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35
SAVICH HOUSE
TUESDAY MORNING
Savich looked at his burned-out kitchen and smelled the acrid odor of charred paint and wood coming off the walls and appliances. He actually wished he could still feel some of the heat he’d felt last night, since it was a cold morning, hovering in the low forties, but there wasn’t a trace. He, Sherlock, and Gabriella, Sean’s nanny, had already gone through the rest of the house, accompanied by Flash Randy, the fire department arson investigator. The water damage wasn’t as bad as it might have been, according to Flash, though it looked bad enough to Savich and Sherlock. He’d seen her staring at the soaked furniture and sodden rugs in the living room and taken her hand, squeezed it. He’d looked at the empty spot over the fireplace where Griffin had taken down his grandmother’s painting. Griffin’s act was a debt he’d be hard-pressed to pay back.
Upstairs, there was a light veil of soot on the walls where the smoke had hovered near the ceiling. “The walls will need a thorough cleaning and some paint,” Flash said. “Pack what you need, but be careful. Stay away from any damage you see. You never know. I’ll be right here.”
They collected clothes, badly in need of washing, and gathered bathroom essentials. The smell was the worst in Sean’s room, directly above the kitchen. They packed his clothes in his Captain Corbin roll-on and gathered his favorite games and, of course, his beloved basketball and Steph Curry sneakers. When Savich walked into his office, the foul mixture of burned wood, smoke, and water nearly overwhelmed him. At least MAX was safe, thanks to Sherlock.
They met with the fire forensic team, huddled in a small group, not that there was much of a mystery—someone had smashed a kitchen window, tossed gasoline into the kitchen and onto the walls, and left the can outside the kitchen door, announcing what he’d done.
Savich’s cell sang out “Zombie” by the Cranberries. “Excuse me.” He turned away from a Metro fire investigator. “Savich here.”
“Agent Savich, it’s Candy. You’ve got to come. Zoltan’s gone. She might be dead. There’s blood, I don’t know, I don’t know—”
Savich blinked, dialed in. Candy was Zoltan’s assistant. “Candy, take a deep breath. That’s right. Now, go slow and tell me exactly what happened.”
He heard her take some deep breaths, heard her panic slowly lessen, and waited. Finally, she gulped and said, her voice a bit less shaky, “I got here maybe ten minutes ago. I sang out hello, like I always do, but Zoltan didn’t answer. That’s not unusual, a late client, a late night. She could still be in bed or she went out early to the store, or whatever, so I went to my office and started to work. Then it hit me. She had a client coming this morning—a strange time, I know—but she should be getting ready, making her special tea. I thought maybe she was sick and went looking for her. When I went in the living room, I found blood on the floor, a lot of it, black and horrible. She’s dead. I think she’s dead, and someone hauled her away—”
He heard hysteria bubbling back and interrupted her. “Breathe, Candy. Settle yourself.” He settled himself, too. Savich knew that to a layperson, a lot of blood could mean anything from a cut finger to an artery fountaining. He said, “Candy, was the house alarm on or off when you arrived?”
Silence, then, “Oh goodness, I didn’t think anything of it, only that Zoltan must have already gotten up, you know, for a cup of tea, maybe an early muffin—she loves blueberry—and she’d turned it off for me. But she usually doesn’t go back to bed. The alarm’s off, Agent Savich. Off.” She hiccupped. “Is she dead?”
“Candy—what’s your last name?”
“Spindler, I’m Candace Spindler. What’s happened, Agent Savich?”
“Candy, stay near the front door. I’ll be right there.” He turned to Sherlock, who simply nodded at him.
“She was really upset. I heard her clearly.” Sherlock turned to Gabriella. “Gabriella, please take all this stuff over to Dillon’s mom’s. Sean’s in school, so you’ll have enough time to unpack everything.” She gave Gabriella a hug, told her to be careful, and thanked her again.
Gabriella said, “I still can’t believe it. Imagine, someone wanting to hurt you and Sean.” Her voice cracked, and Sherlock pulled her close. “We weren’t hurt, and everything here is fixable. It will be all right.” She stepped back and took Gabriella’s pretty face between her palms. “Everything would be so much harder without you, so thank you. There’s not enough room for all our stuff in your sexy little Mazda, so take my Volvo. I won’t need it today. We’ll pick up your car later.”
They watched the firemen help Gabriella load the suitcases into Sherlock’s Volvo. She said, “Dillon, there’s nothing more we can do here. We can come back later to get more stuff if we need it. Our insurance agent has assured us he’s taking care of everything. Let’s just go. I want to meet Candy.”
When Savich pulled the Porsche into Zoltan’s driveway, Sherlock was staring out of the windshield, looking at nothing he could see.
“Sweetheart?”
“Oh, we’re here? Sorry, Dillon. I was thinking about last night. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to be scared, but I’m scared now. Believe me, I’m really working on being mad instead. But then I think maybe it’d be better if you and I were insurance brokers or veterinarians. It’d have to be a safer life.”
What could he say? “Well, you’d make a great vet, but since we’re FBI agents, you and I, we need to suck it up and find the maniac who did this.”
She whooshed out a breath, nodded. “Yeah, okay, but he’s not a maniac, Dillon. Whoever did this isn’t crazy; he’s evil. You know it has something to do with the red-box puzzle. You know it. I know it.”
Before Savich could answer, they heard a shout and saw Candy Spindler standing in the open front doorway, waving wildly at them.
“Time to let the red boxes go for the moment. Let’s see what this blood is all about. Then we’ll give Ben Raven a call at Metro.”
Sherlock climbed out and said over the roof of the Porsche, “You warned her, Dillon, but she didn’t listen. You know, I don’t think Zoltan’s dead. I can’t think of a reason why the attacker would haul her body away. Maybe someone did try to kill her, to snip off a loose end, and she managed to run. Either way, it proves she was in on this up to her ears.” She paused. “I hope she managed to run.”
They walked toward Candy Spindler, who was wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth. She was in her late twenties, small and lithe as a gazelle, with short wavy black hair. She was wearing pink sweats and pink sneakers.
Candy grabbed Savich and leaned up, her voice a mix of anger and fear. “I told her, Agent Savich. I told her trying to fool Mrs. Manvers wouldn’t work. Zoltan knew Mrs. Manvers wasn’t a believer, but still she went along with it.”
“Went along with what, exactly, Candy?” he asked, rubbing his hands up and down her arms.
