do you say we pay him a visit? Are you up for it?”
He gave her a grin. “I need more coffee first. With the pain meds Dr. Breaker gave me, I can hardly feel my toes.”
“Take your time,” Savich said. “I’ll see if MAX can find out how well Claire Farriger and Nikki Bexholt know each other.” He looked up. “There’s no doubt in my mind they’ve worked together, and they’re working together now.”
62
* * *
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
ALAN BESSERMAN'S HOUSE
FRIDAY NIGHT
Besserman’s house was in a comfortable, older middle-class neighborhood with lots of mature trees and good-size yards. There was a single black SUV in his driveway, a single light on in what was probably the living room.
Sherlock sat on Justice’s lap in the passenger seat of the Porsche. They were grinning by the time they’d gotten settled. Neither Savich nor Sherlock had thought yet about a rental car to replace Sherlock’s demolished Volvo.
As they walked toward the house, they heard Humphrey Bogart’s distinctive voice.
“Mr. Besserman mentioned once he really likes old action movies,” Justice said. “He likes to quote Bogart—African Queen, sounds like,” Justice added when they reached the front door. “He’s divorced, alone now for about four months, says he likes the peace and quiet, but he hasn’t looked too happy lately.”
Savich pressed the doorbell. He could picture Besserman checking the late hour, perhaps picking up his Glock if he’d been an operative in the field for a while. He saw the living room curtain twitch. Then they heard footsteps coming toward the front door.
A deep voice, no real concern, a bit of impatience. Yes, he was very probably holding his Glock. “Who’s there?”
Savich said, “Mr. Besserman, I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, here with Agent Sherlock and Justice Cummings, your analyst.”
A moment of silence, then, “Justice?”
“Yes, Mr. Besserman. May we speak to you, please?”
Sherlock said, “We’re sorry it’s so late, but Justice has remembered certain details we hope you can explain to us. We could use your help, and perhaps you could use ours.”
The door opened. Besserman held his Glock pressed against his thigh. He was tall, on the thin side, with thick black hair, his temples sprinkled with white. He was a good-looking man, with an aesthete’s face, long, narrow, hollow cheekbones. He was wearing chinos and a white short-sleeved T-shirt, and his feet were bare. His eyes were an unusual pale gray and looked like they’d seen too much and he was tired of it all.
He stepped back, waved them in. “Come in, all of you.” He looked Justice up and down, saw the too-big sweats he was wearing, looked at Savich. “We’ve discovered Justice illegally copied and removed intelligence reports from the Ukraine he wasn’t authorized to see. I’ll have to take him to Langley for questioning.”
“Let’s stipulate for now Justice is already in my custody,” Savich said. “You might want to change your plans once we’ve had a chance to talk.”
They heard a friendly woof. A black lab appeared in the living room doorway, tail wagging, tongue lolling. Besserman said, “He’s a sucky guard dog, but he sure keeps me warm in the winter. Come and lick hands, Buzz, you know you want to.”
63
* * *
COVERTON, MARYLAND
BEXHOLT GROUP CAMPUS
LATE FRIDAY NIGHT
Agent Lucy McKnight got out of her small Toyota and stepped behind a lovely thick-leaved oak tree. She was parked a half block from the entrance to Bexholt, out of sight of the security guards in the lighted entrance kiosk. She’d already called her husband, Coop, in Minneapolis, where he’d been invited by the MPD to provide a fresh eye on a multiple murder stymieing the local police. She’d started to tell him what she was doing, namely surveillance, then decided he’d worry, despite the fact she could take him down at the gym on a good day and outshoot him at the firing range on most good and bad days. She sighed, rubbed her rounding stomach. At least her pants had a very stretchy elastic waist, a gift from a group of her friends, given to her even though they’d canceled the party because of Sherlock’s accident. “If we wait,” Ruth had said, giving her a big hug, “we might have to skip these pants entirely and get you a bigger pair.” Lucy, like every other agent who worked with Sherlock, was worried sick. Imagine not knowing who you are. When she’d briefly seen Sherlock at the hospital, she’d hoped it would be her face that brought back Sherlock’s memory, but that hadn’t happened.