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Savich came back into the restaurant, sat down, took a bite of his fish sandwich, and said absolutely nothing.

Miles said to Savich, “So all of a sudden, your brain just announced—bang!—the killer was a counter clerk at Trailways?”

Savich looked blank until Sherlock said, “I was telling them about the Detroit case, Dillon.”

He nodded. “The cops had questioned all the employees at Trailways, but they didn’t spot this guy as a viable suspect. Well, I’d just been giving it a lot of thought, that’s all, and I took a guess. I asked them to follow this guy for three days.”

“What happened?” Katie asked, spellbound.

“He picked out our undercover agent, who was really twenty-six years old but looked fifteen, as his next victim. We got him.”

“Okay, Dillon, what’s the brain flash this time?”

He smiled at Sherlock, then shook his head at the others. “Too soon for me to say. Now, the big question. It’s Tuesday, what do you want to do, Miles?”

“I don’t know yet, but I guess I need to stay here for a while longer,” and he looked over at Sam and Keely.

Savich saw that he was pissed, frustrated, and nearly at the end of his tether. “Both of you,” he said, “keep us informed.”

Katie became suddenly aware that both Sam and Keely were all ears, down to the last licks on their cones. “Finish your ice cream, kids,” she said, and wiped a bit of chocolate chip off Keely’s mouth.

26

At eight o’clock that evening, at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., Savich stood beside FBI Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland, waiting for the police chief of Oxford, Maryland, to turn the mike back over to them. The police chiefs from all three jurisdictions were lined up behind the podium, trying to look confident in front of all the blinding lights and the shouted questions.

Standing beside the chiefs were the three victims’ husbands: Troy Ward, looking sad and puffy in a bright blue suit; Gifford Fowler, skinny as a post, standing with a big black Stetson in his hands; and Crayton Maddox, a successful attorney, looking as pale as a ghost, still in shock. He’d managed to dress himself in a Saville Row suit that had to have set him back a couple thousand dollars. Looking at the man now, Savich thought back to the meeting he and Sherlock had with him only two hours before, at his home in Lockridge, Virginia.

He and Sherlock had driven to Lockridge High School in Lockridge, Virginia, an affluent suburb favored by many upper-level government employees. The crime investigators, local and FBI, were still there, and six officers were keeping the media behind a police rope.

Police Chief Thomas Martinez met them in the principal’s office and said without preamble, “The janitor spotted a small leak late Monday afternoon, in the boiler room. He repaired it, then said he couldn’t sleep for worrying so he came back early this morning, before six o’clock, to see that everything was still holding.” The chief stopped and grimaced. “He smelled something. It was Mrs. Maddox, one of our five math teachers. Evidently she’d stayed late to grade some test papers because she and her family were leaving for the Caribbean in the morning. Her husband said he’d talked her into leaving because of the two killings. In any case, she never made it home. Her husband called us around nine o’clock last evening, scared out of his mind. He’d called her cell, gotten no answer. We searched nonstop for her. The janitor found her. Come this way.”

It was not a pretty sight. Mrs. Eleanor Maddox, not above thirty-five, two children, and a whiz at teaching geometry, had been shoved in beside the boiler. Because the weather was cool the boiler had fired up, and that was why the janitor had smelled her body. She’d been shot right between the eyes, up very close, just like the other two women.

Chief Martinez said, “The forensic team finished up about three hours ago. The ME said if he had to guess, it was a .38, just like the other two. He also said that this time, the guy had