Everett started crying. He hiccupped. He looked up at Savich. “You promised me pills if I told you everything. I did. My pills, they’re in the medicine cabinet.”
Savich called out, “Dane, go into Mr. Everett’s bathroom and bring out his bottle of pain pills.”
They let him hiccup until Dane pressed the bottle into his hand, set a glass of water on the arm of the La-Z- Boy. Everett took two pills, drank the entire glass of water, some of it dribbling down his chin.
He wasn’t bad-looking, Sherlock thought dispassionately, staring down at him, maybe late thirties, lots of dirty blond hair, a good build, but he hadn’t shaved in too long, and didn’t smell like he’d bathed recently, either, understandable given his shoulder. He was wearing dirty gray sweats, dark green socks, a hole in the big toe. He looked, she thought, like a man who’d been ridden hard and put away wet too many times in his short years.
“And now, Don,” Savich said, “tell us where to find Perky.”
Everett chewed his lower lip. This was tough, Savich knew, this was betrayal of the killing kind.
“Think of your future,” Savich said, voice easy and smooth and scary.
“She lives a block over from that Barnes & Noble in Georgetown, off M Street, on Wisconsin, I think, in a little apartment over a boutique. I don’t know the name of the boutique.”
“Address?”
“Dude, I don’t know, I don’t—”
“Fine, I believe you. You’ll take us there.” Savich pulled him out of the La-Z-Boy, ignored his moans and groans, and handed him over to Dane and Ollie. “Our hotshot here is going to direct you to Perky’s apartment on Wisconsin. We’ll be right behind you with the other two agents following, to cover us.”
Savich turned to Sherlock, a black eyebrow hoisted. “Pathetic butt worm?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ten minutes later, Donley Everett pointed to a second-floor window above K-Martique, a specialized Goth shopping spot for the young fanged set. That, he said, was where Perky lived. Dane gave him another pill to keep him in the pain-med twilight zone. It would have looked like a regular shop from outside except for the lacy black curtains and the black door.
Once through the black front door at K-Martique, Sherlock, all smiles, nodded to the few customers as she wove her way through racks of gauzy black skirts, black dresses, black tops, some really interesting red plastic spikes, black boots, and lacy black underwear hot enough to sizzle a guy’s eyes, to the counter in the far corner. It was stationed in front of a full-length mirror, doubtless to allow the sales clerk visual cover of the store. “Hey, I’m looking for Perky. Can you help me out?”
The young woman behind the counter had long straight black hair, a dead white face, and she was dressed all in Addams family black her nail polish and lipstick black, too. Sherlock wondered what she looked like without all the paraphernalia.
She looked Sherlock up and down with a sort of vague contempt. “Hey, I can replace those bourgeois clothes you’re wearing with something cool.”
“You don’t like my black leather jacket?”
“Well, it’s okay, but you need some long gashes in it, you know, like with a knife, make you look more dangerous. I’ve got some you won’t even need to slice up.”
Sherlock looked interested, then regretful. “Sorry, don’t have time to shop today.” She pulled out her creds. “Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. Where’s Perky?”
The young woman barely looked at her ID. She said, “Perky’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
The girl gave her a bored looked and shrugged; one of the gauzy black sleeves fell off her very white bony shoulder.
“And what’s your name?”
“Me? I’m Pearl Compton. What’s it to you? You really should let me help you—your clothes and hair are about as mind-numbing as it gets. You really could use some help, lady.”
Sherlock said, “Listen up, Pearl. Tell me Perky’s real name and where to find her or I’ll get a big bucket of cold water and scrub your face in it.”
The three other patrons, all teenage girls who’d obviously been listening, couldn’t hightail it out of there fast enough. Savich held the door open for them and said, as they flew out the door, “Wise decision.”
Pearl slammed a very white hand down on the counter. “Look what you’ve done! Three customers, and you ran them off!”
Sherlock leaned in, said, “Yeah, yeah, what’s Perky’s real name?”
Pearl shrugged. “Oh, who cares? Maude Couple. She’s from Montana, says she grew up tending lambs.”
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know—old. Maybe forty, around there.”
“How long has she lived upstairs, Pearl?”
“Since I came to the store to manage it.”
“Where’s she gone?”
“I don’t know, honest. She gives me her key, tells me to water her ivy, then she just up and leaves.”
“Okay. Good. I want you to come upstairs with us, let us into Perky’s apartment.” Sherlock turned and waved to Savich, who was standing in the doorway.
“Oh no, I can’t do that. She’s private, and I know Perky would be real angry if I took anyone up there. She and the owner, you know, they sort of sleep together when he can get away from his wife.”
Savich walked right up to Pearl and towered over her, said absolutely nothing.
Pearl drummed her black fingernails on the counter, shrugged.
She pulled a key ring from beneath the counter, walked to the front door of the shop, flipped down the CLOSED sign inside, then locked the door.
“This way.” She looked over her shoulder at Savich. “You’d look pretty hot with a nice set of fangs, maybe some light powder to get that tan off your face.”
“Thanks,” Savich said.
“Maybe a dribble of blood down the side of your mouth.”
They followed her up the narrow back stairway, the wooden steps nine inches deep all the way to the top. They followed Pearl into a narrow, dim hallway, with a door at the end that had a sheet of black paper thumbtacked to it that said PERKY. “Here we go. This is her digs.”
She unlocked the door, shoved it open. Savich quickly pushed her behind them, “Stay put,” he said.
He and Sherlock, SIGs drawn, slowly walked in, Savich high, Sherlock low, careful to keep Pearl behind them. They were all the way in the small, shadowy space when the door slammed shut behind them and they heard the key turn in the lock, then the wild, fast flap of boots back down the stairs. Savich kicked the door open and, bending low, eased out into the small hallway. If he hadn’t been nearly bent double, he would have been shot in the chest. The bullet whizzed over his head, barely missing him. He fell flat on the hallway floor and fired. Two more bullets slammed into the wall above his head, then he heard the sound of running. Sherlock came down beside him. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, just humiliated.”
“Well,” she said, “I think we just met Perky. I gotta say, she’s not bad. I didn’t doubt her once.”
Savich pulled out his cell. “Dane, a girl—all Goth black—just did us in. It’s got to be Perky. No, no, we’re okay. She should be running out of the K-Martique any second now. She’s got a gun and she’s good. One of you go around back, just in case. If she already came out, go after her. Like I said, all Goth—long black hair, black clothes, black boots, real young, maybe early twenties. Be careful. I mean it, she’s dangerous.”
He listened for a moment. “Excellent, yeah, that’s her. Came right out the front door, did she? Pretty confident, our girl. Bring her down. Her real name is Pearl Compton. Maybe.”
Savich heard running footsteps, heard Dane shout, “Stop, Pearl! FBI, stop right there!”
There was a shot fired and Savich thought he’d swallow his tongue. He gripped his cell. “What happened? What’s going on?”
Three more gunshots. People shouting, screaming.
Savich and Sherlock dashed out of the shop to see Ollie and Dane running a block away, ducking into a Barnes & Noble.
“Not good,” Savich said.
