Tail Spin
Page 38
“You don’t even seem concerned, Jack,” Savich said. “What do you know that we don’t?”
“It so happens Molly gave me his laptop, and it has all his patients on it.”
“Make note of this, Rachael. Jack here’s a prince,” Savich said. “I was looking forward to a lovely eggplant po’ boy for lunch, and now you’ve made that possible.”
“Eggplant?” Rachael repeated, and looked astonished. “An eggplant po’ boy?”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, smiling, “grilled in only a soup çon of olive oil, available only in our cafeteria on the seventh floor of the Hoover building. Elaine Pomfrey makes the best vegetarian sandwiches in Washington, and this one she prepares especially for Dillon. Thank you, Jack, for having that great news.”
Savich said to Rachael, “You and Jack need to go to Senator Abbott’s house—your house—get all your stuff. Then we’re going to put you in a safe house.”
Rachael smiled at all three of them. “Nope, no safe house in this lifetime. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: I intend to have a chat this very afternoon with Aunt Laurel and Uncle Quincy, after I have some nice crispy fried chicken, maybe a biscuit and mashed potatoes in your famous cafeteria. But I don’t want to hear any more about hiding.”
Jack said to Savich, “I’ve got some more convincing to do, evidently.”
Sherlock said, “By the way, the blood samples from two of the shooters from Slipper Hollow are in the lab. We’ll soon know if those bozos are in the system. Still no word from any medical facilities about the guy you shot in Gillette’s kitchen, Jack.”
“Maybe they’re both dead,” Rachael said, and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Savich held up his hand. “It’s one o’clock. I’m starving. Let’s discuss this over my eggplant po’ boy.” He looked at Rachael. “And your fried chicken.”
Jack said, “What about the guy Rachael shot in Roy Bob’s garage? Roderick Lloyd?”
“He’s got himself a lawyer, still refuses to say a word,” Sherlock said. “Our agents searched his apartment, found some credit card receipts that might give us the gold. Lloyd has been to the Blue Fox restaurant over on Maynard four or five times in the past two weeks.
“Our agent found out Lloyd brought a Lolita with him the past three times, according to one of the waiters, who said she gave him her cell number. We should know who she is anytime now. As for Lloyd, at least he’s no longer a danger to anybody.”
Rachael said as they walked to the hospital parking lot, “I need a gun. Do you have one to lend me, Sherlock?”
“Look, Rachael, I know you’re a fine shot, I know your life is on the line here, but I’d be breaking the law if I gave you one.”
Not wonderful news, but Rachael said, “Okay, I understand. Hey, I wasn’t thinking—I bet Jimmy kept one at home.”
Savich and Jack both opened their mouths but Sherlock held up her hand. “No, guys, if there’s a gun at home, then what’s wrong with her defending herself? It’s not as if she’s not trained and might shoot somebody who doesn’t deserve it.”
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
“I don’t like this,” Jack said. “I really don’t.”
“Get over it,” Sherlock said, and looked at her husband. “No, no, bad dog, keep quiet.”
They stopped by the Criminal Apprehension Unit on the fifth floor, introduced Rachael to all the agents present. Ollie showed her a photo of his wife and his little boy. In the cafeteria, while Savich was eating his eggplant po’ boy and Rachael was chewing on a fried chicken leg, Sherlock’s cell rang. She swallowed a bite of taco, then answered.
She hung up barely a minute later. “We’ve got the name of Lolita—the young girl who was with Roderick Lloyd. The cell phone number she gave the waiter is for a phone that belongs to a married grad student who admitted giving the phone to a hooker in exchange for her services. He gave us her name.”
Sherlock beamed. “Angel Snodgrass is in juvie over in Fairfax.”
Twenty minutes later, she and Savich were in his new Porsche, zipping out of the Hoover garage.
TWENTY-THREE
Angel Snodgrass was sixteen years old, blessed with long, thick natural blond hair, soft baby-blue eyes, and a face clean of makeup. She did indeed look like an angel. An undercover vice cop had busted her for soliciting outside the Grove Creek Inn at the big Hammerson mall in Fairfax.
“Angel? I’m Special Agent Savich and this is Special Agent Sherlock. FBI. We’d like to speak to you.”
She folded her very white hands on the table in front of her and stared at them. Her nails were short, clean, and nicely buffed. “Why are you special?”
Savich grinned. “The way I hear it, up until the time Hoover took over, the FBI was a mess—no background checks, no training, a playground for thugs. Hoover changed all that, announced his agents would from that time on be special, and so it became our title. There are lots of other special agents now, but we were the first.” Savich wasn’t at all sure if that was entirely true, but it sounded like it might be.
Angel thought about this for a while as she studied his face. “Who’s Hoover?” she asked.
“Ah, well, he was a long time ago. Where’s home, Angel?” he asked her.
“Since I’m not going back there, I’m not saying.”
“Why were you turning tricks?” Sherlock asked.
Angel shrugged. “I wanted a Big Mac. Lots of businessmen are in and out of the Grove Creek Inn, and there are lots of guys at the mall. Since I’m so young and pretty, they usually tip me real good, too. If that cop hadn’t nabbed me, I could have had a dozen Big Macs. Now, it’s just the crap they claim is food in this pit. What do you special guys want anyway?”
Had she been abused before she finally ran away? Savich knew this girl would get counseled here, that there would be a shot at straightening her out.
Sherlock sat forward in her chair. “We need your help, Angel. The waiter you gave your cell number to at the Blue Fox restaurant told us you were with Roderick Lloyd. We need you to tell us about him.”
“Why? What’d Roddy do?”
Savich studied her, her eyes, her body movements. “Thing is, Angel, Roddy’s a very bad man. He’s in a hospital in western Virginia right now because he tried to murder a woman. It’s good for her that she’s smart and fast, got herself a rifle and shot him instead.”
“It so happens Molly gave me his laptop, and it has all his patients on it.”
“Make note of this, Rachael. Jack here’s a prince,” Savich said. “I was looking forward to a lovely eggplant po’ boy for lunch, and now you’ve made that possible.”
“Eggplant?” Rachael repeated, and looked astonished. “An eggplant po’ boy?”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, smiling, “grilled in only a soup çon of olive oil, available only in our cafeteria on the seventh floor of the Hoover building. Elaine Pomfrey makes the best vegetarian sandwiches in Washington, and this one she prepares especially for Dillon. Thank you, Jack, for having that great news.”
Savich said to Rachael, “You and Jack need to go to Senator Abbott’s house—your house—get all your stuff. Then we’re going to put you in a safe house.”
Rachael smiled at all three of them. “Nope, no safe house in this lifetime. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: I intend to have a chat this very afternoon with Aunt Laurel and Uncle Quincy, after I have some nice crispy fried chicken, maybe a biscuit and mashed potatoes in your famous cafeteria. But I don’t want to hear any more about hiding.”
Jack said to Savich, “I’ve got some more convincing to do, evidently.”
Sherlock said, “By the way, the blood samples from two of the shooters from Slipper Hollow are in the lab. We’ll soon know if those bozos are in the system. Still no word from any medical facilities about the guy you shot in Gillette’s kitchen, Jack.”
“Maybe they’re both dead,” Rachael said, and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Savich held up his hand. “It’s one o’clock. I’m starving. Let’s discuss this over my eggplant po’ boy.” He looked at Rachael. “And your fried chicken.”
Jack said, “What about the guy Rachael shot in Roy Bob’s garage? Roderick Lloyd?”
“He’s got himself a lawyer, still refuses to say a word,” Sherlock said. “Our agents searched his apartment, found some credit card receipts that might give us the gold. Lloyd has been to the Blue Fox restaurant over on Maynard four or five times in the past two weeks.
“Our agent found out Lloyd brought a Lolita with him the past three times, according to one of the waiters, who said she gave him her cell number. We should know who she is anytime now. As for Lloyd, at least he’s no longer a danger to anybody.”
Rachael said as they walked to the hospital parking lot, “I need a gun. Do you have one to lend me, Sherlock?”
“Look, Rachael, I know you’re a fine shot, I know your life is on the line here, but I’d be breaking the law if I gave you one.”
Not wonderful news, but Rachael said, “Okay, I understand. Hey, I wasn’t thinking—I bet Jimmy kept one at home.”
Savich and Jack both opened their mouths but Sherlock held up her hand. “No, guys, if there’s a gun at home, then what’s wrong with her defending herself? It’s not as if she’s not trained and might shoot somebody who doesn’t deserve it.”
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
“I don’t like this,” Jack said. “I really don’t.”
“Get over it,” Sherlock said, and looked at her husband. “No, no, bad dog, keep quiet.”
They stopped by the Criminal Apprehension Unit on the fifth floor, introduced Rachael to all the agents present. Ollie showed her a photo of his wife and his little boy. In the cafeteria, while Savich was eating his eggplant po’ boy and Rachael was chewing on a fried chicken leg, Sherlock’s cell rang. She swallowed a bite of taco, then answered.
She hung up barely a minute later. “We’ve got the name of Lolita—the young girl who was with Roderick Lloyd. The cell phone number she gave the waiter is for a phone that belongs to a married grad student who admitted giving the phone to a hooker in exchange for her services. He gave us her name.”
Sherlock beamed. “Angel Snodgrass is in juvie over in Fairfax.”
Twenty minutes later, she and Savich were in his new Porsche, zipping out of the Hoover garage.
TWENTY-THREE
Angel Snodgrass was sixteen years old, blessed with long, thick natural blond hair, soft baby-blue eyes, and a face clean of makeup. She did indeed look like an angel. An undercover vice cop had busted her for soliciting outside the Grove Creek Inn at the big Hammerson mall in Fairfax.
“Angel? I’m Special Agent Savich and this is Special Agent Sherlock. FBI. We’d like to speak to you.”
She folded her very white hands on the table in front of her and stared at them. Her nails were short, clean, and nicely buffed. “Why are you special?”
Savich grinned. “The way I hear it, up until the time Hoover took over, the FBI was a mess—no background checks, no training, a playground for thugs. Hoover changed all that, announced his agents would from that time on be special, and so it became our title. There are lots of other special agents now, but we were the first.” Savich wasn’t at all sure if that was entirely true, but it sounded like it might be.
Angel thought about this for a while as she studied his face. “Who’s Hoover?” she asked.
“Ah, well, he was a long time ago. Where’s home, Angel?” he asked her.
“Since I’m not going back there, I’m not saying.”
“Why were you turning tricks?” Sherlock asked.
Angel shrugged. “I wanted a Big Mac. Lots of businessmen are in and out of the Grove Creek Inn, and there are lots of guys at the mall. Since I’m so young and pretty, they usually tip me real good, too. If that cop hadn’t nabbed me, I could have had a dozen Big Macs. Now, it’s just the crap they claim is food in this pit. What do you special guys want anyway?”
Had she been abused before she finally ran away? Savich knew this girl would get counseled here, that there would be a shot at straightening her out.
Sherlock sat forward in her chair. “We need your help, Angel. The waiter you gave your cell number to at the Blue Fox restaurant told us you were with Roderick Lloyd. We need you to tell us about him.”
“Why? What’d Roddy do?”
Savich studied her, her eyes, her body movements. “Thing is, Angel, Roddy’s a very bad man. He’s in a hospital in western Virginia right now because he tried to murder a woman. It’s good for her that she’s smart and fast, got herself a rifle and shot him instead.”
