10
Sunday morning
Ethan smelled coffee. For a moment it surprised him because he never programmed the coffeepot before he went to bed. Was he imagining it?
He sat up in bed. No dream; it was coffee he smelled, real and rich and sinful.
Then he remembered. He leaped out of bed, dislodging Mackie, who gave a pissed-off meow, and ran toward the door. He realized he was wearing only boxer shorts, grabbed his jeans, and jerked them on. He stopped to pull on a sweatshirt and paused in the kitchen doorway. He saw Joanna standing in front of his brand-new Kenmore stove, an egg carton, a quart of nonfat milk, onion remains, and a depleted bag of four grated cheeses he used to sprinkle on his tacos lined up on the counter next to her. He watched her whip the mixture with a fork, then pour it into a heated skillet. The sound of the sizzle, the smell of the butter, made his stomach growl. He realized he hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day—well, not counting the pizza slice with Autumn. He smelled the turkey bacon microwaving and inhaled deeply. Big Louie and Lula sat on the floor, staring fixedly at the microwave, not moving, waiting for the ping. Mackie threaded through his legs to join his sister and Big Louie in their vigil. Autumn was setting the table. She was saying, “I like these plates, Mama, they’re cute.”
They were a Mexican motif, bright and cheerful, presented to him by his mother three years ago when he’d moved back to Titusville. He’d packed his own very nice Italian service away, and thanked her.
“Don’t forget the milk for the coffee, sweetie.”
Autumn lifted the carton of nonfat milk from the counter and set it on the table. She began folding paper napkins, placing them carefully beside each plate.
It was such a domestic scene, so very normal. It reminded him of years ago when there were three yelling, laughing children banging around the kitchen, ready to eat every scrap their mother served up. It was remarkable. He said from the doorway, “I hope you made three extra slices of turkey bacon for my anorexic pets.”
Joanna dropped the wooden spatula and made a frantic grab for Ox’s Colt, six inches from her hand.
He held out both palms. “It’s okay. It’s me, please don’t shoot me in my own kitchen.”
“Not a problem,” Joanna said. “The clip is empty.”
Autumn froze at the sound of his voice. Then she gave him a huge grin. Big Louie barked, Lula meowed, and Mackie never looked away from the microwave, which pinged a half-second later.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” Joanna said. “I hope you don’t mind our taking over your kitchen.” She opened the microwave door, pulled out the covered plate of bacon, dabbed off the extra grease with a paper towel, and looked down at the animals. They were talking nonstop, at full volume. Ethan took down paper plates from the cabinet and crumbled a single crispy bacon slice on each plate, set them in a straight line on the floor. The barks and meows died, the silence instant.
Her fear was still palpable. How was he to get information out of a woman who was still so scared, still so on edge she’d have shot him? He said, “I’m tempted to join my varmints. Everything smells great.”
“I took coffee and peanut-butter toast out to Glenda and Harm. What a name, where did it come from?”
“Her dad really liked The Wizard of Oz, but her mom insisted on the normal spelling.”
A laugh spurted out. “No, Harm’s name, not Glinda the Good Witch.”
“His granny was always preaching at him to never get ‘In Harm’s Way,’ always spoke it with capital letters. It stuck when he was about twelve. He doesn’t use his real name. Thank you, Joanna, for feeding them.”
She nodded and picked up the spatula, went back to the eggs while Ethan opened cans for the animals. He petted each of them. “Okay, guys, you’ve had your dessert, now go over and eat your main course. That’s a nice name you’ve got, Joanna. Where’d it come from?”
She was weighing how much to tell him; he saw it clearly on her face. He’d love to get her in a poker game, she’d lose her knickers.
“Joanna was grandma’s name,” Autumn said, carefully placing a knife beside a plate Ethan saw was chipped. “I never met her; she died when I was little. Remember, I told you, Ethan. She died of the big C.”
“I remember. I’m sorry,” Ethan said to her.
Joanna shrugged. “She was actually my great-grandmother, and she was ninety-four.”
Ethan watched her spill out the last capsule from a prescription bottle and hand it to Autumn.
“Down the hatch, sweetie. Last one.”
“You gave her one last night?”
Joanna was nodding when Big Louie raised his head from his now empty food bowl and barked. Both Ethan and Joanna went on instant alert.
A moment later, Harm’s face appeared in the kitchen door’s window. Ethan opened the door and stepped back. “What’s up, Harm?”
“I left the house last night without my aloe vera, Sheriff, and my face hurts something fierce. Glenda told me Faydeen said you probably had some.”
Joanna was staring openmouthed at his burned face, quite clear in the bright morning sunlight. She hadn’t noticed when she’d delivered their toast and coffee. Autumn asked, “What happened to your face, Mr. Harm? What’s aloe vera?”
Ethan said, “Harm was trying to get himself ready for a Myrtle Beach vacation. He wanted to look like a tanned hunk before he leaves, you know, to hit the beach looking like a local dude.”
Harm grinned. “Unfortunately, I didn’t listen to Mylo at Golden Tan. I insisted on going the full time three days in a row on his three-sixty tanning bed, and I didn’t keep my face covered.”
Ethan laughed. “Hold on, Harm. I’ll get the aloe vera.” He heard Joanna telling her daughter, “Aloe vera’s a slimy green gunk that takes the sting out of a bad sunburn.”
Autumn stared up at Harm. “I thought you were dark like my best friend Timmy Jeffers. Now I see you’re dark red. That must hurt. I’ll bet your mama really yelled at you.”
That was all it took for Joanna to spurt out a laugh. Big Louie jumped up on Harm’s leg. Ethan just shook his head as he walked to his bathroom to fetch the aloe vera Faydeen had bought for him after the blistering hot Fourth of July parties six weeks ago when he’d roasted himself but good. He wondered again how he was going to pry any information out of her, wondered how he could make her believe he could help her. He didn’t want to spook her, make her run away. He had to be patient, had to try to gain their trust. He didn’t think he had a choice. There was something really bad going on here. He knew in his gut he had to know what was going on to keep them safe.
11
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Sunday
Mr. Maitland said, “She’s gone.”
Savich pulled his cell phone closer to his ear. “Who’s gone?”
“Melissa—Lissy—Smiley. You remember, Savich, the sixteen-year-old-girl bank robber you put in the hospital six days ago for repairs? I just got a call from Agent Daugherty guarding her at Washington Memorial.”
“What do you mean she’s gone? She died?” Savich said, half an eye on Sean and his buddy Marty, who were shooting baskets at the hoop set beside his garage door. Both children were pretty good if you took into account their combined ages barely reached ten and the basket hoop was three feet lower than usual. They had a lot of misses. He’d painted the garage door three months before. Time to give it another coat.
“No, no, a guy walked up smooth as silk to our agent sitting in his chair outside Lissy Smiley’s room, pulled his FBI creds out of his jacket pocket, let Daugherty see his SIG clipped to his waist in the process, and told him he was there to take a shift, give Daugherty some rest. Daugherty had no reason to question what he said, and, I will admit, it’s Sunday after all, and the Red Sox and Yankees were playing. It did occur to Daugherty to check with his supervisor during the seventh-inning stretch to ask when he was expected back, since he hadn’t been notified about any change, and his supervisor proceeds to te
ll him there was no replacement sent and he was an idiot. He topped it off by not remembering the agent’s name. Long and short of it was Ms. Smiley was long gone with the guy by the time anybody got back to the hospital. The guy was the getaway driver for the Gang of Four.”
“Pretty impressive. I wonder where he got the fake ID,” Savich said.
“I don’t know that yet, but I will know soon. I’ll tell you, Daugherty will be cleaning toilets on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building until Christmas. This isn’t good, Savich.”
Sean shouted, “Did you see that, Papa? I made two free throws in a row!”
Marty Perry, Sean’s best friend since they were both two, yelled over him, “Mr. Savich, Sean wasn’t behind the free-throw line! He’s cheating. You give me the ball, Sean, or I won’t let you play my sax. It’s my turn!”
“Well, I won’t let you play my piano.” Sean ran away with the ball, Marty ran after him, and the two of them went at it. At least they rolled around in the thick summer grass rather than on the concrete driveway. The basketball—kid-sized and bright orange—went rolling out onto the street, hit a fire hydrant, and came to a bouncing stop against the curb.
Astro, Sean’s Scottie, and Marty’s big golden retriever, Burma, were dancing around them, barking as loud as they could, tails wagging furiously.
Savich said into his cell, “Excuse me, sir, but I’ve got to separate two warring basketball factions and rescue the ball. I’ll call you back with Sherlock in a couple of minutes.”
“I had four warring factions in my house, in any sport you can name. Call me back when you can,” Maitland said, laughed, and hung up. He had four grown sons, all bruisers.
Since it was safer to let both children pummel him rather than each other, Savich soon had both kids climbing on top of him, trying to hold his arms down on the grass. Marty’s mom, Lucy, trotted up, stared down at Savich, and grinned. “Ah, I think they might have you pinned, Dillon. Tell you what, let me take these ferocious wrestlers off your hands. Come on, Marty, let go of Dillon’s arm,” she said to her daughter as she peeled her off Savich. “As for you, Burma, stop licking faces. Come on, boy. That’s it. You too, Astro.” She said to Savich, “I can see I owe you or Sherlock a favor here for physical distress. Okay, Marty, Sean, how about both of you come with me. The magic genie sent some fresh lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies, extra walnuts.”
Sean and Marty instantly forgot their wrestling match with Savich and their own disagreement, and jumped to their feet, yelling together in victory. Savich hoped she’d made a couple dozen cookies, since both kids had hollow legs.
“I’m the champ!” Sean yelled. “Extra walnuts?”
“Yep, I asked the genie especially for extra walnuts, just for you, Sean.”
Marty was torn. “I don’t know, Mom. Mr. Savich was saying he’d play with us, you know, show us some moves.”
Burma, tongue lolling, barked, Astro joined in, and the two children laughed.
“You’ll need your strength,” Savich said. “Cookies first.”
Lucy said, “You might have to fight those mighty dogs for the cookies. You’d best hurry now, guys, chocolate chips don’t last forever, you know.”
The little boy and little girl went whooping across the front yard and next door to the Perry house, the dogs racing beside them. Lucy gave Savich a hand up, patted his shoulder, and took off after them. She called over her shoulder, “I’ll bring Sean and Astro home in an hour or so.”
He was dusting himself off when Sherlock appeared in the open doorway, wearing white shorts and a flowy pink top. She was lightly tanned, her hair pulled up in a curl-packed ponytail, the sandals on her feet showing off toenails painted a soft pink. She looked about sixteen. Savich felt the familiar kick in his blood when she waved and smiled at him. Ah, he thought, a hot afternoon, a fan stirring up the air over the bed, the blinds pulled, and blessed quiet—surely some things were meant to be. On the other hand, maybe not. There was Mr. Maitland to call back. He sighed and thought maybe they’d have some time this evening. Around eight o’clock might be lovely, not dark yet in the deep summer—he’d check her scar as the air cooled down around them, and who knew? Maybe Sean would miraculously be eager to climb into his own bed.
Fat chance.
“I’d sure like some lemonade too,” Savich called out.
Sherlock laughed. “Then you’ve got to help me denude the Meyer lemon tree.”
He looked at her closely. “You’re not doing that, are you? Remember, your spleen became history only two months ago. Rest, Sherlock, you’ve got to rest.”
“Yeah, yeah, I was growing mold. It’s good to be back to work, back to doing important things, like making lemonade.” She touched her fingers to his cheek. “I’m okay. I won’t overdo, I promise.”
“You already did. You came roaring down to the Georgetown bank. Ruth told me you were outside running after that fourth robber, that Dane had to grab you.”
“Nah, it wasn’t any big deal—oh, all right, that was a little much, but I’m better every day, Dillon. Don’t worry.”
Still, he worried, and she knew he worried, and they’d both be worried for another month or so, until she was one hundred percent again.
12
AFTER SAVICH DRANK DOWN half a glass of tart lemonade, something Sherlock made very well, he said, “Mr. Maitland called. Lissy, our sixteen-year-old-girl bank robber, is no longer under guard at the hospital.”
“What?”
He nodded. “Yep, she’s in the wind, probably with the help of the missing getaway driver.” He told her what Mr. Maitland had said.
Her first comment was, “Daugherty isn’t stupid, Dillon, he’d spot fake creds in a nanosecond. And if they weren’t fake—now that worries me.”
“You’re right,” he said. He dialed up Mr. Maitland, punched on the speaker. “Sorry it took so long. Both Sherlock and I are here now.”
Maitland said immediately, “Bless Daugherty’s little pointed head, he finally remembered the last name of the agent on the FBI ID the guy flashed at him—Coggins. Turns out he’s Peter Coggins, an agent in the Richmond field office. Agents got over to his house fast, found his sister untying him and pulling duct tape off his mouth. She says she was pretty surprised to see him tied up on the kitchen floor. She’d brought him over a strawberry pie.”
“That sure sounds good,” Savich said.
“Yeah, it does. At least the guy didn’t kill him. Now, here’s how it went down, according to Coggins. He was mowing his backyard when this young guy trots up and asks for directions to Interstate Ninety-five into Washington. When Coggins turned to point, the guy bashed him over the head, stole his ID and his SIG. The Richmond SAC had just gotten our alert about Lissy Smiley escaping and called me pronto.”
Sherlock said. “Is Agent Coggins okay?”
“Yeah, the doc said he’s got himself only a minor concussion, which, naturally, doesn’t make his head feel any better. He should be back in the saddle in a couple of days.”
Savich said, “As you know, you asked us not to work this case, sir. This guy, do you have any ideas about him?”
“Oh, yeah, we know who he is—her cousin. Actually, we already knew about him. Agents were trying to locate him in connection with the case, as soon as we got positive ID on Lissy and the others. Oh yes, you guys won’t believe this. As you know, a major rule for bank robbers is never carry ID. Well, this crew did, all nice and neat in their pockets. Pretty unprofessional of them and good for us. Now, the cousin wasn’t at his address in Winnett, North Carolina, and nobody had seen him for a good six weeks. He told a neighbor he was going backpacking in Europe for a couple of months. Both Daugherty and Coggins identified him from his driver’s license photo, so we already have it plastered everywhere.”
“Does he own a car?”
“No, a motorcycle.”
Sherlock asked, “What’s the guy’s name, sir?”
“Victor Nesser. His mother was Jennifer Smiley�
�s half sister, Marie. She married a Jordanian, Hasam Nesser, Victor’s dad, and the two of them moved back to Jordan four years ago. Victor was nearly seventeen at the time and didn’t want to go—we don’t know why—so he went to live with his mom’s half sister, Jennifer Smiley. At the time, Lissy Smiley was twelve years old.”
“Bad choice,” Sherlock said. “So Jennifer seduced him over to the dark side?”
“Maybe, or he went willingly enough,” Maitland said. “But don’t forget, when all the bank robberies began, Victor wasn’t a seventeen-year-old kid anymore, he was an adult, twenty-one years old.”
Savich said, “I wonder what his relationship is with Lissy Smiley. That was quite a risk he took to get her away. Something’s there, something deep.”
“Don’t know, but we need to find out. Jennifer Smiley hails from Fort Pessel, Virginia, a small town down near the North Carolina border that dates back to the Civil War. We already had agents search the Smiley house for the stolen money and interview everyone of interest, but they haven’t found out anything real helpful yet about her or Victor Nesser. Lots of rumors about the family, but, bottom line, they kept themselves real private, never socialized, seldom did business locally, except grocery shopping, that’s about it. Oh, yeah, and they liked the local KFC.
“They paid their bills, never pissed anyone off, so no one thought about them much. They were just sort of there.
“Agents did track down a couple of Lissy Smiley and Victor Nesser’s teachers. Only two teachers and a coach were in town. A lot of the teachers seemed to have escaped town for the summer. What a deal they’ve got.”
Sherlock said, “Yeah, but in some places I bet they wish they had Kevlar vests.”
Maitland said, “Forget I said that.”
“Tell us about the other two robbers, sir,” Sherlock said.
13
“LIKE I TOLD YOU, the boobs carried their ID.” They heard rustling in the background. “Here we go. Jeff Wicky and Jay Fisher, they were imports from out West—Oregon, to be specific—longtime hoods for hire. The Salem field office sent agents to their former addresses, but there wasn’t anything to find except new tenants who hated the thin walls.
KnockOut Page 6
