“What’s Donley Everett’s physical status?”
“The doctor said he was running a fever when he showed up, that if he’d had that bullet in his shoulder for another day or so without treatment, he might very well have died. Everett forced him to remove the bullet with only a local anesthetic, which he did. He told Savich the guy didn’t make a sound.
“The doctor gave him a week’s worth of antibiotics, some heavy-duty pain meds. He said Everett would feel rotten for a while, but he thought he’d pull through. The doctor wasn’t very happy about that.
“Savich said the doctor was very relieved when Everett only tied him up in the basement.”
“What about the other guy at Slipper Hollow, the one you shot dead? You said the woman called him Clay?”
“Yes. There’s no word yet on his whereabouts. Savich thinks, and I agree, that Everett buried him somewhere deep in the sticks. Savich said they ran Clay’s first name through the system. He’s sending photos on my cell of two guys who seem promising, both with the first name Clay, one of them is a known associate of Everett, so he’s the most promising.”
They waited next to a Starbucks, both staring down at the cell screen.
In another second, Jack was looking at a guy named Clay Clutt. But he wasn’t the man Jack had shot at the edge of the forest in Slipper Hollow.
He called back. “It’s not Clay Clutt.”
“Okay, Clutt was my warm-up. Here’s the second one. He’s worked with Everett in the past. Coming through now,” Savich said.
“Bingo,” Jack said to Savich a few minutes later. Clay Huggins. Rachael listened to him tell Savich about their meeting with Laurel Kostas, her husband, Stefanos Kostas, and Quincy Abbott. When he pocketed his cell, he said, “Both Donley Everett and Clay Huggins have sheets reaching to Kalamazoo, including suspected murder. Neither has been convicted. Savich is sending out agents to both gentlemen’s places of residence. He said he and Sherlock are going to Everett’s apartment, since it’s likely he’s holed up there, nursing his wounded shoulder and popping pain pills. Savich said it sounds like we stirred up the snakes, which is good. Let’s call it a day, Rachael. Let’s have that lobster.”
TWENTY-SIX
Washington, D.C.
Late Wednesday afternoon
W
hen Savich pulled his Porsche to the curb half a block from Donley Everett’s apartment building, the sun was low in the sky, the June air soft and warm.
The apartment building was in the middle of a transitional neighborhood, where the old single-story houses from the forties and fifties were slowly being rehabbed or torn down. Unfortunately for the new, larger homes, the yards were still as minuscule as they’d always been. Everett’s apartment building looked maybe ten years old, well-maintained, with a redbrick facade.
Sherlock waved at Dane Carver and Ollie Hamish, who were just getting out of Ollie’s black Pacifica, behind them the two surveillance agents.
Savich and Sherlock watched as Ollie and Dane circled to the back of the building to check out exits. There weren’t many tenants around yet since federal offices, the bread and butter of the Washington workforce, were just now closing down for the day. They heard a baby gurgling happily through an open window on the second floor, heard the new country singer Chris Connelly singing about his cheating love raking over his heart. Savich liked Chris Connelly.
The lobby was small, one wall lined with green-painted mailboxes, a live palm tree in a metal pot against another, its fronds stretching wide.
Sherlock double-checked the mailboxes. “Yep, D. Everett in 4C.”
Savich looked at the two elevators. One was parked right there, the door open. He pushed the stop button, and they took the other one.
Donley Everett’s apartment was on the corner of the fourth floor. Savich punched in Dane’s number, said quietly, “Apartment 4C is on the east end of the building. I’ll bet you there’s a fire escape there.”
“Yeah, I see it,” Dane said. “There’s only one back exit. We got it covered. Our two other agents are outside the front doors, keeping an eye on the lobby. Holler if you want us up there, you know, you being such a wuss and all, you might need some backup.”
“That’s okay, Sherlock’ll take care of me.”
Sherlock pulled a stick of gum out of her pocket, popped it into her mouth, and began chewing. Savich positioned himself at the side of the door. She rapped smartly on Everett’s door and called out through the chewing gum, “FedEx for Mr. Donley Everett.”
She smiled straight ahead into the peephole and blew a big bubble, letting it splat against her mouth.
A man’s low voice said, “Go away, little girl. I’m not expecting anything from anybody.” There was pain in the voice, she heard it clearly.
Sherlock’s face disappeared from the peephole for a moment as if she were checking something. “It says here on the package, sir, that it’s from Gun Smith Euro, whatever that is. It’s sort of heavy. Wow, do you think it might be a gun? Did you order one? I’ve never seen a gun up close before. But hey, if you want it, I can’t leave it without a signature.”
“But I didn’t order a . . . Wait a minute, you don’t want to touch that package, you hear me?” Everett released three locks, then jerked the door open to stare at the redheaded woman who’d blown such a big bubble before it popped, holding a SIG Sauer aimed at his chest. “FBI, Mr. Everett. Nice and easy now, hands behind your head and step back, one step.”
“Hey! FBI? Whoa . . .”
Sherlock slowly lowered her SIG until it was aimed at his stomach. “A gut shot isn’t pretty, Mr. Everett, but hey, it’ll go nice with your shoulder.”
Everett stumbled backward, twisted suddenly, dove behind the black leather sofa, and fired.
The bullet was wide, struck and shattered a lamp.
“You idiot!” Sherlock yelled, and fired at his foot, which was showing from behind the sofa, missing his big toe by an inch. “The next bullet will go in your calf, then your knee, and you’ll be crawling around for the rest of your sorry life! Throw out that gun! Now!”
Savich moved around to the other end of the sofa. “Now, Everett, or when she shoots you in your left knee, I’ll get your right. Yep, there are two of us. Throw out the gun right now or you’re going to be in very great pain.”
They heard Everett cursing behind the sofa, then there was some back-and-forth discussion, blurred and contentious, as if he and his evil twin were arguing his odds.
“Gun out now!” Sherlock screamed.
The gun came flying out, skidded across the hallway floor. Sherlock stepped on a nice Kel Tec PF9 9mm. “Betcha when they dig slugs out of the Slipper Hollow house, we’re going to find a match. Now, Don, come out nice and slow.”
“Don’t shoot me!”
“Show me your face in two seconds and I’ll consider it.”
When he finally crawled out from behind the sofa, using only one hand, he looked clammy and pale, his eyes a bit dilated, and he was cupping his right arm, held up and close in a blue sling.
“Stand up!”
He managed to hoist himself to his feet. He held out his good hand, palm open, toward them. “Who are you? What is this?”
“Pay attention, Mr. Everett. We’re FBI,” Savich said, and pulled out his shield, waved it at Everett. “Why don’t you have a nice seat over on that La-Z-Boy? No stupid moves, Don. I don’t want to have to kill you on such a lovely summer day.” He punched in Dane’s number and said, “No problem here. We’ve got him. Come on up.”
Everett said, “It’s not lovely, it’s too hot, it sucks. Dude, can’t you see me? Look at my arm. I’m sick, real sick. What do you want? I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything about any Slipper Hollow.”
Sherlock turned to see Dane step into the room from the fire escape, and Ollie standing in the front doorway, both with their SIGs drawn.
“All cool here,” Sherlock said.
Dane and Ollie moved past them to look through the rest of the apartment. “Hey, what are you clowns doing? This is my place. Don’t you go through my drawers!”
“Be quiet or they might do more than just go through your drawers,” Sherlock said, and patted him down. “Now, to be honest here, Don, you did try to shoot me. However, I will say you look pretty down and out.” Sherlock got right in his face. “Do you remember that very nice doctor you visited in Virginia? The one who took out the bullet, pumped you full of painkillers and antibiotics? You didn’t even pay him. Nope, you hauled him down in his basement, all trussed up?”
“I didn’t hurt him, now did I?”
“That was a good decision on your part,” Sherlock said. “We got a lovely DNA match from that gallon of blood you left on the kitchen floor in Slipper Hollow. The FBI agent who brought you down also identified you. We’ve got you, Don. Your pitiful butt is now ours forever.”
Everett said, “Fuckin’ DNA.”
“I’ll forgive your French this time, Don,” Sherlock said, “given your dismal situation.” She studied his gray face for a moment. “Hey, you’re hurting pretty bad, aren’t you? I’ll bet I can talk my boss here into taking you to the hospital if you tell us the truth about Slipper Hollow.”
He weaved where he stood, moaned, and Savich pushed him down onto the La-Z-Boy. “I wasn’t at no Slipper Hollow. I was huntin’ ducks,” Everett said, and looked up at Savich. “Mallards, a whole crap pile of them out at Eagle Lake. Look, I need another pain pill real bad. I was going to the bathroom to get one when you hammered on my door.” He shook his head. “I’m in such pain that it ruined my judgment. I looked at you close, real close before I opened that damned door. How could I know a pretty girl like you was a rat cop?”
“Hey, Dillon, the man here thinks I’m pretty for a rat cop—what do you think about that?”
“The lowlife has good taste.”
“There now, all of us agree. Why don’t you tell us where you buried Clay Huggins. You’re not in trouble over that since you’re not the one who shot him. I’ll bet you feel kind of bad about him being dead. He was a friend, wasn’t he—well, at least a professional ally? And now he’s rotting in a field somewhere like he wasn’t important enough to even stick in a casket.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Clay Higgins.”
“Clay Huggins.”
“Whatever.” He looked at Savich. “Dude, I want you to get out of here, leave me alone. I don’t know anything about any doctor in a basement, I was just agreeing with you to be cooperative. I want to take my pain pill and go back to bed. You didn’t even have a box from Gun Smith Euro, did you?”
“Sorry, no box. It really hurts me, Don, but occasionally I have to lie in my job.”
Savich said, “Okay, Don, listen up. It’s either a small, uncomfortable jail cell with Big Bubba for a roomie, or a nice hospital bed, with clean sheets. Up to you.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You know what, Don,” Savich said, his voice slowing, becoming scary deep and as cold as ice, “I’ve found sometimes—well, rarely—that lawyers can really help a guy. In this instance, though, a lawyer isn’t going to help you wiggle out of this. Now, if the lawyer’s not a moron, he’ll advise you to cooperate with us and tell the truth since we already have you dead to rights with your DNA. Neither of us is unreasonable. You want to deal? We’ll deal.”
Everett said, “I don’t know anything, I—”
Savich slapped Everett’s face.
Everett moaned, hugged his slinged arm against his chest. “Hey! Dude, what’d you do that for? I’m hurt here, no call for you to hit me.”
“I want your attention right here, Don, right on my face. That’s right. Look at me. I want you to tell me who hired you and the now-deceased Clay Huggins. I want you to give me the names of the other man and woman who were with you when you went to kill Rachael Janes in Slipper Hollow. I want you to tell me right now, or the only thing I’ll guarantee you is a thirty-year stretch at Attica.” Savich lightly laid the butt of his SIG across Everett’s open mouth. “No, don’t sing me your I’m-so-innocent song.” He leaned closer, whispered in Everett’s ear, “Something else I might enjoy doing, Don, and that’s to let it out to the inmate population that you’re a child molester.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
S
herlock had rarely seen absolute horror on a person’s face like she saw now on Donley Everett’s. For the moment, it knocked his pain right out of his mind.
“Dude, it isn’t true. You can’t, dude. Oh, man, you can’t.”
Savich ran the muzzle of his SIG against Everett’s ear. “When they’re through with you, you’ll sure wish you’d talked to us, Don. On the other hand, you tell us what we want to know, and I’ll see to it personally that you’re in a cell by yourself and there’s not a single whiff of child molestation in your traveling papers. What do you say, Don? Tell me you understand all your options.”
Everett sobbed into his one available open hand. Sherlock straightened. “You’re disgusting,” and she kicked him hard in the knee.
“Wha—?”
“Listen, you moron,” she said, getting in his face. “You’ve done so much bad stuff in your miserable life you nearly fill up a computer disk. You’ve never shown an ounce of remorse about any of your victims, and now you have the gall to whine and cry? You make me sick.
“Now, you pathetic butt worm, you will tell us who hired you or I’m going to get ahold of some really appalling photos of kids who’ve been molested and write your name on the photos in big block letters. I’ll have the warden paper the bathrooms and the cafeteria. I expect there’ll be bets on how long you’ll last. Can you imagine having a big bar of soap stuffed in your mouth, your jaws held together?”
Everett stopped crying, shut off like a spigot. He believed she was dead serious. “I heard about that,” he said, and couldn’t help the shudder. “You can’t do that, there are rules you cops gotta stick to. You’re constrained.”
“Do I look constrained, Don?” Savich shook his head at him. “You don’t get it, do you? You tried to kill our friends at Slipper Hollow. You think we wouldn’t make up a story about you, that we’d hesitate to do anything we need to get the people you were with?”