A couple minutes later, they were reading that the word was Welsh.
He said, “It means to stand, to be or become stationary, to stop moving. Why inscribe that on a ring?”
She said absolutely nothing.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a couple of photos of it with my cell. MAX and I can do some research later, maybe make some phone calls.”
After he’d snapped his photos, he looked at her pale face. “You need to turn in now. Too much has happened in too short a time.” He saw that she was holding out her hand, and so he gave her the ring, watched her thread it back onto the gold chain and put it inside her shirt again.
“Yes, I’m awfully tired, but I’d like to come back to work tomorrow, help set up the manhunt for Bruce Comafield with Coop. I don’t want to get too far behind on Kirsten Bolger’s case.”
Savich gave her a long look, wondered what she hadn’t told him, wondered what specifically she’d lied to him about, then nodded. “All right, I’ll see you in the morning.” He said good night, then returned to an empty house, which he hated. Sean and Astro were doing a sleepover with Marty at the Perrys’ house. He realized he missed Astro barking his head off as soon as he walked up the flagstone steps to his front door.
CHAPTER 36
Lucy slipped into Gloria’s passenger seat, waited for Coop to seatbelt himself in. “So, we’re off to the Willard. I hope we can find out more about Bruce Comafield. Can you believe Dillon pulled ID photos of everyone in that meeting with Lansford and passed them around? Sometimes you want to punch him when he pulls tricks like that. And there was payoff—Sherlock recognized Comafield right away.”
“We already know everything about him, from the mole behind his right knee to the C he got in poly sci— pretty funny for an aide to a wannabe lawmaker, or should I say
“Former wannabe lawmaker, too.”
Coop looked over at her. “Do you mind if after we visit the Willard, we drive by my mom’s so she can see what a hot tootsie I picked up in Gloria? Ah, you’d be the first hot tootsie I ever brought around, by the way.”
“Yeah, yeah, I believe you.
“All right, hot chick. That better?”
“Yeah, tons better. Now fill me in, Coop.”
When they reached the Willard hotel, they learned Mr. Lansford had checked out a couple hours before, on his way to Dulles, to fly back to San Francisco to close down his campaign and officially withdraw from the congressional race. They tried to call him but were sent directly to voice mail.
Coop and Lucy spoke to the bellman, the waitstaff, the desk people, the housekeeper, all of whom had said they hadn’t seen Bruce Comafield since early Monday. They found a confiding young woman in the gift shop who’d sold Comafield some shaving cream on Monday morning. He told her he’d been fired. It was weird, she said to them; he wasn’t down about being fired, he seemed excited about something.
When Coop called Mr. Lansford’s executive assistant in San Francisco, he confirmed that Mr. Comafield wasn’t with Mr. Lansford; indeed, he’d been let go, since there was nothing more for him to do.
It appeared Bruce Comafield had fled right to Kirsten, to New York City. And he’d been excited about it. There was still no word on the APB out on him.
As Lucy and Coop rode the elevator back up to the CAU on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building, she found herself grinning at him. “Would you really have driven us to your mom’s house if we hadn’t been pressed for time?” She paused a beat. “Tootsie?”
“I’m now thinking chickie.”
“That’s sick. I like it.”
“Tell you what, we’ll go see my mom as soon as we can break free today. How about around seven o’clock this evening? I can try out both tootsie and chickie on her, see which she prefers.”
He’d swear he saw disappointment in her eyes, but then it was gone, replaced by—what? Resignation? “I’m sorry, Coop, but I can’t.”
“That’s okay. I can stick with you, see what you’re up to, help out. I’m a pretty useful guy to have around, Lucy.”
She lightly laid her hand on his arm. “Believe me, Coop, you don’t want to be around me.”
They weren’t six feet from the CAU when Coop’s cell rang. “McKnight here.”
She watched his face as he listened. She saw ferocious delight. He’d scarcely rung off when she said, “What?”
“Savich got a call from a waitress in Baltimore at the Texas Range Bar and Grill. She swears she saw Ted Bundy’s daughter in the bar last night.”
“Hot diggity. I was hoping this would happen. Every worker in every bar in the U.S. must know Kirsten’s face by now.” Lucy highfived Coop. “We’re all heading to Baltimore, right?”
CHAPTER 37
Savich settled his Porsche snugly against the curb in front of a very nice house in an upper-middle-class section of Fairfax. There were three high-priced cars in the driveway, two Beemers and a Lexus SUV. He knew Mrs. Patil was here; hers was the Beemer 750i Mr. Patil had bragged about to Savich, claiming it drove like a dream and felt like you were sitting on the living-room sofa when you rode in the backseat. Who owned the other two?
He looked around at the well-maintained front yard. Everything looked prosperous, well cared for.
His knock was answered by a small middle-aged Asian man wearing a Burberry coat, a small white bandana tied around his shaved head. He bowed to Savich.
“I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, to see Mrs. Patil. I called.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Mrs. Patil asked me to answer the door on my way out. I have finished her jujitsu lesson. Please follow me, Agent Savich; she is in the living room, enjoying wine with Mr. Urbi and Mr. Shama.”
Savich had believed Mrs. Patil looked fifty when he’d first seen her at the hospital. Now, she looked a laughing forty-five, in her white
“Mrs. Patil,” he said.
She was on her feet and lightly running across the living room to take his hand and draw him in. “Come, come, Agent Savich, I want you to meet Nandi’s best friend, Mr. Amal Urbi, and his nephew, Mr. Krishna Shama. This is Special Agent Savich of the FBI.”
She stood back and beamed while Mr. Shama and Savich shook hands. Savich knew Krishna Shama was forty-eight, very successful in the car-repair business, having expanded to six shops in the past four years. He had three grown children, a dead wife, and, Ben Raven had told him, lived with a twenty-three-year-old woman who worked for the State Department. He looked sharp, Savich thought, well dressed and lean, a runner, probably, and
