Blowout (29 page)

They sat together, listening to the low buzz of conversation coming from the kitchen. Savich looked up to see that Ben and Callie had gone.

Suddenly, they heard a cry from Sean.

As one, they looked up. “Life goes on,” Savich said as he slowly rose, bringing Sherlock with him. Sherlock straightened, scrubbed her hands over her face, and went up with him to see what had awakened Sean.

FBI HEADQUARTERS

SATURDAY MORNING

D
R*
. C*
ONRAD TACKED
up a blow-up photo of Eliza Vickers on the corkboard behind him. “Eliza Vickers fought hard. She was a big woman, one hundred fifty pounds, strong and very fit.” He pointed to her hands. “She has defensive cuts, and she injured him at least once, scored some of his skin off. We can’t be certain yet, but the skin was probably from his neck or face. It was under her nails along with some of his blood, and there had been no attempt to clean it off. You said he was laughing when he left, Agent Savich, but he had to be hurting, too, and bleeding. He had to know he was leaving us evidence.”

Savich said, “He was laughing because he knew I heard him killing her. He did that on purpose.”

Dr. Conrad continued. “We have easily enough for DNA analysis, and as soon as that is complete, we will try to find a match, not just through domestic databases, but through Interpol.”

Agent Frank Halley said, “Okay, he had to get the hell out of Dodge, so he didn’t have time to clean up after himself. The profilers might be right, though, the guy is so damned arrogant, he might not have cared, just blew us off.”

“That’s possible,” Jimmy Maitland said. “Anyone who uses Günter Grass as an alias is about as egotistical as any killer I’ve ever seen.”

Savich heard Sherlock’s cell phone play the beginning bars of
Bolero,
and looked up.

He watched her face as she listened, then said, her voice urgent, “We’ll be there as soon as we can. Don’t force his hand. Don’t hurt him.” He was stepping toward her as she jumped to her feet. “Dillon, we’ve got to go, now. It’s Samantha’s boy, they’ve found him, and there’s trouble.”

Jimmy Maitland didn’t hesitate. “Samantha’s son? Tell me later. Go, but you call me when you get back, okay?”

Savich nodded, even as he was running for the conference room door. “Ben, Callie, you’re with us.”

As they raced from the elevator toward their cars in the garage, Sherlock said, “I had the Boston field office put out an alert on the name Austin Douglas Barrister. If it turned up, I was to be called immediately. That was Chief Howard Gerber of the Petersboro, Maryland Police Department. He said they have a hostage situation, a man inside a house with his wife and two children. The Hostage Rescue Team was trying to talk him out when the guy yelled out that his name wasn’t Martin Thornton, it was Austin Douglas Barrister. Chief Gerber realized he’d just read that name, looked it up, and called me. I told him we’d be there as soon as we could.”

“Don’t lose us,” Savich shouted to Ben and gunned the Porsche out of the garage.

Savich headed the Porsche north on the Beltway. Sherlock said to him as well as to Ben on her cell phone, “The siren is great, Ben. We want to get there as fast as possible. Until we got this break, we couldn’t locate Austin Barrister. It was like he disappeared off the face of the earth. Neither the Boston field office nor MAX could track him down.

“Okay, now, it looks like Petersboro is about ten miles due west of Alston, Maryland, off 270. We’re about forty-five minutes away, particularly with you, Ben, sitting on the siren. We’ll probably get there with a four-car escort.”

Ben said, “I’m with you. Tell Savich we’re right behind him, at least I’m trying. That Porsche is something.” Ben laughed as he shut down his cell.

Savich said to his wife, “You didn’t tell me you’d put a tag in the system.”

“Yep, I didn’t really think it would result in anything, but who knew?”

Savich shook his head, amazed as always with her ingenuity, signaled, and passed a Beemer at one hundred miles per hour. “So he’s been using the name Martin Thornton since he ran away from Boston.”

“Yes. The Hostage Rescue Team was probably calling his name over and over, you know how they do—Martin, do you hear us, Martin?—and he must have cracked and shouted out his real name.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Thank God for a police chief who remembered the alert and acted quickly on it.”

Inside the Crown Vic, Callie watched the traffic whiz by them, cars pulling over quickly as they neared, looking almost as if they were standing still. When they reached a clear stretch, all she could see of the Porsche was a flash of red.

“More pedal to the metal,” Ben said, and soon the Porsche came back into sight.

“This is the strangest day of my life.”

“You really think this is a strange day?”

“Don’t arch that supercilious eyebrow at me, Ben Raven. First I’m allowed in a meeting on the sacred fifth floor of the FBI building, and the next thing I know, we’re chasing Savich’s Porsche to Maryland to find this guy who’s the son of a woman who was murdered thirty years ago.”

“That’s why I went into law enforcement,” Ben said, “the excitement. It’s nonstop.”

“Yeah, right, so you say. The cops I’ve talked to usually whine about how boring it is—on the phone and the computer all day.”

They rounded a bend and the Porsche accelerated forward out of a curve. “My oh my,” Ben said. “Be still my heart. That car can go, just look at it.”

Callie laughed at him. “So get yourself one—to go with your truck.”

“Would you prefer I picked you up in a Porsche or a truck?”

“Now we’re going on a date? You’re asking me my car preference?”

He shrugged. “It might be fun in the truck. You and my dog could hang out the window, tongues lolling in the wind. Well, at least it could be fun in the summer. Now, about a Porsche—I’d probably get so many speeding tickets I’d get drummed off the force.”

She laughed again, shook her head, and laughed some more. It felt great.

“Now, seriously, the thing about Porsches is that the minute your foot connects to the accelerator, it gains weight and pushes down harder and harder. Just look at Savich. You think he’s got a clue how fast he’s going?”

“Yes, I think he knows exactly how fast he’s going.”

“Well, maybe you’re right, in this situation. What do you think, one hundred and ten miles an hour?”

She shook her head, tapped her fingers to her chin. “No, more like one twenty.” She paused, then turned to him. “Okay, I understand now. You’ve been distracting me. And you’ve done it very well. You’ve made me laugh. Thank you. Now, for our first date, I want to ride in the truck. I want to drive out in the wilds of Virginia to some country barbecue place where they don’t have any tablecloths, just long wooden tables, and tubs filled with ice and beer. Hey, you’re losing sight of him.”

The Crown Vic leapt forward. One hundred miles an hour. Ben heard sirens behind him. Good, their escort was with them. He had to get closer to Savich, or the cops would go nuts at the sight of that speeding Porsche. He got on his radio, called dispatch. “This is Detective Ben Raven, on Highway 270. We’re just past Rockville, Maryland. We’re heading up to Alston, then ten miles west to Petersboro. FBI Agent Dillon Savich is in front of me, driving a red Porsche 911. My siren’s on and I’ve got two cop cars behind me. Alert the highway patrol about our position and the Porsche. This is an emergency.” He listened, said yes a couple of times, and punched off.

“Okay, if we’re lucky everything should be all right. Let’s hear it for a show of competence.”

“An amazing thing, competence. I’m always pleasantly surprised when I trip over it.”

Ben caught sight of the Porsche. “He just passed a patrol car coming off an exit onto the freeway. I’m going to call dispatch again, just to be sure.” Ben memorized the patrol car number and radioed dispatch again.

They watched the patrol car pull back a bit. “Good.”

Callie said suddenly, “Why would he go after Fleurette?”

So much for distracting her, Ben thought, and said, “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Maybe she’s another loose end. Like Eliza.”

“I don’t think Eliza was just a loose end. Don’t forget, she was calling Savich, to tell him something, maybe something she knew but hadn’t said anything about before. And why not? Because she was afraid? Or because she was a part of something that led to my stepfather’s murder?”

“Whoa—that’s a giant leap. But you’re a reporter, you’re paid to make wild guesses, right?”

“Do you really think it’s such a wild guess?”

“Maybe. Who knows? Hey, I’m trying to keep from killing us here. I’m now going one hundred and ten miles an hour. Keep an eye out for more patrol cars. Or any pedestrians who might be running across the highway.” He laid a gloved hand on her leg as she laughed again. “You really want a down-home, hoe-down kind of country place where you get barbecue sauce all over your face and Billy Bob tries to make a pass at you?”

She laughed again. “That’s it exactly. And just think, I’ll be with such a guy’s guy—truck, beer, testosterone, nice butt. What more could a girl ask? Look, Alton’s coming up. I’ll keep an eye out for Petersboro.”

“Just watch the Porsche. Sherlock probably has MAX on her lap and he’s providing them directions.”

“Nah, she’s a real navigator. I’ll bet she’s using a plain old map.”

Ben slowed to match the Porsche. The squad cars behind him kept thirty feet back.

Savich led them directly into a subdivision of ranch-style homes not far from the highway. A half-dozen squad cars were angled around one of them, a dozen or more police huddled behind them, using the cars for shields.

PETERSBORO, MARYLAND

N
EIGHBORS WERE GATHERED
, talking and pointing, looking both scared and excited, held behind a police line half a block away from the house. Savich pulled the Porsche behind a squad car three houses away from where Austin Douglas Barrister lived. Ben and the two highway patrol cars pulled in behind him.

He and Sherlock saw a man in a heavy jacket holding a bullhorn in his hand and ran toward him. Before they could get to him, an officer yelled, “Hey, buddy, get the hell back!”

Savich turned, pulled out I.D., and held it in the officer’s face. “Where’s Chief Gerber?”

Officer Ridley looked at the big guy in the black leather jacket who’d just climbed out of a sexy red Porsche that would cost him three years’ salary and said, “So who gives a damn if you’re FBI? Chief Gerber is busy. This is a local matter,
Agent,
we’ve got it covered.”

“Let’s try again, Officer. Where is Chief Gerber?”

Ridley took another step toward him, leaned right in his face now. “And why is that any of your freaking business?”

Savich grabbed Ridley by the collar and hoisted him off his feet. “I asked you where Chief Gerber is, Officer.”

“Hey! What’s going on here? Hey, you, let that officer down! Back away!”

The second officer reached for his gun. Sherlock grabbed his arm and stuck her I.D. in his face. “Don’t you even think about drawing a gun on a federal officer. Back off, all of you.”

“But—”

Sherlock said, “We’re here because the man inside that house—his mother called me, frantic for help. The FBI has been looking for him. Now, where is Chief Gerber?”

“Right here, Agent Sherlock.” A big beefy cop around fifty, with a baby face and a paunch starting to overflow his wide leather belt, approached them. “Calm down, guys. I was expecting these people. Lew, back off. Both of you get back to work.”

Savich slowly let Officer Ridley down, but didn’t turn his back on him. Testosterone filled the air, and adrenaline was pumping because of the uncertainty of what was going on inside that house, an explosive combination.

Sherlock stuck out her hand. “I’m Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. This is Special Agent Savich. You’re Chief Howard Gerber?”

“That I am.” He shook their hands. “You got here very quickly.”

Sherlock said, “We’ve been looking for the man who lives in that house for several days. Thank you, Chief, for calling me so quickly. This is a personal matter for us, as well as professional. We think we can help.”

Officer Ridley was still breathing hard, but Savich realized he now had himself under control. At least enough control so he wouldn’t pull his gun and shoot him. Savich said, never raising his voice, never sounding anything but calm and in control, “Tell us what’s happening here, Chief.”

“As I told Agent Sherlock, the guy who lives here, his name’s Martin Thornton. He’s got a wife, Janet, two daughters, ages eight and ten, inside the house, and won’t let them come out. We got a call from a neighbor about an hour and a half ago. They’d heard a gunshot and some screams. We think the husband went nuts. Why, we don’t know. Joe Gaines, the one with the bullhorn, is from the Hostage Rescue Team. He’s trying to get the guy to talk to him again, establish a dialogue. So far the guy hasn’t talked much, except to yell out once that his name wasn’t Martin Thornton, it was Austin Douglas Barrister. That’s when we ran the name and found the alert to call you, Agent Sherlock.” He paused a moment, eyeing Savich. “Okay, you said this is personal too. I’ve told you the facts as I know them, now it’s your turn to fill me in.”

Savich said, “We need him as a possible witness in a murder investigation, and I know a great deal about his life. Give me a vest. I’ve got to be the one to speak to him. I may be the only one who can get through to him. His mother is the reason he cracked, and I’m the only one who knows her. She’s extraordinarily important to him. You’re going to have to trust me on this. It’s the best chance for his wife and daughters. Austin too.”

Chief Gerber had listened intently, listened to every inflection, then made a decision. “Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be inclined to let a hot dog who drives up in a red Porsche anywhere close to that house.” He fell silent. Then he slowly nodded. “Guess these circumstances aren’t all that normal though. Joe, give Agent Savich the bullhorn, he’ll need it. Duncan, get Agent Savich a Kevlar vest. Keep your traps shut, I’ll take responsibility.” He studied Savich’s face. “You’re really sure about this?”