Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

Lulie said, “I’m thinking your wife may not mind having me around after she tries one of my éclairs, Andrew.”

He regarded the woman he’d loved so madly thirty-one years before, remembered how he’d always enjoyed her wit. “Now, that’s a good possibility. I’ll take her a box.”

Savich said, “The door is still closed on Leigh’s memories of what happened immediately before she was hit on the head. I’d like to bring in Dr. Emanuel Hicks tomorrow morning. He’s an FBI psychiatrist and a renowned hypnotist. If she did see or hear anything, it’s possible she’ll remember it under hypnosis.”

Lulie looked at Andrew, then slowly nodded. “I’ll speak to her about it when she wakes up. I can’t imagine she wouldn’t want to try, Agent Savich.”

Ty looked down at her Timex. “Sala and I need to go speak to Leigh’s former employer, Susan Sparrow, at the Sparrow Crematorium, see what she has to say.”

“We’ll go with—” Savich was interrupted by Neil Diamond belting out “Sweet Caroline.”

“Savich.”

Sherlock watched his face light up like a Christmas tree. “Thank you for calling me so quickly, Chief. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” He punched off and slipped his cell back into his jacket pocket. He wanted to pump his fist, but instead, he said, “Ty, Sala, Sherlock and I have to go.”

“Tell me it’s about Victor Nesser,” Sala said.

“It is indeed.”

52

* * *

WINSLOW, VIRGINIA

WEDNESDAY

Savich pulled the Volvo smoothly against the curb in front of the Winslow police station, set between a fire department and a big parking lot. He checked his Mickey Mouse watch. “Under two hours from Haggersville, excellent time.”

She patted his arm. “You did well. Buck up, you’ll have the Porsche back in a couple of days.”

“Can’t be too soon.”

“Suck it up.”

Together, they looked up and down the main street. Winslow was small, a dot on a map, High Milsom Street and three or four streets of set-back middle-class homes, most of the yards a lush Irish green from all the rain. It was hot, the humidity a killer, like a heavy wet cloud sitting on their heads.

They walked into a long, narrow room, cold as a refrigerator, and shuddered with pleasure. An older man in a dark green uniform looked up from his desk behind a high counter directly opposite the front door. “Can I help you? Oh, you must be the FBI agents Chief Pearly called. I’m senior deputy Hubie Pearly, the chief’s cousin. One of my boys, Dom, works here, too. He’s smart. He’ll move right up, and I reckon someday we’ll have another Chief Pearly. Right this way, Agents. The current Chief Pearly’s in the back with our young victim. Poor kid, on top of everything else, she’s got crappy parents. That sounds harsh, I know, but it is what it is.”

They followed Hubie Pearly past four empty desks, a unisex bathroom, a water cooler, and a small kitchen to a glass-walled office. Inside they saw a portly man in a brown uniform sitting opposite a young woman whose pretty face was leached of color, her eyes red from crying. She was wearing what was probably the chief’s leather jacket over a top and shorts, flip-flops on her narrow feet, her toenails painted a bright orange. The chief was holding her hands, speaking low to her.

Hubie tapped on the window and opened the door. “Anson, the FBI agents

are here. Fancy that, one of them’s a girl.” Hubie stopped cold, looked back at Sherlock, and stared. “Oh geez, sorry, ma’am—Agent—I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Probably not,” Savich said. “My wife, actually. Chief Pearly?” He identified himself and Sherlock, handed the chief their creds. Chief Pearly studied them. To their surprise, he handed their creds to Hubie, who studied them a full thirty seconds before he handed them back to Savich. “Yep, now I remember—your name, Sherlock. Imagine, here you are, in the flesh. You sure are pretty to be so tough. You’re famous among law enforcement around here, you know.”

No, Sherlock didn’t now, but she nodded.

“Well now, ’scuse me. I’ll leave you to it, Anson.” And Hubie was out the door.

Anson Pearly slowly rose to his feet, assessing them with clear, intelligent gray eyes. “Forgive my cousin, he sometimes runs off the rails a bit.” They all shook hands. He turned. “This is Ms. Cindy Wilcox. She might not be the heroine of JFK, but she is the heroine of Winslow today, saved herself from that maniac who blew up the cathedral in Falls Church. When she described the man who attacked her, told me he called himself Victor, I remembered the BOLOs, showed her his picture. She said it was definitely Victor Nesser, knew it even if he was wearing a disguise.”

Sherlock looked at the teenager huddled in a chair, her blond hair tangled around a pretty face. She was staring at them. “Ms. Wilcox?”

Cindy stared up at Sherlock. “Yes, I’m Cindy.”

Sherlock gave her a big smile and patted her arm. “You must be very resourceful and smart to escape Victor Nesser. I agree with the chief, you’re a hero.” Sherlock drew her up out of the chair and hugged her. “You’re alive, and I’ve got to say that makes me very happy. I know you’re still shaky with the shock of what you went through. Victor Nesser is a very scary man, but you survived, Cindy. You beat him. You’re here and you’re safe and you can talk to us. Can you tell us about him, tell us what happened?”