Tailspin

  “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.

  They ran down the block and slowed only when they stepped into Barnes & Noble. They both knew the bookstore well, all three floors, the first floor a big open space, the clerks behind a counter extending along the left side, the books to the right. At that moment, the place was fast becoming a mad-house, clerks and customers shouting and yelling, some on the floor, a couple of bookshelves overturned, books tossed everywhere, and a man’s voice—Steve Olson, the manager—yelling for everyone to get down. Dane and Ollie and the two surveillance agents were weaving their way in and out of the aisles, following the screams and yells, looking for Perky.

  Savich saw her shoot at Dane from behind the travel aisle, then leap onto the down escalator from the second level and begin to run up, flat out, her black skirt flying, her boots thudding loudly on the treads, a gun in her right hand. He knew to his gut she was heading to the third floor, the children’s section, to find herself the perfect hostage. Of course she could grab anyone. He called, “Sherlock, get everyone over here. Steve, buzz up to the children’s area. Get the kids on the elevator, fast, or in the restrooms, just out of sight. Everyone, stay down!”

  He heard Steve yell again and again, “They’re FBI, everything will be okay. Don’t panic, stay down!”

  Perky turned as she jumped off at the top of the escalator and for one long moment, she stared at Savich. Then she grabbed a teenage girl by her long hair as she was crawling away and hauled her to her feet. “See what I got here, Mr. Agent?” She shook the girl like a rat. But while she spoke she looked over at Sherlock, who was approaching them, slowly, eyes on Perky, keeping real close to the books. “Say good-bye to the little cutie,” Perky yelled, and fired not at the girl she was holding but at Sherlock.

  Sherlock twisted against the bookshelf. A Linda Howard novel took the bullet. Three more shots, but Sherlock couldn’t fire back, none of them could, not with Perky holding the girl in front of her.

  Perky said, “Well now, this is what I’d call an impasse.”

  Savich called out, “Give it up, Pearl, it’s over.”

  She brought up her gun, fast as a snake, and fired at Savich. He threw himself to the side, not wanting to fire back and risk hitting the girl. But that pale, terrified teenager leaned down and bit Perky’s arm. Perky clouted her in the head with her fist, dropped her, whirled toward Savich, and fired again.

  “Get down!” he yelled.

  The teenager tried, but she fell onto the escalator and began rolling down toward him. She tried to flatten herself, but it was impossible. He yelled, “When you hit the bottom, run as fast as you can!”

  Savich heard people yelling, saw parents clutching their kids, a teenage boy holding up his pants as he tried to shield his little brother behind him. The teenager hit bottom, rolled once, and came up running.

  Perky stood at the top of the escalator and slowly raised her gun while she looked down. There were so many people—she had a fine selection.

  No choice, no choice. Savich rolled and came up, moving faster than the teenager. He had to take her down, and do it now. He brought up his SIG.

  He heard Dane shout, “Perky! Hey, girl, don’t you love me anymore?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Perky jerked around, her black hair lashing her face. She found Dane, crouched a dozen feet behind Savich, to his right. She raised her gun.

  There were two little boys suddenly close to Savich, shrieking—he didn’t know where they’d come from. One of them tripped over him and went sprawling. Savich rolled on top of the kid to protect him, twisted around to see Dane fire at nearly the same time that Perky did. The world slowed to a crawl. Dane’s bullet slammed hard into her right shoulder, knocking her sideways onto the down escalator. Perky grabbed for the railing but her fingers couldn’t make purchase. Dane watched her slowly sink down onto the moving steps. He ran up to her, grabbed the long flowy black sleeve of her dress but it ripped off in his hands as her body spilled out onto the floor, her black skirt twisting around her thin body, her long black wig pulled half off her head, long blond hair spilling out. She lay motionless. Savich knew she must be covered in blood from the wound in her shoulder, but he couldn’t see any. The blood soaked into the black. Black on black.

  Her gun, where was her gun? “Dane,” Savich yelled. “I don’t see her gun! She’s dangerous. Everyone, stay put!”

  Dane jerked back, but Perky was fast. She twisted up onto her back, gun in hand, to fire up at him. Ollie, coming at her from the other side, shot her in her gun arm. The gun went skittering down the science fiction aisle. She cried out, then fell onto her back and was quiet.

  “Okay, okay,” Savich said, “it’s over. Everyone stay back.”

  Sherlock was on her knees beside Perky, flattening her hand against the wound in her shoulder. “She’s alive, but we’ve got to get the bleeding under control. Give me your tie. Let’s knot it tight over the wound. Come on, Perky, don’t you dare die on me!”

  Dane said, his words coming fast, tripping over themselves, “Backup is here. Ollie, you take care of that. I’ll call an ambulance. Oh yeah, that was a great shot, thanks for saving my very grateful self.”

  Savich said, “Keep calming everyone down, help get them out. The manager, Steve Olson, is a friend, and he’s solid. Help him, but let him handle what he wants to; it’ll help focus him if he’s in charge. Assure him it is indeed over. Sherlock, keep everyone back from this area.”

  Sherlock was now wrapping Dane’s tie over the wound in Perk
y’s arm.

  Her black Goth shirt was soaked in blood, so much of it and she was so thin. How much blood could that thin body have in it? All bones, Sherlock thought, she is all bones.

  Savich turned to look down at Perky. He realized the girl he’d thought was maybe twenty, twenty-two at most, hadn’t seen twenty in a couple of decades. This was Perky, and she was forty, at least. He came down on his knees and tightened the tie around her wound. Okay, the blood was beginning to slow. He pressed on the wound though it was bleeding only sluggishly. She had a chance.

  Where were the EMTs? She would be all right, she had to be. She was the only one who could tell them who hired her to kill Rachael.

  When the paramedics arrived two minutes later, the FBI had the customers in pretty good control, but the EMTs still had to weave their way with their equipment through a crowd of people, some of whom were now crying.

  Savich tried to keep the area clear, but some people were trying to crowd close, see the blood and gore, because that’s the way some people were. More’s the pity, there was plenty to see. He told the paramedics about her wounds.

  An older woman, brisk, calm, her breath smelling of lemons, fastened an oxygen mask on Perky’s nose. Then she studied Perky’s shoulder, removed the tie, and wrapped a pressure bandage around it. “Bad,” she said, “but with what you guys have done, she should make it.” She jumped to her feet. “Okay, guys, let’s get her onto the gurney.” Savich had to smile because all the paramedics on this crew were female. Perky’s black wig fell off when they lifted her.

  The paramedics were soon out the front door with Perky strapped down on a gurney, her black skirts hanging down on either side, her black boots hanging free of the white sheet. Steve was directing his clerks to take care of the customers. One young girl, who looked pale and shocky, was wandering around the first floor, pausing to pick up a fallen book and trying to reshelve it.

  The customers were walking slowly out of what would become a famous bookstore for the next three months. Savich walked over to Steve Olson, the manager, but he couldn’t shake his hand, his were covered with Perky’s blood. He turned to look around the bookstore. “I’m sorry about this, Steve, didn’t mean for this to happen. You did good, thank you. Sherlock is calling our boss, and he’ll send FBI people down here to handle the media. You need me, here’s my card. Tell the media what happened straight out and keep repeating it. Remember, no one was hurt or killed and we got the bad guy. Hey, that teenage girl she caught as a hostage, take good care of her, she did good.”

  Sherlock said, “Please call me, Steve, give me her name and address. We want to thank her, speak to her parents, tell them what a heroine she is.”

  “You and Sherlock,” Steve said, shaking his head as he took Sherlock’s card. He pressed his palm over his chest. “Here I am trying to calm everyone down and my heart is suddenly ready to burst right out.” He nodded to them once more, then turned to his assistant manager to order coffee and tea from the café on the second floor. He yelled, “Chocolate decadence cake for everyone!”

  Savich said to Sherlock, “Perky’s got to be forty, at least, just like Donley Everett said. Amazing.” He leaned down, picked up her black wig.

  “She was costuming,” Sherlock said, “a very good disguise, too, for an assassin. She’s about as hard-boiled as they get. I’ll bet she’s been at this for a very long time. I’ll bet you Jack’s old unit has a file on her. Well, at least she’s out of business now.

  “I’ll tell you, Dillon, if the bitch doesn’t make it, I’m going to punch her lights out.” She swallowed, placed her hand on his arm, but she didn’t say anything. Perky had tried to kill him twice. Close, too close.

  Savich, oblivious, said, “I’m thinking if she pulls through this, we’ll take her to Quantico. A nice visit with Dr. Hicks could be very helpful if he can get her under hypnosis. I’ll bet my next paycheck she isn’t going to give us the time of day, even if we offer her a deal.”

  Sherlock said, “She’ll lawyer up, won’t say a word. I bet hypnosis won’t even be on the table.

  “I don’t want to deal with the media, Dillon. Let’s get out of here. I called Mr. Maitland, gave him a quick overview. He isn’t happy—I mean, we did shoot up a Barnes & Noble bookstore—but he’ll deal with things. I told him Perky would be able to tell us who hired her to kill Senator Abbott and to kill Rachael. That cheered him up. Oh yeah, I asked Dane and Ollie to follow the ambulance to the hospital to get Donley Everett checked out. He was probably still moaning in the backseat of Ollie’s car.”

  Savich and Sherlock went out the back of the Barnes & Noble, back to K-Martique. They walked up the steep stairs and stepped through the open doorway into Perky’s apartment.

  “Dillon, wait a moment.”

  He turned, smiled at his wife. He pulled her against him, stroked her hair. She said against his neck, “When we’re through here, we’re going to the gym. Yes, even before we spill out every single detail to Mr. Maitland six times. We’re going to the gym. Get away from all this for a while. I’ve got to do something physical or I’m going to explode. You’d better look out—I just might take you down.”

  “In your dreams.” He laughed as he walked to Perky’s desk, turned on her laptop. He played around with it for several minutes, humming as he worked, then sat back in the desk chair, frowning.

  “She’s got the sucker passworded. It’d take me a while, but it would be a piece of cake for MAX.” He unplugged the laptop, set it on the floor by the front door.

  They looked through the desk drawers, found a checkbook, rubber-banded stack of paid bills, some invoices. The invoices were for repairs, for merchandise for her store, and the only checks used were written to utilities, nothing personal to help them. They found a couple dozen catalogs for Goth stuff, with some of the pages folded down. And an envelope filled with five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.

  “Her traveling money,” Sherlock said, labeling the envelope and putting it in her jacket pocket.

  In the kitchen they found three boxes of Grape-Nuts cereal, all unopened, and not much else in the cabinets. In the refrigerator were several dozen frozen bagels, fat-free cream cheese, and a half-gallon bottle of soy milk.

  In the night table drawer by the narrow black-quilted bed, they found nipple rings in bright primary colors, black liquid eyeliner, three pairs of fangs, and two ornate bottles containing ruby red liquid, to simulate blood, they assumed. The best find was a paperback, the cover illustrated with a score of black knife slashes, titled Sex for Vamps: How to Bleed Your Way to Pleasure.

  “Hmm,” Sherlock said, picking up the book. “Pictures, you think?”

  He laughed at her, grabbed the book, and began to thumb through it. “Now, would you look at this?”

  They stared at a man wearing a black leather codpiece, a whip held high in his hand, a mask over his lower face. Beneath him, naked, on her stomach, tied with black leather straps to the four posts of the bed, lay a woman looking over her shoulder at the man.

  Savich looked up. “Dare I turn the page?”

  “Well, maybe better not. We’re professionals, after all.”

  The most interesting thing they found in Pearl Compton’s, aka Perky’s, apartment was an address book, filled with numbers. No names, just initials beside every number.

  Hallelujah.

  THIRTY

  World Gym

  Georgetown

  Wednesday evening

  We’ve got information overload,” Savich said as he increased the speed and incline of the treadmill.

  “It beats not knowing anything.” Sherlock matched his speed, but not the incline. She didn’t want to push it, not when she still had plans to throw her husband to the mat at least a dozen times. Never had she considered a bookstore dangerous, particularly the Georgetown Barnes & Noble, but that was all changed now. Perky dashing up that down escalator, black boots pounding, waving a gun around, grabbing that teenage girl as a hostage—the chaos, t
he screaming—it could have been a disaster. Dillon could have been killed. Perky had tried to shoot her, too, impossible to forget that. But that didn’t bother her. She’d been terrified for Dillon.

  Sherlock punched up the speed, viciously, to match her mood, a mix of fury and fear so corroding she thought she’d choke on it. She shot a look at Dillon. He’d already moved on, his run smooth and steady, his breathing easy, moved on just as she would have done if she’d been in his shoes, curse him. But she hadn’t been anywhere near his shoes, and that was the problem. She owed Dane the world.

  Sometimes—like right that instant—being married to Savich scared her to death. Because she was who she was, she’d far rather be pissed off than scared. She knew the only thing for it was to let off some serious steam.

  Savich slowed a bit and turned to her. “Okay, what we know for sure is that Donley Everett is going down hard. The prosecutor had him sign his confession on the dotted line, so it’s all wrapped up. It’s a pity, but I believe him; he doesn’t have a clue who hired Perky. But maybe he can give us a more specific location for where he buried Clay Huggins’s body.”

  “Hypnotize him.”

  “Yeah, we could do that. Good idea.”

  All right, so he didn’t have a clue that her insides were at the boiling point; he was a guy, after all. More to the point, and the point galled her, she hadn’t said anything.

  Everything’s okay, it’s over. Calm down. It’s not like you haven’t faced this before. She cleared her throat, said, “I wonder how Angel’s keepers are doing with her attitude at Fairfax Juvie. Do you think she’s been released yet?”

  “Probably. Maybe Angel’s got a chance. She’s a bright girl.”

  “Yeah, yeah, so am I, and look what happened to me.”

  A black eyebrow shot up as Savich turned to look at her. What was with the snark? He said, “What happened to you is that you married your boss—a pretty cool guy—you get to chase down bad guys, and you get to stay in shape. It’s like the perfect life for you.”