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46
HOOVER BUILDING
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich punched off his cell when he saw Sherlock coming toward his office. He rose automatically at the look on her face.
“What’s up? You’re grinning like a fool. Is it something to do with the house?”
Sherlock laughed. “I’m grinning like a fool for two reasons. I spoke with Mrs. Mickelson—our logistics expert—about the home front. Dillon, she’s already looked at the fire damage with contractors and scheduled the cleanup in the kitchen and the repairs that won’t need permits on Friday. She wants to discuss the new flooring for the kitchen and what brand appliances we want. She even said we might be all finished by Christmas. Unbelievable, right? And my piano tuner says my Steinway will play like new once he’s done. So yay!
“Now, the second thing I’m grinning about is really unbelievable news.”
He grinned at her. “Lay it on me.”
“You remember when I spoke to Philly in forensics, told her it was super critical to run the DNA from the blood from Zoltan’s living room as quickly as possible? I nearly begged her on my knees, even said I’d offer you up as a bonus. Well, Philly rang me up, said she called in some favors and got the DNA results. You won’t believe this, Dillon: some of the blood belongs to Zoltan, and some of it belongs to a Gary Duvall, a thug out on parole for the past seven months.”
He whistled. “So someone sent a thug out to get rid of Zoltan, a loose end, but it didn’t work out well for him. Both of them wounded, but no reports of gunshot wounds at the local ERs or urgent care clinics. Well, we can put out a BOLO for Mr. Duvall. How about an apple pie for Philly?”
“No, a Christmas fruitcake, with lots of bourbon. Philly would love that. I already called in a BOLO on Duvall. Here’s his booking sheet. The guy’s thirty-four, Dillon, looks like a preacher, with the long Elmer Gantry black hair.” She added, “You know, Zoltan didn’t break any laws we know of. I hope she’s still alive.”
“I do, too.”
He watched Sherlock speaking on her cell as she walked back to her workstation, her step light. Was she thinking about a new double-door refrigerator or Duvall? Probably both; she was a born multitasker.
Savich made his own call to Sonja Grayson, Marsia Gay’s federal prosecutor. When he punched off his cell, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Veronica Lake was alive, but her surgeon still wasn’t optimistic. The knife had nicked her heart, one millimeter closer and she’d have died on the cafeteria floor. Both Grayson and Savich hoped he was being overly cautious. Sonja was desperate for Veronica to survive because she was afraid Marsia would go free without Veronica’s testimony at trial. “Would I even be able to make a case beyond a reasonable doubt without Veronica’s testimony?” she asked him. “Even with you and Sherlock testifying, I don’t think so, Dillon.”
Of course, she blamed herself for not getting Veronica out of the D.C. Jail in time. Once the bureaucracy got involved and everyone up the ladder wanted to chime in with opinions, it was enough to delay the transfer, and that was all Marsia needed. There was more than enough blame to spread around up the chain of command, but Sonja would take the fall.
Savich said a prayer for Veronica. She’d been the perfect patsy for Marsia, a single woman in her mid-thirties, hungry for love, easily manipulated, and willing to do whatever her goddess asked of her. He hoped she’d make it.
He pictured Marsia in his mind, but she was quickly replaced by Major Trumbo enveloped in flames—and the sight of his home on fire. His hands fisted, and rage bubbled up. It was Sherlock and Sean Marsia had been after. In that moment, he knew he would move heaven and earth to make her pay.
He heard loud voices and looked up to see Ruth and Sherlock barreling toward his office, excitement pouring off them.
Sherlock yelled out, “We found him!”
