Nemesis (30 page)

The imam laughed. “They are fools. I have no fear of them.”

The imam didn’t understand his own enemies. Hercule wondered if his ignorance, his trust in the old barbaric ways, would be the end of him. He looked around the tearoom once again. “This is the last time we will meet. It will soon be too dangerous.”

The imam nodded. “There is no need to take undue risks.” He arched a thick white brow. “Is our next . . . effort to proceed? Has the Englishwoman given you what you need?”

“Yes. I am meeting her to confirm at lunch tomorrow.” The imam hadn’t called her his lover, though she was. She was also very good at it, for an earl’s daughter. Possibly because she had to pawn the gifts he gave her to keep her wastrel brother from living in a ditch because her family had finally cut him off. It was to her advantage to keep him pleased.

“It was well done of you, an inspired choice. Lady Elizabeth provides excellent cover, and entrée into the highest levels of London society.”

“And to their politicians,” Hercule said. “Her stiff-necked father is in the House of Lords and has the ear of a great many in government. He would as soon kick me in the teeth. I am a foreigner—an Algerian, no less—but I am well regarded in society and by his daughter, and so he’s had to swallow his bile.”

“Yes, you chose well. The cathedral will be thick with their kind.”

Ah, that was true enough, but Hercule was interested in only one of them, which was why he’d chosen the time and place very carefully. He slowly rose, smiled down at the old man. He laid a ten-pound note on the table. “Watch the BBC tonight, Imam. I have been asked to give my expert opinion on the economic consequences if the bomb had done great destruction to Saint Patrick’s. I imagine they will also ask for my opinion about their precious Saint Paul’s.”

“So the government looks to the wolf for solutions?”

“They have no idea.” Hercule left, aware that every eye in the tearoom followed him out.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Sunday, early afternoon

S
avich dropped Sean off at his grandmother’s house for an afternoon at the park and no doubt too many chocolate-chip cookies. He’d have enjoyed staying and throwing a football around with them, but it couldn’t be helped. He drove back downtown and picked Griffin up at his condo on Willard Street, an old established area known in the summer for its thick canopy of oak trees.

Griffin was waiting for him outside because Anna had been up all night on a drug bust and he didn’t want to disturb her. He climbed into the Porsche, turned to Savich. “Where are we headed this beautiful day?”

“To see Walter Givens again, at the D.C. Jail. I’d like to hear anything new you’ve found on the Alcotts on the way over.”

Griffin called up his files on his tablet. “What I’ve got has to do with Liggert mostly. He’s a bully, Savich, no other way to put it—bar fights, had to be pulled in by Sheriff Watson and Deputy Lewis a couple of times. He spent a night in jail after assaulting Walter Givens. I wonder what that was about.”

Savich said, “Liggert went after him at the bar after Walter called him out for hitting one of his kids. Teddy. Deputy Lewis arrested him.”

“Good for Walter.”

“I wonder, was that enough reason for Dalco to go after Walter, turn him into a murderer?”

Griffin’s head snapped around. “You think Liggert could be Dalco?”

“I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a reason. And to go after Sparky, have Walter butcher him? It would have to be something major.”

“And that is the question. What did Sparky do to Dalco, or to his family?” Savich said, and stopped at a red signal. Traffic was as light as it got in Washington.

“There’s something else interesting. Liggert’s oldest girl, Tanny, ten years old—she’s got a juvie record. She was caught shoplifting condoms, of all things. Turns out she was selling them to all the teenage boys around town, cleaned up for a while until the pharmacy owner caught her with Trojans stuffed in her pockets.

“Sheriff Watson called her parents, and they paid for the condoms, took her home. The pharmacist insisted on a police report, but nothing more came of it, at least that I could find.”

Savich had to laugh. “A ten-year-old isn’t usually sent to Attica for stealing condoms. I do wonder, though, how Liggert punished her.”

“We’re not done,” Griffin said. “That was when she was nine. She got slick enough to lift some watches from the general store. She tried to pawn some of them in Reineke when they were still brand new, and she was fingered. Get this, no charges again, they let her go.”

Savich shot him a look. “I wonder if Deliah Alcott took care of the problem. Or maybe it was Mr. Alcott. Was she caught before he died six months ago?”

“Just after. Maybe she was acting out, as the shrinks say, because of her grandfather’s death?”

“We could talk to the people at the general store. Maybe Sheriff Watson knows something about it.” He shook his head. When you came right down to it, what good would that do? Trying to find Dalco was leading them everywhere and nowhere. He was tired, his brain was tired.

“I spent some time looking into her granddad, Arthur Alcott. Nothing in the public record to suggest he was capable of anything hinky. After he died, there was a memorial service for him. The local paper gave it quite a write-up, said most people in town attended, so it seems he was respected well enough. Maybe that’s how his granddaughter got off with hardly any juvenile record, out of respect for him.”

Savich said, “But why Brakey?”

“He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Savich, doesn’t take long to see that. Maybe Dalco used him because he was an easy target, he was handy? Malleable?”

“If so, it sure backfired,” Savich said as he turned onto D Street. “After we speak to Walter, let’s go over to Plackett to see Sheriff Watson.”

“Has he called you yet about Deputy Lewis’s files?”

“Yes and no,” Savich said as he turned into the jail parking lot. “All he said was there wasn’t anything useful in the Alcott accident report.”

“Do you believe him? He was, after all, Deputy Lewis’s brother-in-law.”

“Do you know, I’m inclined not to.”

Savich had already gotten permission to meet with Walter again in the conference room. He was waiting alone when Savich and Griffin walked in.

“Agent Savich, do you know anything more about what happened to me?”

“We’re getting close. Walter, this is Agent Hammersmith.”

To Walter’s pleased surprise, Griffin shook his hand, smiled at him.

Savage studied the young man’s face. “Walter, we’re working hard to find out who’s responsible for all this. With your help, we’re hoping to work it out so you can go free.”

Color flooded Walter’s face, hope shined from his eyes. “Thank you, Agent Savich. I’ll help however I can, but I think I’ve told you everything I know.” He paused, raised agonized eyes to Savich’s face. “My folks, they look at me funny, you know? Even though they believed me when I told them I couldn’t remember anything, they still gave me these looks when they didn’t think I saw them. They’re horrified by all this. They really don’t know what to believe, and neither do I. But I really wasn’t responsible, was I? Are you sure it wasn’t some sort of fit?”

“No,” Savich said, “no, it wasn’t a fit. I’d like you to think with me, Walter. You called Liggert out last month, you told me, when you saw him hitting his little boy, Teddy?”

“Yes, sure. And then he laid into me when he got drunk at The Gulf. Deputy Lewis had to take him out of there.”

“Did you have any other contact with Liggert at any time in, say, the last six months?”

“No.” Walter frowned, tapped his fingertips on the conference table, made a decision. “Well, yes, once. He came to my shop about two months ago—a while after his dad got killed in that hit-and-run. He asked me about cars I’d repaired since his father got killed, cars that had been in an accident. Sure, I told him, all those fender benders help keep my shop open, even in a small town like Plackett. I remembered right away that Sparky had brought in his blue Mustang. He was proud as punch he’d bought that car from an old dude in Richmond, said it sat in his garage for over twenty years. Anyway, Sparky said he’d hit a deer and needed work on a panel and his right front fender.”

“You repaired it for him?”

Walter nodded. “I couldn’t quite match the color, it had changed so much with age over the years, but I did the best I could.” Walter paused. He looked a little guilty, Griffin thought, then he forged ahead. “I remember thinking it wasn’t too long after Mr. Alcott was hit and I wondered about the damage. Hitting a deer, it didn’t sound right, but Sparky was a real good friend, you know? Still, I knew I had to do something, so I called Sheriff Watson, but he was out of town, so I spoke with Deputy Lewis. He came over to see the car, told me he’d look into it. He didn’t want me spreading any rumors in the meantime, though.”

Griffin said, “Did Deputy Lewis get back to you, Walter?”

“Yes, the next day. He stopped at the shop, said he’d checked out Sparky and he couldn’t have been the one who hit Mr. Alcott. He wasn’t in town.

“Then, like I told you, Liggert came in asking about bodywork I’d done in the past months.” Walter’s eyes fell to his hands. “I wasn’t about to say anything, knowing Liggert. I didn’t want him blaming me, or accusing Sparky of anything, after what Deputy Lewis told me.

“Then he surprised me. He said he’d noticed a classic blue Mustang that had paint on the front bumper that didn’t quite match, asked me if I’d done the job. I couldn’t deny it, so I told him I did. Then I couldn’t believe it. Liggert didn’t try to hit me, no, he thanked me and left.”

Griffin said, “Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“No, not even my dad or my girlfriend. I did tell Sparky, but he said Liggert didn’t scare him anymore.”

Finally, everything was falling into place.

Walter swallowed. “I wonder if my girlfriend, Debbie, will even want to talk to me anymore after this, even if you do let me out of jail.”

Griffin was inclined to think Walter’s girlfriend wouldn’t want him within a mile of her. He said, “Hang tough, Walter, we’ll get back to you soon.”

PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

Sunday afternoon

S
heriff Watson’s big black Ford F-150 sat in the driveway of a small two-story white shingled house set back from the street. It was the last house at the end of an older established neighborhood, surrounded by oaks and maples, all gearing up for summer green, getting so thick they screened the houses from one another. A blue jay watched them, motionless on a low branch, as they walked toward the front door.

“Nice house,” Griffin said. “I don’t think I could get used to all this quiet, though.”

Savich didn’t think he could, either. He rang Watson’s doorbell, heard movement inside the house. The sheriff himself came to the door, wearing a ratty old T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet white and bare. He held a Diet Coke in his hand. He looked drawn, like he hadn’t slept well lately.

“On Sunday? Really? What do you two bozos want?” Hostility radiated from him. He stood squarely facing them at the open front door.

Savich said pleasantly, “We’d like to see Deputy Lewis’s report on Mr. Arthur Alcott’s hit-and-run.”

The sheriff stiffened. “You asked me to look. I looked. As I already told you, it was a straightforward hit-and-run. No broken glass, no traces of paint, nothing there of any use at all.”

“Yes, that’s what you said. I assume you saw Deputy Lewis’s note about Walter Givens doing some bodywork on Sparky Carroll’s blue Mustang? Sparky said he’d hit a deer? Did you discuss this with Deputy Lewis?”

“Nothing to discuss. There’s nothing like that in his report.” He looked over his shoulder. “There’s no need for you to come in. The house is a mess anyway.”

Griffin said, “I don’t mind mess, do you, Savich?”

“Not a bit. But I think I’d prefer if it the sheriff took us to his office and showed us Deputy Lewis’s report on the Alcott accident. Is that all right with you, Sheriff Watson?”