The FBI Thrillers Collection (91 page)

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EARLY
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IDNIGHT
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ONDAY
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IGHT

A
gent
Dane Carver said, “Glad you guys made it in time. He just made his move, see him? He’s over there by the side of the house, trying to hide in the shadows, but he’s too damned big. I was just on my way after him.”

Sherlock said, “Would you look at that bulky wool coat he’s wearing. He looks like a huge black bat.”

“Let’s have a closer look,” Savich said. Dane gave Savich his infrared glasses and Savich saw him clearly, skulking to the side of the small 1940s cottage using the oak trees as cover.

Sherlock said, “Did you get her name?”

“Ms. Aquine Barton, single, longtime math teacher at Dentonville High School. She’s in there alone, Savich.”

“Okay, Dane, hang back and call the cops when I signal you. We’re going to let him heave himself over the windowsill into the cottage, then we’ll get him. I don’t want him getting close to the teacher. Just close enough so it’s the final nail in his coffin. Keep your fingers crossed he doesn’t try anything stupid, and keep your gun ready.”

Savich, Sherlock on his heels, ran bent over, SIG Sauers drawn, to the front of the cottage. “We’re being cowboys,” she said to the back of his black leather jacket.

“Not really. This guy’s not going to give us any problems once we confront him. Keep down and stay behind me.”

“Sometimes I hate it that you’re the boss.”

He grinned into the darkness as he eased the lock pick into the front-door keyhole.

It took under three seconds. The lock released and the front door slid open with just a push of his toe.

It was utterly black inside. The air smelled like jasmine, so much jasmine your nose felt stuffed with flowers.

They paused, listening. They’d watched him jimmy the window into the dining room, not more than twenty feet away from where they were crouched over in deep shadows by the front door. It was lucky he hadn’t tried to go right in through a bedroom window. That, they couldn’t have allowed. They walked lightly, pressing themselves against the wall in the hallway, listening to him try to get through the window. How he could get in without awakening Ms. Barton neither of them could imagine.

They heard him land hard on the dining room floor.

“That’s it,” Savich said and ran lightly into the dining room.

Savich said, quietly but clearly, “You can stop now, Troy. It’s all over.”

Troy Ward’s head jerked up. He recognized Savich’s voice even though he couldn’t see him clearly.

He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Get away!”

As his voice echoed off the dining room walls, they heard a woman yell loud enough to make the crystals on the chandelier over the dining room table dance. “You little creep! How dare you come in here to rape me! Just look at you, all dressed in black like some sort of gangster, sneaking into my house, landing like a brick on my dining room floor! How’s this, you nasty little pervert!”

There was enough light coming through the window to see Ms. Aquine Barton bring a huge old iron skillet down on Troy Ward’s head. Troy’s finger jerked the trigger on his gun in reflex, and a bullet slammed into the lamp on Ms. Barton’s sideboard. It exploded, sending shards of glass flying all over the room.

“Get down, kids!” Aquine Barton yelled even though there were no kids around. “Look what you did, you little creep! That was my mama’s lamp.” She leaned over Troy Ward’s still bulk and kicked him in the ribs with her bare foot. Then she looked up, saw two more shadows, heard them breathing hard, and flipped on the light, skillet raised high. “Two more of you?” She waved that skillet toward them. “You just come here and I’ll lay you flat, too.”

“Ms. Barton? Please don’t hurt us. I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock. We’re with the FBI. Please don’t slam us with that skillet.” He pulled out his shield and flipped it open.

She looked them both up and down, then checked out his FBI shield. “A woman’s got to protect herself. Had this skillet under the bed for a good fifteen years now. First time I had to use it. Who is this nasty fat little man anyway?” She waved the skillet very close to Troy Ward’s head. “What is all this about? What are you doing in my house at midnight? I have school tomorrow, you know.”

“The man you just flattened, Ms. Barton, is the math teacher killer,” Sherlock said. “And you brought him down all by yourself. Thank you very much.”

Ms. Barton stood there, staring down at Troy Ward, then back at Savich. “I know who you are now. This man was one of the widowers, standing behind you, Agent Savich, on that podium. I remember thinking he really needed to go to the gym, maybe even sleep there, no food. When was that press conference? A couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Savich said. “You’ve got a very good memory.”

“But his wife was the first one killed. Oh, I see. It was him all along, the scummy little jerk.” She kicked him with her bare foot. “But why was he here?” Her dark eyes widened and she whispered, “Oh my goodness, he was here to kill me, to make me his next victim, wasn’t he?”

“We wouldn’t have allowed that, Ms. Barton,” Sherlock said. “We were right with him all the way. We just had to wait until the moment he stepped into your house. Then we were prepared to arrest him. By catching him here, we’ve left no way for a lawyer to get him off. There was never any danger to you. I was looking forward to taking him in myself, but you didn’t give me a chance, you just bonked him on the head and laid him right out.”

Bless Sherlock, Savich thought. She was excellent at distraction.

“I see now. You boobs set me up.” Ms. Barton crossed her arms over her chest, still holding the skillet.

A schoolteacher who had obviously heard better excuses than Sherlock’s.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sherlock said. “But you’re a heroine, ma’am. You’ve made things safe for math teachers again.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I have,” said Ms. Barton as she fussed over her knee-length nightgown.

Dane appeared in the doorway, out of breath. “You got him, Savich?”

Savich grinned and waved toward Aquine. “No, Ms. Barton here brought him down with her trusty iron skillet.”

“Holy shit, ma’am,” Dane said. He stared from Troy Ward back to her, and gave her a fat smile. “You did a fine job.”

“You watch your mouth, boy.”

“Sorry, ma’am, I guess the shock made me forget my manners.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, I’ve taught nasty-mouthed little high school boys for nearly thirty years now. There isn’t anything I haven’t heard.”

Troy Ward groaned. Aquine kicked him. He shuddered, fell still again. She said, “I see what you had in mind now. You just wanted me standing in a corner, fluttering my hands, all helpless, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Savich said, smiling. “We’re the law. We’re paid to hit people, occasionally. But you know, it doesn’t matter who brought him down in the big equation of life. You got him, and that’s just fine.”

“Agent Savich, I’ll just bet you got yourself smacked when you were in high school.”

“Only a couple of times, ma’am,” Savich said. “I was always really good in math, though.”

“How did you know he was going to come after me?”

“We didn’t know, ma’am. I was never certain that it was really a serial killer, I couldn’t afford to be. I had all three widowers at the press conference with me so everyone watching could get a good look at them. Maybe someone would call the hot line with something on one of them. After the conference, I had both Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler followed. Then, only Mr. Ward here because I was almost sure he was guilty, but I needed more proof, and would you look at this—he landed right in your dining room. Ms. Barton, this is Agent Dane Carver, he’s the one who’s been keeping a close eye on Mr. Ward tonight. He called us here.”

“Hello, Ms. Barton. Aren’t you cold, ma’am?”

It was in that moment Ms. Aquine Barton realized she was standing in front of three people wearing only her nightgown. She pointed the skillet at Troy Ward. “You don’t let him escape, Agent Savich, and I’ll get a robe on and turn up the heat in here.”

They barely had time to turn Troy Ward onto his back before she was back, belting her long purple chenille bathrobe while somehow keeping a grip on the skillet.

Troy groaned, his eyelashes fluttered and he stared up at Savich. “You bastard. How did you know I was here?”

“I think the more relevant question is what you’re doing here, Troy. It’s kind of late to be paying a social call, don’t you think? And you didn’t even use the front door. Now, coming through a dining room window makes things look a little suspect, don’t you think, Troy?”

“I didn’t want her to hear me.”

Sherlock said, “You landed a little hard, Troy.”

“I’d say so,” Ms. Barton said. “I can hear a boy playing with a paper clip at the back of the classroom. You sounded like a hippo trying to squeeze into a water bottle.”

“Bastard. I want my lawyer.”

“I’m not a bastard, you nasty little man. I’m a teacher.”

“Not you, you stupid woman, him!”

Savich said, “You know, that’s why I didn’t call you in for a chat. You’re too smart, Troy, for me to talk you into confessing, aren’t you? Yeah, I’ll bet you would have kept your mouth shut and demanded a lawyer. And I did wonder if I would have ever gotten enough to send you to prison for three murders and one attempted murder. So we just watched you. Thank you for climbing right in.”

“I’m at the wrong house. I didn’t mean to be here. It’s all a mistake. I want my lawyer.”

“Yep, a big mistake, I’d say. Agent Carver here followed you to the library this afternoon, saw you perusing local yearbooks. He figured you’d spotted your next victim. Fact is, though, even if we hadn’t been doing our good old-fashioned police work, you picked the wrong math teacher.”

“No, that’s a lie. But why did you suspect me? What was there about me that made you suspicious? I can see it on your face. There was something you latched onto, wasn’t there? But what? I’m a professional sports announcer, what could have made you suspect me?”

Savich saw that Aquine Barton was holding her iron skillet a little tighter. He gave her a slight shake of his head. He said, “I was in an accident several weeks ago,
Troy, and they loaded me up with morphine. I was remembering our conversation, but in a morphine haze everything’s different. Maybe some hidden connections came bursting through, things that I’d picked up that you hadn’t actually said to me.”

“And what did you pick up on, you bastard? That I wasn’t like you, because you were just like all those other moron jocks? You knew I was different, didn’t you?”

“I listened to you call some of the Ravens game on Sunday. You were very good, just the right mix of play calling, commentary, and sweet silence.”

“Yeah, I’m the best, but it’s just not enough, is it? You’re just waiting to tell everyone, aren’t you?”

Savich said, “That Smith and Wesson .38 of yours, Troy. Turns out when I spoke to your wife’s sister, she remembered your owning a gun a long way back. A revolver, just like this .38 you brought here to Ms. Barton’s house. I know there are lots of .38s in the world, Troy, but the thing is, now we’ll get to test yours. Do you think we’ll find a match?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll get your lawyer. But you might as well know we found where you bought the gun way back in 1993 in Baltimore. A small gun shop owned by a Mr. Hanratty on Willowby Street, downtown. He keeps excellent records. I’m sure your lawyer will show you a copy of the sale.”

“Sounds like you better fess up, Mr. Ward,” said Aquine, who now was sitting on a dining room chair, the skillet in her lap.

“Like I said, Ms. Barton, Troy here is really smart. You know, I kept worrying about motive, Troy, just couldn’t understand why you’d murder your wife, even if she found out you were gay.”

“I’m not gay! That’s a lie! That’s not a motive either.”

“No, but she wasn’t just going to tell the world about your being gay, Troy. I think some people already knew
that and didn’t really care. What she was going to tell the world was that you trade in child pornography, and that you couldn’t allow.”

“You can’t know about that, you can’t, unless—you hacked into my computer without a warrant? I’ll sue your ass off, Savich! That’s against the law!”

“You’re right, it is. But you know, I have an agent in my unit by the name of Ruth Warnecki, and she used to be a D.C. cop. She has lots of snitches. One of them called her, told her he’d seen you on TV and knew he’d also seen you one night buying some kiddy porn on the street over on Halloran. I went there, and guess what, Troy? We found a witness who recognized your photo, said he’d seen you pay to go into a live shop with little kids parading around naked. Now, I can’t prove yet exactly what went on in those shows, and if we find out who the owners of that nasty little business are, we’ll nail them right along with you. But how much of that did your wife find out about, Troy? Did she even know you were gay?”

“I want a lawyer. None of that crap means anything. Witnesses are paid off all the time. I don’t know anything about child pornography. Leave me alone.”