Eleventh Hour Read Free Page B

fault. You need to find out who killed him, that animal is the only one to blame here, the only one. Now, I’ll have Millie make the reservations for you. Tell me again, who’s the lead inspector on this?”
    “Vincent Delion. Like I said, he called me right before Eloise did last night, said he knew I was FBI, knew I’d want to hear everything they had. It isn’t much as of yet. He died instantly, a shot through the forehead, clean in the front, you know, it looked like an innocent tilak, the red spot Hindus wear on their foreheads?”
    “I know.”
    “But it wasn’t just a red dot on the back of his head. Jesus, not on the back.” His eyes went blank.
    Savich knew he couldn’t let Dane get sucked down into the reality of it, couldn’t let him dwell on the hideous mess a bullet made of the head at the exit wound. It would just bury him in pain. He said very precisely, using his hands while he spoke to force eye contact, “I don’t suppose the killer left the gun there?”
    Dane shook his head. “No. The autopsy’s today.”
    Savich said, “I know Chief Kreider. He was back here last year to appear in front of Congress on commonsense approaches to avoid racial profiling in the Bay Area. I met him down at Quantico on the rifle range. The man’s a good distance shooter. And my father-in-law’s a Federal judge out in San Francisco. He knows lots of people. What do you want me to do?”
    Dane didn’t say anything. Savich thought he was too numb with shock and grief to process what he’d said, but that would change. The good thing was that along with the rage and the pain he would have to deal with moment to moment, he would have his instincts and training kicking in. He said, “Never mind.
    Tell you what, head on out to San Francisco and talk to Delion, find out what they’re doing. See if our office out there can help. Do you know Bert Cartwright, the SAC in San Francisco?”
    “Yeah,” Dane said, his voice flat as a creek-bed stone. “Yeah, I know him.” There was sudden animosity on his face. At least it masked the pain for a moment.
    “Yes, all right,” Savich said slowly. “You two don’t get along.”
    “No, we don’t. I don’t want to deal with him.”
    “Why? What happened between the two of you?”
    Dane just shook his head. “It’s not important.”
    “All right, you get yourself home and packed. Like I said, I’ll have Millie take care of everything for you.
    Do you want to stay in the city or go to your sister’s?”
    “I’ll stay in the city. Not at the rectory, either, not there.”
    “Okay, a hotel downtown, then. It’ll be FBI approved, so you can count on it to be basic. You’ll call if there’s anything I can do.”
    “Yes, thank you, Savich. About my cases—”

    “I’ll see that they’re covered. Go.”
    The two men shook hands. Savich watched Dane make his way through the large room with workstations for nine special agents, only six of them occupied at the moment. His wife, Special Agent Lacey Sherlock Savich, was in a meeting with Jerry Hollister in the third-floor DNA analysis unit, comparing a DNA sample taken from a Boston rape-and-murder victim with a DNA sample from the major suspect. If they got a match, the guy was toast.
    Ollie Hamish, his second in command, was in Wisconsin consulting with the Madison police on a particularly vicious series of murders, all connected to a local radio station that played golden oldies. Go figure, Ollie had said, and started humming “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”
    Savich hated crazies. He hated unsolved craziness even more. It amazed and terrified him what the human mind could conjure up. And now Dane’s brother, a priest.
    He dialed Millie’s extension, told her to make arrangements. Then he walked over and flipped on his electric kettle to make a cup of strong Earl Grey tea. He poured his tea into an oversized FBI mug and went back to MAX, his lap-top, and booted up.
    He started with an e-mail to Chief Dexter