said, his voice slowing, becoming scary deep and as cold as ice, “I’ve found sometimes—well, rarely— that lawyers can really help a guy. In this instance, though, a lawyer isn’t going to help you wiggle out of this. Now, if the lawyer’s not a moron, he’ll advise you to cooperate with us and tell the truth since we already have you dead to rights with your DNA. Neither of us is unreasonable. You want to deal? We’ll deal.”

Everett said, “I don’t know anything, I—”

Savich slapped Everett’s face.

Everett moaned, hugged his slinged arm against his chest. “Hey! Dude, what’d you do that for? I’m hurt here, no call for you to hit me.”

“I want your attention right here, Don, right on my face. That’s right. Look at me. I want you to tell me who hired you and the now-deceased Clay Huggins. I want you to give me the names of the other man and woman who were with you when you went to kill Rachael Janes in Slipper Hollow. I want you to tell me right now, or the only thing I’ll guarantee you is a thirty-year stretch at Attica.” Savich lightly laid the butt of his SIG across Everett’s open mouth. “No, don’t sing me your I’m-so-innocent song.” He leaned closer, whispered in Everett’s ear, “Something else I might enjoy doing, Don, and that’s to let it out to the inmate population that you’re a child molester.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sherlock had rarely seen absolute horror on a person’s face like she saw now on Donley Everett’s. For the moment, it knocked his pain right out of his mind.

“Dude, it isn’t true. You can’t, dude. Oh, man, you can’t.”

Savich ran the muzzle of his SIG against Everett’s ear. “When they’re through with you, you’ll sure wish you’d talked to us, Don. On the other hand, you tell us what we want to know, and I’ll see to it personally that you’re in a cell by yourself and there’s not a single whiff of child molestation in your traveling papers. What do you say, Don? Tell me you understand all your options.”

Everett sobbed into his one available open hand. Sherlock straightened. “You’re disgusting,” and she kicked him hard in the knee.

“Wha—?”

“Listen, you moron,” she said, getting in his face. “You’ve done so much bad stuff in your miserable life you nearly fill up a computer disk. You’ve never shown an ounce of remorse about any of your victims, and now you have the gall to whine and cry? You make me sick.

“Now, you pathetic butt worm, you will tell us who hired you or I’m going to get ahold of some really appalling photos of kids who’ve been molested and write your name on the photos in big block letters. I’ll have the warden paper the bathrooms and the cafeteria. I expect there’ll be bets on how long you’ll last. Can you imagine having a big bar of soap stuffed in your mouth, your jaws held together?”

Everett stopped crying, shut off like a spigot. He believed she was dead serious. “I heard about that,” he said, and couldn’t help the shudder. “You can’t do that, there are rules you cops gotta stick to. You’re constrained.”

“Do I look constrained, Don?” Savich shook his head at him. “You don’t get it, do you? You tried to kill our friends at Slipper Hollow. You think we wouldn’t make up a story about you, that we’d hesitate to do anything we need to get the people you were with?”

Don shook his head back and forth, back and forth. “Oh, damn, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be easy, in and out, that was it, then home again and I’ve got enough money for a nice vacation in Aruba. But there was this big guy and he walked into the kitchen and shot me right through the shoulder, then he went after poor Clay, shot him dead. Perky called me a couple of hours ago, told me she was glad I made it out, that even though everything went south, we should be okay if I didn’t do anything stupid. I told her I was clean, no way they’d find out about me. I didn’t leave any ID in my wallet—no driver’s license, nothing. I had to tell her about Clay, that the big guy shot him dead. She told me to lay low, take care of my arm, that everything’d be all right.”

Sherlock asked, “Did you tell Perky about leaving all your blood on the kitchen floor?”

He shook his head, muttered, “Fuckin’ DNA.”

Savich grabbed his chin and squeezed. “Watch your mouth. I won’t tell you again.”

“Who was the fourth member of your team?” Sherlock asked.

“T-Rex—he’s down in Florida by now, runnin’ in the surf at Palm Beach.”

“And what would T-Rex’s real name be?”

“Marion Croop. You can see why he likes his nickname.”

“That’s good, Don. What’s Perky’s real name?”

“No one calls her anything but Perky. It’s the only name I know, honest. She always grins real wide and pokes out her tits, says they’re as perky today as they were ten years ago.”

“How old is Perky?” Savich asked.

“Maybe forty, in there somewhere. She’s a real pro, knows exactly what she’s doing. Got a big mess of blond hair, always wears it up with dangling curls, and she always wears opaque sunglasses. I’ve never seen her eyes.

“This job, dude, it was screwed up from the beginning. Perky bitched and moaned about how we couldn’t be sure of anything, and it frosted her but good to be sent out to this backwoods place with no clue where anything was or who was where. Then she said she started counting the money and that made her think about it some more. She said there were four of us, and chances were that this Rachael Janes would be by herself, maybe with one family member, that was it. It’d be easy. Overkill, that’s what we’d have. It wouldn’t be a problem, and we’d have all that money. Perky was really pissed.”

He looked at Sherlock, and tears trickled out of his eyes. “Nothing went the way it was supposed to. There must have been a half-dozen people there, and all of them knew how to shoot. They had more weapons than we did. We didn’t have a chance. How could that happen? Dude, I really hurt. Can I have one of my pills?”

“I’ll giveyoutwopills,Don,”Savichsaid,“theminuteyoutell me who hired you to kill Rachael Janes.”

“Damn, I knew you’d want that. You won’t believe me, but it’s the truth: I don’t know, I don’t know who hired Perky, who gave Perky all that money. She’s always the lead, always, and she gets the contracts, briefs us, maps out the plan we’re going to follow, hands out our shares. And then we split up until the next time. Clay wasn’t one of our usual guys, but Gary’s in bed with the flu, so there were only the three of us we could really count on. I’ll bet you those were military people at that Slipper Hollow. It all went to hell.”

“Did Perky tell you anything about Rachael Janes?”

“Only that she wasn’t supposed to still be kicking around, said she should be lying at the bottom of Black Rock Lake, said those barbiturates were good. She laughed.” Everett shrugged, then moaned. “Perky said Rachael Janes was some artsy-craftsy fluff head who arranged furniture and painted walls, and so she should be real easy to knock off. But look what happened. That Rachael Janes must have been another Houdini, getting herself free like that. Perky was pissed again.”

“Keep it up, Don, you’re doing good,” Savich said.

“It was Clay who kept asking her questions since he hadn’t worked with her before. She finally let on that Lloyd Roderick—that dumb-ass rockweed who’s into teenagers—he’d got himself shot while trying to nail Rachael Janes in Parlow, Kentucky. Who ever heard of Parlow, Kentucky? He was in the hospital, Perky said, so now it was our turn. This girl was a civilian, hiding out, thinking she was safe from the big bad wolf. And then Perky growled.”

He sighed, the tears dry on his cheeks now, and itchy. “That damned girl, she wasn’t alone. Surprised the shi—crap out of everybody, all those shots coming from inside that house. It was close.”

He hung his head, scratched the fingers of his injured arm. “You’re just trying to do a job and look what happens.”

“What exactly happened?” Savich asked.

“Well, when we found our way through the woods to this Slipper Hollow, we saw the girl the first thing, but there was this big guy with her. Perky said it’d be okay, the guy would bite the big one along with her. But before we could get close, a guy comes running outside, yelling for them to get into the house. He obviously knew something was up—I don’t know how he knew, but he did. Rachael Janes and this big guy made it through the front door just as we began shooting. Perky split us up. Clay and me slipped through the woods around to the back of the house to go in, get them in a cross fire. I decided it was best for Clay to stay back, since he was new to the team, to cover me, to shoot anyone who tried to get out the back.

“I come in the kitchen at the same time this big guy steps in. I thought I got him, he fell down, but he was only acting shot, the bastard. Then he clocked me in the shoulder. I’m down, then he’s out the back and I know Clay doesn’t have a chance, and he didn’t.

“You can’t believe how bad it hurt my shoulder to haul Clay back through the woods and out to our car, but I knew I couldn’t leave him there. I buried him in a tobacco field about fifteen miles down the road. I don’t know if I can find it, I really don’t.”

Everett started crying. He hiccupped. He looked up at Savich. “You promised me pills if I told you everything. I did. My pills, they’re in the medicine cabinet.”

Savich called out, “Dane, go into Mr. Everett’s bathroom and bring out his bottle of pain pills.”

They let him hiccup until Dane pressed the bottle into his hand, set a glass of water on the arm of the La-Z-Boy. Everett took two pills, drank the entire glass of water, some of it dribbling down his chin.

He wasn’t bad-looking, Sherlock thought dispassionately, staring down at him, maybe late thirties, lots of dirty blond hair, a good build, but he hadn’t shaved in too long, and didn’t smell like he’d bathed recently, either, understandable given his shoulder. He was wearing dirty gray sweats, dark green socks, a hole in the big toe. He looked, she thought, like a man who’d been ridden hard and put away wet too many times in his short years.

“And now, Don,” Savich said, “tell us where to find Perky.”

Everett chewed his lower lip. This was tough, Savich knew, this was betrayal of the killing kind.

“Think of your future,” Savich said, voice easy and smooth and scary.

“She lives a block over from that Barnes & Noble in Georgetown, off M Street, on Wisconsin, I think, in a little apartment over a boutique. I don’t know the name of the boutique.”

“Address?”

“Dude, I don’t know, I don’t—”

“Fine, I believe you. You’ll take us there.” Savich pulled him out of the La-Z-Boy, ignored his moans and groans, and handed him over to Dane and Ollie. “Our hotshot here is going to direct you to Perky’s apartment on Wisconsin. We’ll be right behind you with the other two agents following, to cover us.”

Savich turned to Sherlock, a black eyebrow hoisted. “Pathetic butt worm?”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ten minutes later, Donley Everett pointed to a second-floor window above K-Martique, a specialized Goth shopping spot for the young fanged set. That, he said, was where Perky lived. Dane gave him another pill to keep him in the pain-med twilight zone. It would have looked like a regular shop from outside except for the lacy black curtains and the black door.

Once through the black front door at K-Martique, Sherlock, all smiles, nodded to the few customers as she wove her way through racks of gauzy black skirts, black dresses, black tops, some really interesting red plastic spikes, black boots, and lacy black underwear hot enough to sizzle a guy’s eyes, to the counter in the far corner. It was stationed in front of a full-length mirror, doubtless to allow the sales clerk visual cover of the store. “Hey, I’m looking for Perky. Can you help me out?”

The young woman behind the counter had long straight black hair, a dead white face, and she was dressed all in Addams family black her nail polish and lipstick black, too. Sherlock wondered what she looked like without all the paraphernalia.

She looked Sherlock up and down with a sort of vague contempt. “Hey, I can replace those bourgeois clothes you’re wearing with something cool.”

“You don’t like my black leather jacket?”

“Well, it’s okay, but you need some long gashes in it, you know, like with a knife, make you look more dangerous. I’ve got some you won’t even need to slice up.”

Sherlock looked interested, then regretful. “Sorry, don’t have time to shop today.” She pulled out her creds. “Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. Where’s Perky?”

The young woman barely looked at her ID. She said, “Perky’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

The girl gave her a bored looked and shrugged; one of the gauzy black sleeves fell off her very white bony shoulder.

“And what’s your name?”

“Me? I’m Pearl Compton. What’s it to you? You really should let me help you—your clothes and hair are about as mind-numbing as it gets. You really could use some help, lady.”

Sherlock said, “Listen up, Pearl. Tell me Perky’s real name and where to find her or I’ll get a big bucket of cold water and scrub your face in it.”

The three other patrons, all teenage girls who’d obviously been listening, couldn’t hightail it out of there fast enough. Savich held the door open for them and said, as they flew out the door, “Wise decision.”

Pearl slammed a very white hand down on the counter. “Look what you’ve done! Three customers, and you ran them off!”

Sherlock leaned in, said, “Yeah, yeah, what’s Perky’s real name?”

Pearl shrugged. “Oh, who cares? Maude Couple. She’s from Montana, says she grew up tending lambs.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know—old. Maybe forty, around there.”

“How long has she lived upstairs, Pearl?”

“Since I came to the store to manage it.”

“Where’s she gone?”

“I don’t know, honest. She gives me her key, tells me to water her ivy, then she just up and leaves.”

“Okay. Good. I want you to come upstairs with us, let us into Perky’s apartment.” Sherlock turned and waved to Savich, who was standing in the doorway.

“Oh no, I can’t do that. She’s private, and I know Perky would be real angry if I took anyone up there. She and the owner, you know, they sort of sleep together when he can get away from his wife.”

Savich walked right up to Pearl and towered over her, said absolutely nothing.

Pearl drummed her black fingernails on the counter, shrugged.

She pulled a key ring from beneath the counter, walked to the front door of the shop, flipped down the CLOSED sign inside, then locked the door.

“This way.” She looked over her shoulder at Savich. “You’d look pretty hot with a nice set of fangs, maybe some light powder to get that tan off your face.”

“Thanks,” Savich said.

“Maybe a dribble of blood down the side of your mouth.”

They followed her up the narrow back stairway, the wooden steps nine inches deep all the way to the top. They followed Pearl into a narrow, dim hallway, with a door at the end that had a sheet of black paper thumbtacked to it that said PERKY. “Here we go. This is her digs.”

She unlocked the door, shoved it open. Savich quickly pushed her behind them, “Stay put,” he said.

He and Sherlock, SIGs drawn, slowly walked in, Savich high, Sherlock low, careful to keep Pearl behind them. They were all the way in the small, shadowy space when the door slammed shut behind them and they heard the key turn in the lock, then the wild, fast flap of boots back down the stairs. Savich kicked the door open and, bending low, eased out into the small hallway. If he hadn’t been nearly bent double, he would have been shot in the chest. The bullet whizzed over his head, barely missing him. He fell flat on the hallway floor and fired. Two more bullets slammed into the wall above his head, then he heard the sound of running. Sherlock came down beside him. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, just humiliated.”

“Well,” she said, “I think we just met Perky. I gotta say, she’s not bad. I didn’t doubt her once.”

Savich pulled out his cell. “Dane, a girl—all Goth black—just did us in. It’s got to be Perky. No, no, we’re okay. She should be running out of the K-Martique any second now. She’s got a gun and she’s good. One of you go around back, just in case. If she already came out, go after her. Like I said, all Goth—long black hair, black clothes, black boots, real young, maybe early twenties. Be careful. I mean it, she’s dangerous.”

He listened for a moment. “Excellent, yeah, that’s her. Came right out the front door, did she? Pretty confident, our girl. Bring her down. Her real name is Pearl Compton. Maybe.”

Savich heard running footsteps, heard Dane shout, “Stop, Pearl! FBI, stop right there!”

There was a shot fired and Savich thought he’d swallow his tongue. He gripped his cell. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Three more gunshots. People shouting, screaming.

Savich and Sherlock dashed out of the shop to see Ollie and Dane running a block away, ducking into a Barnes & Noble.

“Not good,” Savich said.

They ran down the block and slowed only when they stepped into Barnes & Noble. They both knew the bookstore well, all three floors, the first floor a big open space, the clerks behind a counter extending along the left side, the books to the right. At that moment, the place was fast becoming a madhouse, clerks and customers shouting and yelling, some on the floor, a couple of bookshelves overturned, books tossed everywhere, and a man’s voice—Steve Olson, the manager—yelling for everyone to get down. Dane and Ollie and the two surveillance agents were weaving their way in and out of the aisles, following the screams and yells, looking for Perky.

Savich saw her shoot at Dane from behind the travel aisle, then leap onto the down escalator from the second level and begin to run up, flat out, her black skirt flying, her boots thudding loudly on the treads, a gun in her right hand. He knew to his gut she was heading to the third floor, the children’s section, to find herself the perfect hostage. Of course she could grab anyone. He called, “Sherlock, get everyone over here. Steve, buzz up to the children’s area. Get the kids on the elevator, fast, or in the restrooms, just out of sight. Everyone, stay down!”

He heard Steve yell again and again, “They’re FBI, everything will be okay. Don’t panic, stay down!”

Perky turned as she jumped off at the top of the escalator and for one long moment, she stared at Savich. Then she grabbed a teenage girl by her long hair as she was crawling away and hauled her to her feet. “See what I got here, Mr. Agent?” She shook the girl like a rat. But while she spoke she looked over at Sherlock, who was approaching them, slowly, eyes on Perky, keeping real close to the books. “Say good-bye to the little cutie,” Perky yelled, and fired not at the girl she was holding but at Sherlock.

Sherlock twisted against the bookshelf. A Linda Howard novel took the bullet. Three more shots, but Sherlock couldn’t fire back, none of them could, not with Perky holding the girl in front of her.

Perky said, “Well now, this is what I’d call an impasse.”

Savich called out, “Give it up, Pearl, it’s over.”

She brought up her gun, fast as a snake, and fired at Savich. He threw himself to the side, not wanting to fire back and risk hitting the girl. But that pale, terrified teenager leaned down and bit Perky’s arm. Perky clouted her in the head with her fist, dropped her, whirled toward Savich, and fired again.

“Get down!” he yelled.

The teenager tried, but she fell onto the escalator and began rolling down toward him. She tried to flatten herself, but it was impossible. He yelled, “When you hit the bottom, run as fast as you can!”

Savich heard people yelling, saw parents clutching their kids, a teenage boy holding up his pants as he tried to shield his little brother behind him. The teenager hit bottom, rolled once, and came up running.

Perky stood at the top of the escalator and slowly raised her gun while she looked down. There were so many people—she had a fine selection.

No choice, no choice. Savich rolled and came up, moving faster than the teenager. He had to take her down, and do it now. He brought up his SIG

He heard Dane shout, “Perky! Hey, girl, don’t you love me anymore?”

TWENTY NINE

Perky jerked around, her black hair lashing her face. She found Dane, crouched a dozen feet behind Savich, to his right. She raised her gun. There were two little boys suddenly close to Savich, shrieking— he didn’t know where they’d come from. One of them tripped over him and went sprawling. Savich rolled on top of the kid to protect him, twisted around to see Dane fire at nearly the same time that Perky did. The world slowed to a crawl. Dane’s bullet slammed hard into her right shoulder, knocking her sideways onto the down escalator. Perky grabbed for the railing but her fingers couldn’t make purchase. Dane watched her slowly sink down onto the moving steps. He ran up to her, grabbed the long flowy black sleeve of her dress but it ripped off in his hands as her body spilled out onto the floor, her black skirt twisting around her thin body, her long black wig pulled half off her head, long blond hair spilling out. She lay motionless. Savich knew she must be covered in blood from the wound in her shoulder, hut he couldn’t see any. The blood soaked into the black. Black on black.

Her gun, where was her gun? “Dane,” Savich yelled. “I don’t see her gun! She’s dangerous. Everyone, stay put!”

Dane jerked back, but Perky was fast. She twisted up onto her back, gun in hand, to fire up at him. Ollie, coming at her from the other side, shot her in her gun arm. The gun went skittering down the science fiction aisle. She cried out, then fell onto her back and was quiet.

“Okay, okay,” Savich said, “it’s over. Everyone stay back.”

Sherlock was on her knees beside Perky, flattening her hand against the wound in her shoulder. “She’s alive, but we’ve got to get the bleeding under control. Give me your tie. Let’s knot it tight over the wound. Come on, Perky, don’t you dare die on me!”

Dane said, his words coming fast, tripping over themselves, “Backup is here. Ollie, you take care of that. I’ll call an ambulance. Oh yeah, that was a great shot, thanks for saving my very grateful self”

Savich said, “Keep calming everyone down, help get them out. The manager, Steve Olson, is a friend, and he’s solid. Help him, but let him handle what he wants to; it’ll help focus him if he’s in charge. Assure him it is indeed over. Sherlock, keep everyone back from this area.”

Sherlock was now wrapping Dane’s tie over the wound in Perky’s arm.

Her black Goth shirt was soaked in blood, so much of it and she was so thin. How much blood could that thin body have in it? All bones, Sherlock thought, she is all bones.

Savich turned to look down at Perky. He realized the girl he’d thought was maybe twenty, twenty-two at most, hadn’t seen twenty in a couple of decades. This was Perky, and she was forty, at least. He came down on his knees and tightened the tie around her wound. Okay, the blood was beginning to slow. He pressed on the wound though it was bleeding only sluggishly. She had a chance.

Where were the EMTs? She would be all right, she had to be. She was the only one who could tell them who hired her to kill Rachael.

When the paramedics arrived two minutes later, the FBI had the customers in pretty good control, but the EMTs still had to weave their way with their equipment through a crowd of people, some of whom were now crying.

Savich tried to keep the area clear, but some people were trying to crowd close, see the blood and gore, because that’s the way some people were. More’s the pity, there was plenty to see. He told the paramedics about her wounds.

An older woman, brisk, calm, her breath smelling of lemons, fastened an oxygen mask on Perky’s nose. Then she studied Perky’s shoulder, removed the tie, and wrapped a pressure bandage around it. “Bad,” she said, “but with what you guys have done, she should make it.” She jumped to her feet. “Okay, guys, let’s get her onto the gurney.” Savich had to smile because all the paramedics on this crew were female. Perky’s black wig fell off when they lifted her.

The paramedics were soon out the front door with Perky strapped down on a gurney, her black skirts hanging down on either side, her black boots hanging free of the white sheet. Steve was directing his clerks to take care of the customers. One young girl, who looked pale and shocky, was wandering around the first floor, pausing to pick up a fallen book and trying to reshelve it.

The customers were walking slowly out of what would become a famous bookstore for the next three months. Savich walked over to Steve Olson, the manager, but he couldn’t shake his hand, his were covered with Perky’s blood. He turned to look around the bookstore. “I’m sorry about this, Steve, didn’t mean for this to happen. You did good, thank you. Sherlock is calling our boss, and he’ll send FBIpeople down here to handle the media. You need me, here’s my card. Tell the media what happened straight out and keep repeating it. Remember, no one was hurt or killed and we got the bad guy. Hey, that teenage girl she caught as a hostage, take good care of her, she did good.”

Sherlock said, “Please call me, Steve, give me her name and address. We want to thank her, speak to her parents, tell them what a heroine she is.”

“You and Sherlock,” Steve said, shaking his head as he took Sherlock’s card. He pressed his palm over his chest. “Here I am trying to calm everyone down and my heart is suddenly ready to burst right out.” He nodded to them once more, then turned to his assistant manager to order coffee and tea from the cafe on the second floor. He yelled, “Chocolate decadence cake for everyone!”

Savich said to Sherlock, “Perky’s got to be forty, at least, just like Donley Everett said. Amazing.” He leaned down, picked up her black wig.

“She was costuming,” Sherlock said, “a very good disguise, too, for an assassin. She’s about as hard-boiled as they get. I’ll bet she’s been at this for a very long time. I’ll bet you Jack’s old unit has a file on her. Well, at least she’s out of business now.

“I’ll tell you, Dillon, if the bitch doesn’t make it, I’m going to punch her lights out.” She swallowed, placed her hand on his arm, but she didn’t say anything. Perky had tried to kill him twice. Close, too close.

Savich, oblivious, said, “I’m thinking if she pulls through this, we’ll take her to Quantico. A nice visit with Dr. Hicks could be very helpful if he can get her under hypnosis. I’ll bet my next paycheck she isn’t going to give us the time of day, even if we offer her a deal.”

Sherlock said, “She’ll lawyer up, won’t say a word. I bet hypnosis won’t even be on the table.

“I don’t want to deal with the media, Dillon. Let’s get out of here. I called Mr. Maitland, gave him a quick overview. He isn’t happy—I mean, we did shoot up a Barnes & Noble bookstore—but he’ll deal with things. I told him Perky would be able to tell us who hired her to kill Senator Abbott and to kill Rachael. That cheered him up. Oh yeah, I asked Dane and Ollie to follow the ambulance to the hospital to get Donley Everett checked out. He was probably still moaning in the backseat of Ollie’s car.”

Savich and Sherlock went out the back of the Barnes & Noble, back to K-Martique. They walked up the steep stairs and stepped through the open doorway into Perky’s apartment.

“Dillon, wait a moment.”

He turned, smiled at his wife. He pulled her against him, stroked her hair. She said against his neck, “When we’re through here, we’re going to the gym. Yes, even before we spill out every single detail to Mr. Maitland six times. We’re going to the gym. Get away from all this for a while. I’ve got to do something physical or I’m going to explode. You’d better look out—I just might take you down.”

“In your dreams.” He laughed as he walked to Perky’s desk, turned on her laptop. He played around with it for several minutes, humming as he worked, then sat back in the desk chair, frowning.

“She’s got the sucker passworded. It’d take me a while, but it would be a piece of cake for MAX.” He unplugged the laptop, set it on the floor by the front door.

They looked through the desk drawers, found a checkbook, rubber-banded stack of paid bills, some invoices. The invoices were for repairs, for merchandise for her store, and the only checks used were written to utilities, nothing personal to help them. They found a couple dozen catalogs for Goth stuff, with some of the pages folded down. And an envelope filled with five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.

“Her traveling money,” Sherlock said, labeling the envelope and putting it in her jacket pocket.

In the kitchen they found three boxes of Grape-Nuts cereal, all unopened, and not much else in the cabinets. In the refrigerator were several dozen frozen bagels, fat-free cream cheese, and a half-gallon bottle of soy milk.

In the night table drawer by the narrow black-quilted bed, they found nipple rings in bright primary colors, black liquid eyeliner, three pairs of fangs, and two ornate bottles containing ruby red liquid, to simulate blood, they assumed. The best find was a paperback, the cover illustrated with a score of black knife slashes, titled Sex for Vamps: How to Bleed Your Way to Pleasure.

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, picking up the book. “Pictures, you think?”

He laughed at her, grabbed the book, and began to thumb through it. “Now, would you look at this?”

They stared at a man wearing a black leather codpiece, a whip held high in his hand, a mask over his lower face. Beneath him, naked, on her stomach, tied with black leather straps to the four posts of the bed, lay a woman looking over her shoulder at the man.

Savich looked up. “Dare I turn the page?”

“Well, maybe better not. We’re professionals, after all.”

The most interesting thing they found in Pearl Compton’s, aka Perky’s, apartment was an address book, filled with numbers. No names, just initials beside every number.

Hallelujah.

THIRTY

World Gym Georgetown

Wednesday evening

We’ve got information overload,” Savich said as he increased the speed and incline of the treadmill. “It beats not knowing anything.” Sherlock matched his speed, but not the incline. She didn’t want to push it, not when she still had plans to throw her husband to the mat at least a dozen times. Never had she considered a bookstore dangerous, particularly the Georgetown Barnes & Noble, but that was all changed now. Perky dashing up that down escalator, black boots pounding, waving a gun around, grabbing that teenage girl as a hostage—the chaos, the screaming—it could have been a disaster. Dillon could have been killed. Perky had tried to shoot her, too, impossible to forget that. But that didn’t bother her. She’d been terrified for Dillon.

Sherlock punched up the speed, viciously, to match her mood, a mix of fury and fear so corroding she thought she’d choke on it. She shot a look at Dillon. He’d already moved on, his run smooth and steady, his breathing easy, moved on just as she would have done if she’d been in his shoes, curse him. But she hadn’t been anywhere near his shoes, and that was the problem. She owed Dane the world.

Sometimes—like right that instant—being married to Savich scared her to death. Because she was who she was, she’d far rather be pissed off than scared. She knew the only thing for it was to let off some serious steam.

Savich slowed a bit and turned to her. “Okay, what we know for sure is that Donley Everett is going down hard. The prosecutor had him sign his confession on the dotted line, so it’s all wrapped up. It’s a pity but I believe him; he doesn’t have a clue who hired Perky. But maybe he can give us a more specific location for where he buried Clay Huggins’s body.”

“Hypnotize him.”

“Yeah, we could do that. Good idea.”

All right, so he didn’t have a clue that her insides were at the boiling point; he was a guy, after all. More to the point, and the point galled her, she hadn’t said anything.

Everything’s okay, it’s over. Calm down. It’s not like you haven’t faced this before. She cleared her throat, said, “I wonder how Angel’s keepers are doing with her attitude at Fairfax Juvie. Do you think she’s been released yet?”

“Probably. Maybe Angel’s got a chance. She’s a bright girl.”

“Yeah, yeah, so am I, and look what happened to me.” A black eyebrow shot up as Savich turned to look at her. What was with the snark? He said, “What happened to you is that you married your boss—a pretty cool guy—you get to chase down bad guys, and you get to stay in shape. It’s like the perfect life for you.” She didn’t laugh, as he’d expected her to. She said abruptly, “It’s a bummer about those phone numbers you got off Angel’s cell phone. You were so happy to think your five hundred dollars paid off.”

No more snark, that was good. Savich pushed the incline higher and breathed deeply, steadily. “Yeah, I was hopeful we might have Roderick Lloyd more in the loop, maybe calling Perky’s boss, talking about killing Rachael in Parlow, but what we got are calls to Pizza Mac’s, ordering double pepperoni, thick crust.”

He still wasn’t breathing hard, Sherlock thought, feeling a line of sweat snake down her back. She wanted to punch him for that, as well.

He said, “And the other three calls to bookies—three different bookies—and he owed all of them money.”

Elvis belted out “Blue Suede Shoes.” Savich pulled his cell off the clip on his waistband.

“Yes? Savich here.” He slowed down and listened. When he punched off, he sped up again and said, “That was Dane calling from Memorial. He said Perky is still in surgery, but it looks good. She should be okay unless something unexpected happens. Then, just maybe, we can cut a deal with her.”

“It could be a week before she’s up to physically visiting Quantico. Maybe we can deal with her at the hospital, have Dr. Hicks visit her.”

“That’s a good thought.”

Sherlock pushed the cool-down button, a bit on the violent side. “I like to impress the boss.”

That black eyebrow of his went up again. “You do, every single day.”

“You’re a guy, so you’re easy,” she said, and stepped off the treadmill. “We need to get back to Dr. MacLean.”

Elvis’s voice crooned out again. “Yeah, Savich here. Hi, Jack. Talk to me.” And Savich listened, asked a few questions, listened for a very long time, actually, then, finally, punched off, looking thoughtful.

“What? He and Rachael okay?”

“Yeah, no problem. He told me a bit more about Laurel, Quincy and Stefanos. He said Laurel is the Big Peg, her husband is a slime, and Quincy probably has ulcers He said Laurel hates Rachael’s guts, doesn’t try to hide it. About Quincy, Jack said that’s a tougher call. Quincy Abbott’s all about packaging—he’s flashy, a near prince in his nice Italian duds, and he’s a coward, which probably also makes him a bully, but he’s under his sister’s thumb. He said Quincy’s toupee is prime.

“If we need to reach Jack, he said he’s staying with Rachael in her house in Chevy Chase.”

Sherlock said, stretching, “I’m not at all sure I like the sound of that.”

That eyebrow of his went up again.

“For heaven’s sake, I’m not talking about sex. I bet they could sleep in the same bed and Jack wouldn’t touch her. Well, that’s optimistic. I was talking about the danger.”

“You know Jack is good. Nothing surprises him. He’s focused and wily. Don’t worry, he won’t let anything happen to Rachael. They’re going to see Senator Abbott’s head staffer, Greg Nichols, tomorrow morning. Nichols is already heading up another senator’s staff. Jack said he can’t wait to see what Nichols has to say to them.”

“I’d like to speak to Nichols, too, feel out how much influence he had over Senator Abbott.”

Savich nodded, sighed. “Jack asked me about Timothy MacLean, asked me what he could do. Unfortunately I didn’t have anything to tell him.”

Sherlock sighed right along with him, her righteous snark all gone in the face of what was happening to Timothy MacLean.

Savich began to slow his stride. “I’m thinking you and I should focus on the two who appear to have the best motives—Congresswoman McManus and Pierre Barbeau. We’ve got to check out timelines, see if Jean David Barbeau drowned before the first attempt on Timothy’s life. To be on the safe side, I’ll have Ruth and Dane begin on his other patients.”

“That sounds logical.”

Savich said, “Let’s visit the congresswoman first, see what she’s got in the way of an alibi—not that it matters since she would have hired a thug to do the deed. I’ll have Ollie check with the Atlanta detective who worked her dead husband’s case, see if they had any leads. Maybe we can get a line on the thug she hired—in Savannah, was it?”

“That’s what Dr. MacLean said.” She cocked her head to the side as Dillon ended his cooldown. “Do you believe she really had her trucker husband murdered so he wouldn’t stop her run for Congress?”

“Yes, I do.”

Sherlock chewed on that for a moment. “Maybe so. Still, I’m betting on Pierre Barbeau. Lots of wormy stuff going on there.”

“We’ll find out. How’s your French?”

Laughter spurted out of her, from wherever it was hiding. “You’ve never complained before.”

He grinned as he wiped his face with a towel. “You made me forget why I was asking.”

Sherlock popped her knuckles. “You ready to come with me to the slam room?”

“Is that its new name?”

“Oh yeah. I’m going to make sure you’ll relate to it shortly.” She swatted at him with her towel as she walked past him.

Because he saw blood in her eyes and wasn’t a fool, Savich allowed himself to be pummeled and thrown, and generally smacked around. The kick pad he’d held for her fared no better. He thought, at the end, it was worth it because Sherlock was laughing as she counted the number of times she’d thrown him. Violence, he thought, as he showered, appeared to calm the woman down and restore her perspective He’d even called a halt several times during his royal butt-kicking to stretch and rub his muscles, and give her a chance to hoot and dance.

They stopped off at Dizzy Dan’s for pizzas, one vegetarian for Savich and Sean, the other a pepperoni for the carnivore.

They ordered in two more when Savich’s sister Lily and her husband, Simon, walked in right behind them. A short visit, they said, but neither Savich nor Sherlock believed them once they made a beeline for Sean, a new computer game in hand.

Lily was four months pregnant now, just beginning to show. “Practice is everything,” she told Sean every time he challenged her to another game of Treasures of the Ninja.

They were finally asleep at midnight. Elvis sang in Savich’s ear just as he was revving his race car at the Indy 500. He was instantly awake. “Savich here. Oh, no. Yes, I understand. Yes, I’m sorry too.” He clicked off. Sherlock was propped up on her elbow. “Who was that? What happened?”

“That was the hospital. Perky’s dead. The surgeon said she came through surgery fine. She was in and out of recovery in an hour, still doing fine, and back in her room. No need for the ICU. When the nurse went to check on her maybe an hour later, she was simply dead.” He slammed his fist against his night table. “I was going to assign an agent to guard her beginning tomorrow. I’m an idiot.”

“It sounds like she died from a surgical complication.”

“We’ll know tomorrow, after the autopsy. But what if it wasn’t from unexpected complications?”

Savich cursed, something he so rarely did he sounded faintly ridiculous. Then he got up, pulled on sweatpants, and said over his shoulder as he walked out of the bedroom, “I’m going to see if I can’t come up with a plan to get things moving.” He was talking more to himself now than to her. “Yeah, and MAX can maybe do something with all those initials and numbers in Perky’s address book.”

Sherlock didn’t sleep again until he came back to bed. She didn’t speak, simply curled up against him, her palm over his heart, and felt the strong, steady beat. She felt him begin to relax, and it simply all came out of her mouth. “You could have died. I was so scared this afternoon when she tried to kill you, Dillon, so scared I couldn’t help you. I wanted to kill you.”

He kissed her hair, her ear. “Don’t you think it scared me spitless when she fired at you? And she looked at me the instant before she turned to you.”

“I love you, Dillon. I loved you even when I kicked you into the wall mirror in the slam room.”

“I won’t forget,” he said, and kissed her eyebrow. “We’ll deal with this in the morning, Sherlock. Go to sleep.”

THIRTY-ONE

Washington, D.C.

Thursday morning

Jack and Rachael were nearing the Hart Senate Office Building on

Constitution Avenue for their nine o’clock appointment with Greg

Nichols in his new position with the senior senator from Oregon, Jessie Jankel, when Ollie called. “Turn on your radio, Jack, you’ll want to hear this. It’s Savich holding an FBI press conference.”

Jack said to Rachael as he flicked on his turn signal, “I bet he’s speaking this morning because he has an agenda,” and he turned up the volume on the radio. “He’s got to address all the crap that went down yesterday at the Barnes & Noble, but then, it’s his show.”

Savich had an agenda. He stood at Jimmy Maitland’s elbow, looking out over the sea of media faces from newspaper, radio, and TV, most of them familiar to him, seated in their plastic chairs, the TV people well-groomed, sharp, camera ready, the newspaper reporters looking on the seedy side in jeans, more like real people. He glanced over at Sherlock, gave her a smile and a nod. When Mr. Maitland introduced him, he stepped up to the mike, and looked out at the avid, hungry faces, ready to hurl their endless questions at him, eager for a sound bite or two.

“I suppose most of you have heard about the disturbance at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Georgetown yesterday afternoon.”

There was a wave of laughter since every reporter in the room had swarmed over Georgetown, interviewing everyone within ten blocks of the Barnes & Noble. Steve Olson, the manager, had closed the store and stood out on the sidewalk to take their questions. It had been a special report weaving in and out of regular programming throughout the evening, some of the speculation rivaling the truth, which was strange enough.

Savich said, “The woman we arrested in the Barnes & Noble died at Washington Memorial Hospital at around midnight. An autopsy is scheduled for this morning.”

“Agent Savich, why an autopsy? Didn’t she die of bullet wounds?”

“Did you shoot her yourself?”

Savich said, “So far, our preliminary information is that her wounds weren’t fatal. Did she die from surgical complications? We’ll know today.”

“But she’s still dead. Hey, wait a minute. You think she was murdered?”

“How many times did you shoot her?”

“What did she do? Who was she?”

“Why did she run into the bookstore?”

“What’s her name?”

Savich finally held up his hand.

The room fell silent. “Her name was Pearl Elaine Compton. She was an established assassin, a very good one, according to our information, also a very long-lived one, given she was forty-one years old al the time of her death.

“She had three cohorts. One is dead, one is in the hospital, and the third is still at large. I’ll say it again—we’ll know the cause of her death today.

“As you might have heard, there was a lot of alarm and panic, all understandable, until one of the agents brought her down right after a teenage girl she was using as a shield was smart enough to bite Compton’s forearm and escape.

“It took two shots to bring the suspect down, shoulder and arm. She stayed down and we evacuated her to the hospital.

“No one else was hurt—no customers, no employees, no one in law enforcement.” He leaned even closer, cupped the mike between his hands. “The manager of the M Street Barnes & Noble is Steve Olson, a man I know personally. He was a great help at calming everyone down. He did complain to me, however, that they only now finished reshelving at least five hundred books.”

A bit of laughter. All of them were straining to get closer.

“What this all boils down to is that we escaped tragedy on this one. I sincerely hope my next visit to the bookstore will involve only a cup of tea and looking through the new best sellers. Okay does anyone have any questions?”

Every single hand shot in the air, voices already escalating. Savich gave them a look. He nodded to Mercer Jones, longtime crime reporter for the Washington Post. Mercer had planted a couple of stories for him over the years. Mercer said in his deep, plodding voice, “Agent Savich, why is the FBI involved in a shooting in Georgetown? Why not the Washington police? What’s really going on here? Why were you after this Pearl Compton?”

Mercer was good, bless him; Savich had always recognized it. Mercer had given him the perfect lead-in. Savich said, “Good questions. Let me give you some critical information.” He looked at Jimmy Maitland, who nodded.

“As you all know, Senator John James Abbott recently died in an automobile crash that was ruled accidental.” He paused. “We now believe it’s possible that Pearl Compton, the assassin who died last night, was involved in his death. We’ve reopened the case.”

No need to mention Rachael, and Mr. Maitland had agreed. After all, this performance was to protect her. Why kill her if the FBI already knew everything she knew? The media would go haywire, dig into all of it. They’d find Rachael, but it would take a while. Whoever in Senator Abbott’s family was behind it, they had to be afraid. Fear meant mistakes. As he expected, there was a moment of stunned silence, then pandemonium.

Milly Cranshaw, host of Night Lights on PBS, yelled out, “Agent Savich, the official ruling was that Senator Abbott had been drinking and he lost control of his car. You’re saying someone hired this woman to assassinate Senator Abbott? Who would do that? Why?”

Savich smiled at her. Trust Milly to load up with a half-dozen questions so he could pick and choose.

“Pearl Compton was hired to make it look like an accident?” added Thomas Black of CBS, bushy gray eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

“What I’m saying is, we’re investigating whether Pearl Compton was involved.”

“But who would want to kill Senator Abbott?”

“Do you think it was a terrorist act?”

Mercer shouted out, “But no one took credit.”

Savich let the wave of questions flow over him. Many voices he recognized, but soon it became a cacophony, and they were beginning to argue with one another.

Time to bring it to a stop. Savich raised his hand. The room quieted.

“We’re investigating everyone involved in Senator Abbott’s life, both personal and professional.”

“But what information do you have that raised doubt his death was an accident?” yelled Bert Mintz from Fox.

“We believe Senator Abbott had not taken a single drink for at least eighteen months before his death. And for eighteen months, he had not driven a car, either. We have a good deal of information in our ongoing investigation that we are not prepared to make public at this time.” He knew what he’d just said would be his big sound bite.

Savich turned away in the two seconds of stunned silence, something he didn’t realize was possible, then, of course, came more shouted questions.

Slowly, he paused, turned back. He said, “I will keep you updated as our investigation continues. Thank you.”

Savich stepped away from the podium and walked off the dais amid the cacophony of voices, Jimmy Maitland on his heels. His boss was smart. No way was Mr. Maitland going to face that rabid pack.

Savich, Sherlock, and Maitland stood in the wing, listening to the questions being flung in their general direction. Director Mueller shut them down with his usual polite efficiency.

Maitland said to Savich, “We’re putting the FBI’s credibility on the line here, Savich.” He plowed his fingers through his crew cut.

“We all agreed it’s our best shot at protecting Rachael and getting to the truth.”

Maitland nodded, then laughed. “The looks on their faces. I thought old Jerry Webber from the Post was going to fall out of his chair. That was some bombshell.”

Maitland sighed. “It’s still really tough for me to accept that someone killed Jimmy. I never noticed he’d stopped drinking, but then I only saw him every couple of months. Rachael is completely sure about this?”

Savich nodded.

Maitland said, “You know the media will discover her in no time now they’re motivated. They’ll be camping out on the Abbott front yard. Like you said, the announcement should protect her from any more attempts on her life. Clean it up, Savich, clean it up fast.”

Director Mueller repeated what Maitland had said. “Take care of it, Savich. Quickly. The president is very concerned.” He smiled at Sherlock and left, three of his staff surrounding him.

Sherlock asked Maitland, “Did Senator Abbott tell you about his daughter, sir?”

“Yes, he was very happy, but he didn’t tell me too much about her background. He seemed thrilled to have found her. His spirits were good.” Maitland shook his head. “But then six weeks later, he’s dead. This is a deep black snake pit, boyo. The director’s right, it needs to be settled once and for all.”

“Soon, I hope,” Savich said. “Why don’t you come over to my house this evening, sir. You can meet Rachael Janes Abbott.”

“Sounds good. How about Dr. MacLean? Any updates?”

Savich smiled. “We’ve got some good leads there. In fact, if you’ll excuse us, sir, we need to follow up on something.” Savich, holding Sherlock’s hand, walked off, leaving Maitland to stare after him and shake his head. He was struck by a sharp memory of Savich’s dad, Buck Savich, the wild cowboy who caught more bad guys than he had in his time. He remembered being in a bar in Dallas with Buck once when a paunchy guy in black leather came strutting in to pick a fight. He picked Buck, the fool. Maitland smiled when he thought of the guy stretched out on his back on the barroom floor, moaning.

He looked forward to meeting Jimmy’s daughter. What did Jimmy’s ex-wife, Jacqueline, and her daughters think about Rachael?

THIRTY-TWO

Hart Senate Office Building Washington, D.C.

Jack shook Greg Nichols’s hand, showed him his creds, and all the while Nichols stared at Rachael, the look in his eye, to Jack’s mind, too interested. “It’s good to see you again, Rachael,” he said, and smiled, his voice too warm. When he shook her hand, he held it, his eyes on her face, on that braid.

Now this was unexpected. And Jack didn’t like it. Nichols cleared his throat and gave her that too-interested look again. He was tall, solid, fit, no fat that Jack could see. His tailored dark blue suit fit him well. His light brown hair was styled by a very talented pair of hands, and his teeth were as white as his shirt. He presented himself as a no-nonsense, rugged, supremely trustworthy man and had Rachael smiling back at him. Jack knew he was thirty-seven, and he wielded a good deal of power in his own right here on Capitol Hill. He even had enough juice to have gone from one top-dog master to another in under two weeks.

Nichols said, “I’m sorry but as I said when you called, Agent Crowne, I have very little free time this morning. Senator Jankel has a vote before noon and I must brief him.

“Let me say I was flabbergasted by the FBI press conference and their speculations about Senator Abbott’s tragic death. Do you ... do they ... really believe Senator Abbott was murdered, that his death was set up to look like an accident, and every local and federal agency was fooled?”

So you want to play, do you? Jack said, “That’s about the size of it, yes. There’s very little doubt at this point.”

Nichols sat down heavily behind his lovely mahogany desk, waved them both to the chairs in front. His back was to the window, naturally, with the sun flooding Jack’s and Rachael’s faces. Jack angled his chair, and Rachael did the same.

Jack looked around. “Nice digs.”

“Yes, these offices are among the finest. A senior senator has usually garnered enough influence over the years for a large office. As chairman of the Ways and Means Committee, Senator Jankel is a major spokesman for the party. You should see the senator’s office if this one impresses you.”

Jack said, “Do you enjoy being the power behind the throne, Mr. Nichols?”

An eyebrow went up. “Power, Agent Crowne? Do you know, I’ve never really thought of it that way. No, rather, I think of myself as a facilitator, a person who keeps things running smoothly, a person the senator can trust implicitly to implement his ideas, to prepare him for whatever demands come up. But I only do what he wants done. Now, enough about me. Tell me what I can do for you.”

“Mr. Nichols, you knew Senator Abbott possibly better than anyone, including his brother and sister and Rachael.”

Nichols said, “That only makes sense since I worked closely with him for thirteen years before his death. As for Rachael, she only had weeks.” He shrugged. “His siblings ... well, here’s honesty for you— only the Abbott name tied them together. There were never any bonds of affection, any genuine love or caring—at least that’s how it always seemed to me. The senator’s father—I met the old man exactly once. He looked at me like I was a mutt. He was an imperious old buzzard with an iron fist. He died less than five months before his eldest son. I knew he and his son rarely spoke. Senator Abbott said only that he and his father didn’t see eye to eye about his career choice. I think that was an understatement. I thought it was probably a good deal more.

“When Rachael came into his life, not long after his father’s death, I believe Senator Abbott hoped to get closer to his siblings, for Rachael’s sake—wanted all of them to come together again as a family, but...” His voice hitched, his eyes blurred for a moment. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, it’s difficult ... I’ve just begun to accept his death, but now, to hear you say it wasn’t an accident, that some crazy person actually murdered him, I ...” He stopped, shook his head, looked down at his clasped hands on the desktop.

“How did you come into Senator Abbott’s orbit, Mr. Nichols?”

That brought his head up. “Call me Greg, please. Fact is, I met Senator Abbott when I was fresh out of law school, betwixt and between, I suppose you could say, uncertain what I wanted to do. I was sitting in the Big Raisin, an English pub and restaurant over on Platt Avenue, drinking a beer, wondering what I was doing here in Washington, of all places. I didn’t know anybody, didn’t have a single contact, and yet I’d taken the train down from New York to interview for a job that morning and was nursing a beer and thinking I was a great fool.

“Senator Abbott came in and sat down beside me, ordered a martini, two olives. He looked familiar, but I didn’t realize who he was. He seemed like a nice businessman, friendly, passing the time while waiting for his lunch guest. He asked me what a young guy with a bad haircut was doing sitting at a bar in the middle of the day, and why I wasn’t out building bridges or teaching children math.

“I laughed, told him it was all happenstance I was even in Washington, in that particular restaurant, drinking that particular beer, which I should point out was warm.

“He rolled his eyes, said, Ah, it’s English.’ We continued to talk, he kept asking me questions. Another man came in maybe twenty minutes later, evidently the fellow he’d been waiting for. I didn’t realize it then, but it was the Speaker of the House. Senator Abbott got up and handed me his card. When I realized who he was, I tell you, I nearly choked on my beer. He even shook my hand, introduced himself. Then he told me to call him later that afternoon, he wanted to speak to me about a possible career change.

“I told him I didn’t even have a career to change.

“He laughed, told me I wouldn’t have to concern myself with former employers then, would I?

“I went to see him the next morning. He hired me. Over the years I took on responsibilities, I gained his trust. We became close.” Nichols smiled. “I was his spearhead.” Again, he paused, eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, but I know you understand, Rachael.”

“Well, I certainly understand my own pain,” she said. “I expect I’ll feel it for a good long time.”

Nichols glanced at an abstract painting on the far wall, huge red flowers, looking ready to explode. He said, “I certainly understand that. Senator Abbott had charisma in spades. It’s a natural talent, one you really can’t learn. It’s certainly not Senator Jankel’s strong suit, but we’re trying.” He gave them a self-deprecating smile. “Please don’t spread that around, all right? I really don’t want another career change now.”

“Of course not,” Rachael said.

Nichols cocked his head to the side, looked thoughtful. “It’s been solong since I’ve had these concerns, I’d forgotten. There’s so much to learn. Believe me, Senator Jankel’s likes and dislikes, his beliefs, what’s really important to him, they’re very different from Senator Abbott’s. What else can I tell you, Agent Crowne?”

Jack said, “Since I’m sure your time is running short, Greg, you could cut the bullshit, that’d be good.”

Nicholas jumped to his feet, planted his hands on his desk. “What is it you’re implying, Agent Crowne?”

“Greg,” Rachael said, “you and I are both guilty of not telling the investigators the truth. Both of us know Jimmy killed that little girl because he told us individually. And we both know he hadn’t had a drink or driven a car for eighteen months because of it. Both of us remained silent. Neither of us wanted to ruin his good name. Of course, it might have led to your own involvement in the cover-up, but that’s over now.

“I’ve told everyone the truth. It’s time you did, as well. All of it.”

He sat down again, looked at them over his steepled fingers. “When I spoke to the investigators, I did not cover up that the senator had stopped drinking and driving, I simply didn’t emphasize it to the police because I didn’t want the hit-and-run accident eighteen months ago to come out now that Senator Abbott was dead anyway.

“Evidently, the FBI believes the senator was murdered, because he’d stopped drinking and driving. I suppose this was based on what you told them, Rachael?”

“Yes.”

To be honest, that sounds rather feeble to me, surely not enough to make the FBI reopen the case. There must be more.” He looked pointedly at Jack, who only shook his head.

Nichols continued. “I have given this a lot of thought, and I don’t believe he was murdered. No, that doesn’t make sense. I believe he committed suicide. Of course, I haven’t publicized that.

“And then you came to tell me you were going to make your father’s confession for him, you were going to tell the world about it.”

“Yes, that was what I was going to say, what I very well still might say.”

Nichols said, “Do you want to know why he told me he was going public, Rachael?”

The braid momentarily curved around her cheek as she nodded, and Nichols stared at it. He said slowly, “I believe Senator Abbott told me because he wanted me to talk him out of doing it.”

Jack said, “That’s an interesting theory. Care to tell us what you said to him?”

“I told him it was the worst possible mistake to go public about killing the little girl because the media would devour him, make him into their monster of the month. He wasn’t a monster and never would be, but that’s how it would end up. The media would never take into account things like the man’s excellent character, his caring for every man, woman, and child in this country, the legislation he’d gotten passed—thoughtful, far-reaching laws.

“No, the media would ignore all the good, wouldn’t consider it relevant. I told him that ruining his own career was only the first bullet he’d take. Then they’d go after his family with gossip, half-baked stories and innuendos. His daughters and their families would be dragged into it.

“As for what they would do to the Abbotts, they’d dig up malcontents, interview anyone with an ax to grind against the family. Naturally, such a major scandal isn’t anything the party needs.”

Jack said, “But Senator Abbott realized all this. He’d thought it through, struggled with it for a very long time. He knew what would happen, he knew, yet he’d decided to act, no matter your arguments.”

“Perhaps. But maybe hearing someone say it out loud—namely me—playing devil’s advocate for him, made a difference. As I said, I think he really wanted me to talk him out of it. Look, Agent Crowne, I’ve struggled as well, wondered endlessly if keeping faith with Senator Abbott was the right thing, but you see, I knew the man, knew his heart.

“I also knew the death of the little girl was a dreadful accident, something that could have been avoided had he ... well, had things been different for that split second, but they weren’t, and so a child died needlessly.

“I tried to make him realize that it was an accident, tried to pull him out of his private hell. He wavered, and I was never sure what he would say from one day to the next, near the end.

“Let me be honest here. I’m simply not sure what his thinking was at the time of his death. I’ll admit that I played the Rachael card—I told him the media would go after you especially, Rachael, you and your mom and her family. And was it fair to smear you in all this?

“Then he died, and now we’ll never know what he would have done.” He paused, steepled his fingers again, a nervous habit, Jack thought, tapped them against his well-shaven chin. “In the end, would he really have resigned his office, confessed it all publicly? I don’t know. When he died, it was all moot. I don’t know what else I can tell you, Agent Crowne.”

Jack said, “Well, we’re still wading through it here, Greg.”

THIRTY-THREE

Nichols’s face spiked red with rage. “You think I’m lying to you? You want someone to blame for his death and you’ve selected me? That’s nuts, you’re nuts.”

Jack said, “Fact is, we’re running short on suspects here, Greg. You agree Senator Abbott told only you, his family, and Rachael. Do you know of anyone else he told?”

“No, I don’t, but there could easily have been others. He had a lot of friends, all the staffers listen at every keyhole.”

He was still breathing hard, his right hand in a mean fist. “Rachael, remember you told me you wanted to carry through with his wishes, you wanted to tell the world about his part in that little girl’s tragic death?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “I still do. I believe to my soul he didn’t change his mind, he wouldn’t, and someone killed him to keep him quiet. Was it you, Greg?”

“No, it wasn’t. Listen, Rachael, none of us know what your father’s thoughts were in that split second before he died, what his decision was in that moment.”

Rachael said, “I remember Jimmy was very quiet that evening. He gave me a kiss, patted my cheek, called his driver, and left, without telling me where he was going. His driver told the police he dropped Jimmy off at The Globe restaurant in Friendship Heights, where he was to meet some of his colleagues.”

Nichols said, “I had nothing to do with setting up any dinner, and that’s what I told the investigators.”

She nodded. “But there were reservations in his name, for twelve. The guests arrived at the restaurant, but Jimmy never did, because he was dead, at the wheel of his own car, that’s what the investigators told me—that the car was registered to Senator John James Abbott, a white BMW. I’d never seen him drive it, it was always locked in the garage, so I couldn’t even verify that it was his car.

“But the thing is, Greg, if Jimmy decided to drive again, why would he come back to the house without telling me? Why would he go straight to the garage, get into his BMW, and simply drive it away? I don’t think he’d even seen his car keys in months. Better yet, how did he get back here to get his car? Investigators couldn’t find any taxis that brought him back.”

Jack said, “That’s because the murderer had already gotten the BMW, probably forced your father into the car outside the restaurant. It was well planned.”

Nichols asked, “What about Senator Abbott’s driver?”

“Rafferty’s in the clear,” Jack said. “He said when he dropped Senator Abbott off outside the restaurant, the senator told him to take the night off, and so he did. He’s very nicely alibied.” Jack paused, studied the man’s face.

Rachael fiddled with her braid. Jack said nothing, waited, his eyes still on Nichols’s face.

Nichols said finally, not meeting her eyes, “As I already said, I think it’s very possible your father killed himself. No, no, listen. I think he committed suicide because he couldn’t live with the secret, but he didn’t want to ruin your life, Rachael, or that of his family, and so he killed himself. This is what I believe. I think it was his gift to you. I’ll tell you, I was relieved when his death was ruled an accident. I didn’t want it ever said that Senator Abbott killed himself. Ever.”

“Suicide?” Rachael repeated slowly. “You honestly believe Jimmy killed himself?”

Jack said, “You’re saying he drank to bring himself to the sticking point, got in his Beemer, and drove over the cliff?”

“If he was ending his life, it seems to me it would make sense to ease things a bit.”

“Jimmy did not kill himself,” Rachael said. “He did not. He wouldn’t, he simply wouldn’t.”

“You prefer to think that someone wantonly took his life because of what he was going to confess?”

Rachael sat forward, her voice becoming quite hard. “Jimmy was not that kind of man. Greg, you know Laurel, her slimy husband, and Quincy. Don’t tell me they would hesitate to kill someone they believed would dirty their lovely worlds. Jimmy was planning to explode their world.”

“Plan to murder their own brother? To actually follow through with it? No, that’s pushing it too far, at least for me.”

Jack said, “Shall I tell you the cases I’ve worked where family members have enthusiastically butchered each other?”

Nichols said, “I can accept that, Agent Crowne, if you’re talking about psychopaths, about people with limited mental ability, the sort ofpeople who have only their fists and the will to use them. That’s not the Abbotts.” He raised his hands, no longer clenched. “I know, you have the horror stories, Agent Crowne, but the Abbotts, no matter their behavior, their faults, their seeming lack of, well, humanity. I’ve known them a very long time. They don’t abuse or murder their own blood.”

Nichols sat forward, all his focus on Rachael. “You’re still not planning to tell the world what your father did, are you, Rachael?”

“Yes, I think I am. I know you believe it might destroy your career, Greg, but you brought that on yourself.”

He stared at her. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m talking about your own involvement in the cover-up. Come now, Greg, Jimmy told me how you talked him out of calling the police after he struck the little girl. When he spoke publicly, of course he wouldn’t point to your role in the cover-up, but you knew it would come out. The speculation alone about your connection would end your career and you knew it.”

Nichols said, “Whatever passed between me and Senator Abbott is confidential, but I will say this. Even though I did know about the accident, I did not know the details, the particulars, until Senator Abbott told me days before his death. That is the truth.” He shrugged and looked gravely disappointed.

Jack nodded, his voice approving. “I suppose denial of particulars is best. After all, Greg, no one would expect you to admit to being an accessory after the fact to a vehicular homicide. No one would expect you to send yourself to jail.”

Nichols clasped his hands together, and his voice lowered, harder now. “I have told you the truth. I will not speak of it again.” He turned to Rachael, raised his voice. “Who are you to destroy a man’s name, to have the world judge him on a fraction of his life when he spent years—years—doing such fine work? That is one decision you cannot make for anyone. Especially not for him. You had only six weeks with him, Rachael, not enough time to know what he even liked to eat for breakfast. You did not know his mind, or his heart. You must accept that.”

Jack saw Rachael’s face was stark and pale, and said easily, “Where were you that night?”

“Me? All right, I suppose I am a suspect. Trust me, I don’t need a calendar. That night is burned into my memory forever. I was to have dinner with Susan Wentworth—she works over in the GAO. But we didn’t go, I can’t remember the reason. So I don’t have an alibi for the night of Senator Abbott’s death.” He looked down at his watch. “I must brief Senator Jankel. He needs my input before he votes.” He rose, didn’t offer to shake hands. He said to Rachael, “I hope you think long and hard about this, Rachael. Very hard.”

Rachael didn’t say anything. Jack thought she looked sad, and very tired.

Outside Senator Jankel’s office, Jack said, “I expected you to tell him someone was trying to kill you, but you didn’t.”

“To be honest, I didn’t see the point. He is very bright, Jack, and very smooth. His word against mine, and what good would it do? And he knows that.” She shrugged. “I don’t blame him, not really. He was only trying to clean up the mess; he didn’t create it.”

Jack said, “He’s also a liar.”

“Yes, he is.”

Jack said, “Do you think he murdered your father?”

Rachael paused on the sidewalk in front of the Hart Senate Office Building and raised her face to the warm sun. She said, “Bottom line, who would hire him on Capitol Hill if it was known he helped my father cover up that accident? Oh, I don’t know. My head hurts.”