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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.”
Sean said, “I’m going to ask Mr. McGurk if he wants to eat lunch with us. I want him to tell us about Orkett’s next adventure. Don’t worry, Papa, tacos and chips don’t cost very much. Marty and I will pay for his lunch. We’ve got sixteen dollars.”
Sherlock said, “I thought we were going to Osborn’s BBQ, Sean.”
Marty said, “I wanted to try sus-shi, but my mama said it cost a lot and the raw fish could make you die.”
Sean’s opinion of raw fish was clear on his face. “No raw fish, Marty. All right, Mama, maybe we can afford to buy Mr. McGurk a small basket of barbecue ribs.”
As for Sherlock, she couldn’t wait to see how McGurk handled the kids’ invite to lunch. She’d bet he had learned long ago how to let a kid down easy. She said low to Dillon, “Everything’s okay, haven’t seen anyone remotely interested in Sean. Or in me, for that matter. Well, except for Flynn,” and she gave him a fat smile.
“He’s a horndog, keep your distance, Sherlock.” Still, Savich worried. He watched her lead both kids away and thought again about payback, that the man who’d broken in on Wednesday could be someone he’d sent to prison who was now out.
Savich, Chief Christie, and Agent Flynn Royal headed to Dr. Staunton’s office on Wintergreen Avenue, Ty telling them that so far it appeared no one in the rental beach cottages had seen any stranger or any rowboat, either too early in the morning or too much fog to see anything.
Ty said, “Charlie Corsica said he’s got a big surprise for me. Like I said, if I don’t like it, I’m going to belt him.”
Ten minutes later, Savich stared down at the draped body lying on top of an examination table. Dr. Staunton pulled back the sheet. Crushed skull, facial features obliterated. There was no blood, it had all been washed away. Dark hair was flat around the ruined skull, but there was something off—the face was narrow, fine-boned, and despite the destroyed features . . . Savich said, “This isn’t Sala Porto. In fact—”
Dr. Staunton said, “That’s right, not only isn’t this Agent Sala Porto, it isn’t a man.” She pulled back the sheet, and they looked at a woman’s body.
