“The doctor gave him a week’s worth of antibiotics, some heavy-duty pain meds. He said Everett would feel rotten for a while, but he thought he’d pull through. The doctor wasn’t very happy about that.

“Savich said the doctor was very relieved when Everett only tied him up in the basement.”

“What about the other guy at Slipper Hollow, the one you shot dead? You said the woman called him Clay?”

“Yes. There’s no word yet on his whereabouts. Savich thinks, and I agree, that Everett buried him somewhere deep in the sticks. Savich said they ran Clay’s first name through the system. He’s sending photos on my cell of two guys who seem promising, both with the first name Clay, one of them is a known associate of Everett, so he’s the most promising.”

They waited next to a Starbucks, both staring down at the cell screen.

In another second, Jack was looking at a guy named Clay Clutt. But he wasn’t the man Jack had shot at the edge of the forest in Slipper Hollow.

He called back. “It’s not Clay Clutt.”

“Okay, Clutt was my warm-up. Here’s the second one. He’s worked with Everett in the past. Coming through now,” Savich said.

“Bingo,” Jack said to Savich a few minutes later. Clay Huggins. Rachael listened to him tell Savich about their meeting with Laurel Kostas, her husband, Stefanos Kostas, and Quincy Abbott. When he pocketed his cell, he said, “Both Donley Everett and Clay Huggins have sheets reaching to Kalamazoo, including suspected murder. Neither has been convicted. Savich is sending out agents to both gentlemen’s places of residence. He said he and Sherlock are going to Everett’s apartment, since it’s likely he’s holed up there, nursing his wounded shoulder and popping pain pills. Savich said it sounds like we stirred up the snakes, which is good. Let’s call it a day, Rachael. Let’s have that lobster.”

TWENTY-SIX

Washington, D.C.

Late Wednesday afternoon

When Savich pulled his Porsche to the curb half a block from Donley Everett’s apartment building, the sun was low in the sky, the June air soft and warm.

The apartment building was in the middle of a transitional neighborhood, where the old single-story houses from the forties and fifties were slowly being rehabbed or torn down. Unfortunately for the new, larger homes, the yards were still as minuscule as they’d always been. Everett’s apartment building looked maybe ten years old, well-maintained, with a redbrick facade.

Sherlock waved at Dane Carver and Ollie Hamish, who were just getting out of Ollie’s black Pacifica, behind them the two surveillance agents.

Savich and Sherlock watched as Ollie and Dane circled to the back of the building to check out exits. There weren’t many tenants around yet since federal offices, the bread and butter of the Washington workforce, were just now closing down for the day. They heard a baby gurgling happily through an open window on the second floor, heard the new country singer Chris Connelly singing about his cheating love raking over his heart. Savich liked Chris Connelly.

The lobby was small, one wall lined with green-painted mailboxes, a live palm tree in a metal pot against another, its fronds stretching wide.

Sherlock double-checked the mailboxes. “Yep, D. Everett in 4C.”

Savich looked at the two elevators. One was parked right there, the door open. He pushed the stop button, and they took the other one.

Donley Everett’s apartment was on the corner of the fourth floor. Savich punched in Dane’s number, said quietly, “Apartment 4C is on the east end of the building. I’ll bet you there’s a fire escape there.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Dane said. “There’s only one back exit. We got it covered. Our two other agents are outside the front doors, keeping an eye on the lobby. Holler if you want us up there, you know, you being such a wuss and all, you might need some backup.”

“That’s okay, Sherlock’ll take care of me.”

Sherlock pulled a stick of gum out of her pocket, popped it into her mouth, and began chewing. Savich positioned himself at the side of the door. She rapped smartly on Everett’s door and called out through the chewing gum, “FedEx for Mr. Donley Everett.”

She smiled straight ahead into the peephole and blew a big bubble, letting it splat against her mouth.

A man’s low voice said, “Go away, little girl. I’m not expecting anything from anybody.” There was pain in the voice, she heard it clearly.

Sherlock’s face disappeared from the peephole for a moment as if she were checking something. “It says here on the package, sir, that it’s from Gun Smith Euro, whatever that is. It’s sort of heavy. Wow, do you think it might be a gun? Did you order one? I’ve never seen a gun up close before. But hey, if you want it, I can’t leave it without a signature.”

“But I didn’t order a . . . Wait a minute, you don’t want to touch that package, you hear me?” Everett released three locks, then jerked the door open to stare at the redheaded woman who’d blown such a big bubble before it popped, holding a SIG Sauer aimed at his chest. “FBI, Mr. Everett. Nice and easy now, hands behind your head and step back, one step.”

“Hey! FBI? Whoa . . .”

Sherlock slowly lowered her SIG until it was aimed at his stomach. “A gut shot isn’t pretty, Mr. Everett, but hey, it’ll go nice with your shoulder.”

Everett stumbled backward, twisted suddenly, dove behind the black leather sofa, and fired.

The bullet was wide, struck and shattered a lamp.

“You idiot!” Sherlock yelled, and fired at his foot, which was showing from behind the sofa, missing his big toe by an inch. “The next bullet will go in your calf, then your knee, and you’ll be crawling around for the rest of your sorry life! Throw out that gun! Now!”

Savich moved around to the other end of the sofa. “Now, Everett, or when she shoots you in your left knee, I’ll get your right. Yep, there are two of us. Throw out the gun right now or you’re going to be in very great pain.”

They heard Everett cursing behind the sofa, then there was some back-and-forth discussion, blurred and contentious, as if he and his evil twin were arguing his odds.

“Gun out now!” Sherlock screamed.

The gun came flying out, skidded across the hallway floor. Sherlock stepped on a nice Kel Tec PF9 9mm. “Betcha when they dig slugs out of the Slipper Hollow house, we’re going to find a match. Now, Don, come out nice and slow.”