“You’re right,” he said. He dialed up Mr. Maitland, punched on the speaker. “Sorry it took so long. Both Sherlock and I are here now.”
Maitland said immediately, “Bless Daugherty’s little pointed head, he finally remembered the last name of the agent on the FBI ID the guy flashed at him—Coggins. Turns out he’s Peter Coggins, an agent in the Richmond field office. Agents got over to his house fast, found his sister untying him and pulling duct tape off his mouth. She says she was pretty surprised to see him tied up on the kitchen floor. She’d brought him over a strawberry pie.”
“That sure sounds good,” Savich said.
“Yeah, it does. At least the guy didn’t kill him. Now, here’s how it went down, according to Coggins. He was mowing his backyard when this young guy trots up and asks for directions to Interstate Ninety-five into Washington. When Coggins turned to point, the guy bashed him over the head, stole his ID and his SIG. The Richmond SAC had just gotten our alert about Lissy Smiley escaping and called me pronto.”
Sherlock said. “Is Agent Coggins okay?”
“Yeah, the doc said he’s got himself only a minor concussion, which, naturally, doesn’t make his head feel any better. He should be hack in the saddle in a couple of days.”
Savich said, “As you know, you asked us not to work this case, sir. This guy, do you have any ideas about him?”
“Oh, yeah, we know who he is—her cousin. Actually, we already knew about him. Agents were trying to locate him in connection with the case, as soon as we got positive ID on Lissy and the others. Oh yes, you guys won’t believe this. As you know, a major rule for bank robbers is never carry ID. Well, this crew did, all nice and neat in their pockets. Pretty unprofessional of them and good for us. Now, the cousin wasn’t at his address in Winnett, North Carolina, and nobody had seen him for a good six weeks. He told a neighbor he was going backpacking in Europe for a couple of months. Both Daugherty and Coggins identified him from his driver’s license photo, so we already have it plastered everywhere.”
“Does he own a car?”
“No, a motorcycle.”
Sherlock asked, “What’s the guy’s name, sir?”
“Victor Nesser. His mother was Jennifer Smiley’s half sister, Marie, She married a Jordanian, Hasam Nesser, Victor’s dad, and the two of them moved back to Jordan four years ago. Victor was nearly seventeen at the time and didn’t want to go—we don’t know why—so he went to live with his mom’s half sister, Jennifer Smiley. At the time, Lissy Smiley was twelve years old.”
“Bad choice,” Sherlock said. “So Jennifer seduced him over to the dark side?”
“Maybe, or he went willingly enough,” Maitland said. “But don’t forget, when all the bank robberies began, Victor wasn’t a seventeen-year-old kid anymore, he was an adult, twenty-one years old.”
Savich said, “I wonder what his relationship is with Lissy Smiley. That was quite a risk he took to get her away. Something’s there, something deep.”
“Don’t know, but we need to find out. Jennifer Smiley hails from Fort Pessel, Virginia, a small town down near the North Carolina border that dates back to the Civil War. We already had agents search the Smiley house for the stolen money and interview everyone of interest, but they haven’t found out anything real helpful yet about her or Victor Nesser. Lots of rumors about the family, but, bottom line, they kept themselves real private, never socialized, seldom did business locally, except grocery shopping, that’s about it. Oh, yeah, and they liked the local KFC.
“They paid their bills, never pissed anyone off, so no one thought about them much. They were just sort of there.
“Agents did track down a couple of Lissy Smiley and Victor Nesser’s teachers. Only two teachers and a coach were in town. A lot of the teachers seemed to have escaped town for the summer. What a deal they’ve got.”
Sherlock said, “Yeah, but in some places I bet they wish they had Kevlar vests.”
Maitland said, “Forget I said that.”
“Tell us about the other two robbers, sir,” Sherlock said.
13
“LIKE I TOLD YOU, the boobs carried their ID.” They heard rustling in the background. “Here we go. Jeff Wicky and Jay Fisher, they were imports from out West—Oregon, to be specific—longtime hoods for hire. The Salem field office sent agents to their former addresses, but there wasn’t anything to find except new tenants who hated the thin walls.
“Wicky and Fisher got out of jail about the same time—six months ago—rented apartments in the same building in Salem for four months, then disappeared. They told the bartender at their favorite dive they were driving cross-country. To see all the beautiful scenery? The bartender didn’t think so, since they were badasses, but he wasn’t about to ask. We don’t know yet how they hooked up with Jennifer Smiley.”
“I’ll wager Sean’s downsized orange basketball it’s more than just hooking up,” Savich said. “A family tie, some sort of connection, got to be.”
“Or maybe a friend in common in prison,” Sherlock said.
“We’re looking. No word yet. Thing is, guys, we never even considered the possibility of Lissy Smiley’s escaping. Damn, makes us look like idiots. Now it’s a whole new ball game.”
Savich said, “We know Lissy Smiley is a killer, but what about Victor? Any arrests, fights—anything to indicate how he’d behave at crunch time?”
Miatland said, “Best guess from behavioral sciences-—he isn’t a psycho. He didn’t kill Coggins or Daugherty, though he could have. And don’t forget, he was always the driver, never a real player in the actual bank robberies. To verify, we double-checked all the banks’ security videos. Never a sign of him.”
Sherlock said, “Victor Nesser’s twenty-one, barely old enough to grow face hair. How could Daugherty possibly think he was an FBI agent?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but Daugherty says he looked at the creds and never questioned his age.”
Savich asked, “How old is agent Peter Coggins?”
There was a moment of agonized silence. “He’s thirty-one.”
“Ah,” Savich said.
“I know, it’s obvious Daugherty didn’t pay attention. He says the guy pulled his ID away real fast, that he wasn’t really thinking about anyone gutsy enough to walk right up and flash another agent’s ID.”
Sherlock said, “Excuse me, sir, but that’s bull.”
Maitland laughed. “Yeah, it sure enough is. One of my boys calls it caca de toro, and busts a gut laughing at his own law school wit. I bet the guys won’t let Daugherty forget this until next summer, if then.”
A moment of silence, then Savich asked, “Why exactly are you calling us, sir?”
“Because Lissy Smiley kept telling Daugherty she was going to kill you for murdering her mama. I want you to keep your eyes open.”
Sherlock said, “But Dillon didn’t kill her mother, it was Buzz Riley.”
“I know. Lissy Smiley didn’t mention him, but I called Mr. Riley, told him to take a vacation until we catch her and Victor. I helped him clear three weeks off. No one wanted another employee shot. I suggested Buzz pay a nice little visit to Aruba. I even got him on an evening flight.”
Savich grinned as Sherlock rolled her eyes. He said, “It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon, sir, and I appreciate the call. I mean, the warning is thoughtful, but now tell us what you really have in mind.”
Silence on Maitland’s end.
At Sherlock’s nod, Savich gave it up. “I know you’ve got a team already in place, sir, but with Lissy Smiley on the loose and threatening me, I’d like to be front and center on finding her and Victor Nesser.”