crashed in the mountains, it would have been the end of him and his friend.
“Incidentally, I’m a detective from Boston PD, so you can hang up thinking I’m a backwoods hick who doesn’t know his butt from his pinkie finger.”
Savich had planned to politely shuffle aside this sheriff named Dougie who tended septic tanks wearing his .38 over bib overalls. Time to reevaluate. He said, “I’ll bet worrying about septic tanks wasn’t in your job description in the BPD. How long have you been down here in Kentucky?”
“About ten years, sheriff of Parlow for nine. My wife was born here, missed it, so we moved here. You’re real smooth, Agent Savich. You don’t want to tell me a blessed thing, I get that. You thought you’d get away with a nice courtesy call, blow me off, and go about your fed business. But I am the sheriff, I’m not stupid, and, praise be, I’m not the stereotypical tobacco-spitting jughead who runs a still in his backyard.” Then ho looked down at himself and laughed. “Regardless of the picture I’m currently presenting, you might discover I’ve got a good brain, and it’s at your service since we had a plane come down in suspicious circumstances in my jurisdiction. You don’t want to come clean with me—well then, maybe I’ll just have to do some checking on this myself. Who’s the guy in Franklin County Hospital?”
Savich saw clearly now that this man not only had a good brain, he also wouldn’t stop, he’d do exactly what he said, he’d check into this himself. Well, all right, he also knew the terrain, both people and geography. Savich gave Dougie Hollyfield a long look. He said, “I like the .38 over the overalls, nice touch.”
Dougie Hollyfield grinned. “My wife was laughing too hard to tell me what she thought. Now, you going to level with me? Let me do my pitiful best to help you?”
“Yes,” Savich said, “I think I am. The man in Franklin County Hospital is Dr. Timothy MacLean, originally from Lexington, Kentucky. His family owns the MacLean racing stables; perhaps you’ve heard of them.”
Sheriff Hollyfield nodded.
“His family knows Agent Crowne and his family, and so they asked for his help, told him Dr. MacLean believed someone was trying to murder him in Washington, where he’s a psychiatrist to some big-name patients. MacLean’s wife got him to come back to Lexington, to his family. There was another attempt on his life, so Agent Crowne flew to Lexington to fetch him back to Washington for protection, and to get to the bottom of this.”
A pale brow shot up, fingers hooked the wide belt over the bib overalls. “You gave me a lot more than I thought you would. Let me remark that the FBI doesn’t do things like fly planes to fetch a noncriminal citizen back to Washington, Agent Savich.”
Savich said, “Since Agent Crowne knows the family, it was personal.”
Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Why don’t you add that the main reason the feds are in this is because some very big, high-profile names are involved? What did this Dr. MacLean do to really piss off one of his high-roller patients?”
“Now that I can’t tell you.”
“All right, I’ll buy that for the moment. So we keep things even here, Agent Savich, let me tell you Dot—she’s Parlow’s other paramedic—told me about the downed search-and-rescue plane. She figured the pilot was from a law enforcement agency since they’re the ones who usually use those planes. She said the pilot was good, bringing the plane down in the valley. She should know—Dot’s a pilot herself, as well as a paramedic. She wondered why Agent Crowne was flying it since she hadn’t heard about any accidents.”
“I believe it was the only plane available.”
“So after they medevaced Dr. MacLean out, Dot examined the plane.”
Savich waited. He knew there wasn’t much left after it had exploded on the ground. He also knew he wasn’t going to like what the sheriff was about to tell him.
“Dot didn’t have the time or the expertise to do a thorough check, but from the look of what was left of the fuselage, it looked to her like the luggage compartment was blown outward by some sort of explosion, maybe a bomb. Seems like it didn’t work too well, since the plane wasn’t blown out of the sky. So, I’d appreciate it, Agent Savich, if you don’t try to pawn off the crash on some sort of a malfunction.” Sheriff Hollyfield was rocking back and forth on his toes. He was wearing galoshes, Savich saw, though very clean, thankfully, as if they’d been hosed down.
“Yes,” Savich said, “that’s what Agent Crowne thinks. We’ve got an expert coming to verify. If you wouldn’t mind keeping a deputy at the crash site to protect it until our people arrive.”
Sheriff Hollyfield nodded. “All right, then. You’ll keep me in the loop, Agent Savich?”
Savich nodded. You never knew when you were going to find good law enforcement, he thought as he shook the sheriff’s hand, thankfully as clean as his galoshes.
Savich looked over the scattered wreckage while Sheriff Holly-field hooked up the tow to Rachael’s Charger. “Hard to imagine surviving that,” Sheriff Hollyfield said, straightening to look out over Cudlow Valley, his hand over his eyes to shade against the strong morning sun.
“Believe me, we are very grateful.”
Before the sheriff dropped him and Rachael’s duffel off at Monk’s Cafe, Savich said, “Could I come to your office a bit later, Sheriff, and use your landline to call the Franklin County Hospital? See how Dr. MacLean is doing?”
Sheriff Hollyfield nodded.
First Savich wanted to speak to Sherlock, see what she was doing with Rachael Abercrombie. He tried his cell again, but couldn’t get a signal. Mix mountains with the boondocks, and technology didn’t mean squat.
Monk’s Cafe was on Old Squaw Lane, a small skinny white building with an apartment on the second floor, sandwiched between May’s Cleaners and Clyde’s 24/7. It was kitty-corner from the Parlow Clinic on Rosy Bill Avenue.
Savich set Rachael’s duffel next to her on the seat.
“Thank yon, Agent Savich. Where did you have my car towed?”
“We’ll talk about that in a moment.” Savich picked up a menu. “What’s good?”
A waitress with impossibly ink-black hair sprayed up in a cone walked briskly to their table, her bright yellow high-top sneakers thumping on the worn linoleum, wearing a huge apron over jeans and a man’s white dress shirt.
She stopped, looked him over, gave him a big smile showing teeth as white as her dress shirt. “Well now, Deliah—she’s my sister, the nurse at the clinic—she called me about the federal agents being here, one of them bloody and nearly dead in an examining room. But that isn’t you, thank the good Lord.” She paused a moment, tapped her pencil on her chin, and eyed him. “Aren’t you ever a hottie, that’s what Deliah said. She didn’t know about the other one ‘cause he was in such bad shape. You’re all dangerous-looking, not a single soft edge on you. I’ll bet you’re a real bad boy. Of course, that’s what makes the women perk up when you’re around—even my sister, who never even noticed her own husband before he passed. Just look at you—two pretty girls here, ready and waiting.”
Sherlock snorted. Suzette, the waitress, ignored her.
Suzette was old enough to be his mother, Savich thought, and gave her a big smile. “Nah, I’m only dangerous when I don’t get my Cheerios for breakfast. May I please have some very hot tea ... Suzette?”
“You can call me Suz,” she said, licking the tip of her pencil before writing down the order. “We only got tea bags, that all right?”
Savich nodded. He could already see the tea bag floating in the lukewarm water.
“I know it’s still early, but Tony just took his meatloaf out of the oven. Or, if you’re into healthy eats, I’ve got some fish sticks, nice and deep-fried.”
Savich ended up with scrambled eggs and wheat toast with some gooseberry jam Suz promised was the greatest. She nodded at Sherlock and Rachael. “Your two pretty ladies sure thought so.”
He looked up to see Rachael grinning at him. “Something tells me you don’t eat many deep-fried fish sticks, Agent Savich.”
“No, but our kid would eat them every day if we let him, between tacos and hot dogs.”
Rachael’s eyes flicked over them. “What’s your kid’s name again?”
“Sean’s our boy, big into computer games and football, wants to help the Redskins build a dynasty, though he doesn’t really know what that means.”
“Married FBI agents. I never imagined such a thing, and Sherlock tells me you work together.”
Savich nodded.
