Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (15 page)

W
ords jumped back and forth for a full two minutes before Davis realized this living room wasn’t the best terrain for a battle. He’d pound on Perry later, after he’d separated her from the Kimber. As for Natalie and her Walther PPK, he simply couldn’t imagine even Savich talking her out of anything she’d set her mind to. Better to retreat for the moment. He turned to Mr. Sallivar, who’d been watching with a fascinated eye the back-and-forth among Mrs. Black, her daughter, and these big men who were protecting them. Now he looked at Davis.

Davis said, “Sir, did Carlos know the FBI would be talking with him today? Is that why he failed to come to work?”

“If that’s so, Agent Sullivan, I didn’t know anything about it. Why? Is Carlos in trouble?”

“We need to ask him some questions. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“As I told Mr. Hooley, I know where he lives, but he is not at home.”

Davis thought for a moment. “Did Carlos ever express any anger or resentment toward Mrs. Black or toward Perry?”

Mr. Sallivar looked horrified. “Oh, no, never. Carlos believes Mrs. Black is a great lady.” He bobbed his head toward her. “I have
heard Carlos bragging that he works for the ambassador to the United Kingdom.”

Davis said, “Tell us about Carlos, sir?”

Mr. Sallivar said, “I am told Carlos looks like me. He is about my size, only he is about thirty years younger. My third daughter—I have seven, you know—Isabel is her name, she and Carlos like each other. Since I like Carlos, too, I have not interfered, except to tell Carlos to respect her, that if he didn’t I would cut—” He glanced over at Natalie, cleared his throat.

Davis said smoothly, “Sir, did Carlos behave differently yesterday?”

“He was more quiet than usual. But he is usually quiet. His cell rang about noontime. He said it was his mother and she needed him to run an errand for her. Then, when he didn’t come this morning, I called him, and his phone went to voice mail. I called Carlos’s mother, and she told me she hadn’t seen him since she had served his dinner last night.”

Mr. Sallivar looked around, his face drawn and worried. “Please, tell me, what has happened.”

Davis said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know where he is or if he’s hurt.”

Mr. Sallivar said slowly, “That phone call, it wasn’t from his mother, was it?”

“I’ll find out, sir. Could you please give us his mother’s address?”

Once Mr. Sallivar had left, Davis said, “I’m off to see Mrs. Acosta. You two”—he pointed to Perry and Natalie—“stay here.”

“Spoken like the emperor of the universe,” Perry said. “You’re not going to his house without me.”

He opened his mouth, but she was faster. She raised her finger, wagged. “No barking. Heel,” and she walked past him to the front door.

He followed her out, watched her open the front door of his Jeep and climb in.
Well, why not let her come along?
It would be easier to get the damned Kimber away from her and safe in his pocket.

Gracias Madre Restaurant
Seven Corners, Virginia

Thursday, early afternoon

D
avis and Perry were eating tacos and shoveling in chips at Gracias Madre after they’d left Mrs. Acosta’s home a few blocks away in a heavily Salvadoran neighborhood. Perry eyed the chip basket, sighed, and folded her hands over her stomach. She looked him straight in the eye. “Now that you’ve blasted my ears with that insane ‘Time Bomb,’ stuffed your face with fish tacos, and crowed about leaving me in the car at Mrs. Acosta’s house, it’s time to tell me what you found out. Don’t deny it, I could tell from the wiped-clean expression on your face when you got back. You found out something. Spill it, Davis.”

Davis picked up another chip, scooped up some salsa, and seemed to stare at it before setting it down on his plate. “My gut says Carlos has gotten himself in big trouble.”

“That wasn’t hard to figure. Come on, what’d you find?”

“Nothing specific. Mrs. Acosta told me he didn’t eat her
sopas
, which he loves, and that meant he was worried about something. Then he got a call and he went out and never came back.

“I know she’s his mother, but she spoke of him in the same way as Mr. Sallivar. He’s not the kind of kid to be involved in any of what’s happened, unless he was in trouble, unless someone forced him to.”

Perry said, “I told you I could hardly believe it last night.”

“I thought to ask her if she’d called Carlos yesterday to run an errand for her, and, of course, she hadn’t.

“There were no visitors, Mrs. Acosta said, but someone could have come in when she went out the previous day. I’ve put out a BOLO on Carlos Acosta along with his photograph. We’ll check his cell phone records. If he has the phone with him, we might find Carlos, too.”

Her cell rang. She looked down to see Day’s name. She toyed with sending it to voice mail, but couldn’t. “Day, hi. What’s up?”

“I wanted to hear your voice, make sure you’re okay.”

She laughed. “We spoke not two hours ago. I’m fine. And yes, I have Special Agent Davis Sullivan with me, eating a very late lunch of tacos.”

Davis watched her listen for a moment, then she said, “Yes, Day, it’s the same guy who was with my mother at your mom’s party Tuesday night. He’s a pain in the butt, but he’s trained at this, okay? I’m trying to help, too. No, don’t worry, I’m always careful. Hey, did you beat Brooxey at billiards?” And she laughed again at what he said.

When she punched off, slipped her cell back into her bag, Davis said, “Your nose is going to grow with that lie, since I’m not a pain in the butt.”

“Clearly a pain in the butt is in the eye of the beholder.”

“That your boyfriend? He unhappy with me being with you?”

“Nah, he’s worried, that’s all.”

Davis chewed on a chip, handed her the basket. “Have you told your mother about the Harley yet?”

She fiddled with a chip, radiating guilt. “No, not yet. But I will when we get back. I don’t want to, but I know it’s got to be done.”

“I’ll tell you something else that’s got to be done. You’re going to unload that weapon, put it in a locked box, and take it home with you. If you carry it in Washington, D.C., I’ll have to arrest you.”

Davis stood, pulled a twenty out of his wallet, and tossed it on the table. “So are you coming? Or should I bark at you?”

Georgetown

Thursday, late afternoon

S
avich turned into the parking lot of Metzer’s Grocers on Prospect Street. Sean was out of Cheerios, so there was nothing else to be done. “You want me to come in with you, Sherlock?”

She laughed. “To buy a box of Cheerios? I think I can handle that, Dillon. Give me ten minutes.”

He looked around the parking lot before he nodded. “Ten minutes. I’ll keep watch.”

Sherlock climbed out of the Porsche, aware of everyone within a dozen feet of her, and nodded back at Dillon as she walked through the automatic doors. Since she didn’t know the store that well, she stopped a clerk, then headed to aisle nine. She bent down to pick up a box of Cheerios when she heard a low scratchy voice above her head. “Agent Sherlock, all that red hair, so easy to spot. I know your husband is right outside, looking like he’d tear out the throat of anyone who looks at all dangerous. I don’t look dangerous.

“No, don’t you move or I’ll push this knife point into your
scrawny neck, right above your collar. Feel that?” She felt the knife prick, the wet of her blood.

“I want you to get up, yeah, grab the Cheerios.” He slipped her Glock out of her waist clip, fast and smooth. “Good, you mind your manners. You don’t want to have me kill any of the nice people buying their candy and popcorn, and I will, as many as I can, before your husband comes roaring in. I’ll be dead, too, but so will you and lots of others.”

She stood quietly, feeling him press her own Glock against the small of her back. She felt like an idiot, a box of Cheerios in one hand, and Blessed close behind her. She said quietly, “I’m not moving, Blessed. Don’t shoot anyone. How did you manage to get in here?”

“I told you I don’t look dangerous. Your husband didn’t pay any attention to a hunched-over little old lady, not too steady on her pins, moving slow with her cane next to her daughter and kiddos. Sweet little girl, all eager to help me, stayed real close in case I teetered. Who wouldn’t help a friendly little old lady out to buy her Polident to hold her chompers in? My mama used that stuff, you know. Still clacked when she talked. Yep, this was as easy as drilling a hole in a tooth.

“No, look straight ahead. You and I are going out the back. I have a little Kia parked out there, lifted it this afternoon from a parking lot behind the bowling alley. You and I have lots to talk about, like that pretty hair of yours.”

So many people, women with babies and toddlers, chatting, comparing heads of lettuce, or in a hurry, anxious to get home, none of them suspecting a thing. At least Blessed was focused on her. She had to keep it that way. She and Dillon had been right, Blessed hadn’t tried to make her lose herself, to make her brain go
off into the ether; he had to use a weapon to control her. It was a huge relief. He was only a middle-aged man, albeit with her gun now, pointing her gun at her and determined to shoot her, but Dillon was close. He’d said ten minutes. He’d miss her sooner than that, because it had to take less than ten minutes to buy a box of Cheerios.

“Walk, nice and easy, girl. If you try to turn on me, if you even twitch, I will kill you, then I will blast a bunch of mothers and their little kiddies.”

“I’ll walk.” Sherlock walked slowly in front of Blessed and wondered exactly what he looked like walking behind her.

“You need to pay for that, ma’am.”

A young voice brought her up short. She realized she was still carrying the box of Cheerios.

Blessed’s gun pressed hard against her spine.

Sherlock gave the teenage clerk with his moon-round face and buzzed black hair a big smile. “Sorry,” she said, and handed him the box of Cheerios. “I met up with my aunt here and forgot I still had it.”

Blessed didn’t say a word until the clerk, who, after one long, suspicious look, took himself off to aisle nine to restock the Cheerios. “See that restroom sign back there? That’s where we’re going. Walk.”

“Why didn’t you hypnotize me—stymie me, as you call it?”

The gun pressed harder against her back. “None of your business. Shut up.”

“No more juice, Blessed? So now you’re like everyone else, aren’t you? How does it feel, Blessed, to be normal and vulnerable?”

She felt him jerk behind her. He said, low, against her hair, “It feels bad.”

He sounded shaken; she supposed. In theory, she understood. His gift had been part of him all his life, and now he felt like a man with one leg. Did he even know how to operate in a world where he couldn’t simply tell anyone to do what he wished and see it done? “Where are you getting your money, Blessed?”

He hissed like a snake in her ear, “Ain’t none of your business,” he said again. “I can see your brain squirreling around, trying to figure out how to take me, but there’s nothing you can do. Don’t forget, I can shoot you right here, mow down a good dozen folk. That what you want?”

“No, I don’t want that. Why do you want to kill me, Blessed?”

“My ma didn’t like you, said you had no respect. Now shut your trap and keep walking.”

“I can’t believe Shepherd said that. Why, I told her how beautiful her house was, and I meant it. So why?”

She heard his scratchy old breath, then he said, “Ma was smart. She said you had to be killed first. She said once you were gone, Savich would freak out and I’d be able to get him easier.”

She thought she’d choke on her fear. Shepherd was right, Dillon would freak. But she was also wrong. Dillon would hunt Blessed down like a rabid dog. She felt him turning slightly, one way and then the other. He was looking at the people around them. He laughed, a raw, low sound that was hardly a laugh, really. “I can’t wait to kill that man of yours. Mano a mano, hand to hand, that’s how it will be, but on my terms. It won’t be nice and quick like that bum.”

What bum?

Blessed said, “Autumn’s my niece. When she gets older, I’ll make her understand that.”

“You remember Ethan Merriweather, the Titusville sheriff? He and Joanna married. The three of them are a family now. I believe they’re expecting another child. You need to forget about Autumn, or I promise, you’ll end up dead this time.”

“Autumn is no concern of yours. If I ever see her again I’ll make her see me, really see me, this time.”

Believe me, she really saw you the last time.

“Keep going. We weave down the aisle through all those storage racks, right toward that exit sign and out the back door.”

She walked through a swinging door into a huge back storeroom with the restrooms to the right and row after row of heavy metal racks filled with stock straight ahead. Blessed was so close he was nearly pressed against her back. He said, “She made me promise to find a wife for myself.”

He was talking without her questioning him, but why? And then she realized he was completely alone. Blessed had no one else to talk to, no one who knew him or had any kind of tie to his life before.

Sherlock saw a lone clerk off to her left, some ten or so feet away, a clipboard in his hand, counting cans of pork and beans. He paid no attention to them.

“Look at that!”

The gun jerked.

Sherlock grabbed the corner of one of the metal storage racks and jerked it forward with all her strength.

It teetered, sending cans and boxes tumbling off, raining down on both of them, but the huge structure didn’t fall.

“No more of that! Walk, you bitch,” and he shoved her forward with her Glock.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You shouldn’t be in here.” The clerk with the clipboard was marching toward him, his anger giving way to fear when he saw the gun.

Sherlock grabbed a can of okra and hurled it at Blessed. It struck him hard on the forehead at the same time he fired at her. The bullet went wide, tore through a big box of oatmeal and slammed deep into a concrete wall. The sound was deafening. She slipped around the storage rack for cover, yelling at the clerk, “Get out now!” She heard him yell again as he ran toward the swinging doors. She whirled about and peeked between boxes of soap to see Blessed. What she saw was an old woman leaning back against a storage rack, holding her head. And over her tatty gray crocheted sweater covering a lacy blouse, baggy flowered skirt, and sneakers, she was wearing a camel wool coat.

An old man peered out of the unisex restroom. She yelled, “Get back inside and lock the door!” Blessed, still shaking his head, jerked toward the man, but the man moved fast, the door slamming loud as Blessed fired two bullets, one of them hitting the bathroom door dead center. She heard the old man yell, not in pain, thank heavens, heard the clerk yelling back in the store. She grabbed a can of creamed corn, hurled it at Blessed, smacking him in the middle of his back. Blessed stumbled and jerked about to face her, his old woman’s seamed face tight with fury.

She was in big trouble. She grabbed another can and hurled it at him as he charged toward her and fired.