Power Play (FBI Thriller 18)

She grabbed his hand, shook it. “You’d better talk to me, Sullivan, give me a sink-proof explanation, or I’m going to pulverize you.”

He turned to face her. A thick hank of her hair had come loose from the fishtail braid and lay against her nose. Her eyes were dark with pain. He lightly laid his hand on her shoulder. “If I’d told you, you’d have gone after him the second you saw him. Come on, you know I’m right, you’d never have held it together. And having you with Uncle Milt when I told him was the best shot we had at getting to the truth, if there was a deeper truth and your uncle is involved. But he’s not. Let it go, Perry, let it go.”

She stared over his shoulder. “I want to kill him,” she said slowly.

“Then I’d have to arrest you.”

“He’s a dishonorable toad, and I should throw him into the Potomac with a cement block tied to his Italian loafers. Hey, I could write my freaking blog from jail, no problem.”

“Still, he didn’t try to run down your mom or threaten you, Perry. He’s all about politics, and he’s neither better nor worse than most of those yahoos in Congress. If you wanted to mete out punishment, you’d run out of cement blocks. All there is to do now is walk away.”

He was right. She wanted to howl, to scream, but she didn’t. “If you think I forgive you, I don’t,” she said. “I’m heading back to the Post by myself.” She hiked up her computer bag on her shoulder and streaked across the street to the sound of honking horns and a few curses. She yelled over her shoulder, “And I’m going to buy up all the cement in the city.”

Davis didn’t move. He watched her until she reached the other side unscathed, got into a taxi that had pulled up, and took off. He was worried, since he didn’t know her well enough to guess how she’d deal with all that rage.

He was glad he hadn’t told Perry her uncle Milton’s money problems included a lady he paid each month and visited whenever he was in the capital.

Savich home

Friday night

Blessed Backman wasn’t cold, since he’d bought wool-lined gloves as well as a thick fisherman’s sweater at Goodwill to go under the bum’s coat, but he was stiff again in his crouched position, so he stood and stretched. He took several steps toward the house, hugging trees and bushes, watchful for neighbors. Last thing he needed was for the cops to show up again.

Good thing he’d noticed the Hispanic lady watching him from the house that morning and he’d gotten out of there. It was dangerous to come back, even after dark. There would be cops around; he knew they were looking for him everywhere, and with his photo on TV, he had to be careful. But he couldn’t wait them out any longer. He had to act; he had to get it done so his mother would rest in peace. Was the guardian in his dreams really his mother, that disembodied voice so soft and pure, telling him he would succeed? It gladdened his heart to think so.

The two of them, Savich and Sherlock, were always together now, and he knew he’d have to take them on together, but he’d wait until they were unarmed, maybe when they were in bed, all comfortable and cozy. He’d have to shoot Savich dead right away, and then Sherlock would be easy. He could have her shoot herself in the mouth, or blow off her own head, but he’d always wanted to strangle her, to see the life fade out of her eyes just as his mother’s eyes had faded to blankness the last day he’d seen her in that god-awful hospital.

He had to step back into the bushes when he saw two cars arriving, one pulling in Savich’s driveway, the other against the curb. He watched as three people went inside. He had no idea who they were, not that it mattered. Whoever they were, they were messing up his plans.

After some time, he made his way to the living room window and peered in. No one was in there, but he heard faint voices and laughter coming from another room. He moved along the house until he was looking into the dining room. He saw Savich, smiling and nodding, full of himself, chatting to a woman and the two men at the table. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he saw spaghetti, corn on the cob, garlic bread, and a big salad bowl on the table. He could swear he smelled the garlic. His stomach growled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

Both of the men looked young and hard, like Savich, all sharp-eyed and confident, ready to take on the world. Probably FBI agents. One of them wore a black turtleneck sweater beneath a really sharp black jacket, the other a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The young woman with them seemed buff enough to be an agent, too, he couldn’t tell. Weren’t they all having fun?