Savich smoothly caught Cotter’s wrist and squeezed it back down to his side. Cotter tried a kick but didn’t make it. Savich grabbed Cotter’s leg just behind his knee and flipped him into the air. He released Cotter’s wrist only at the last minute before he landed on his back in a marigold bed, the move smoother than a twelve-year-old scotch.
Sherlock looked down at Cotter, her hands on her hips. “Why are you acting like an adolescent?”
“Get a grip on yourself,” Savich said. “Consider growing up.”
“None of you is worth a piece of shit. Big federal agents, that’s a laugh. You’ll never find out anything.” Cotter dragged himself out of the flower bed and stomped away.
“That man has real problems,” Laura said.
“He’s the local sociopath,” I said. “So he doesn’t think we’re going to find out anything, does he?” I watched him speak to Alyssum Tarcher, and the older man shook his head. “When I first met him I thought he was just an immature hothead. But after seeing him perform today, I wonder if he’s involved in all of this, his daddy’s right hand?”
“His father looks like an aristocrat, a sleek greyhound among a pack of mutts,” Sherlock said. “As for Cotter, he looks like a little bulldog.”
“I think Cal and Cotter are different,” Laura said. “Cal acts weird too, but Mac’s never called her a sociopath.”
“Hey,” I said. “I only calls ’em like I sees ’em. At the very least we know that Cal’s got great taste in men.”
I saw Alyssum Tarcher look back at me. His face was cold but his eyes were suddenly as hot as his son’s.
Chapter Eighteen
It was just after five-thirty in the afternoon when Savich and I pulled into the driveway of 12 Liverpool Street. Paul was indeed at home. Actually, both his car and Maggie Sheffield’s sheriff’s car were side by side in the driveway. We heard them yelling at each other from the front porch and stopped a moment beside a hanging plant that looked a lot happier than I did. We stood quietly outside the front door, listening.
“You damned little worm,” we heard Maggie scream at the top of her lungs. “Don’t say or do anything like that again, Paul, or I’ll take your head off. Are you nuts? How long has Jilly been gone?”
“What do you know? You don’t know anything. You like to play at doing a man’s job, but you don’t do it well. But as a woman, Maggie, you really suck. Maybe this is the ideal job for you. What are you, a dyke?”
We heard a crash. I sighed, opened the door, walked into the small foyer, and looked to the right, into the living room. There I saw Maggie straddling Paul, who was lying flat on his back in his black-and-white living room.
She had him by the neck, his head pressed against the floor.
Savich calmly walked over to her, grabbed her under her arms, and pulled her straight up. She turned on him, fists raised. He held her up by her armpits and said in that deep, smooth voice of his, “Not smart. Don’t do it.”
“Enough, both of you,” I said, and gave Paul a hand up. “Now, what’s this all about? We could hear you screaming at each other from the front porch.”
“He’s a stupid prick,” Maggie said. “Let me down, you jock. I’m the sheriff. I’ll arrest you.”
“I’m not a jock, ma’am. I’m a Special Agent, Dillon
Savich, FBI.”
“Oh,” she said, and immediately went still. “I’m sorry. You’re here for Mac, aren’t you? I saw you at Charlie Duck’s funeral but I was late and didn’t have a chance to meet you.”
“That’s right. Can I put you down now?” “Please do. I won’t hurt that little wimp.” She looked over at Paul like she wanted to spit on him.
“Paul,” I said, “go sit down. We need to talk. Maggie, you sit over in that chair. Either of you makes a move toward the other and Savich or I will flatten you. Well, Savich will for sure. My ribs are a bit on the sore side.