Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

How many agents were here? He kept his eyes on the man in the kitchen. He saw him turn and speak to someone else. So there were at least two agents? Did the local police chief have deputies doing drive-bys?

What to do?

Victor waited until it was dark, past nine o’clock, when the crickets were loud and steady. It was cooler, finally. No lights went on in the house, but Victor saw flickers, knew the agents were awake, watching, waiting.

It was time to get Lissy’s pain pills, then he’d decide what they’d do next. If she continued to refuse to tell him where the money was hidden, screw it, he’d drive away. He wouldn’t take her to kill Buzz Riley.

She said first thing when he opened the car door, You’ve been gone forever, Victor. Hours and hours. You’ve been watching the house, haven’t you? They’re here, aren’t they? The Feds are here, waiting for us?

“Yes, they’re here. Don’t worry about it, not yet. Now it’s finally dark and the pharmacy is closed. Remember, Lissy, you stay in the car when we get there. I’ll get the pills.”

But if Old Lady Kougar comes in like she did last time, you’ll need me.

“No, I won’t, not this time. Stay in the car.” Okay, he’d give it one last try. “It’s time to fish or cut bait. If you tell me where the money’s hidden, not only will I let you kill Buzz Riley, I’ll buy you your little red Fiat.”

All right, I’ll think about it. Maybe I do know, but don’t screw up this time, Victor. I really want that red Fiat.

68

* * *

CHIEF TY CHRISTIE'S OFFICE

WILLICOTT, MARYLAND

THURSDAY

Sala was leaning back, his head pillowed in his arms, his feet propped up on Ty’s desk. “All right, let’s pull out the puzzle pieces we found today and see if we can fit them together. We’re getting there, Ty. I can feel it.”

Ty took a sip of her coffee, set the cup down precisely in the middle of her desk, eyed Sala’s big feet, and smiled. She ticked off on her fingers. “We checked out the people who moved to Haggersville within a year of Mr. Henry’s murder. There were seven families we spoke to but found nothing to tie them to LaRoque. Three of the families had accounts at Mr. Henry’s bank, but by then he’d already put Calhoun in charge. None of them had even met him before he was killed. They’d heard about his murder, of course, but there was no reaction at all among any of them that rang false.”

Sala said, “Those are the negatives, Ty. Let’s put it out there: we already know about one person who moved to Haggersville not much longer than a year before his murder—Susan Sparrow. I know you think she’s in the mix for it, because”—he counted off on his fingers now—“we saw her on the videotape with a whole lot of other people at the post office the morning Leigh was hit on the head. She didn’t lie about being there, because we didn’t ask her, but why didn’t she mention it? Leigh thinks she heard high heels before she was struck down, so it was probably a woman. And Susan Sparrow was one of the people who dealt with his supposed cremation.”

“But we have no motive,” Ty said.

“Patience, Chief. You know I asked Dillon to set magic MAX into running a deep background search on Susan after we spoke with her. He left Ollie Hamish, his second in command, on the task before he and Sherlock left for Fort Pessel. Savich thinks Victor went back there.” At the mention of Victor’s name, Ty saw him stiffen up. She stood and walked over to him, lightly rubbed his shoulders. Odd, but he relaxed almost immediately.

“So we wait to hear from Ollie?”

He nodded.

She sat back down behind her desk. “Okay, let’s say it was Susan who followed Leigh and hit her on the head. Where does that get us? We have Susan and the belt buckle in the lake. What’s the connection?” She began tapping her fingertips on her desktop. “Why hasn’t Ollie called?”

He started to tell her to be patient again, when his cell rang. “Speak of the devil, it’s Ollie.”

He put his cell on speaker. “Glad to hear from you, Ollie. We’ve been going round and round here. Tell me you’ve found something.”

“Yeah, I’ve got two things for you, actually, one of which will blow you away. We texted pictures of the belt buckle to

our liaison at the Israeli embassy. He forwarded them to a friend who’s worked for years at the Holocaust Museum. The friend remembered it, knew the artisan’s brother quite well. He recalls the brother crafted it for an Israeli colonel, and he was surprised it ended up in the States. He’s contacting the family for us, trying to find out how it could have gotten here. I might have more for you on that tomorrow.

“Now for the blockbuster: MAX’s background check on Susan Sparrow. On the surface, everything seemed normal, a woman born Susan Ann Hadden in Nashville, Tennessee, thirty years ago. An only child, middle-class parents, nothing until her parents were killed in a small-airplane accident when she was fifteen years old and she was adopted by the mother’s sister and her husband. Both her aunt and uncle died when she was seventeen, left her enough money to attend college at Purdue, where she majored in business, made good grades. She had a solid employment history, worked in Saks management in Chicago, then moved to Haggersville, met and married Landry Sparrow. She’s been active around town, raising money for the hospital, and is apparently well liked.” He paused and said, “MAX went deeper and found that Susan Hadden Sparrow never existed. She’s a legend, a fiction created some twelve years ago. There’s no record of her parents, no record of an aunt or an uncle, no record of an adoption. We don’t know who and what she was before she became Susan Hadden. She was savvy enough to hire someone to fill in the details of her life well enough to make it all seem real.”

Ty pumped her fist in the air. “You didn’t hit gold, Ollie, you hit platinum. Oh yes, I’m Ty Christie, police chief in Willicott. So, who is she? Who is Susan Sparrow?”

“We have no idea.”

Ty said, “That snazzy FBI facial recognition program, could you run Susan through it? We might get lucky.”