“But you said nothing, you didn’t put a stop to it,” Griffin said.
“I told you why. And by then it was too late. Kane had filed his report, there was no way to change that. It would be a felony and he’d have lost his job, even gone to prison. It was only an accident, and Kane’s family would have paid an awful price. They didn’t deserve that. People around here thought well enough of Old Man Alcott, but they don’t like those witches very much, and they have good reason to steer clear of them. Who knows what Liggert would have done to Sparky, and to Kane, if he found out.”
Griffin leaned forward. “You didn’t know, did you, that Liggert went to Walter Givens’s garage and figured it out for himself, did you? And that set in motion the murders of Sparky Carroll and your brother-in-law, Kane Lewis. It was all about revenge for the death of Arthur Alcott, and Deputy Lewis covering it up.”
Sheriff Watson didn’t say anything. He pushed off the fireplace mantel and sat down on the matching black leather chair, making it creak under his weight. “When they were both killed with those witch’s knives, I figured it out,” he said, and began rolling his big rough hands together. He raised his eyes to face them. “Look, it was obvious Brakey, an Alcott, killed Kane. Why he bungled it so badly I don’t know. You had him cold, he was going to pay for it. I wasn’t about to tell you why he did it—my sister, my nieces, deserved better than that.
“I have no idea how Liggert or some other Alcott got Walter Givens to stab Sparky. And then they set Charlie Marker in McCutty’s woods to ambush the two of you.” He jumped to his feet, unable to sit still, and began pacing the long, narrow living room. “I guess it had to be some sort of hypnotism, or some sort of witch’s spell, is that right?”
Savich said nothing.
The sheriff continued his pacing. “Liggert gets my vote. He’s the violent one, he’s got a deep streak of it. I know firsthand he’s got a short fuse, and he worshipped his daddy, took his death real hard. And he was mad when we couldn’t find out who’d hit him and left him there lying in the road.” He plowed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Is there really a weird sort of hypnotism that could actually make those boys commit murder?”
“When we know for sure, you’ll know, Sheriff.” Savich eyed the man, saw the misery in his eyes, the guilt and grief that had been gnawing at him. He rose, stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Sheriff, for helping us. About your sister finding out what her husband did, I’m hoping we can keep it quiet, but I can’t guarantee it, you know that.” He paused. “I hope we can work together again someday.”
When Griffin last looked back at Sheriff Watson, he didn’t seem quite so huddled in on himself. If he wasn’t mistaken, he saw a measure of relief on the man’s face. He waved to them as they drove away.
Griffin said, “I think the sheriff might sleep better tonight. Are we going to confront the Alcotts?”
Savich turned back onto Main Street, shook his head. “Not yet, Griffin, not yet. We’ve got to have a plan first.”
FBI HOUSE
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
Sunday evening
So show me how you make pizza as good as your mom’s.”
Cal issued the challenge, Kelly punched him in the arm and told him he better be willing to help if he wanted any, and Sherlock shook her head at both of them and took herself and her cell off to the living room to speak to Dillon and Sean.
Cal unloaded the grocery bags while Kelly looked around the kitchen for what she needed: a big square cookie sheet that would make do as a pizza pan, and bowls for dough and sauce. She’d forgotten to buy yeast, but she found an ancient packet she prayed was alive enough to make the dough rise. The kitchen was vintage 1950s, tired, its cabinets saggy, but thankfully the oven worked and there was enough room for them to move around each other. He’d set the table while she mixed up the pizza dough, listening to her hum the Harry Potter theme. Then they’d chatted while waiting for the dough to rise. “Hey, Giusti, you ever get yourself hitched?”
“Yeah, for about five minutes. He was—still is—a big professor at Berkeley, probably a department head by now, very likely still spouting that America is bad, you know the type. I can hear him telling the students that the bombing of Saint Pat’s was all our fault, that we deserved it.
“The happiest moment of that marriage was when the divorce came through.” She stopped tossing the pizza dough to wipe her nose, leaving a streak of flour. “I’ll never forget the call I got from my cowboy uncle in Casper, Wyoming. When I told him, he yelled ‘Yehaw!’ I remember wanting to yell that, too. When I think of him now, I think he deserves a nice stay at a Siberian gulag.” She moved to the stove to stir the sauce, the smell making Cal’s mouth water. “We’re going to make what my mom calls the carnivore’s delight—sausage, hamburger, and a surprise: small hunks of ham artfully hidden beneath some artichokes and tomatoes. Your turn. You ever take the plunge? Any ex-wives in the closet?”
“Once, when I was a green lad, new at the FBI and working my butt off in the Philadelphia office. She left me for her country-club golf pro, who had a lot of time to work on her swing. I hear they’ve got a couple of kids and he’s doing well on the pro circuit. Actually, Mandy’s nice, I’m glad she’s happy, so I don’t wish any diseases on her.” He clasped his hands over his belly, closed his eyes. “I’ve come to believe life is a crapshoot. People come into your life, some good, some bad.” He straightened, breathed in the aroma of the pizza sauce. “The trick is to know when you’ve met a good one, and not let them go.”
She eyed him, said slowly, “That’s pretty much what I think, now that I’m at least a mature adult. The problem is there isn’t much time for us to find a good one, is there?” She waved her hand. “We’re usually up to our eyeballs in something. People depend on us—never, it seems, the other way around.”
“There’s always time, Kelly. I mean, here we are, and we’re making your mama’s pizza together, rubbing along nicely, don’t you think?” He watched her arrange the meat and artichokes on top of the sauce.
She stepped back. “What do you think?”
“You can never have too much sausage,” Cal said. He sliced another half-dozen circles of sweet Italian sausage and artistically laid them on top of the big rectangular pizza.
“You’re an artist,” she said, grinning at the smiley face he’d made, and they both slid it into the oven. “Wait till that sauce bubbles up and melts the cheese, you’d shoot anyone who gets near your third of that pie.”
While the pizza baked, Kelly checked with the agents guarding the house, parked half a block away. All quiet. Agent Larry Rafferty, the lead of the protection team, told her, “We’re ready for anything.” She phoned Gray Wharton, asked if they’d found Jamil’s family in Algeria. He told her Jamil had been right, they were gone from their home and their town, simply disappeared.