Rafe snickered. “Nah, Dad didn’t make it, it was Ms. Denver, the physics teacher. She’s been after Dad since the beginning of the school year. She’s a really good cook, so Rob and I don’t mind except—”
“That’s enough, Rafe.”
Rafe subsided, slouching back in his chair.
Rob said, “Dad, you are going to catch the killers, aren’t you?”
Dix looked at his eldest son. “What do you think?”
Rob didn’t hesitate. “I told the kids you’d have them in jail by Tuesday.”
“Well, that’s a motivator,” Dix said, with a rueful glance at Ruth. Ruth leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “I agree with you, Rob. I’m thinking Tuesday is about right. But you and Rafe both know it’s not quite that easy.”
“I’m thinking Monday, myself,” Dix said, and folded his arms over his chest. Ruth thought the boys would burst with pride at this macho display. Rob said, “Dude! Dad, we’re not kids. You can talk stuff over with us, really. Everyone at school is talking about Ms. Rafferty being killed in her bed, about how you found that student buried in Winkel’s Cave.” He paused for a moment and cleared his throat, but his voice was unsteady. “And about Mr. McGuffey. Oh man, that was really bad.”
Dix’s own voice wasn’t all that steady, either. “Walt was a fine man. I really liked him.”
Rafe said to Ruth, his voice still quavering, “Mom always liked Mr. McGuffey. Last Thanksgiving he said Dad’s turkey was as good as Mom’s, but he couldn’t do stuffing worth a damn. I told him you couldn’t find Mom’s recipe.”
“I’ll give you one, Dix,” Ruth said, knowing they were skating on very thin ice. The boys seemed both hyper and scared, and trying not to show either. “Corn bread with water chestnuts and cranberries.”
“I like water chestnuts,” Rafe said. “But I like lots of sausage in my dressing, too.”
Ruth beamed when Rob said, “Maybe we can try it your way, too, Ruth.”
DIX’S DOORBELL RANG not long after the boys went to bed.
“You missed a great corn-on-the-cob gross-out,” Dix said by way of a greeting.
“Let me get your coats,” Ruth said, peeling off Sherlock’s leather jacket. She paused, then took a step back. “What’s wrong, guys? What happened?”
“Sorry,” Savich said shortly. “Lots on our minds, no excuse.”
He and Sherlock followed Dix into the living room. Savich held up his hand when Ruth opened her mouth. “No, Ruth, Sean’s all right, we spoke to him earlier. He’s already decided he wants a Yorkshire terrier whose name is going to be Astro.”
Sherlock was still acting a bit stiff, but she tried, giving Ruth and Dix big smiles. “Last summer we talked about putting down Astroturf in the backyard for a very miniature miniature golf course. I guess Sean fell in love with the word.”
But it had nothing to do with Astroturf or anything else, Ruth thought, glancing at the two of them. She looked from one carefully expressionless face to the other, saw the strain in Dillon’s eyes, the red creeping up Sherlock’s cheeks, which meant she wanted to kick someone—Dillon?
Dillon and Sherlock were the anchors of Ruth’s professional life. She was immensely grateful to Dillon for bringing her into the Criminal Apprehension Unit eighteen months earlier. He was an intuitive, natural leader, tough as a rock, honorable to the core. Sherlock was funny and insightful, sharp and focused, and you could count on her no matter what. She had only one speed—full steam ahead. Ruth had never seen them like this before.
Then the light dawned. She said slowly, “I don’t believe this, you guys have had a major argument, haven
’t you. Even if I told everyone in the unit, they’d demand I take a lie detector test, which no one would believe because they know I can cheat lie detectors in my sleep.” She looked at the ceiling. “I’m ready to pass over, Lord, since I’ve now seen it all.” She wagged a finger at Sherlock. “What did you do, Sherlock, drive the sacred Porsche?”
“Very funny, Ruth,” Sherlock said. “You know, every time I’ve driven that car I’ve gotten a speeding ticket.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Savich said, his voice too loud. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve got some serious stuff to talk about.”
Sherlock nodded. “Here’s the deal. We have to take off early tomorrow for Quantico because—”
“Before we go there,” Savich interrupted her, “we need to tell you what MAX found out about Moses Grace and Claudia. Her last name is Smollett, emphasis on the last syllable.”
Ruth sat forward, serious as could be now. “That’s an English name, isn’t it?”
Savich nodded. “Of all things, her mom was English. Her name was Pauline Smollett. She came to the United States when she was twenty-two. She was a high-school math teacher in Cleveland, and never married, at least in this country. From the police reports, she had a pretty colorful personal life, but she managed to keep it separate from her job. She raised a child, Claudia, out of wedlock by herself.”
“What happened to her?” Ruth asked.
“She was raped and murdered by a gang.”
Dix leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Police reports? How did you find the connection, Savich?”
“When I called, I told you we had more work to do,” Savich said matter-of-factly, then added, his voice dropping ten degrees, “and that meant following up some information Claudia gave Sherlock.”
Dix said, “Don’t you mean—You actually spoke to Claudia, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s chin went right up, a fire burned in her eyes. “Yes, for quite a while. She called on Dillon’s cell while he was in the shower.” She looked at her husband, eyes narrowed, as if daring him to comment.
“She did indeed,” Savich said smoothly. “After her mother’s death, Claudia ran away from home. We had enough details for MAX to pull up a half dozen open cases with a similar profile, and that’s how we found Pauline Smollett. It all fit.
“Claudia has a juvenile record of her own, and we matched her ID photo with the picture of Annie Bender her mother Elsa gave us. Claudia looks just like her.”
Sherlock continued. “Claudia Smollett was nine years old when she started shoplifting cigarettes and booze from the local 24/7. She got thrown out of school twice, once when she burned a boy with a cigarette, and again when she broke another kid’s arm. Then there was the usual juvenile rage, throwing a textbook at a teacher, cursing out another, threatening her mother. She was a wild kid who probably wouldn’t have made it even if her mother had lived.
“She ran into Moses Grace moments after he murdered a homeless man. They got drunk on bourbon in a motel, and the rest is history. Claudia said the word ‘bourbon’ with a Southern accent, and it seemed to me she ran into him somewhere in the South.” She paused. “And Claudia isn’t eighteen. She turned sixteen three weeks ago.”
Dix pushed his fingers through his hair. “She’s about Rob’s age.”
Savich, fiddling with one of the sofa pillows, nodded. “She’s a child, a crazy, unrestrained child. It turns out my wife was right about the murdered homeless man. We found a report of a man beaten to death in an alley about eight months ago in Birmingham, Alabama. The police never found the assailant, but another homeless man said he saw an old buzzard in bloodied army fatigues, so my bucks are on Moses.
”
“Claudia told me Moses wears army fatigues and old black army boots, so it fits,” Sherlock said. “We notified the Birmingham police, gave them what we’ve got. Unfortunately, they didn’t have anything to give us in return.”
“Did you trace the call, Dillon? Do you know where they are?” Ruth asked. Savich said, “It’s good news, bad news. Claudia called from a prepaid cell phone Moses purchased for cash at a Radio Shack this morning. He activated it from a pay phone in the parking lot. It’s anonymous that way since there’s no registered owner, but the signal was loud and clear. And since they were calling from a set location, we located them dead-on.”