Savich could tell him the man hadn’t been wearing a mask when he’d rowed back to the dock, but he didn’t. He looked to the group who now stood on the dock, gazing down into the lake. He could hear the chief’s voice explaining what they would need. Sala looked out over Lake Massey and said in a low voice, “Octavia and I drank too much wine Thursday night, her favorite, Leaping Frog chardonnay.” He stopped, shook his head. “I remember her laughing her head off at something a kid said at the gas station outside Willicott Thursday afternoon. It was her last day.
“Sure, she asked me here so we could both relax and forget about work, but she had another reason, too. Her ex-husband, Bill Culver, was putting on a full-court press for her to come back to him. We talked about the situation between them, but she hadn’t made up her mind what she was going to do. She was still wavering. She said she hadn’t believed people ever changed, but now it looked like he had, or at least he was trying. He’d told her he loved her, but she wasn’t sure if she still loved him.” Sala swallowed, turned to Savich, tears pooling in his eyes. “And now she’s gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just—gone.”
Sala looked down at the bandages from Ty’s first-aid kit wrapped around his raw wrists. “If it hadn’t been for you and the chief, we both would have simply disappeared. No one would ever know what happened to us. Sure, the FBI would have tracked us here, found the cabin, but after that, no one would have known where to look.
“I wonder why he ever bothered with the stocking mask if he was going to kill both of us.”
“No matter his bravado, coming alone, he couldn’t be sure how it would go with you there, Sala, an FBI agent. He used the mask in case he had to run.”
Sala stared at Savich, and then he grinned. “That’s excellent B.S. Maybe it’s even true. Sorry, Savich, I’m not very proud of what I am or what I did, right now.”
“Then help us find him. We can start with the criminals Octavia was assigned to prosecute and the criminals she defended before that. It had to be one of them. This was payback.”
“Most of the scumbags she defended ought to be offering to buy her Christmas presents for the rest of her life, not trying to kill her.”
Savich nodded. He thought about the girl Sala had heard laughing. “He was with someone, Sala, the girl you heard laughing. Maybe she helped him get you over here, get you up the stairs. You don’t remember anything until you woke up in the closet?”
“No. I suppose I could have been going in and out for a while, but I don’t remember.”
“You need to tell us where you and Octavia stayed. We’ll get the forensic team over there next.”
“It’s a small clapboard cabin Octavia’s aunt owns out past the rental cottages, right on Shoreline Way. Number 357, I think.”
“What car did you use?”
“We came up together in Octavia’s Volvo. It was parked at the cabin last time I saw it.”
He and Sala were silent a moment, looking out over the placid lake, a warm summer breeze against their faces. Savich saw Hanger’s pontoon boat out in the water, its big nets dragging for more bones.
Sala looked back at Savich, his eyes bleak and filled with pain. “You remember my wife, Joy? She died so needlessly, too, in that helicopter accident.”
“Yes, I remember,” Savich said.
“And now Octavia’s dead. I couldn’t save either of them.” Sala gave an ugly laugh. “I guess I don’t rank very high on the good prospect list. A woman would have to be seriously desperate to hook up with me.”
Savich wanted to tell him what he’d said was ridiculous, but there was never much sense in raw emotion, it spewed out without reason or logic. Sala hadn’t been able to save either his wife or Octavia, and he blamed himself. Savich said, “That kind of thinking is a waste of time, Sala. Time for you to focus, to put the blame where it belongs, and use that fine brain of yours to help me find her killer.”
They sat in silence, side by side on the top step, watching chief forensic tech Tommy Raider—tall, skinny as a parking meter, a cloud of black curls on his head—direct his team winching the Green Gaiter out of the water and settling it onto the wooden dock. They took their time going over the boat. At last the group walked back to Savich and Sala.
“Nothing to help us,” Tommy said, waving back at the Green Gaiter, now lying on its side on the dock. “Not that we expected to find anything, what with the boat being in the water so long. What is with that green color?” He called to his team. “Pete, Rand, Gwen—we’re going to head upstairs to that bedroom where Savich found you, Sala, see what we can find. After we’re done processing this humongous place, Savich, you can take us to the cabin were Sala was staying.” Tommy gave Savich and Sala a salute, said, “Upstairs to the third floor first, bambinos, bambina!”
Tommy leaned close to Sala as he passed him, lightly touched his hand to his shoulder. “If there’s anything useful in there, we’ll find it.” He studied Sala’s still face, gave his shoulder a squeeze, then turned. “Savich, you wanna show us which bedroom closet?”
Savich started to rise, but Sala grabbed his arm.
“No, I’m okay. Let me show him. I heard you speaking to Sherlock on your cell. It sounds like you need to get back to her. Oh, and Savich, whoever this guy is, you know he’s got to be bat-crap crazy.” Sala rose slowly, testing out his feet and legs. No more pins and needles, no more cramping. He frowned a moment. “I know I’ll never forget that girl’s laughter. I bet she’s as crazy as he is.”
Savich remembered the man he’d seen waving to where he stood in the upstairs window. Had that girl been standing at that window?
Tommy said over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about Sala. Gwen has some medic training. She’ll keep an eye on him. Sala, when we’re done here, the chief’s deputy, Charlie, said he’ll take you to the local doc and get you checked out, get your scalp stitched up.”
Ty walked away to answer her cell. She turned back after she’d punched off. “That was Hanger, calling from the lake. He and his sons have already found more bones from at least six people, he estimates. He’s going to take all the bones to Dr. Staunton to give to the FBI.” She paused, drew a deep breath, looked from Flynn to Savich. “I don’t see any other explanation. It has to be a serial killer using Lake Massey to disappear his victims.”
Savich saw panic in her eyes before she quashed it. He said easily, “It seems the likeliest scenario, but, Chief, one step at a time.”
Ty looked back out over the lake. “A serial killer. It’s tough to think there might be one of those monsters anywhere near this beautiful lake.”
Flynn said, “Savich, I know you and Sherlock are up to your earlobes in alligators, so we’ll drop you off.”
Ty came to attention. “What alligators?”
Savich said, “We had a home invasion three nights ago, and we still haven’t caught the guy.” Because Sherlock hadn’t been sure of it, he didn’t tell them the man might be in Willicott.
14
* * *
TY'S COTTAGE
WILLICOTT, MARYLAND
SATURDAY NIGHT
Ty clicked her beer against Sala’s. “Here’s to a fricking toilet paper rod.”
“May Charmin rule the world,” Sala said, and they drank. “You know what’s amazing?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I do. Everything was spotless, but he missed a fricking empty roll of toilet paper that probably has his fingerprints on the roller bar, and like that”—Ty snapped her fingers—“he’s busted.”
“You nailed that one.”
“A huge hunk of luck for the good guys.” She toasted him again, and they drank.
Sala said, “If the killer was one of Octavia’s clients, he’ll be in CODIS. He’d have been arrested, fingerprinted, probably gotten jail time.”