How had that wretched little yapper gotten out of the closet?
Savich gave up after fifteen minutes of cruising every street in a mile radius. When he drove into the neighborhood, he saw an ambulance and two Metro police cars in the MacPherson driveway. Neighbors had come out of their homes to see what the trouble was, and two officers were reassuring everyone. Good.
He found Sherlock in the MacPherson living room, standing over Mr. MacPherson, who was lying on a gurney looking dazed, a paramedic holding his veiny wrist, taking his pulse.
Sherlock said, “Did you get him?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t even see his car.”
He stood over Mr. MacPherson. “I’m very sorry, sir. How are you feeling?”
The old man’s eyes sharpened on his face. “I’ll live, boy, I’ll live. What happened? I woke up and there’s all this commotion going on and my head is fixing to burst. Can you hand me Gladys? She’s barking up a storm, all scared. I need to let her know I’m okay. I am okay, aren’t I?” he said to the paramedic standing over him.
“You’ll be just fine, sir. Ah, here’s Gladys,” and the paramedic pressed the puppy against Mr. MacPherson’s chest. They watched Gladys licking Mr. MacPherson’s face frantically. Savich didn’t think she was going to calm down anytime soon. He spoke to one of the officers as Sherlock called a MacPherson daughter to come and take Gladys.
Sherlock said, “I think Blessed tossed Gladys into the closet, only he didn’t shut the door well enough and she managed to poke her way out. And that’s when his plans were shot.” She petted the puppy’s head. “You saved the day, kiddo. All four and a half fluffy pounds of you.”
They were stepping into their house when the Oak Ridge Boys belted out “Dream On.”
“Yeah?” It was Dane Carver.
Dane said, “We’ve got a solid lead on the assassin Hooley shot in the side last night. He broke into a doctor’s house in Annandale, a Dr. Marvin Kurtz, divorced and living alone. After the good doctor fixed him up, he clobbered him over the head, tied him up, and stuffed him in a closet. Here’s serendipity for you—the doc had bought one of those medical alert bracelets for his mom that day, and managed to press the button. When the cops arrived, he was still tied up and shouting his head off through the duct tape. The Annandale cops called us. The doc gave a description of the guy, and I’m betting we’ll find a lot of usable DNA.”
Savich said, “I’ll wager he didn’t expect the doctor to be found anytime soon, for at least a day, enough time so he’d be out of the area.”
“Yep. I’ve updated the BOLO out on him with the doctor’s description. Dr. Kurtz said he took codeine and antibiotics with him, enough to see him through, he said, that is, if he doesn’t move around too much in the next three days. Then he shrugged, said the man didn’t make a sound while he closed him up, he was tough. He also said he was lucky the bullet came close but didn’t hit anything vital, only muscle. The kind of wound that hurts like the devil but usually heals all right.
“Dr. Kurtz is pretty wrung out, but hyped, you know? He won’t shut up, he’s too buzzed on adrenaline. Do you want to see him tonight?”
Savich glanced down at his watch. It was late and the good doctor would probably crash soon now. “No, we’ll drive out to Annandale tomorrow morning. Let the good doctor have a nice night’s sleep.”
He raised his head to look at Sherlock. She was still bundled up in her parka and gloves. He walked to her and pulled her into his arms.
“What a night,” she said against his neck.
Annandale, Virginia
Sunday morning
Savich pulled the Porsche into the driveway of a small 1950s faded gray clapboard cottage set amid a dozen oak trees on a cul-de-sac.
Sherlock said, “Dr. Kurtz’s nurse told me he’s been renting this place for the past three months, since his wife caught him cheating and kicked him out.
“I wonder how our assassin found him. Was it blind luck? What really scares me is what could have happened if he’d had his family here.”
“Don’t make yourself crazy with what-ifs, sweetheart.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I’ve already done it enough for both of us.”
As they walked up the ancient flagstone steps with weeds sprouting up happily between them to the weathered front door, Sherlock said, “I’m very relieved the good doctor is alive, Dillon.”
Savich was, too. He knocked on the once red front door. The door opened on a tall, large-bosomed woman in her mid-thirties, her long blond hair curly around her pretty face. She stared at them from behind stylish aviator glasses, her eyes suspicious. Then she smiled. “Oh, you’re from the FBI, right?”