The Maze
Page 31
Savich read aloud: '"No one around, Lieutenant. Not a single soul. Oh, just some patients, of course. They were scared, some of them disoriented. Perfectly natural.' " He raised his head. "This is from a night floor nurse." He read down the page. "This one is from a janitor: "There wasn't anybody around. Just old folks and they're everywhere. Scared, they were. I helped several of them back to their rooms.' "
Romero nearly squeaked when he read: " 'There was this one old lady who felt faint. I carried her into the nearest room, the recreation parlor. Poor old doll. She didn't want me to leave her, but I had to.' " Romero had a long narrow face, rather like Prince Charles's. He had thick, black brows that nearly met between his eyes, eyes that were black and mirrored a formidable intelligence. He shook the paper toward Lacey. "Good going, Sherlock. That last quote was from a cop. A cop! Jesus, it was there all the time."
Savich was sitting back in his chair, just looking at each of the agents, one by one. "So,'' he said finally, once all of them were looking at him, "do you think this is the answer? Our killer is disguised as an old woman, a patient?"
"Looks good to me," replied George Hanks, a thirty-five-year veteran of the Bureau who had the oldest eyes Lacey had ever seen.
Savich turned to Ollie. "You're the lead on this case. What do you think?"
Ollie was staring at Lacey. He looked wounded, his mouth pinched. "I didn't know anything about what Sherlock was going to do. It seems fairly straightforward, put like this. Like it's so out there that we were all fools not to catch it. Of course they did already check this once, and we mulled it over too, but I guess none of us went deep enough. The first thing to do is call that cop and ask him who that old lady he carried into the recreation room was."
"Good idea," Savich replied. "That could pretty well clinch it if the cop remembers." He turned to Lacey. "I don't suppose you know if the killer is Jewish, Sherlock? Or hates Jews? Not necessarily the residents, since only two of the five old ladies who were killed were Jews. The owners, you think? Or have you dismissed the Star of David idea?"
"I don't know, sir, about either. Listen, this idea just came to me, that's all. It was blind luck."
"Yes, I rather suppose it was," Hannah said as she rose, "since you're so new at this."
Ollie was dogging Lacey's heels out of the conference room. "Why?" he said, lightly touching her arm.
"There honestly wasn't time, Ollie. No, of course there was time. It's just that I, oh damn, this sounds ridiculous, but I really wasn't even thinking about it until it popped right into my head. Surely you've done the same thing."
"Yeah, sure, but then when I find something, the first thing I do is tell my partner. You didn't say a word. You just tromped into the conference room and showed everyone how great you were. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, Sherlock."
"No, you're right. It wasn't. I can only say that I honestly wasn't thinking about it." It was true. She hadn't known that Savich would put her on the spot in front of the whole Unit, but he had. There'd been no time then to say anything to Ollie. No, there'd been time. She just hadn't thought about it. "Listen, Ollie, what happened was this. When I was on the plane going to Boston, I was pushed into this old woman coming out of the gangway. She turned on me and blasted me with the foulest language I'd ever heard. She looked mean. She looked at me as if she wanted to kill me. She's the one who should get all the credit if this works out."
"How did Savich know that you'd come up with something?"
"I can't tell you that, Ollie. I'd like to, but I can't. I'm sorry. Please. I might not be around much longer. I don't know."
"What's going on?" Even though Ollie was a fatalist, he forgot anger very quickly. He laid his hand on her shoulder. "It's something heavy, isn't it?"
"Yes. Very heavy."
"Sherlock. In my office. Now."
Ollie spun around at Savich's voice. "Would you like to tell me what's wrong?"
"No, this is just between the two of us, Ollie. Stop looking like a rottweiler. I'm not going to pound her into the floor-at least not yet, not here. Come along, Sherlock."
But they didn't go to his office. He led her out of the Hoover Building to a small park that was catty-corner to it. "Sit."
She sat on the narrow bench. Fortunately, she didn't have to wake up a homeless person and ask him to leave. It was a beautiful day, the sky clear, just a light, cool breeze. The sidewalks were crowded with a batch of fall tourists. There were two families with small kids eating picnic lunches on blankets. It was utterly foreign to her, this family thing. It hadn't been, a long time ago. That was before her mother had become ill. At least before Lacey had realized how very ill she was.
Romero nearly squeaked when he read: " 'There was this one old lady who felt faint. I carried her into the nearest room, the recreation parlor. Poor old doll. She didn't want me to leave her, but I had to.' " Romero had a long narrow face, rather like Prince Charles's. He had thick, black brows that nearly met between his eyes, eyes that were black and mirrored a formidable intelligence. He shook the paper toward Lacey. "Good going, Sherlock. That last quote was from a cop. A cop! Jesus, it was there all the time."
Savich was sitting back in his chair, just looking at each of the agents, one by one. "So,'' he said finally, once all of them were looking at him, "do you think this is the answer? Our killer is disguised as an old woman, a patient?"
"Looks good to me," replied George Hanks, a thirty-five-year veteran of the Bureau who had the oldest eyes Lacey had ever seen.
Savich turned to Ollie. "You're the lead on this case. What do you think?"
Ollie was staring at Lacey. He looked wounded, his mouth pinched. "I didn't know anything about what Sherlock was going to do. It seems fairly straightforward, put like this. Like it's so out there that we were all fools not to catch it. Of course they did already check this once, and we mulled it over too, but I guess none of us went deep enough. The first thing to do is call that cop and ask him who that old lady he carried into the recreation room was."
"Good idea," Savich replied. "That could pretty well clinch it if the cop remembers." He turned to Lacey. "I don't suppose you know if the killer is Jewish, Sherlock? Or hates Jews? Not necessarily the residents, since only two of the five old ladies who were killed were Jews. The owners, you think? Or have you dismissed the Star of David idea?"
"I don't know, sir, about either. Listen, this idea just came to me, that's all. It was blind luck."
"Yes, I rather suppose it was," Hannah said as she rose, "since you're so new at this."
Ollie was dogging Lacey's heels out of the conference room. "Why?" he said, lightly touching her arm.
"There honestly wasn't time, Ollie. No, of course there was time. It's just that I, oh damn, this sounds ridiculous, but I really wasn't even thinking about it until it popped right into my head. Surely you've done the same thing."
"Yeah, sure, but then when I find something, the first thing I do is tell my partner. You didn't say a word. You just tromped into the conference room and showed everyone how great you were. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, Sherlock."
"No, you're right. It wasn't. I can only say that I honestly wasn't thinking about it." It was true. She hadn't known that Savich would put her on the spot in front of the whole Unit, but he had. There'd been no time then to say anything to Ollie. No, there'd been time. She just hadn't thought about it. "Listen, Ollie, what happened was this. When I was on the plane going to Boston, I was pushed into this old woman coming out of the gangway. She turned on me and blasted me with the foulest language I'd ever heard. She looked mean. She looked at me as if she wanted to kill me. She's the one who should get all the credit if this works out."
"How did Savich know that you'd come up with something?"
"I can't tell you that, Ollie. I'd like to, but I can't. I'm sorry. Please. I might not be around much longer. I don't know."
"What's going on?" Even though Ollie was a fatalist, he forgot anger very quickly. He laid his hand on her shoulder. "It's something heavy, isn't it?"
"Yes. Very heavy."
"Sherlock. In my office. Now."
Ollie spun around at Savich's voice. "Would you like to tell me what's wrong?"
"No, this is just between the two of us, Ollie. Stop looking like a rottweiler. I'm not going to pound her into the floor-at least not yet, not here. Come along, Sherlock."
But they didn't go to his office. He led her out of the Hoover Building to a small park that was catty-corner to it. "Sit."
She sat on the narrow bench. Fortunately, she didn't have to wake up a homeless person and ask him to leave. It was a beautiful day, the sky clear, just a light, cool breeze. The sidewalks were crowded with a batch of fall tourists. There were two families with small kids eating picnic lunches on blankets. It was utterly foreign to her, this family thing. It hadn't been, a long time ago. That was before her mother had become ill. At least before Lacey had realized how very ill she was.
