“Then he surprised me. He said he’d noticed a classic blue Mustang that had paint on the front bumper that didn’t quite match, asked me if I’d done the job. I couldn’t deny it, so I told him I did. Then I couldn’t believe it. Liggert didn’t try to hit me, no, he thanked me and left.”
Griffin said, “Did you tell anyone else about this?”
“No, not even my dad or my girlfriend. I did tell Sparky, but he said Liggert didn’t scare him anymore.”
Finally, everything was falling into place.
Walter swallowed. “I wonder if my girlfriend, Debbie, will even want to talk to me anymore after this, even if you do let me out of jail.”
Griffin was inclined to think Walter’s girlfriend wouldn’t want him within a mile of her. He said, “Hang tough, Walter, we’ll get back to you soon.”
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Sunday afternoon
Sheriff Watson’s big black Ford F-150 sat in the driveway of a small two-story white shingled house set back from the street. It was the last house at the end of an older established neighborhood, surrounded by oaks and maples, all gearing up for summer green, getting so thick they screened the houses from one another. A blue jay watched them, motionless on a low branch, as they walked toward the front door.
“Nice house,” Griffin said. “I don’t think I could get used to all this quiet, though.”
Savich didn’t think he could, either. He rang Watson’s doorbell, heard movement inside the house. The sheriff himself came to the door, wearing a ratty old T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet white and bare. He held a Diet Coke in his hand. He looked drawn, like he hadn’t slept well lately.
“On Sunday? Really? What do you two bozos want?” Hostility radiated from him. He stood squarely facing them at the open front door.
Savich said pleasantly, “We’d like to see Deputy Lewis’s report on Mr. Arthur Alcott’s hit-and-run.”
The sheriff stiffened. “You asked me to look. I looked. As I already told you, it was a straightforward hit-and-run. No broken glass, no traces of paint, nothing there of any use at all.”
“Yes, that’s what you said. I assume you saw Deputy Lewis’s note about Walter Givens doing some bodywork on Sparky Carroll’s blue Mustang? Sparky said he’d hit a deer? Did you discuss this with Deputy Lewis?”
“Nothing to discuss. There’s nothing like that in his report.” He looked over his shoulder. “There’s no need for you to come in. The house is a mess anyway.”
Griffin said, “I don’t mind mess, do you, Savich?”
“Not a bit. But I think I’d prefer if it the sheriff took us to his office and showed us Deputy Lewis’s report on the Alcott accident. Is that all right with you, Sheriff Watson?”
“No. It’s Sunday, my day of rest. I’ve told you what there is and what there isn’t. You can come by my office tomorrow if you want to look at it. So you’re done here.”
“I have to insist, Sheriff,” Savich said, and he stepped forward, crowding him. “I strongly suggest you do not try to impede a federal murder investigation. It would not end well for you.”
The sheriff eyed Savich, knew the man was serious. He threw the Diet Coke can as far as he could and hit an oak tree, sending the blue jay winging away. He was breathing hard and fast. “I’m not impeding anything. I have nothing to add, is all. You’ll see tomorrow there was nothing in Kane’s files. Now, would you mind going away?”
Savich said, “I thought you didn’t like your brother-in-law, Sheriff. Everyone else seemed to like him, though, didn’t even seem to care much when he drank too much. I’ll bet you did, though. So why are you protecting him now?”
“Because he was my damned brother-in-law! Don’t you understand? He was married to my only sister! There’s no reason to stir this up now. It would break Glory’s heart, she’d never speak to me again. And his daughters? They’d be devastated. Leave it alone.”
“It’s no longer up to you, Sheriff. You’ve done what you could to protect her and her daughters. It’s time we go sit down and talk about this.” Griffin put his hand gently on the sheriff’s arm and pushed him back.
Sheriff Watson showed them to an ancient black leather sofa. After they were seated, he walked to the fireplace to stand, his arms crossed over his chest, and leaned against the mantel. Savich said, “Let me tell you what we pretty much already know, Sheriff. It was Sparky Carroll who hit Mr. Alcott, driving his Mustang. Sparky panicked and left the scene, but he told his father everything. His father, Milt Carroll, who died a couple of months ago, was one of Deputy Lewis’s best friends. More than that, they drank together often, and both of them must have driven home drunk more than once. I imagine Milt Carroll asked his friend Kane for a onetime favor. Also, he knew he was dying at this point, and doubtless played the guilt card as well. He assured Deputy Lewis that it was an accident, that his son had panicked and left the scene, horrified at what he’d done but too afraid to come forward. So he’d tried to cover it all up, and that was wrong. Sparky knew it and was very sorry. Then Milt Carroll asked his friend to bury it.”
The sheriff gave it up. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, and Kane buried it deep.”
Savich said, “It must have scared him badly when he got a call from Walter Givens, telling him that Sparky had taken in his blue Mustang for repair. Kane buried that, too, didn’t he?”
“Yes. It was when I heard him speaking to Walter on the phone that I started putting it all together.”
“But you said nothing, you didn’t put a stop to it,” Griffin said.
“I told you why. And by then it was too late. Kane had filed his report, there was no way to change that. It would be a felony and he’d have lost his job, even gone to prison. It was only an accident, and Kane’s family would have paid an awful price. They didn’t deserve that. People around here thought well enough of Old Man Alcott, but they don’t like those witches very much, and they have good reason to steer clear of them. Who knows what Liggert would have done to Sparky, and to Kane, if he found out.”
Griffin leaned forward. “You didn’t know, did you, that Liggert went to Walter Givens’s garage and figured it out for himself, did you? And that set in motion the murders of Sparky Carroll and your brother-in-law, Kane Lewis. It was all about revenge for the death of Arthur Alcott, and Deputy Lewis covering it up.”
Sheriff Watson didn’t say anything. He pushed off the fireplace mantel and sat down on the matching black leather chair, making it creak under his weight. “When they were both killed with those witch’s knives, I figured it out,” he said, and began rolling his big rough hands together. He raised his eyes to face them. “Look, it was obvious Brakey, an Alcott, killed Kane. Why he bungled it so badly I don’t know. You had him cold, he was going to pay for it. I wasn’t about to tell you why he did it—my sister, my nieces, deserved better than that.
“I have no idea how Liggert or some other Alcott got Walter Givens to stab Sparky. And then they set Charlie Marker in McCutty’s woods to ambush the two of you.” He jumped to his feet, unable to sit still, and began pacing the long, narrow living room. “I guess it had to be some sort of hypnotism, or some sort of witch’s spell, is that right?”
Savich said nothing.
The sheriff continued his pacing. “Liggert gets my vote. He’s the violent one, he’s got a deep streak of it. I know firsthand he’s got a short fuse, and he worshipped his daddy, took his death real hard. And he was mad when we couldn’t find out who’d hit him and left him there lying in the road.” He plowed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Is there really a weird sort of hypnotism that could actually make those boys commit murder?”
“When we know for sure, you’ll know, Sheriff.” Savich eyed the man, saw the misery in his eyes, the guilt and grief that had been gnawing at him. He rose, stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Sheriff, for helping us. About your sister finding out
what her husband did, I’m hoping we can keep it quiet, but I can’t guarantee it, you know that.” He paused. “I hope we can work together again someday.”
When Griffin last looked back at Sheriff Watson, he didn’t seem quite so huddled in on himself. If he wasn’t mistaken, he saw a measure of relief on the man’s face. He waved to them as they drove away.
Griffin said, “I think the sheriff might sleep better tonight. Are we going to confront the Alcotts?”
Savich turned back onto Main Street, shook his head. “Not yet, Griffin, not yet. We’ve got to have a plan first.”
FBI HOUSE
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
Sunday evening
So show me how you make pizza as good as your mom’s.”
Cal issued the challenge, Kelly punched him in the arm and told him he better be willing to help if he wanted any, and Sherlock shook her head at both of them and took herself and her cell off to the living room to speak to Dillon and Sean.
Cal unloaded the grocery bags while Kelly looked around the kitchen for what she needed: a big square cookie sheet that would make do as a pizza pan, and bowls for dough and sauce. She’d forgotten to buy yeast, but she found an ancient packet she prayed was alive enough to make the dough rise. The kitchen was vintage 1950s, tired, its cabinets saggy, but thankfully the oven worked and there was enough room for them to move around each other. He’d set the table while she mixed up the pizza dough, listening to her hum the Harry Potter theme. Then they’d chatted while waiting for the dough to rise. “Hey, Giusti, you ever get yourself hitched?”
“Yeah, for about five minutes. He was—still is—a big professor at Berkeley, probably a department head by now, very likely still spouting that America is bad, you know the type. I can hear him telling the students that the bombing of Saint Pat’s was all our fault, that we deserved it.
“The happiest moment of that marriage was when the divorce came through.” She stopped tossing the pizza dough to wipe her nose, leaving a streak of flour. “I’ll never forget the call I got from my cowboy uncle in Casper, Wyoming. When I told him, he yelled ‘Yehaw!’ I remember wanting to yell that, too. When I think of him now, I think he deserves a nice stay at a Siberian gulag.” She moved to the stove to stir the sauce, the smell making Cal’s mouth water. “We’re going to make what my mom calls the carnivore’s delight—sausage, hamburger, and a surprise: small hunks of ham artfully hidden beneath some artichokes and tomatoes. Your turn. You ever take the plunge? Any ex-wives in the closet?”
“Once, when I was a green lad, new at the FBI and working my butt off in the Philadelphia office. She left me for her country-club golf pro, who had a lot of time to work on her swing. I hear they’ve got a couple of kids and he’s doing well on the pro circuit. Actually, Mandy’s nice, I’m glad she’s happy, so I don’t wish any diseases on her.” He clasped his hands over his belly, closed his eyes. “I’ve come to believe life is a crapshoot. People come into your life, some good, some bad.” He straightened, breathed in the aroma of the pizza sauce. “The trick is to know when you’ve met a good one, and not let them go.”
She eyed him, said slowly, “That’s pretty much what I think, now that I’m at least a mature adult. The problem is there isn’t much time for us to find a good one, is there?” She waved her hand. “We’re usually up to our eyeballs in something. People depend on us—never, it seems, the other way around.”
“There’s always time, Kelly. I mean, here we are, and we’re making your mama’s pizza together, rubbing along nicely, don’t you think?” He watched her arrange the meat and artichokes on top of the sauce.
She stepped back. “What do you think?”
“You can never have too much sausage,” Cal said. He sliced another half-dozen circles of sweet Italian sausage and artistically laid them on top of the big rectangular pizza.
“You’re an artist,” she said, grinning at the smiley face he’d made, and they both slid it into the oven. “Wait till that sauce bubbles up and melts the cheese, you’d shoot anyone who gets near your third of that pie.”
While the pizza baked, Kelly checked with the agents guarding the house, parked half a block away. All quiet. Agent Larry Rafferty, the lead of the protection team, told her, “We’re ready for anything.” She phoned Gray Wharton, asked if they’d found Jamil’s family in Algeria. He told her Jamil had been right, they were gone from their home and their town, simply disappeared.
Kelly saw Cal was also on his cell. Was he speaking to his girlfriend in Washington? Was she one of the good ones? Was he going to keep her? She rather hoped not.
Another fifteen minutes before the pizza was done, so Kelly called her mother. She saw that Cal had punched off his cell and he could hear her end of the conversation. “Yes, Mom, Agent McLain and I made the pizza together. He even sliced the artichokes just right to hide the ham. What does he look like? Hmm, well, he’s not all that short, maybe comes to my nose, and the paunch doesn’t show all that much. His hair? Only receding a bit,” and then she ruined it by laughing. “He’s very nice, Mom, and he’s cute; in fact, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers—well, never mind that. Looks like the crust turned out really well. I wish you could smell it, talk about a motive for murder.” She paused, then Cal heard her say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m still involved up to my eyebrows in the Saint Patrick’s Cathedral case. It should push me right up to the director’s chair, maybe next year, who knows?” She laughed again. “Love you, Mom. Gotta go. Pizza’s ready.”
“I don’t ever eat crackers in bed.”
“No, I never thought you did,” she said, and then Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, sniffing. “I’ve been smelling it for the past half-hour. Do you know I was ready to kick Sean to the curb—conversationally, at least—and he was in the middle of telling me about his checkers games with his grandmother, in great detail. Oh, my, Kelly, that looks incredible. Mama’s recipe, right?”
“Yes, the same recipe she taught me when I was twelve.”
The house didn’t provide anything as esoteric as wineglasses, so Cal filled three water glasses with Chianti.
Sherlock raised her glass to theirs. “Here’s to our hard work today. I feel like we’re close, it’s only a matter of time. And here’s to Kelly’s mom’s pizza.”
They all sipped their wine.
Sherlock was on a roll. “Look at what we already know: there’s no private plane registered to anyone named Hercule, so it’s either not the Strategist’s real name or the plane is registered to someone else. What good that does us, I’m not certain yet.
“I know we’re going to get another hit soon, maybe on one of those terrorists holding Mrs. Conklin, or one of the handlers who brought them into Boston, or the man who placed the bomb at Saint Patrick’s. None of them can be complete unknowns.”
Cal said, “Maybe you’re onto something, Sherlock. If Hercule isn’t his real name, maybe it’s a nickname.”
Kelly nodded. “Something we can plug in to the mix in the morning. You know, guys, when I was growing up, there always came a time to shut it all down, and that was the time for mangiare, so let’s eat.”
When the three of them were eyeing the empty pan, all wanting one more slice, Cal looked down at his watch. “Okay, after we clean up the kitchen, it’s time for some TV—the BBC, more precisely.”
There might not be wineglasses, but there was a big flat-screen TV, about sixty inches, and Sherlock wondered who’d authorized the big bucks for a TV like that.
Kelly said, “Are you a BBC fan, Cal?”
“It’s as good a way as any to catch up on breaking news on the TGV explosion, and I’d like to hear their take on what’s happened. The world can look like a different place on the BBC than on CNN or FOX. Sometimes you can’t understand everything they’re saying because the Brits tend to swallow their words, when they’re not trying to sound all up
per-class and intellectual.” He sat down, pulled off his boots, and raised his stocking feet to the coffee table. He placed his Glock on his thigh and waved to Sherlock and Kelly. “Plenty of room. Come on, Sherlock, it’s too early to go to bed yet. Might as well see if the terrorists have come up with anything new before we black out the house.”
Kelly eyed the ratty brown sofa. It didn’t look comfortable, but Cal, who was sleeping here, would have to make do. “Okay, for a few minutes, then,” Kelly said. Before she sat down next to Cal, she checked that the draperies were tightly closed, the doors dead-bolted, the chains drawn tight and hooked, then pulled the draperies aside for one final look to be sure the agents stationed outside were where they should be. As she settled in next to Cal, the program came on.
The camera zoomed in on a studio where two men sat across from each other, one of them a BBC newscaster Kelly recognized, Roland Atterley. He was hard to miss with his white hair, thick mustache, and magnetic voice. The other was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties, beautifully suited. He seemed to be an Arab, and wasn’t that interesting?
Atterley looked directly into the camera. “I would like to welcome Dr. Samir Basara, professor at the London School of Economics, popular lecturer and writer on what he claims will be the coming economic destabilization of the Middle East. Thank you for being here with us this evening, Dr. Basara.”
In a crisp upper-class British voice, Basara said, “It is my pleasure, Mr. Atterley.”
“Dr. Basara, the terrorist attack on the TGV and the resulting large loss of life, as well as the failed attacks at JFK and Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City this past Wednesday, has come as a tremendous shock to the world. Do you believe these attacks were related, though no one group has yet claimed responsibility?”