Sherlock hadn’t wanted to take Sean to a public place where thousands of people would be milling about, but he’d been so excited about today, a promised treat for more than a month now, she and Dillon couldn’t say no. What was worse, Dillon wouldn’t be with her for extra eyes and protection. He had a job to do here in Willicott with a Chief Ty Christie, assigned yesterday by his boss, Jimmy Maitland.
Sherlock said, “I figure three hours should do it. Then we’ll head to Osborn’s BBQ, to be followed by the Dali Lama ice cream shop, then, if you’re done here, we’ll take Sean to his grandmother’s for the rest of the weekend.”
Savich nodded, knowing he’d spend more hours tonight hunkered over MAX searching for the intruder. He looked toward the rocket-fueled kids. “Sean, Marty! Hold up. Do. Not. Move.”
Sean knew the serious voice, grabbed Marty’s hand to hold her in place, and began confiding to one of the six young women from the SUV he was going to take a zillion photos with his iPad of Remus McGurk. Didn’t they admire Orkett, Captain Carr’s terrier sidekick? Had they read his latest adventure on the planet Mumbo? Were they going to see him? Get his autograph? The women were charming and happy to pose when Sean told them he would like to practice taking their pictures before he shot his masterpiece of Mr. McGurk.
Marty was jealous and poked Sean in the side. One perceptive young woman invited Marty to stand in front of them, made her one of their group. Sherlock saw Sean send admiring looks to the young woman and she’d bet most of his photos would be centered on her.
After oohs and aahs over Sean’s photos, Sherlock took each child’s hand while Savich locked the Volvo and wished the girls a fun day.
Savich told Sherlock, “If you see anything that alarms you, anyone suspicious, call me immediately.” He kissed her. “I owe you big-time.” He peeled off to meet up with Flynn Royal in front of the police chief’s office on High Ginger Street. Flynn was a sharp agent Maitland trusted and Sherlock’s major competition at the shooting range. Mr. Maitland had sent Flynn to Willicott right after the call from Chief Christie the previous day to assess the situation, gather facts, and make himself generally useful, trying not to step on the chief’s toes. In short, Flynn was here to be Maitland’s eyes and ears. As for Savich, he was here to consult, if needed, and if they found the body in the lake, to identify Sala Porto, an agent he knew personally, if he’d been the murder victim. Maitland was concerned. No one had been able to locate Sala. A photo likeness wasn’t good enough for Maitland.
Savich wove through the crowds and finally spotted Flynn. He was called the intellectual pirate because of his black-rimmed glasses set over smart, dark eyes and his too-long black hair and lithe build. Savich could easily see him on the deck of a ship wielding a sword and laughing maniacally. Flynn was speaking with a tall, fit woman holding a Mariners baseball cap in her hands. She wasn’t wearing a uniform but black pants, low-heeled black boots, and a white shirt, her badge over her left breast pocket. He recognized Chief Christie from the candid photo Detective Harry Anson of the Seattle PD had emailed him yesterday afternoon. He’d texted Savich: Christie’s smart, a dirty fighter with serious skills, hated being a big-city cop. No gray areas for her, always either black or white, but admittedly, in Vice, there are few gray areas. She knows only one direction—forward. Her daddy’s a captain in the Washington State Patrol, so nope, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree. Oh yeah, she’s popular and a looker. Good luck, Ty’s also a frigging bulldog.
Savich heard Christie say to Flynn as she slipped her cell back into her pocket, “That was Charlie Corsica, my chief deputy. They found the body, not where I thought it would be, but there was a lot of wind chop yesterday afternoon, stirred up the water. He’s taking the body to Dr. Staunton, our local medical examiner. Charlie said no ID, but I was in for a big surprise. He wouldn’t tell me, for which I am going to bust his chops.”
Flynn said in his honey-soft Alabama drawl, “I don’t know Porto, but Agent Savich does. As soon as he gets here, we can go to Dr. Staunton’s office.” He paused a moment, added, “If the body is Porto’s, we’ll have him taken to Quantico for autopsy. Of course, then it’ll be a federal case.” He turned, saw Savich, and grinned. “Good to see you. Let me introduce Chief Ty Christie.”
Savich and Ty shook hands and took each other’s measure. Ty saw a big, tough, good-looking man, maybe five years her senior, with intelligent eyes she imagined saw most everything, eyes so dark as to be nearly black. He had thick black hair, a bit on the long side. She’d bet her new LED TV he took no crap and would joyfully dive into a fight.
Savich looked at a woman far more vibrant than the photo Harry Anson had emailed him. Tall, sharp green eyes, dark brown hair nearly to her shoulders, pulled back from her face with two clips. He really liked the stubborn chin, and a line of freckles across her nose. Harry hadn’t mentioned the freckles or how she radiated energy and focus. He was right that she was a looker. She was a frigging bulldog? Savich found himself smiling at her—impossible not to—and stuck out his hand. “Call me Dillon.”
“I’m Ty, and no, I won’t tell you what Ty is short for. It’s too embarrassing. A pleasure, Agent Savich—Dillon.”
She had a lovely smile that made an immediate connection to the person she was talking to. Ty said, “Glad you’re here. I understand you know Agent Sala Porto?”
Savich nodded. “Yes, four, five years now. We’re the same age. He was on the Washington SWAT team, then transferred to the Criminal Division at the Hoover.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m hoping it isn’t Sala. He’s tough, an excellent agent, a good man.”
“If it isn’t Sala Porto,” Ty said matter-of-factly, “then it’s no longer federal.” She eyed them both. “And you two can go about your business and enjoy the book festival.”
4
* * *
Flynn said, “Certainly, Chief, although Mr. Maitland told me to offer my assistance if you asked for it. Excuse me. Hey, Sherlock, hold up!”
“You can shake my wife’s hand,” Savich called after him, “and that’s it, Flynn.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Flynn said over his shoulder, not looking back, his eyes on Sherlock standing next to a book stall, holding both children’s hands, no mean feat since each kid wanted to go in a different direction.
Ty was staring at Sherlock, her curly red hair a beacon. “Sherlock? Oh my, I recognize her now, she’s the agent who brought down the terrorist at JFK, then shot that Brit terrorist at the Lincoln Monument. She’s your wife?”
Savich felt the familiar burst of pride, then impatience because he wanted to get to the medical examiner’s office, wanted to be able to say the murdered man wasn’t Sala. He nodded. “And the little boy is our son, Sean. The little girl is one of Sean’s future wives. No, don’t ask, like your name, it’s complicated.” Savich called out, “Come on, Flynn, get away from my wife, and let’s get moving.”
But Ty was already striding after Flynn. When Savich reached the group, he heard Flynn say, “So Savich assigned you the kids while he’s off playing with me and the chief?”
She grinned up at him. “Bless his heart, Dillon’s going to miss all the fun.” She turned to Ty with interest, and Flynn introduced them. The kids got in on the act, and it was a good two minutes before Marty saw a photo of a favorite children’s book author and tugged on Sherlock’s hand.
Savich said quietly to Sherlock, “They dragged the lake, found the body. We’re off to see if it’s Sala.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “If it is, I’m sorry, Dillon.”
The crowd noise didn’t matter, Sean had Vulcan ears. “What body? Who’s Sala? What happened, Papa?”
“Somebody’s dead? Drowned?” Marty closed in, her eyes steady on Savich’s face.
Savich came down on his haunches, took the kids’ hands. “Agent Flynn and I need to make sure someone who died isn’t an FBI agent. You guys go have fun. I’ll catch up with you later.”