Sherlock asked, “Was she younger than him? Older? What color was her hair?”
Frankie looked flummoxed, but only for an instant. “She was wearing a ball cap. I couldn’t see her hair. She was about his age, I guess, maybe twenty-five, younger, I can’t be sure. We were starting to get really busy with the lobster brunch crowd, so I really didn’t pay them much mind. It was only after I saw you on TV and they showed his photo on-screen. He’d left, but I knew it was him so I called right away.”
Savich asked, “How did he pay for his meal?”
“Cash. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. You don’t forget seeing a hundred-dollar bill.”
Savich and Sherlock thanked Frankie and headed for the Porsche.
An older man with a bag of takeout in his hand shouted, “Nice wheels, man!”
“Thank you,” Savich said and couldn’t help it. He turned, smiled.
“You like compliments to your baby more than to yourself,” Sherlock said as she automatically studied the street.
“I’m shy, you know that, but my Porsche isn’t.”
Sherlock said, “Okay, so Frankie made lots of it up to please us, but I think he did see Victor.”
Sherlock turned on the AC when Savich fired up the Porsche. “Why do people have this need to make themselves the star of the show?”
He laughed, wove the Porsche back onto the street and toward the highway. “Well, if Victor really was there eating fried lobsters—three of them—he might be sleeping it off in a motel nearby.”
“Could be. Not worth a grid search, though.”
Sherlock pulled out her cell and called the Victor hotline. “We followed up on your call about Victor Nesser from Peterborough. He’s probably not here, but give the local motels a call, make sure they have his photo. Thanks, Dirk.” She sat back, fanned herself. “Nearly no traffic. Too hot to be out today.”
“Everyone’s eating fried lobsters with Frankie and his mom, sweating their eyebrows off.”
A bullet slammed in through the Porsche’s driver’s-side window, missing Savich by inches, and burst out Sherlock’s window. She thought she felt the heat of the bullet, it passed so close.
Savich pressed the accelerator, and the Porsche leaped forward. Sherlock twisted around, yelled, “I see him, a dark green Kia. It’s Victor. No cars between us. Get him, Dillon!”
Three more shots, all wide.
Savich turned the steering wheel, let the rear wheels slide, and drove straight toward Victor.
Sherlock leaned out the shattered window and fired nonstop at the windshield of the Kia. She saw Victor’s face, contorted with rage, then she saw fear, then panic. “What, you putz, you didn’t think we’d fight back?” She emptied her magazine, shoved in a new one.
“Hold on!”
She fell back into her seat when Savich took a hard left. She saw a woman’s white face as they passed her old baby blue Buick with an inch to spare, heard her horn blasting. A white lab came out from between two oak trees and ran into the road in front of them, an older man behind it, yelling as he tried to pull on its leash. Savich swerved, but it was too late. The Porsche hit a fire hydrant and blew a front tire, bounced back into the street. Thankfully, the hydrant didn’t explode. She saw the Kia behind them again, a flash of Victor’s face, then it screeched around the corner and he disappeared.
“Sherlock, are you okay?”
She was breathing hard and fast, her adrenaline in orbit. “Yeah, I’m okay. You, Dillon?” She was already dialing 911. She identified herself, gave the description of Victor’s Kia, their location. To Savich’s surprise, she added, “I got the first three letters on his license plate. RPL, Virginia.” She answered questions, then punched off her cell. “They’re sending patrol cars our way. We could get lucky yet.”
Savich lightly cupped her cheek in his hand. “We’re both okay. Good going with the license plate. I’m surprised he hasn’t ditched the Kia yet. And really surprised he came at us at all. Why? He couldn’t think he’d kill us here, in the middle of Peterborough. Why didn’t he keep on driving?”
“All good questions. At least Frankie did see him.” Sherlock smacked her fist against the glove compartment. “I shot a whole clip into his car, Dillon, but I missed him. The look on his face, we scared the crap out of him. The gall of that lady driving on our street. A good thing you missed her. The lab’s okay, too. Not so much the fire hydrant. We’ll see if the city of Peterborough dings the FBI.”
Savich laughed, couldn’t help it. He reached over, studied her face, felt her arms. “I’m okay. Really. Look, we’ve got company.”
They looked over at three teenage boys running toward them, one of them carrying a soccer ball.
“Hey, dude! You guys all right?”
Sherlock called out, “We’re fine. Is everybody okay back there?”
The three teenagers looked at one another, then back at Sherlock. “Yeah, but we heard the pops, the crash. Hey, you got shot at, didn’t you? Busted the windows, and I see bullet holes. Oh, dude, your Porsche—the front bumper’s all crunched in.”
Savich wasn’t surprised, but still he felt that news like a punch to the gut. No hope for it. He and Sherlock climbed out of the Porsche, pulled out their creds, and introduced themselves.
The teen holding the soccer ball dropped it and crowded in. “Wow, were you scared? Who was after you?”
“Thanks for coming over, guys, but we’ve got calls to make.” Sherlock looked up to see the older man holding his beautiful white lab beside him, staring at them. She trotted over and identified herself, apologized.
Savich studied his baby, ran his hand over the damage, and kicked the flat front tire. His insurance company was not going to like this, but not less than he did.
29
* * *
HAGGERSVILLE, MARYLAND
MONDAY EVENING
Gunny Saks chewed slowly on her mama’s chicken parmigiana, savoring the taste of the hot cheese in her mouth. Mama had pulled it fresh out of the oven only five minutes before with the cheese still bubbling. Monday was always parmigiana night, and she’d looked forward to it all day while she sorted the mail for the post office mailboxes and hauled packages in from the loading dock to the staging area where Mr. Klem sorted them into the route hampers for the carriers.
She hummed before she swallowed each bite, a childhood habit. As she chewed, Gunny savored her mama’s secret ingredient, a special mozzarella from Trenton, New Jersey, made and sold in small batches by an old Italian grocer Mama had met twenty years ago. Mama had sworn her to secrecy because, she explained, she had a reputation to uphold. Gunny didn’t understand this, but she kept her word. She knew about secrets, knew how to keep them. One thing everybody knew was her mama was the best baker in town. Dozens of people lined up every morning except Thursday in front of her mama’s bakery, Heaven Sent, for one of her bear claws or croissants or sinful cinnamon rolls, with dribbles of warm icing snaking over the sides. Gunny loved to lick off those dribbles of icing while her mother shook her head at her, said it wasn’t fair that Gunny never gained an ounce.