Savich was at the door in an instant, his I.D. out. “Agent Savich. Where is she?”
A woman stepped forward. “I’m Detective Orinda Chamber, McLean PD, Agent Savich. We just got here. There was an initial charge into the place, so the scene’s a mess. I’ve tried to keep everyone out after I saw she was dead. She’s in the kitchen. I hear she was on the phone to you and you heard him attacking her?”
Savich nodded. “Please get all your people combing the woods, look for his car. Agents will be here very soon to help you, along with a helicopter and the Washington SWAT team. He’s a big guy, probably in his fifties, white. He has to have had some sort of transportation, so let’s get everyone on it.” He paused a moment. “Detective Chamber, this is the man who murdered Justice Califano.”
Orinda Chamber reeled back, then steadied and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
Sherlock had run past him, pushed past the three men who were standing in the kitchen looking down at Eliza Vickers. She was lying on her side, her long straight hair tangled over her face, but Sherlock saw her eyes through the veil of hair, still bulging wide. Terror and surprise no longer filled them. They were empty now, empty even of the memory of life. Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, gently pulled her hair away from her face. “Eliza, I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, lady, who the hell are you? What is—”
Savich shoved his I.D. in the officer’s face. “She’s FBI. Back off. Go outside and help find this bastard.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the other officers said, and pulled the officer away.
Sherlock was leaning over Eliza, her hands shaking her shoulders, trying to awaken her, trying to make her empty eyes fill with life again. Tears streamed down her face. “Oh no, Eliza. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.” Sherlock pressed her face against Eliza’s hair, sobbing.
Savich came down on his haunches beside his wife. He rubbed her shoulders, didn’t say anything, just gave her what comfort he could. He felt like crying himself. This bastard, this Günter freak, had killed her, knowing she was on the phone to him. Savich would never forget as long as he lived what the man said in the background after the phone had crashed to the kitchen floor: “Well, she’s dead now, isn’t she? You hear me, Agent Savich? This will be the only time. You’ve got nada, rien, nichts.” And he laughed. Savich had heard him still laughing as he’d picked the phone up off the kitchen floor and thrown it across the room, and walked out of there, the sound of his footsteps clear for Savich to hear. Savich had continued to listen, for the sound of a door opening, a window, anything. But there was only silence. And he’d known Eliza Vickers was dead and that he’d been helpless to do anything about it.
Günter had sounded as American as the apple pie they’d baked for dinner. American. No regional accent. Savich was aware of Ben and Callie standing in the kitchen doorway, keeping the other officers out.
Of course Günter was long gone. Savich knew in his gut they wouldn’t find him, not this time. Too much cover in all the maples and oaks behind the condo complex, too many places to hide a car, a motorcycle, or even to run a mile to someplace near the highway.
He closed his eyes against the pain of Eliza’s death, realizing he could hardly bear it either. He’d never seen Sherlock like this. She looked beaten down, crushed. Eliza Vickers, so smart, so very real, and he’d heard her die on his damned cell phone. He knew he would live with that forever. He lowered his head, holding both his sobbing wife and Eliza Vickers, who wasn’t there anymore to care.
Suddenly, Savich reared up and yelled, “Ben, Callie, we’ve got to get over to Fleurette’s house. Call her, tell her to hide. Call 911, have as many squad cars there as fast as possible to canvas the area, stop everyone who’s alone in a car. Take her to my house. Hurry!”
Ben didn’t hesitate. Both he and Callie were out the door. Ben tossed Callie his address book as he jumped into the car. “Fleurette’s number, quick!”
She read it out, and he dialed. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Finally, Ben heard her voice. “Hello?”
“Fleurette?”
“Yes, who’s this? It’s after midnight, who—”
“This is Detective Ben Raven. No, be quiet and listen to me. Is your house alarm set?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a gun?”
A slight pause, then, “Yes, a twenty-two revolver.”
“Loaded?”