“I never saw the girlfriend, only this FBI agent, Sala Porto.” Bick showed her his signature.
“Credit card?”
“Yep, let me find it for you.” Bick scrounged in a small steel box, flipped through piles off credit card receipts, and pulled one up, waved it at her.
Ty studied the receipt. American Express for $240. His signature was bold—that was the first word that popped into her mind. More than bold, dominant.
“He used his own pen,” Bick said.
Black ink, of course, to go with that strong signature. Ty left Bick cleaning up a spill of mustard and walked to her white Silverado in the pier parking lot, shining bright under the morning sun. She leaned against her truck door, pulled her hat down to cut the glare, and pulled out her cell. She didn’t have any contacts at the Hoover Building, so she called the main number and asked for Special Agent Sala Porto. After being passed around for ten minutes, Ty ended up with a summer intern named Mindy who said she’d heard Agent Porto was with his girlfriend, Octavia—didn’t know her last name—on vacation, and who wanted to know? Ty put on her best cop voice, low and hard, and finally ended up transferred to the Criminal Division, where Agent Porto was assigned, according to Mindy. Agent Sala Porto’s unit chief was on vacation, and no one else wanted to talk to her. She was eventuall
y passed to Executive Assistant Director James Maitland’s office. She grinned into the phone at that coup. She’d managed to get to a top dog. Ty used her most intimidating voice when she identified herself and asked to speak to Executive Assistant Director Maitland, stating it was a matter of great urgency. The woman said without pause, “All I’ve got to say, Chief Christie, is that this had better be good or I might be visiting you in your own jail cell.”
A man’s deep, impatient voice came on the line. “Maitland here. Goldy said this was urgent. Who are you, and what do you want?”
Maitland sounded like her kind of cop: no nonsense, straightforward, hard as nails. Ty identified herself as the police chief of Willicott, Maryland, then described what she’d seen three hours before and what she was doing about it. “The murdered man could be an FBI agent, Sala Porto. Or Porto could be the murderer. Or neither. I need your help.”
Maitland snapped out questions until she was wrung dry. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d wanted to know about her birthmark (a lovely strawberry on her left hip), her marital status (still thankfully single after two broken engagements), and if he did ask her age, she’d have no problem telling this man she was turning twenty-nine on the fourth of November.
Jimmy Maitland was silent a moment. “All right, Chief Christie, here’s what we’re going to do.”
3
* * *
WILLICOTT BOOK FESTIVAL
WILLICOTT, MARYLAND
SATURDAY, LATE MORNING
It was warm and sunny, an altogether perfect day for a book festival. Savich gave the smiling, fresh-faced parking attendant Jimbo a ten-dollar bill and parked Sherlock’s Volvo in Lot B beside an SUV filled with a half dozen enthusiastic young women, all talking, laughing, and gathering book bags, purses, water bottles.
Nearly-five-year-old Sean and his longtime girlfriend, Marty Perry, who was still on schedule to be one of his future wives, were so wired they bulleted out of the car, their goal to hunt down their favorite author, Remus McGurk, the creator of Captain Carr Corbin, intergalactic space marauder, and his sidekick, Orkett, a terrier with sharp teeth who filched chocolate bars.
Sherlock met Dillon’s eyes over the roof of the car. She knew he was as worried as she was. It had been only three days since the man had broken into their house and threatened Sean. The FBI lab hadn’t found fingerprints on the Ka-Bar, not that they expected to, and had determined the knife could have been purchased from dozens of stores in the D.C. area. Every agent in the CAU was working in his spare time on trying to identify the intruder. Most of Dillon’s agents believed it was either a pedophile who’d seen Sean, or a kidnapping for ransom, knowing Savich could sell one of his grandmother’s paintings. Or, he thought now, an old enemy here for payback. Oddly, that felt like it could be right. Detective Ben Raven of Metro was working different sources, and as of today, still nothing had popped. Even though Savich had moved the security system box to behind one of his grandmother’s paintings in the dining room and put a dead bolt on the front door, it didn’t alleviate the nerve-racking low-level fear. Savich had hoped the kidnapper or pedophile, or whatever he was, might be moved to make contact, but as of this morning, there’d been no communication of any kind and no further attempts on Sean.
Sherlock hadn’t wanted to take Sean to a public place where thousands of people would be milling about, but he’d been so excited about today, a promised treat for more than a month now, she and Dillon couldn’t say no. What was worse, Dillon wouldn’t be with her for extra eyes and protection. He had a job to do here in Willicott with a Chief Ty Christie, assigned yesterday by his boss, Jimmy Maitland.
Sherlock said, “I figure three hours should do it. Then we’ll head to Osborn’s BBQ, to be followed by the Dali Lama ice cream shop, then, if you’re done here, we’ll take Sean to his grandmother’s for the rest of the weekend.”
Savich nodded, knowing he’d spend more hours tonight hunkered over MAX searching for the intruder. He looked toward the rocket-fueled kids. “Sean, Marty! Hold up. Do. Not. Move.”
Sean knew the serious voice, grabbed Marty’s hand to hold her in place, and began confiding to one of the six young women from the SUV he was going to take a zillion photos with his iPad of Remus McGurk. Didn’t they admire Orkett, Captain Carr’s terrier sidekick? Had they read his latest adventure on the planet Mumbo? Were they going to see him? Get his autograph? The women were charming and happy to pose when Sean told them he would like to practice taking their pictures before he shot his masterpiece of Mr. McGurk.
Marty was jealous and poked Sean in the side. One perceptive young woman invited Marty to stand in front of them, made her one of their group. Sherlock saw Sean send admiring looks to the young woman and she’d bet most of his photos would be centered on her.
After oohs and aahs over Sean’s photos, Sherlock took each child’s hand while Savich locked the Volvo and wished the girls a fun day.
Savich told Sherlock, “If you see anything that alarms you, anyone suspicious, call me immediately.” He kissed her. “I owe you big-time.” He peeled off to meet up with Flynn Royal in front of the police chief’s office on High Ginger Street. Flynn was a sharp agent Maitland trusted and Sherlock’s major competition at the shooting range. Mr. Maitland had sent Flynn to Willicott right after the call from Chief Christie the previous day to assess the situation, gather facts, and make himself generally useful, trying not to step on the chief’s toes. In short, Flynn was here to be Maitland’s eyes and ears. As for Savich, he was here to consult, if needed, and if they found the body in the lake, to identify Sala Porto, an agent he knew personally, if he’d been the murder victim. Maitland was concerned. No one had been able to locate Sala. A photo likeness wasn’t good enough for Maitland.
Savich wove through the crowds and finally spotted Flynn. He was called the intellectual pirate because of his black-rimmed glasses set over smart, dark eyes and his too-long black hair and lithe build. Savich could easily see him on the deck of a ship wielding a sword and laughing maniacally. Flynn was speaking with a tall, fit woman holding a Mariners baseball cap in her hands. She wasn’t wearing a uniform but black pants, low-heeled black boots, and a white shirt, her badge over her left breast pocket. He recognized Chief Christie from the candid photo Detective Harry Anson of the Seattle PD had emailed him yesterday afternoon. He’d texted Savich: Christie’s smart, a dirty fighter with serious skills, hated being a big-city cop. No gray areas for her, always either black or white, but admittedly, in Vice, there are few gray areas. She knows only one direction—forward. Her daddy’s a captain in the Washington State Patrol, so nope, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree. Oh yeah, she’s popular and a looker. Good luck, Ty’s also a frigging bulldog.
Savich heard Christie say to Flynn as she slipped her cell back into her pocket, “That was Charlie Corsica, my chief deputy. They found the body, not where I thought it would be, but there was a lot of wind chop yesterday afternoon, stirred up the water. He’s taking the body to Dr. Staunton, our local medical examiner. Charlie said no ID, but I was in for a big surprise. He wouldn’t tell me, for which I am going to bust his chops.”
Flynn said in his honey-soft Alabama drawl, “I don’t know Porto, but Agent Savich does. As soon as he gets here, we can go to Dr. Staunton’s office.” He paused a moment, added, “If the body is Porto’s, we’ll have him taken to Quantico for autopsy. Of course, then it’ll be a federal case.” He turned, saw Savich, and grinned. “Good to see you. Let me introduce Chief Ty Christie.”
Savich and Ty shook hands and took each other’s measure. Ty saw a big, tough, good-looking man, maybe five years her senior, with intelligent eyes she imagined saw most everything, eyes so dark as to be nearly black. He had thick black hair, a bit on the long side. She’d bet her new LED TV he took no crap and would joyfully dive into a fight.