Who was Jeff MacNelly? He shook his head slowly, fascinated.
“Oh, yes, he was. I admired him tremendously.” When she realized he didn’t have a clue, she added, “Jeff MacNelly was a very famous and talented cartoonist. He won three Pulitzer Prizes skewering politicos. But he never once said that they were evil. He died in June of 2000. I really miss him. It upsets me that I never told him how much he meant to me, and to Remus.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Lily.” He realized then that she was teetering on the edge of shock, so he pulled another blanket around her. It was too much even for her. Her life had flown out of control when she’d married Tennyson Frasier. He couldn’t imagine what she’d gone through when her daughter had been killed and she’d managed to survive months of depression. And then all this.
Lily said, “Jeff MacNelly said that ‘when it comes to humor, there’s no substitute for reality and politicians.’ I don’t like this reality part, Simon, I really don’t.”
“I don’t either.”
Washington, D.C.
Hoover Building
Savich slowly hung up the phone, stared out his window a moment, then lowered his face to his hands.
He heard Sherlock say, “What is it, Dillon? What’s happened?” Her competent hands were massaging his shoulders, her breath was warm on his temple.
He slowly raised his head to look up at her. “I should have killed her, Sherlock, should have shot her cleanly in the head, just like I did Tommy Tuttle. This is all my fault-that boy’s death in Chevy Chase, and now this.”
“She’s killed again?”
He nodded, and she hated the despair in his eyes, the pain that radiated from him. “In Road Town, Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands.”
“Tell me.”
“That was Jimmy Maitland. He said the police commissioner received all our reports, alerted his local officers, waited, and then a local pharmacist was murdered, his throat cut. The place was trashed, impossible to tell what drugs were taken, but we know what was stolen-pain meds and antibiotics. They don’t have any leads, but they’re combing the island for a one-armed woman who’s not in good shape. No sign of her yet. Not even a whiff. Tortola isn’t like Saint Thomas. It’s far more primitive, less populated, more places to hide, and the bottom line is there’s just no way to get to and from the island except by boat.”
“I’m very sorry it happened. You know she’s gotten ahold of a boat. By now she’s probably long gone from Tortola, to another island.”
“It’s hard to believe that no one’s reported a boat stolen.”
“It’s late,” Sherlock said. “E-mail all the other islands, then let it go for a while. Let’s go home, play with Sean, then head over to the gym. You need a really hard workout, Dillon.”
He rose slowly. “Okay, first I’ve got to talk to all the local cops down there, make sure they know what’s happened on Tortola, tell them again how dangerous she is.” He kissed her, hugged her tightly, and said against her temple, “Go home and start playing with Sean. I’ll be there in a while. Have him gum some graham crackers for me.”
Quantico, Virginia
FBI Academy
Special Agent Virginia Cosgrove cocked her head to one side and said, “Marilyn, it’s for you. A woman, says she’s with Dillon Savich’s unit at headquarters. I’ll be listening on the other line, okay?”
Marilyn Warluski, who was folding the last of her new clothes into the suitcase provided by the FBI, nodded, a puzzled look on her face. She was staying in the Jefferson dorm with two women agents, just starting to get used to things. What did Mr. Savich want from her now? She took the phone from Agent Cosgrove and said, “Hello?”
“Hi, sweet chops. It’s Timmy. You hot for me, baby?”
Marilyn closed her eyes tight against the shock, against the disbelief. “Tammy,” she whispered. “Is it really you?”
“No, it’s Timmy. Listen up, sweetie, I need to see you. I want you to fly down here, to Antigua, tomorrow; that’s when I’ll be there. I’ll be at the Reed Airport, waiting for you. Don’t disappoint me, baby, okay?”
Marilyn looked frantically over at Virginia.
Virginia quickly wrote on a pad of paper, then handed it to Marilyn. “Okay, I can do it, but it’ll be late.”
“They treating you all right at that cop academy? Do you want me to come up with the Ghouls and level the place?”
“No, no, Tammy, don’t do that. I’ll fly down late tomorrow. Are you all right?”
“Sure. Had to get me some more medicine on Tortola. Lousy place, dry and boring, no action at all. Can’t wait to get out of here. See you tomorrow evening, baby. Bye.”
Marilyn slowly placed the phone in its cradle. She looked blankly at Virginia Cosgrove. “How did she know where I was? I need to call Dillon Savich. Damn, it’s really late.”
Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland called Dillon Savich to mobilize the necessary agents. He got it done in two hours and set himself up to coordinate the group leaving for Antigua.
Maitland called in the SWAT Team at the Washington, D.C., field office because they were bringing this all down very possibly in an airport, and there could always be trouble. He told Savich, “Yeah, I threw them some meat and they agreed to come out and play. We got one team, six really good guys.”
Vincent Arbus, point man for the team, built like a bull, bald as a Q-tip, and many times too smart for his own good, looked at Savich, then at Sherlock, who was standing at his side, and said in his rough, low voice, “Call me Vinny, guys. I have a feeling that we’re going to be getting tight before this is all over.
“Now, how the hell did this crazy one-armed woman know that Marilyn Warluski was holed up in Jefferson dorm at Quantico? How the hell did she get her number?”
“Well,” Savich said slowly, not looking at Sherlock, “I sort of let it be known. Actually, I set the whole thing up.”
18
Eureka
Mr. Monk was gone, his office left looking as if he would be returning the next day. There were no notes, no messages, no telltale appointments listed in his date book, which sat in the middle of his desk. There was no clue at all as to where he’d gone.
Nor was he at his big bay-windowed apartment on Oak Street. He hadn’t cleaned out his stuff, had just, apparently, taken off without a word to anyone.
Hoyt said to Simon when he opened his hotel room door, “He’s gone. I just stood in the middle of that empty living room with its fine paintings by Jason Argot on the white walls, with its own specialized lighting, and I tell you, Russo, I wanted to kick myself. I knew we should have covered his place, but I didn’t. I’m an idiot. Kick me. There’s got to be a clue somewhere in there about where his bolt-hole is. Or maybe not, but I haven’t found a bloody thing. Really, Russo, just kick my ribs in.”
“Nah,” Simon said as he zipped the fly on his new jeans and threaded his new belt. He waved Hoyt into his deluxe room with its king-size bed that took up nearly three-quarters of the room. Lily was right through the adjoining door. They were staying at the Warm Creek Lodge, both with an ocean view from one window and an Old Town view from the other. “I appreciate your checking him out for us first thing, since Lily and I didn’t have any clothes at all. Though I wouldn’t have minded paying the jerk a visit myself. Thank God I left my wallet in my jeans pocket last night or we’d be in really deep caca. Actually, if the credit card companies hadn’t sent me replacement credit cards after my wallet was stolen in New York, we’d still be in deep caca. We’re all outfitted now, real spiffy. Now, what about Monk’s car? Any sign of it?”
“We’ve got an APB out on it-a Jeep Grand Cherokee, ’ninety-eight, dark green. And we’re covering the Arcata airport. We’ve sent out alerts as far down as SFO, though I don’t think he could have gotten that far.”