“I didn’t do anything to her, simply carried her downstairs and put her on a bed. She was out cold. I was told she was given a dose of ketamine to keep her out. No one wanted any more trouble out of her.”
Savich dragged Armstrong to the wall so he could sit up. He left his hands cuffed behind him. He looked into Armstrong’s hard face. Could he really be a dupe? He knew Armstrong and Farriger were close. It was more likely he was her henchman, perhaps her lover. Had he murdered Eleanor Corbitt?
Armstrong said, “You haven’t told me how you found this house. You had no way to know.”
Savich gave him a grin. “Would you believe I’m psychic?”
They heard Ruth shout, “We’ve got Lucy. She’s okay, well, she’s so mad she’s frothing at the mouth. She’s got some pain from the blow to her head, and there’s some bleeding, but not much now. She’s a little dizzy from a drug they gave her. No one else is here, only the bozo you guys found. We’re bringing her up.”
“I am not a bozo.”
“Maybe not,” Sherlock said slowly. “If you’re a dupe, that means Farriger has roasted you.” She pulled Armstrong’s Glock from her pocket, studied it a moment. “Dillon, I’m thinking this could be the same gun that murdered Eleanor Corbitt.”
Savich watched Armstrong’s face, saw the brief flash of knowledge in his eyes, but he shook his head. “I don’t know any Eleanor Corbitt. You want to know anything else, you can talk to my boss.” He didn’t say another word.