it off by not remembering the agent’s name. Long and short of it was Ms. Smiley was long gone with the guy by the time anybody got back to the hospital. The guy was the getaway driver for the Gang of Four.”
“Pretty impressive. I wonder where he got the fake ID,” Savich said.
“I don’t know that yet, but I will know soon. I’ll tell you, Daugherty will be cleaning toilets on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building until Christmas. This isn’t good, Savich.”
Sean shouted, “Did you see that, Papa? I made two free throws in a row!”
Marty Perry, Sean’s best friend since they were both two, yelled over him, “Mr. Savich, Sean wasn’t behind the free-throw line! He’s cheating. You give me the ball, Sean, or I won’t let you play my sax. It’s my turn!”
“Well, I won’t let you play my piano.” Sean ran away with the ball, Marty ran after him, and the two of them went at it. At least they rolled around in the thick summer grass rather than on the concrete driveway. The basketball—kid-sized and bright orange—went rolling out into the street, hit a fire hydrant, and came to a bouncing stop against the curb.
Astro, Sean’s Scottie, and Marty’s big golden retriever, Burma, were dancing around them, barking as loud as they could, tails wagging furiously.
Savich said into his cell, “Excuse me, sir, but I’ve got to separate two warring basketball factions and rescue the ball. I’ll call you back with Sherlock in a couple of minutes.”
“I had four warring factions in my house, in any sport you can name. Call me back when you can,” Maitland said, laughed, and hung up. He had four grown sons, all bruisers.
Since it was safer to let both children pummel him rather than each other, Savich soon had both kids climbing on top of him, trying to hold his arms down on the grass. Marty’s mom, Lucy, trotted up, stared down at Savich, and grinned. “Ah, I think they might have you pinned, Dillon. Tell you what, let me take these ferocious wrestlers off your hands. Come on, Marty, let go of Dillon’s arm,” she said to her daughter as she peeled her off Savich. “As for you, Burma, stop licking faces. Come on, boy. That’s it. You too, Astro.” She said to Savich, “I can see I owe you or Sherlock a favor here for physical distress. Okay, Marty, Sean, how about both of you come with me. The magic genie sent some fresh lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies, extra walnuts.”
Sean and Marty instantly forgot their wrestling match with Savich and their own disagreement, and jumped to their feet, yelling together in victory. Savich hoped she’d made a couple dozen cookies, since both kids had hollow legs.
“I’m the champ!” Sean yelled. “Extra walnuts?”
“Yep, I asked the genie especially for extra walnuts, just for you, Sean.”
Marty was torn. “I don’t know, Mom. Mr. Savich was saying he’d play with us, you know, show us some moves.”
Burma, tongue lolling, barked, Astro joined in, and the two children laughed.
“You’ll need your strength,” Savich said. “Cookies first.”
Lucy said, “You might have to fight those mighty dogs for the cookies. You’d best hurry now, guys, chocolate chips don’t last forever, you know.”
The little boy and little girl went whooping across the front yard and next door to the Perry house, the dogs racing beside them. Lucy gave Savich a hand up, patted his shoulder, and took off after them. She called over her shoulder, “I’ll bring Sean and Astro home in an hour or so.”
He was dusting himself off when Sherlock appeared in the open doorway, wearing white shorts and a flowy pink top. She was lightly tanned, her hair pulled up in a curl-packed ponytail, the sandals on her feet showing off toenails painted a soft pink. She looked about sixteen. Savich felt the familiar kick in his blood when she waved and smiled at him.
“I’d sure like some lemonade too,” Savich called out.
Sherlock laughed. “Then you’ve got to help me denude the Meyer lemon tree.”
He looked at her closely. “You’re not doing that, are you? Remember, your spleen became history only two months ago. Rest, Sherlock, you’ve got to rest.”
“Yeah, yeah, I was growing mold. It’s good to be back to work, back to doing important things, like making lemonade.” She touched her lingers to his cheek. “I’m okay. I won’t overdo, I promise.”
“You already did. You came roaring down to the Georgetown bank. Ruth told me you were outside running after that fourth robber, that Dane had to grab you.”
“Nah, it wasn’t any big deal—oh, all right, that was a little much, but I’m better every day, Dillon. Don’t worry.”
Still, he worried, and she knew he worried, and they’d both be worried for another month or so, until she was one hundred percent again.
12
AFTER SAVICH DRANK DOWN half a glass of tart lemonade, something Sherlock made very well, he said, “Mr. Maitland called. Lissy, our sixteen-year-old-girl bank robber, is no longer under guard at the hospital.”
He nodded. “Yep, she’s in the wind, probably with the help of the missing getaway driver.” He told her what Mr. Maitland had said.
Her first comment was, “Daugherty isn’t stupid, Dillon, he’d spot fake creds in a nanosecond. And if they weren’t fake—now that worries me.”
“You’re right,” he said. He dialed up Mr. Maitland, punched on the speaker. “Sorry it took so long. Both Sherlock and I are here now.”
Maitland said immediately, “Bless Daugherty’s little pointed head, he finally remembered the last name of the agent on the FBI ID the guy flashed at him—Coggins. Turns out he’s Peter Coggins, an agent in the Richmond field office. Agents got over to his house fast, found his sister untying him and pulling duct tape off his mouth. She says she was pretty surprised to see him tied up on the kitchen floor. She’d brought him over a strawberry pie.”
“That sure sounds good,” Savich said.
“Yeah, it does. At least the guy didn’t kill him. Now, here’s how it went down, according to Coggins. He was mowing his backyard when this young guy trots up and asks for directions to Interstate Ninety-five into Washington. When Coggins turned to point, the guy bashed him over the head, stole his ID and his SIG. The Richmond SAC had just gotten our alert about Lissy Smiley escaping and called me pronto.”
Sherlock said. “Is Agent Coggins okay?”
“Yeah, the doc said he’s got himself only a minor concussion, which, naturally, doesn’t make his head feel any better. He should be hack in the saddle in a couple of days.”
Savich said, “As you know, you asked us not to work this case, sir. This guy, do you have any ideas about him?”
“Oh, yeah, we know who he is—her cousin. Actually, we already knew about him. Agents were trying to locate him in connection with the case, as soon as we got positive ID on Lissy and the others. Oh yes, you guys won’t believe this. As you know, a major rule for bank robbers is never carry ID. Well, this crew did, all nice and neat in their pockets. Pretty unprofessional of them and good for us. Now, the cousin wasn’t at his address in Winnett, North Carolina, and nobody had seen him for a good six weeks. He told a neighbor he was going backpacking in Europe for a couple of months. Both Daugherty and Coggins identified him from his driver’s license photo, so we already have it plastered everywhere.”
“Does he own a car?”
“No, a motorcycle.”
