Ruth said, “We both know about weekend work, Sheriff. The devil never sleeps.”
Dix said, “Sorry to tie up your staff with the boys, Cesar. It’s been a rough week for them, with people they know dying, our own house getting shot up. I wanted to show them we’re dealing with it, calm them down a little, and I didn’t want to leave them alone.”
“I understand,” Morales said. “Officer Craig can handle the kids, and I’ve got time to fill you in on what we’re doing.”
“You mentioned you’re working on some information from someone called Eddie Skanky?”
Detective Morales nodded. “Yes, I’ve also got two of my detectives working the usual stuff—credit cards, phone calls, bank accounts. They’ve leaned on Dempsey’s girlfriend and their business associates—you want to call them that—but lowlifes like that never have anything to tell you unless they’re up on charges and need some leverage to deal down.
“Eddie Skanky is a local thug who’s been sent up twice by Detective Marilyn Honniger. She got him again on a parole violation and he’s promised to put his nose to the grindstone if she doesn’t toss him back in jail. Seems he knew Slater and Dempsey, both in prison and out. We’re waiting for him to give up a name.”
“A name would be a good start,” Dix said, “but we have to be sure he’s not pulling a name out of the newspaper to stay out of prison.”
“Some of the people who were close to the victims are prominent, respected people,” Ruth explained. “Let’s hope he brings in something solid, or they’ll laugh at us.”
“I understand,” Detective Morales said. “I hear everything, and I know some of those people are relatives of yours, Sheriff. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes on this one.”
Dix sighed deeply, muttered under his breath, and said, meeting Morales’s eyes, “Yes, it could get real messy. I pray no one in the family is involved, mostly for the boys’ sake. I wouldn’t want to have to tell them something like that. But we’ll deal with whatever comes.”
They left a short time later, dragging Rob and Rafe, who didn’t want to detach themselves from Officer Craig. Dix unlocked the Range Rover to a hysterically barking Brewster, and everyone settled in. Ruth waited until the boys were plugged into a computer game before she said quietly, “I like Detective Morales. I’m glad we stopped here to meet him. It makes a difference when you know the other person. He’s a straight-up guy. He’ll come up with a name for us. I just don’t know if it will be in time.” At his raised eyebrow, she said smoothly, “By Tuesday.”
Dix grinned as he checked the boys in the rearview mirror, and murmured, “They’re still dealing with losing their mother. I hope we’re wrong about Gordon.”
“Hey, Dad, did I tell you how Officer Craig took us to booking? Showed us their fancy new fingerprinting machine? It’s newer than yours.”
Rafe said, “He showed me how to look like a real rough character in the lineup booth, how to slouch and turn my sneakers up on the edges.”
“The lineup, huh? Maybe next time Officer Craig can dump you in a holding cell, lock you up for a couple of hours so you can keep company with some of the city’s more upstanding citizens.”
The boys hooted and settled back into their game. If a wild cacophony of gunshots and car crashes counted as settling in, Ruth thought.
Dix passed an old truck, nodded to the farmer who waved him ahead, and eased the Range Rover around him.
CHAPTER 35
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SUNDAY NIGHT
SAVICH AND SHERLOCK sat in the Volvo in their driveway, the engine idling, heater running. Savich stared at his laptop. MAX was in satellite communication with the communications center in the Hoover Building. A large-scale map of the Washington, D.C., area appeared on the screen.
Sherlock said, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Our neighbors to the north had Malcolm Gilliam in custody for nine years. If they’d only kept him incarcerated none of this would have happened.”
“I wish he’d been in prison rather than in a mental hospital,” Savich said. “It’s a pity the Canadian Supreme Court ruling in 1991 changed their criminal code. They made it easier to escape criminal culpability by claiming insanity.”
“But still,” Sherlock said, “he brutally kills two people in Quebec and they let him out in nine years?”
Savich rolled his shoulders and stretched. “Once his lawyers managed to convince a jury he wasn’t criminally responsible because he was hallucinating and delusional at the time of the crimes, it wasn’t lawful for them to hold him in custody any longer. Something about cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Unless,” Sherlock said, “they could prove he still posed a risk to the public. He must have learned the rules really well.” She looked at MAX’s screen for a moment and panned the map westward. “So, Dillon, if they deemed Moses was no longer a danger to the public, the Institut Philippe Pinel couldn’t monitor him after he was released?”
“He was scheduled to see his multidisciplinary support group weekly, but he was legally free to leave. So he hacked off his locator bracelet, skipped out, and came back to the United States two years ago. Then we lose track of him until he picks up Claudia and beats that homeless man to death eight months ago in Birmingham.”
“You know he must see Claudia as another Tammy.”
“Probably. Claudia is the same age as Tammy was. And now the two of them have gone on their own killing spree.”
Savich opened a JPEG file on MAX. “You haven’t seen this photo yet, Sherlock. It was taken three weeks before Moses’s trial.”
She leaned over to stare at the photo of a rather distinguished-looking, middle-aged man with thick gray hair, a thin ascetic face, and an aquiline nose. His nicely worn tweed suit made him look like a banker. “You’d never know it was Moses Grace,” she marveled out loud. “The description everyone at Denny’s agreed on was that he looked ancient. It hasn’t been much more than a dozen years since this photo was taken.”
Savich nodded and began to massage her neck and shoulders to ease the tension. “It’d be nice, though, to have a photo from when he got out of the Canadian institute after nine years. We’re still working on that.”
She studied MAX’s screen again. “He’s aged thirty years, and not well, since this was taken.”
“He’s very ill, Sherlock, and maybe that’s got a lot to do with how old and worn he looks. He was being treated for pulmonary tuberculosis reactivation at Philippe Pinel. They didn’t finish treating him before he skipped out. When I told Dr. Breaker his symptoms, he said it sounded like the infection had progressed to the cavitary stage—destroyed enough tissue to form big holes in his lungs. Dr. Breaker thinks he’s in the end stages.”
“I guess more people were exposed to tuberculosis back then. So a disease he probably got in childhood is going to do him in. At least there’ll be some kind of justice for him.”
“If this satellite link to the communications center holds up, we’ll be helping him get justice sooner than that,” Savich said.
“I sure hope so, Dillon, or we’ll never get any sleep.”
“We still have some time before midnight,” Savich said. He pulled her onto his lap, kissed her behind the ear, and smoothed her soft hair with his hand. “Rest a moment. It’s only been two days since you got your arm sliced up.”
He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “Moses called at exactly midnight the last time. We won’t stay out much later than that. Dane and Ben should be here about now.”
At midnight sharp Savich’s cell phone rang. He pulled out of his driveway and next to the curb, and let the car idle again. He gave everyone a thumbs-up and answered it.
“Hey, Moses, how you doin’? Coughing up lots of blood? Nearly dead, aren’t you, old man?”
Savich had surprised him. There was a long silence. Savich needed him to say something, to identify himself.
“Now, boy, you know my Claudia wouldn’t let that happen. I’m plenty fit enough to take care of business with you.”
Before Moses finished his sentence, a flashing yellow dot appeared on MAX’s Washington map, pinpointing his location. He was moving. Sherlock magnified the map with a keystroke, nodded to Savich, and pointed straight ahead. The Volvo accelerated smoothly.
“Still think you’re going to kill me? Not a chance, old man,” Savich said.
“We’ll see, won’t we, now that I know where you live.” He cackled, and Savich could hear liquid rolling around in his mouth. “You want to know how I found out your address? I found it at Ms. Lilly’s before I set off that little bomb. Claudia thought since we missed your cute little wife, we ought to get down to business and try again real soon, so I wanted to let you know you can’t hide anymore. It was quite a scene there for a while Friday night, wasn’t it?”
Sherlock motioned for a left on Clement Street, and Savich turned smoothly. Dane Carver and Ben Raven listened in on their cell phones in the backseat to radio communications from the Hoover building. They were relaying Moses’s location by voice to all the agents converging on him.
“You caused quite a furor, Moses. Say hello to Claudia for me, will you? That’s Claudia Smollett, isn’t it, from Cleveland, Ohio? She looks pretty in her pictures. Are you sure you’re anxious for me to meet her?”
They heard Moses’s muffled, angry voice. “Damn, Claudia, he’s made you. What am I going to do with you if you don’t listen to me?”
The flashing yellow dot disappeared from the map. Moses’s phone was in a dead spot, without GPS signal. Then it flashed on again, bright as before, to the collective relief of everyone in the Volvo.
Savich said, “I wouldn’t be too upset with her, Moses. She’s not the only one who’s been careless. You’re not really Moses Grace, are you? Moses was your daddy’s name and Grace was your mama’s. Do you think your parents would be pleased you’re doing all this killing using their names? Looks to me like they were real nice people.”
There was a sharp hitch in Moses’s breath, followed by a violent hacking cough. Finally he managed to say, “Well, well, well. Was that a guess or has our Boy Scout been doing his homework?”
Sherlock gave Savich a thumbs-up and mouthed,
Two minutes.
Savich said, “Why don’t I talk while you choke on your own blood, Moses? Your name is Malcolm Gilliam, born in Youngstown, Ohio. You flunked out of engineering school, then spent some time in Canada. You’ve really got to work on that illiterate hillbilly shtick, by the way.”
“You gonna tell me how you found out about me?”
Savich only laughed at him. “You did a good job keeping that mental hospital stretch in Canada to only nine years. How’d you manage that?”
He heard blood and phlegm bubbling up in Moses’s throat. He swallowed convulsively but the bubbling sound remained. “Well, you know, boy, I started taking Xenadrine to lose some weight, and damned if I didn’t start hearing voices. Terrible thing, my lawyers said, terrible thing. But do you know those do-gooder morons still kept me in that damned mental ward for nine years?
Nine years
I had to play a role and do every damned thing I was told to do! I’ll tell you, it took everything in me to play them right, to give them all the answers they wanted on their idiot tests, but now it’s over, and here I am, boy, your worst nightmare.”
Sherlock whispered to him as Moses spoke, “He’s driving south on Andover. Right now he’s crossing Delancy Street, heading into a residential area. He’s only six blocks from us. Dane, Ben, you guys got that?”
“Who you got with you, boy? About time we finished this chat, anyway. I know how you like to try and get cute triangulating my cell phones even though I beat you every time.”
Savich had to keep him on the line a little longer. “It’s Sherlock, Moses, no one to be afraid of. Besides, we’re old friends, seeing as how you’re Tammy’s granddaddy.”
Moses’s surprise was palpable in the silence. This time Savich could hear a touch of fear in his voice. “How the hell do you know that?”
“I know all about you, Malcolm. Last time you saw Tammy and Tommy, you gave her a wad of cash, then took off for Canada.”
There was silence, and finally Moses whispered, “You butchered my poor Tommy, and you shot off Tammy’s arm. Only one person left who knew about that—Marva’s little girl, what’s her name? Marilyn. Here I thought she was already dead. Never liked her, whiny little bitch, but Tommy liked to have her around. Well, I’m going to find her, let Claudia have a go at her before I cut her heart out.” The last word caught in a spurting cough.
Savich looked at Sherlock, who whispered, “He’s only a couple of blocks ahead, driving slow.”
“You got Claudia with you? She listening to us?”
“My little cutie’s right here.”
“Is she holding a box of Kleenex for you to catch the blood you’re spewing? Too bad about your tuberculosis, Moses.”
“I’m going to blow up your house, boy, you hear me? I’m going to blow you and your little wife to hell.”
Moses clicked off.
Savich saw the dark blue van at the same time Dane and Ben did. Moses was driving around Jackson Park, a small square dotted with old maple trees, deserted now in the cold winter night. Only a few lights were on in the houses surrounding the square.
Dane whispered into his cell, “We’ve got him dead ahead. Everyone come in silent. Wait for my signal.”
The van suddenly accelerated. They realized they’d been spotted, but it was too late. It was way too late.
“Gotcha, old man.” Savich punched down on the gas, heading straight for the van. Ben and Dane leaned out, fired multiple rounds at the van’s back tires.
Both tires exploded.
Claudia leaned out the passenger window, returned fire.
The van swerved madly, struck a parked Toyota, then bounced off. Moses jumped the curb and turned the van into the park, skimming between two skinny maple trees. The doors flew open and he and Claudia leaped out, carrying what looked like AR-15 assault rifles. They ran in opposite directions through the small park, taking cover behind trees.