He kissed her hair, said against her ear, “We both have to be patient, Sherlock. And honest with each other. If there’s anything you want to say to me, please, always say it, okay? And don’t worry about the bed. I don’t want to be a stranger with benefits.”
She nodded against his neck. “Maybe what we need is a good knock-down, drag-out fight, yell at each other. The problem is, I can’t think what to yell at you about. Do we fight?”
“On occasion.”
She leaned back in his arms. “Do we fight about money? About sex? What?”
“Maybe because I’m the better cook? Well, at some things, like lasagna. You hate it when guests praise my lasagna and ignore your garlic toast and Caesar salad. Actually, it’s really quite funny. But then you bring out your apple pie and everyone drools and praises you to your eyebrows, and all’s right with the world again.” He kissed her forehead. “But seriously, we don’t fight about money or about sex.” He gave her a crooked grin. “We have enough of both. We’re very busy trying to raise our boy and do our jobs. When we have knock-down, drag-outs it’s usually about work. I’m your boss. I give you assignments you sometimes don’t agree with and you leap into the fray, no holds barred. You’re ferocious.”
“My boss. That’s got to be tough, for both of us.”
“Yes, sometimes, but usually we work well together, spark off each other.”
She looked thoughtful, nodded. “Know what I think? Sounds to me like I’m the brain and you’re the brawn.”
He laughed. “Sometimes. I think we’re each a little of both.”
She said nothing for a moment, then, “I wish I could see my mom and dad’s faces, see what Sean eats for breakfast.”
“He eats Cheerios, one sliced banana on top. He’s asking for a three-speed bike for his birthday, which he won’t get, of course, but he will get his favorite birthday cake—chocolate.
“I’ll show you a photo of you with your parents, okay?” He saw her chew this over. This was uncharted territory and he hated it, felt like a blind man trying to feel his way.
She nodded, rubbed her forehead. “It just hit me. I’m really pretty tired, Dillon.”
Savich kissed her forehead. “We’ve both had a long day. Let’s get ourselves some sleep.” He put their phones on the chargers and switched off the bedside lamp.
They lay side by side on their backs. After a couple of minutes of dead silence, Sherlock said, “This feels weird.”
“Yes, but weird is what we’ve got. Weird is okay for now, don’t worry.”
“Okay.” She leaned toward him, kissed his cheek. Neither of them said anything. She wished the bedside lamp with its thirty watts was on, she wanted to see his expression, but then again, she really didn’t know what she wanted to see. She whispered, “Good night, Dillon. Thank you for having my back.”
42
* * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY NIGHT
She’d been a moron to run from that man walking toward her SUV in Justice Cummings’s neighborhood. She should have handled it, said she was surveilling a cheating wife, or even waiting for a friend. Anything at all. But like an amateur, she’d panicked and floored the SUV. Ellie Corbitt wanted to kick herself, not that it would do any good. She’d bet the man got her license plate.
She squeezed her eyes closed. She had to get up the courage to call Athena, warn her. No, easier to call Jasmine. She was responsible for letting Justice Cummings escape. She’d screwed up even more than Ellie had. But this was a close second.
Jasmine answered on the first ring, and Ellie talked fast. Jasmine was silent for a long time after Ellie had said it all. Then she let out a long breath. “This isn’t good, Ellie. Whoever the man was, whoever he’s working for, they’ll find out the SUV belongs to Bexholt, and from there they’ll identify you.”
“I bet the guy who spotted me was CIA,” Ellie said. “I mean, they must be looking for him, too. And the guy was dressed in a spiffy black suit, their standard uniform. If not CIA, then the FBI. Doesn’t matter, either one is bad. Should I call Athena? Warn her? Jasmine, what should I do?”
“Ellie, it will be all right. For now, you stay out of sight, and do not, I repeat, do not go into work tomorrow. Call in sick, you got that? I’ll call Athena,” and she talked about mistakes and how everybody made them, just look at what she’d done!, and not to worry.
“Yes, I’ve got that, but then what?”
“I’ll let you know,” and Jasmine hung up.
Ellie was so scared she couldn’t think straight. Sure, she was smart, committed to this wonderful project. She was so tired of scrimping to make ends meet, but the fact was, she was an accountant, not a trained operative—Stop making excuses. She should have called Athena directly, groveled, told her she’d panicked, that she was sorry. Now she had to trust Jasmine to handle it. Jasmine had offered up such nice forgiving words, but it didn’t change the fact Ellie had let the group down. She’d compromised everyone, and the success of the project. She kept reliving the scene in Cummings’s neighborhood over and over in her head, wondering what was going to happen now, to her, to Jasmine, and to everyone else. Her brain squirrelled about as she lay in bed, even tried to talk her into hopping an express train to the West Coast, or a nonstop flight to the Philippines. What would happen now? Jasmine would know what to do. Wild ideas kept tromping through her brain until she finally took two prescription sleeping pills at 2 a.m. They dragged her deeply under.
She never felt the bullet that slammed into her brain. She fell from sleep into death without ever knowing she’d died.
43
* * *
GAFFER'S RIDGE
FRIDAY MORNING
After breakfast at Jenny’s Café, Griffin and Carson walked Savich and Sherlock to the Porsche. Savich said, “We talked about everything except Quint Bodine’s computer. My worm got his files downloaded and out to me, but unfortunately we still don’t have access—MAX ran into a layer of encryption behind the admin password. It could take him some time to get through it. Once we get in, I’ll call the minute I find something.”
Griffin said, “I wonder why Bodine would go to the effort to encrypt at all unless there’s something he wants to be sure is protected.”
“The fact he did encrypt makes me very hopeful he considers what’s on his computer is critical. We’ll find out soon. You need me, I’m a call away.” They shook hands, Carson gave Sherlock a hug, said against her ear, “Please call me if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Once they were on the interstate, Savich let the Porsche loose, happy to hear the engine sing hallelujah. It was a bummer, but he throttled back to just over the speed limit. He took Sherlock’s hand in his. “Tell me how you’re feeling today.”
She gave him a real smile. “Fine, I’m fine. I can’t wait to meet Mr. Maitland. Wait. Did he come to the hospital? Have I already met him?”
“Yes, but there were lots of agents there, doesn’t matter you don’t remember him. Now, some disturbing news from Washington. While you were in the shower, Ben Raven, a Metro detective, texted me. He got an anonymous call early this morning. They found a body at the apartment of an apparent break-in. Her name was Eleanor Corbitt. Ben caught the case. He thought she looked familiar and went back to check video cams at the scene of your accident. Sure enough, Eleanor Corbitt was there, standing on the street corner. He spoke to his LT, who called Mr. Maitland, who called me thirty minutes ago. I didn’t tell Griffin about it, he’s got enough on his plate. I didn’t tell you right away—” He stalled.
You were concerned I might freak out, you wanted to break it to me gently after we left. She didn’t say that, said only, “And the dead woman being on that corner, now, that ain’t no coincidence.”
He spurted out a laugh. That was his Sherlock. “You’re right about that.” Savich let his Porsche pass a big eighteen-wheeler at ninety miles an hour, smiling wider with each RPM. When he reluctantly slowed back to sixty, it was
Sherlock who laughed.
* * *
It was odd, but Sherlock would swear she remembered the smell in the morgue—strong lemon disinfectant with a slick of something foul just beneath. It was the smell of death. And it was cold in the autopsy room. She and Savich stood over Eleanor Corbitt’s body. She was thirty-six at the time of her death. She’d been a pretty woman, with long dark brown hair, a fair complexion. But now her hair was bloody, her face slack and gray. A sheet was pulled to her shoulders, showing only the edges of the Y cut. Ben Raven stood at Sherlock’s elbow. Was it to catch her if she fainted?
The M.E., Dr. Horowitz, said in his clipped voice, “She was remarkably fit, in excellent health when she died. I estimate TOD around the middle of the night, say three a.m., but of course, that could be off by several hours either way. She took sleeping pills sometime after midnight so she was very probably asleep when she was shot in the head and killed instantly. If she’d been awake, there’d be signs of a struggle. And I’d say this one could have put up a good fight. No, she never even knew.”
Sherlock cocked her head to the side. “I doubt she was raped.”
Dr. Horowitz shook his head.
“Then why was she killed?”
Ben Raven said, “Her apartment was ransacked, looked like someone broke in, looking for money, for drugs, whatever, and her wallet and her jewelry were missing. And it could have been a robbery gone bad. That’s what it’s supposed to look like. But there’s something you don’t know. Apart from being at the scene of your accident, the woman who struck you, Jasmine Palumbo, and this woman—both of them work for the Bexholt Group, the big communications security company headquartered in Maryland. Jasmine Palumbo is a supervisor there in security engineering. Corbitt was in accounting. Corbitt had worked at Bexholt for five years at the time of her death, Palumbo for eight.
“I’ve had several hours to think about how this all went down. If we eliminate all of it being coincidence, it’s got to have something to do with the CIA analyst who struck your car and disappeared. For whatever reason, someone eliminated Corbitt, made it look like a common crime. Was she a loose end? Was it something she knew she shouldn’t know? Was it something she did? Someone saw her who shouldn’t have? We don’t know any of it yet.”
Savich said, “Security engineering and accounting. Strange combination. And you said Corbitt was standing on the street watching the accident?”
“More likely watching her co-worker Jasmine or looking for Justice Cummings,” Sherlock said.
Ben said, “My vote is she was looking for Cummings. Who was he going to meet after work at the Blaze Café? We spotted two people he probably saw outside the café before he ran. We couldn’t identify them, the angles weren’t right. Do you want the FBI techs to have a go?”
“Yes, send them over,” Savich said.
Sherlock said, “What does the CIA say about all this? Have they bothered to share anything, like what Cummings’s major responsibilities were?”
Savich said, “Of course not. They say his job description is need-to-know only. Mr. Maitland is pissed, to say the least. I imagine he’ll go see Cummings’s boss and his boss’s boss today, try to find out if Cummings knows either Eleanor Corbitt or Jasmine Palumbo.”
Ben laughed. “From what I hear the CIA keep their operations so close to the vest even they sometimes can’t find them. But your Mr. Maitland, my money’s on him.”
Sherlock saw a bull of a man, his dark brown hair slashed through with gray strands, standing behind a big desk, leaning toward her, his palms pressed flat. Suddenly, there was a big smile, at something she’d said? She remembered him, he had indeed been at the hospital.
Ben said, “Sherlock, is something wrong?”
She shook her head, looked back down at the pretty woman who was dead at age thirty-six. What had she done? Or seen? Or failed to do?
As they walked out of the morgue, Sherlock said, “I recognized on some level I’m comfortable with autopsies. I knew what I was seeing and being told, and it didn’t make me want to hurl. Have I ever met Dr. Horowitz before, Ben?”
“Yes, many times.” He was pleased she’d called him by his first name, though to her he was still a stranger.
Savich said, “If you hadn’t caught the case, Ben, if you hadn’t recognized her, I strongly doubt a connection would ever have been made. It’s Mr. Maitland’s call now. Time for us to see what he’s planning.”
44
* * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
HOOVER BUILDING
FRIDAY MORNING
Goldy, Mr. Maitland’s longtime bulldog gatekeeper, told Savich and Sherlock, “He’s near to erupting. Go on in, see if you can calm him down. If you need the fire extinguisher, holler.”
Maitland rose and kicked his desk when they walked in. “These blank-brained secretive CIA yahoos don’t return my calls.” He slammed a folder down on his desk. “No more frigging phone tag that doesn’t lead anywhere. We’re going to go see Claire Farriger. She’s an assistant director for analysis. The title is longer, but you get the gist. Besserman is Justice Cummings’s group chief, Farriger is Besserman’s boss.” He stopped, gave a worried look at Sherlock. His face softened. “Sherlock, there’s no need for you to come with us. Perhaps you’d be better off going home, getting some rest?”
“Sir, would you normally suggest resting to me?”
He looked embarrassed, shook his head. “Well, no. I’d be afraid you’d hurt me. Sorry, Sherlock, I guess I’m tripping all over myself because you’re hurt”—he ran his hands through his hair—“and I’m making things worse.”
Sherlock patted his arm, something she’d never done before. He blinked down at her, smiled.
“Sir, what makes things worse is doing nothing and thinking and worrying and feeling sorry for myself because when I’m alone I’m a tabula rasa. I don’t even know what I would normally be thinking about. I want to be of use. I’d very much like to visit the CIA.”
Maitland shot a look at Savich, who nodded.
“All right, I’d appreciate your perspective, Sherlock.”
Savich told his boss what he’d learned about Eleanor Corbitt from Ben Raven. “—So we have two Bexholt employees, both at the scene of Sherlock’s accident, one now dead, murdered. Corbitt was in the Bexholt accounting department. The woman who struck Sherlock, Jasmine Palumbo, is in their security engineering division, a supervisor. Does the CIA know about Corbitt’s murder? How could they, unless they have a spy in Metro?”
“Who knows? I’ll bet there are CIA spies over at that pizza joint on Bentley Street where FBI agents hang out. But all right, it’s possible we know something they don’t, yet,” Maitland said, and rubbed his big hands together.
Savich said, “Before we go to Langley and possibly get blindsided, Sherlock and I should pay a visit to Bexholt, see if we can’t find out how these two women tie together with Justice Cummings.”
“Hmmm. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get more ammunition. Okay, yes, go to Bexholt, find out what in blue blazes is going on there. I want to be armed with everything possible before we storm the CIA.” Maitland checked his watch. “And, of course, it would be nice if we could find Justice Cummings.”
At the elevator, Sherlock said, “Does he usually kick his desk?”
“Maybe. It could be this is only the first time we’ve caught him doing it.”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly as she punched the elevator button, “Everything seems unsolvable right now, but I suspect it’ll all be simple once we figure it out. Most things are.”
He marveled, wondered if she realized it was something she’d said many times in the past. What was more, she was usually right. He lifted his hand to touch the bouncing curls, and froze. She was humming a country-western song he’d written for her years before, about a man finding his mate at long last at the dollar slots.
He said, “I think you first heard that song at the Bonhomie Club. It’s a nightclub run by an incredible woma
n, Ms. Lily. I sing country-western music there a couple of times a month. My friend James Quinlan, another FBI agent, plays the sax, makes it weep. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
He shut up at the helpless look on her face. He’d told her that morning that his boss, Mr. Maitland, had a fine brain and he didn’t meddle. Savich had assured her she liked him, and his four linebacker-size sons. And his wife, June. And then he’d stopped cold—if she didn’t know Mr. Maitland, how could she possibly know June Maitland? She didn’t even know her own son. She remained too scared to see Sean, still too scared Sean would realize something was wrong. Her fear warred with her guilt.
So he talked to her about everything else—their cases, their vacations, memories they’d made together as a family. His Sean stories made her laugh, but he knew they amused her from a sort of distance. There was no emotional punch to remember. Except for the guilt.
He helped her into the Porsche, handed her his phone. “Remember I told you Mr. Maitland doesn’t meddle? But this time is different. He told me his gut is doing the rumba, he knows this could be something big.” He scrolled down in his photos. “This is a photo of Jasmine Palumbo and recordings of everything Ben gathered for us, including her interview when they took her in after she hit your Volvo. We’re going to surprise Ms. Palumbo. I checked and she’s there.”
It took them only an hour to get to Coverton, Maryland, with Sherlock asking questions about the information Ben Raven had given them. She said, “When I look at her photo, I think she looks familiar. I think I must have seen her face just before she hit my car—a Volvo?”
“Yes. It makes sense you saw her face before she struck you. Why not?” He patted her hand. “I can’t wait to see her face when she lays eyes on you.”
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