“I come in the kitchen at the same time this big guy steps in. I thought I got him, he fell down, but he was only acting shot, the bastard. Then he clocked me in the shoulder. I’m down, then he’s out the back and I know Clay doesn’t have a chance, and he didn’t.

“You can’t believe how bad it hurt my shoulder to haul Clay back through the woods and out to our car, but I knew I couldn’t leave him there. I buried him in a tobacco field about fifteen miles down the road. I don’t know if I can find it, I really don’t.”

Everett started crying. He hiccupped. He looked up at Savich. “You promised me pills if I told you everything. I did. My pills, they’re in the medicine cabinet.”

Savich called out, “Dane, go into Mr. Everett’s bathroom and bring out his bottle of pain pills.”

They let him hiccup until Dane pressed the bottle into his hand, set a glass of water on the arm of the La-Z-Boy. Everett took two pills, drank the entire glass of water, some of it dribbling down his chin.

He wasn’t bad-looking, Sherlock thought dispassionately, staring down at him, maybe late thirties, lots of dirty blond hair, a good build, but he hadn’t shaved in too long, and didn’t smell like he’d bathed recently, either, understandable given his shoulder. He was wearing dirty gray sweats, dark green socks, a hole in the big toe. He looked, she thought, like a man who’d been ridden hard and put away wet too many times in his short years.

“And now, Don,” Savich said, “tell us where to find Perky.”

Everett chewed his lower lip. This was tough, Savich knew, this was betrayal of the killing kind.

“Think of your future,” Savich said, voice easy and smooth and scary.

“She lives a block over from that Barnes & Noble in Georgetown, off M Street, on Wisconsin, I think, in a little apartment over a boutique. I don’t know the name of the boutique.”

“Address?”

“Dude, I don’t know, I don’t—”

“Fine, I believe you. You’ll take us there.” Savich pulled him out of the La-Z-Boy, ignored his moans and groans, and handed him over to Dane and Ollie. “Our hotshot here is going to direct you to Perky’s apartment on Wisconsin. We’ll be right behind you with the other two agents following, to cover us.”

Savich turned to Sherlock, a black eyebrow hoisted. “Pathetic butt worm?”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ten minutes later, Donley Everett pointed to a second-floor window above K-Martique, a specialized Goth shopping spot for the young fanged set. That, he said, was where Perky lived. Dane gave him another pill to keep him in the pain med twilight zone. It would have looked like a regular shop from outside except for the lacy black curtains and the black door.

Once through the black front door at K-Martique, Sherlock, all smiles, nodded to the few customers as she wove her way through racks of gauzy black skirts, black dresses, black tops, some really interesting red plastic spikes, black boots, and lacy black underwear hot enough to sizzle a guy’s eyes, to the counter in the far corner. It was stationed in front of a full-length mirror, doubtless to allow the sales clerk visual cover of the store. “Hey, I’m looking for Perky. Can you help me out?”

The young woman behind the counter had long straight black hair, a dead white face, and she was dressed all in Add ams family black—her nail polish and lipstick black, too. Sherlock wondered what she looked like without all the paraphernalia.

She looked Sherlock up and down with a sort of vague contempt. “Hey, I can replace those bourgeois clothes you’re wearing with something cool.”

“You don’t like my black leather jacket?”

“Well, it’s okay, but you need some long gashes in it, you know, like with a knife, make you look more dangerous. I’ve got some you won’t even need to slice up.”

Sherlock looked interested, then regretful. “Sorry, don’t have time to shop today.” She pulled out her creds. “Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. Where’s Perky?”

The young woman barely looked at her ID. She said, “Perky’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

The girl gave her a bored looked and shrugged; one of the gauzy black sleeves fell off her very white bony shoulder.

“And what’s your name?”

“Me? I’m Pearl Compton. What’s it to you? You really should let me help you—your clothes and hair are about as mind-numbing as it gets. You really could use some help, lady.”

Sherlock said, “Listen up, Pearl. Tell me Perky’s real name and where to find her or I’ll get a big bucket of cold water and scrub your face in it.”

The three other patrons, all teenage girls who’d obviously been listening, couldn’t hightail it out of there fast enough. Savich held the door open for them and said, as they flew out the door, “Wise decision.”

Pearl slammed a very white hand down on the counter. “Look what you’ve done! Three customers, and you ran them off!”

Sherlock leaned in, said, “Yeah, yeah, what’s Perky’s real name?”

Pearl shrugged. “Oh, who cares? Maude Couple. She’s from Montana, says she grew up tending lambs.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know—old. Maybe forty, around there.”

“How long has she lived upstairs, Pearl?”

“Since I came to the store to manage it.”

“Where’s she gone?”

“I don’t know, honest. She gives me her key, tells me to water her ivy, then she just up and leaves.”

“Okay. Good. I want you to come upstairs with us, let us into Perky’s apartment.” Sherlock turned and waved to Savich, who was standing in the doorway.

“Oh no, I can’t do that. She’s private, and I know Perky would be real angry if I took anyone up there. She and the owner, you know, they sort of sleep together when he can get away from his wife.”

Savich walked right up to Pearl and towered over her, said absolutely nothing.

Pearl drummed her black fingernails on the counter, shrugged.

She pulled a key ring from beneath the counter, walked to the front door of the shop, flipped down the CLOSED sign inside, then locked the door.

“This way.” She looked over her shoulder at Savich. “You’d look pretty hot with a nice set of fangs, maybe some light powder to get that tan off your face.”