“Now that I can’t tell you.”
“All right, I’ll buy that for the moment. So we keep things even here, Agent Savich, let me tell you Dot—she’s Parlow’s other paramedic—told me about the downed search-and-rescue plane. She figured the pilot was from a law enforcement agency since they’re the ones who usually use those planes. She said the pilot was good, bringing the plane down in the valley. She should know—Dot’s a pilot herself, as well as a paramedic. She wondered why Agent Crowne was flying it since she hadn’t heard about any accidents.”
“I believe it was the only plane available.”
“So after they medevaced Dr. MacLean out, Dot examined the plane.”
Savich waited. He knew there wasn’t much left after it had exploded on the ground. He also knew he wasn’t going to like what the sheriff was about to tell him.
“Dot didn’t have the time or the expertise to do a thorough check, but from the look of what was left of the fuselage, it looked to her like the luggage compartment was blown outward by some sort of explosion, maybe a bomb. Seems like it didn’t work too well, since the plane wasn’t blown out of the sky. So, I’d appreciate it, Agent Savich, if you don’t try to pawn off the crash on some sort of a malfunction.” Sheriff Hollyfield was rocking back and forth on his toes. He was wearing galoshes, Savich saw, though very clean, thankfully, as if they’d been hosed down.
“Yes,” Savich said, “that’s what Agent Crowne thinks. We’ve got an expert coming to verify. If you wouldn’t mind keeping a deputy at the crash site to protect it until our people arrive.”
Sheriff Hollyfield nodded. “All right, then. You’ll keep me in the loop, Agent Savich?”
Savich nodded. You never knew when you were going to find good law enforcement, he thought as he shook the sheriff’s hand, thankfully as clean as his galoshes.
Savich looked over the scattered wreckage while Sheriff Holly-field hooked up the tow to Rachael’s Charger. “Hard to imagine surviving that,” Sheriff Hollyfield said, straightening to look out over Cudlow Valley, his hand over his eyes to shade against the strong morning sun.
“Believe me, we are very grateful.”
Before the sheriff dropped him and Rachael’s duffel off at Monk’s Cafe, Savich said, “Could I come to your office a bit later, Sheriff, and use your landline to call the Franklin County Hospital? See how Dr. MacLean is doing?”
Sheriff Hollyfield nodded.
First Savich wanted to speak to Sherlock, see what she was doing with Rachael Abercrombie. He tried his cell again, but couldn’t get a signal. Mix mountains with the boondocks, and technology didn’t mean squat.
Monk’s Cafe was on Old Squaw Lane, a small skinny white building with an apartment on the second floor, sandwiched between May’s Cleaners and Clyde’s 24/7. It was kitty-corner from the Parlow Clinic on Rosy Bill Avenue.
Savich set Rachael’s duffel next to her on the seat.
“Thank yon, Agent Savich. Where did you have my car towed?”
“We’ll talk about that in a moment.” Savich picked up a menu. “What’s good?”
A waitress with impossibly ink-black hair sprayed up in a cone walked briskly to their table, her bright yellow high-top sneakers thumping on the worn linoleum, wearing a huge apron over jeans and a man’s white dress shirt.
She stopped, looked him over, gave him a big smile showing teeth as white as her dress shirt. “Well now, Deliah—she’s my sister, the nurse at the clinic—she called me about the federal agents being here, one of them bloody and nearly dead in an examining room. But that isn’t you, thank the good Lord.” She paused a moment, tapped her pencil on her chin, and eyed him. “Aren’t you ever a hottie, that’s what Deliah said. She didn’t know about the other one ‘cause he was in such bad shape. You’re all dangerous-looking, not a single soft edge on you. I’ll bet you’re a real bad boy. Of course, that’s what makes the women perk up when you’re around—even my sister, who never even noticed her own husband before he passed. Just look at you—two pretty girls here, ready and waiting.”
Sherlock snorted. Suzette, the waitress, ignored her.
Suzette was old enough to be his mother, Savich thought, and gave her a big smile. “Nah, I’m only dangerous when I don’t get my Cheerios for breakfast. May I please have some very hot tea ... Suzette?”
“You can call me Suz,” she said, licking the tip of her pencil before writing down the order. “We only got tea bags, that all right?”
Savich nodded. He could already see the tea bag floating in the lukewarm water.
“I know it’s still early, but Tony just took his meatloaf out of the oven. Or, if you’re into healthy eats, I’ve got some fish sticks, nice and deep-fried.”
Savich ended up with scrambled eggs and wheat toast with some gooseberry jam Suz promised was the greatest. She nodded at Sherlock and Rachael. “Your two pretty ladies sure thought so.”
He looked up to see Rachael grinning at him. “Something tells me you don’t eat many deep-fried fish sticks, Agent Savich.”
“No, but our kid would eat them every day if we let him, between tacos and hot dogs.”
Rachael’s eyes flicked over them. “What’s your kid’s name again?”
“Sean’s our boy, big into computer games and football, wants to help the Redskins build a dynasty, though he doesn’t really know what that means.”
“Married FBI agents. I never imagined such a thing, and Sherlock tells me you work together.”
Savich nodded.
Sherlock turned to him. “When you came in, Dillon, Rachael was refusing to tell me what’s going on with her. You’d think what with sharing a lovely brunch that I offered to pay for, she’d have a bit more trust in me, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s tough to trust someone, Sherlock,” he said slowly, “when you’re scared to your toes. I’ll tell you one thing, though, we can’t let her leave because she’s clearly a material witness.”
Sherlock looked straight at Rachael. “Who’s to say she wasn’t more directly involved in bringing down Jack’s plane? You know, the spotter on the ground?”
Rachael banged her fist on the table, making her spoon jump. How could they know so quickly that she was in trouble? It wasn’t fair. She was an idiot, dead for only two and a half days. If she wasn’t more careful, she wouldn’t make being dead to the end of the week. “What did you say? A material witness? I know more about the plane crash? Listen, you can’t hold me, I was only an innocent bystander, you can’t—”
Sherlock leaned forward to touch her ring finger. “Maybe you’re running away from your husband?”
Husband? She choked down a hysterical laugh and felt panic shoot through her. She grabbed her purse and duffel bag, slithered out of the booth, and was out of the cafe in under five seconds.
Suz, carrying Savich’s plate, the scrambled eggs steaming, stopped to stare after Rachael. “Isn’t this par for the course—a sexy guy with two girls—I’ll just bet the little redhead here threatened to whomp the blonde with that cute braid, right?”
“You’re very observant, Suz,” Savich said.
Sherlock rolled her eyes, tossed her napkin down over the one cold bacon strip left on her plate, and headed after Rachael.
“At least if there’s a catfight, it’ll be in the street and not in here. Tony would hate that, remind him too much of his mother-in-law.” EIGHT
Sherlock caught up with Rachael at Bobolink’s Bakery on the corner of Old Squaw Lane, leaning against the display window, her old duffel beside her, staring down at her scuffed boots. Sherlock lightly touched her shoulder. Rachael didn’t move. “You know,” Sherlock said, “when things get tough, it doesn’t mean you have to deal with everything alone. I’m a fed. I do tough really well. Dillon and Jack do tough well, too. That means it’s your lucky day since I figure we all owe you.”