Hemlock Bay

Sweden.”
    “Probably.”
    “Why did . . .”
    She let the words die in her mouth when the bedroom door opened, sending in a thick slice of bright sunlight. Alpo walked in, Nikki behind him. “You are awake now?”
    “Yes,” Simon said, coming up to sit on the side of the bed. “Don’t you guys believe in heat? Is Olaf trying to economize?”
    “You are soft. Shut up.”
    Lily said, “Well, we don’t have your body fat; maybe that’s the difference.”
    Nikki shouldered Alpo out of the way and strode to where Simon was sitting. “You get up now. You, too,” he said to Lily. “A woman does not speak like that. I am not fat; I am strong. Mr. Jorgenson is waiting for you.”
    “Ah,” Lily said, “at last we get to meet the Grand Pooh-Bah.”
    “What is that?” Nikki asked as he stepped back so they could get up.
    “The guy who controls everything, the one who believes he’s the big cheese,” Simon said.
    Alpo looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “We will go see the Grand Pooh-Bah now.” He said to Lily, “He will like you. He may want to paint you before he kills you.”
    Not a happy thought.

25
    Bar Harbor, Maine

    It had been nearly a whole day, and there was no sign of Tammy Tuttle or Marilyn Warluski. There’d been dozens of calls about possible sightings, all of which had to be investigated, but so far, nothing. It was the biggest manhunt in Maine’s history, with more than two hundred law enforcement people involved. And always there in Savich’s mind was Lily and where she was. Whether she was alive. He couldn’t bear it and there was nothing he could do.
    He was nearly ready to shoot himself when Jimmy Maitland called from Washington.
    “Come home, Savich,” he said. “You’re needed here in Washington. We’ll get word on Tammy sooner or later. There’s nothing more you can do up there.”
    “She’ll kill again, sir, you know it, I know it, and that’s when we’ll get word. She’s probably already killed Marilyn.”
    Jimmy Maitland was silent, a thick, depressed silence. Then he said, “Yes, you’re right. I also know that for the moment there’s nothing more we can do about it. As for you, Savich, you’re too close now. Come home.”
    “Is that an order, sir?”
    “Yes.” He didn’t add that he was calling from Savich’s house in Georgetown, sitting in Savich’s favorite chair, bouncing Sean on his knee, Sherlock not two feet away, holding out a whiskey, neat, in one hand and a graham cracker in the other. Jimmy hoped the cracker wasn’t intended for him. He needed the whiskey.
    Savich sighed. “All right. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
    If Sean had decided to talk while his father was on the phone, Jimmy would have been busted, but the kid had been quiet, just grinning at him and rubbing his knuckles over his gums. Jimmy hung up the phone, handed Sean to Sherlock, and said as she gave him the whiskey, “This is a royal mess, but at least Savich will be home sometime this evening. He’s really upset, Sherlock.”
    “I know, I know. We’ll think of something. We always do.” She gave Sean the graham cracker.
    Jimmy said, “Savich feels guilty, like he’s the one who’s failed, like the murders of all those people, including our own Virginia Cosgrove, are his fault.”
    “He always will. It’s just the way he is.”
    Jimmy looked over at the baby, who was happily gumming the graham cracker. He said, “Sean reminds me of my second to oldest, Landry. He was a pistol, that one, gave me every gray hair I’ve got on my head. If you ever get tired of this little champ, just give me a call.”
    He downed his whiskey and stared for a moment at the marvelous Sarah Elliott painting hanging over the fireplace. “I’ve always wondered about the soldier in that painting, wondered what he was thinking at that moment when he was frozen for all time. I wonder if there was someone at home who would grieve if he died.”
    “Yes, it’s excellent. Has Dillon kept you in the loop about Lily and Simon?”
    “He told me earlier that Agent Hoyt found the flight plan for a private Learjet owned by the Waldemarsudde Corporation that took off from Arcata airport bound for Gothenburg, Sweden. The CEO is Ian Jorgenson, son of Olaf Jorgenson, the collector we believe is involved in all this.”
    Sherlock nodded and said, “Did he also tell you that we think his son is a collector as well?”
    “Yes,” Jimmy said. “Interesting, isn’t it, that Charlotte