Tail Spin

around midnight. An autopsy is scheduled for this morning.”

“Agent Savich, why an autopsy? Didn’t she die of bullet wounds?”

“Did you shoot her yourself?”

Savich said, “So far, our preliminary information is that her wounds weren’t fatal. Did she die from surgical complications? We’ll know today.”

“But she’s still dead. Hey, wait a minute. You think she was murdered?”

“How many times did you shoot her?”

“What did she do? Who was she?”

“Why did she run into the bookstore?”

“What’s her name?”

Savich finally held up his hand.

The room fell silent. “Her name was Pearl Elaine Compton. She was an established assassin, a very good one, according to our information, also a very long-lived one, given she was forty-one years old al the time of her death.

“She had three cohorts. One is dead, one is in the hospital, and the third is still at large. I’ll say it again—we’ll know the cause of her death today.

“As you might have heard, there was a lot of alarm and panic, all understandable, until one of the agents brought her down right after a teenage girl she was using as a shield was smart enough to bite Compton’s forearm and escape.

“It took two shots to bring the suspect down, shoulder and arm. She stayed down and we evacuated her to the hospital.

“No one else was hurt—no customers, no employees, no one in law enforcement.” He leaned even closer, cupped the mike between his hands. “The manager of the M Street Barnes & Noble is Steve Olson, a man I know personally. He was a great help at calming everyone down. He did complain to me, however, that they only now finished reshelving at least five hundred books.”

A bit of laughter. All of them were straining to get closer.

“What this all boils down to is that we escaped tragedy on this one. I sincerely hope my next visit to the bookstore will involve only a cup of tea and looking through the new best sellers. Okay does anyone have any questions?”

Every single hand shot in the air, voices already escalating. Savich gave them a look. He nodded to Mercer Jones, longtime crime reporter for the Washington Post. Mercer had planted a couple of stories for him over the years. Mercer said in his deep, plodding voice, “Agent Savich, why is the FBI involved in a shooting in Georgetown? Why not the Washington police? What’s really going on here? Why were you after this Pearl Compton?”

Mercer was good, bless him; Savich had always recognized it. Mercer had given him the perfect lead-in. Savich said, “Good questions. Let me give you some critical information.” He looked at Jimmy Maitland, who nodded.

“As you all know, Senator John James Abbott recently died in an automobile crash that was ruled accidental.” He paused. “We now believe it’s possible that Pearl Compton, the assassin who died last night, was involved in his death. We’ve reopened the case.”

No need to mention Rachael, and Mr. Maitland had agreed. After all, this performance was to protect her. Why kill her if the FBI already knew everything she knew? The media would go haywire, dig into all of it. They’d find Rachael, but it would take a while. Whoever in Senator Abbott’s family was behind it, they had to be afraid. Fear meant mistakes. As he expected, there was a moment of stunned silence, then pandemonium.

Milly Cranshaw, host of Night Lights on PBS, yelled out, “Agent Savich, the official ruling was that Senator Abbott had been drinking and he lost control of his car. You’re saying someone hired this woman to assassinate Senator Abbott? Who would do that? Why?”

Savich smiled at her. Trust Milly to load up with a half-dozen questions so he could pick and choose.

“Pearl Compton was hired to make it look like an accident?” added Thomas Black of CBS, bushy gray eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

“What I’m saying is, we’re investigating whether Pearl Compton was involved.”

“But who would want to kill Senator Abbott?”

“Do you think it was a terrorist act?”

Mercer shouted out, “But no one took credit.”

Savich let the wave of questions flow over him. Many voices he recognized, but soon it became a cacophony, and they were beginning to argue with one another.

Time to bring it to a stop. Savich raised his hand. The room quieted.

“We’re investigating everyone involved in Senator Abbott’s life, both personal and professional.”

“But what information do you have that raised doubt his death was an accident?” yelled Bert Mintz from Fox.

“We believe Senator Abbott had not taken a single drink for at least eighteen months before his death. And for eighteen months, he had not driven a car, either. We have a good deal of information in our ongoing investigation that we are not prepared to make public at this time.” He knew what he’d just said would be his big sound bite.

Savich turned away in the two seconds of stunned silence, something he didn’t realize was possible, then, of course, came more shouted questions.

Slowly, he paused, turned back. He said, “I will keep you updated as our investigation continues. Thank you.”

Savich stepped away from the podium and walked off the dais amid the cacophony of voices, Jimmy Maitland on his heels. His boss was smart. No way was Mr. Maitland going to face that rabid pack.

Savich, Sherlock, and Maitland stood in the wing, listening to the questions being flung in their general direction. Director Mueller shut them down with his usual polite efficiency.

Maitland said to Savich, “We’re putting the FBI’s credibility on the line here, Savich.” He plowed his fingers through his crew cut.

“We all agreed it’s our best shot at protecting Rachael and getting to the truth.”

Maitland nodded, then laughed. “The looks on their faces. I thought old Jerry Webber from the Post was going to fall out of his chair. That was some bombshell.”

Maitland sighed. “It’s still really tough for me to accept that someone killed Jimmy. I never noticed he’d stopped drinking, but then I only saw him every couple of months. Rachael is completely sure about this?”

Savich nodded.

Maitland said, “You know the media will discover her in no time now they’re motivated. They’ll be camping out on the Abbott front yard. Like you said, the announcement should protect her from any more attempts on her life. Clean it up, Savich, clean it up fast.”

Director Mueller repeated what Maitland had said. “Take care of it, Savich. Quickly. The president is very concerned.” He smiled at Sherlock and left, three of his staff surrounding him.

Sherlock asked Maitland, “Did Senator Abbott tell you about his daughter, sir?”

“Yes, he was very happy, but he didn’t tell me too much about her background. He seemed thrilled to have found her. His spirits were good.” Maitland shook his head. “But then six weeks later, he’s dead. This is a deep black snake pit, boyo. The director’s right, it needs to be settled once and for all.”

“Soon, I hope,” Savich said. “Why don’t you come over to my house this evening, sir. You can meet Rachael Janes Abbott.”

“Sounds good. How about Dr. MacLean? Any updates?”

Savich smiled. “We’ve got some good leads there. In fact, if you’ll excuse us, sir, we need to follow up on something.” Savich, holding Sherlock’s hand, walked off, leaving Maitland to stare after him and shake his head. He was struck by a sharp memory of Savich’s dad, Buck Savich, the wild cowboy who caught more bad guys than he had in his time. He remembered being in a bar in Dallas with Buck once when a paunchy guy in black leather came strutting in to pick a fight. He picked Buck, the fool. Maitland smiled when he thought of the guy stretched out on his back on the barroom floor, moaning.

He looked forward to meeting Jimmy’s daughter. What did Jimmy’s ex-wife, Jacqueline, and her daughters