Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

Sherlock took Sean’s and Marty’s hands. “Time for lunch. Is Mr. McGurk going to join us for barbecue?”

Marty shook her head. “I asked him when he signed my book. He said he was meeting Captain Corbin for lunch and couldn’t let him down. I told him Captain Corbin wasn’t real, Mr. McGurk had made him up, and he gave me that look, like Grandpa does. But then he smiled and patted my head and called me precocious. What does that mean?”

“It means you’re too smart to be almost five years old,” Sherlock said. “Okay, kids, we’re on our own. What would you like for lunch? Barbecue or tacos?”

Say tacos, please say tacos.

“Is Papa coming with us?”

“I don’t think so, Sean. He’s still meeting with his friends.”

Sean looked up at her with big, dark eyes, his father’s eyes. “Mama, who was that man with the big candy bar? I saw you go after him.”

Her eagle-eyed son. Sherlock looked him straight on and lied clean. “Turns out he was part of the show, not a problem. Come on, guys, let’s eat. I’m starving. What’s it going to be?”

“Barbecue!” they shouted together.

Oh well. Barbecue was fine, but truth was, she’d never met a taco she didn’t like. Sherlock wanted to call Dillon, tell him what happened, but how could she with Marty and Sean next to her elbow, all ears? She couldn’t be sure it was the man who’d broken into their house three nights ago. She wasn’t even sure he’d meant any harm. She tried to picture the man bending over Sean’s bed. She hemmed and hawed, going back and forth, until she wanted to kick herself. Of course it had to be the same man. Finally accepting it settled her. She couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think she’d seen him limp. No, don’t second-guess—it only meant his ankle may have healed in three days.

Sean and Marty were flying high as kites on a windy day, each stuffing down pork ribs, barbecue sauce smeared all over their faces and T-shirts, comparing their books but not touching them, on Sherlock’s order, while she studied every single man she saw come toward the stand. When would Dillon get back?

10

* * *

GATEWOOD MANSION

Savich paused on the second-floor landing, listened. He looked down into the large entry hall. He was alone. The house was silent.

He knew why the killer had looked directly at him and pumped his fist. Because someone else was standing at that window, waiting for him to return. He’d looked up, pumped his fist to show that person his pleasure, to signal his success.

Had he avenged someone Octavia Ryan had prosecuted during her tenure as a federal prosecutor? Or had he killed her in revenge for failing to get an acquittal when she’d been a defense attorney? Savich remembered the man whistling, happy as a clam, as he’d hurled the oars out into the lake, one of them the murder weapon, with no remorse, no regret, pleased with what he’d done.

Savich already knew one thing for sure. The killer hadn’t been Sala, no way. And Sala was a big man, strong, tough, and taller than Savich. This man was slight, no more than five foot eight. So where was Sala? Savich didn’t want to consider it, but he had to. Chances were good Sala was already dead. But that fist pump had been for killing Octavia Ryan, not Sala. Had he come back to kill Sala? Had he believed it necessary to kill him? Or was he collateral damage? Was his body in the water off the Gatewood dock, like the Piersons’ had been fifteen years before?

Savich walked up a narrow set of stairs to the third floor. It was colder up there, a natural cold, the air still and silent, the light dim. It smelled old, musty, uncared for. It was a good place to hide. He shook his head at himself. Both the McCluens and the Piersons had been killed inside the front door, the reason, he thought, for the cold spot. Had the Piersons’ killer or killers known there was another Pierson child and searched for her up here? Was Albie Pierson still alive? Or had she died on the streets of some city?

He methodically opened each door along the narrow corridor—three small bedrooms, for maids, he supposed, and two old-fashione

d bathrooms, all the rooms empty. Like in the second-floor rooms, there was no graffiti, only faded cream-colored walls and a thin coat of dust. The last door on his right, facing the lake, was locked. Interesting. Why lock this particular room? He shoved, but the door held. He knocked, felt foolish even as he called out, “Anyone in there?” He knocked again, louder, shook the doorknob.

He heard something, a muffled sound, garbled, and a series of thumps, like shoes banging against wood. He knocked again, called out louder, “Is there anyone in there?”

The muffled sounds were louder this time. More wild thumps and garbled noises. He stepped back and kicked right below the doorknob. The door shuddered but held. He kicked again harder, and the door flew inward, slammed against the wall.

He stepped into the small room, momentarily blinded by the brilliant sunlight pouring in through the large front window. Like the other rooms, this one was also empty. He heard more violent kicking against wood. Savich saw the closet door shudder. He twisted the knob, but the door was locked. “Get back, I’m going to kick the door in.”

The closet door gave way on the first kick but didn’t slam all the way inward. Someone was in the way. He got the door open enough to see inside the closet.

Savich met Sala Porto’s eyes.

11

* * *

Agent Sala Porto drank the entire soda Charlie handed him and ate a half dozen Oreo cookies Ty kept stashed in her truck. Finally, he wiped his hand across his mouth and chased it all down with a bottle of spring water. Blood matted his hair over his left temple, and his face was bruised. But Savich hadn’t found anything broken. He was sitting on the edge of the front steps of the house, the four of them gathered around him. No one had suggested they stay inside the house.

Ty said, “Drink another,” handing him a full bottle. “You’re still dehydrated. Don’t drink too much, just a bit more. Yes, that’s good. Now let me see how bad it is.” Ty came down on her knees beside him, examined his head wound. “Bleeding’s stopped, but you’ll need some stitches. In the meantime, let me clean it out and put a couple of butterfly bandages over it to keep the wound together. Your wrists are raw. I’ve got some antibiotic cream and some gauze. Then we’ll get you to Dr. Staunton. She’ll take care of you. Are you ready to tell us what happened?”