Riptide

left. Nothing
    of interest. The KGB probably ordered it done, then helped
    him go to ground, in Crete. Again, though, they'll continue searching
    and probing and questioning all their counterparts in
    Moscow."
    "Krimakov isn't dead," Adam said. And he believed it like he'd
    never believed anything in his life.
    Having said that, Adam sat back and closed his eyes. He was getting
    a headache.
    "Well, yeah, we have something else. I was the one who did all

the legwork on this." Hatch licked his fingers again and flipped
    over a couple more pages. "The Albany cops just found a witness
    not two hours ago who identified the car that ran down Dick Me-
    Callum. It's a BMW, black, license number--at least the first three
    numbers--three-eight-five. A New York plate. I don't have anything
    on that yet."
    "I'll have it run through," Savich said. "It'll be quicker, more
    complete. I don't want to know how you got that information so
    quickly."
    "I'll just say that she loves my mustache," Hatch said. "Please do
    call the Bureau, Agent Savich. I didn't have the chance to check
    back with Thomas and have him do it. Oh yeah, a guy was driving. No clue if it was an old guy or a young guy or in between,
    really dark windows, like windows on a limo. Fairly unusual for a
    regular commercial car, and that's probably why he stole that particular
    car."
    Savich was on his cell phone in the next ten seconds, nodded
    and hung up in three more minutes. "Done. We'll have a list of
    possibles in about five minutes."
    Tommy the Pipe knocked lightly on the front door and came in.
    "We got a guy buying Exxon supreme at a gas station just eight
    miles west of Riptide. The attendant, a young boy about eighteen,
    said when the guy paid for his gas, he saw dirt and blood on the
    cuff of his shirt. He wouldn't have thought a thing about it except Rollo was canvassing all the gas stations, asking questions about
    strangers. It's him."
    "Oh, yeah," Adam said and jumped to his feet. "Please say it,
    Tommy. Please tell us that this kid remembers what the guy looks
    like, that he remembers the kind of car he was driving."
    "The guy had on a green hunting hat with flaps, something like

mine but with no style. He also wore very dark glasses. He doesn't
    know if the guy was young or old, sorry, Adam. Hell, anyone over
    twenty-five would be old to that kid. But he does remember clearly that the guy spoke well, a real educated voice, all smooth
    and deep. The car--he thought it was a BMW, dark blue or black.
    Sorry, no idea about the plate. But you know what? The windows
    were dark-tinted. How about that?"
    "Surely he wouldn't have driven the same car up here that he
    used to kill Dick McCallum in Albany," Sherlock said.
    "Why not?" Savich said. "If it isn't dented, if there isn't blood all
    over it, then why not?"
    Savich's cell phone rang. He stood and walked over to the doorway.
    They heard him talking, saw him nodding as he listened. He
    hung up and said, "No go. He stole the license plates. No surprise
    there. He'd have been an idiot to leave on the original plates.
    However, those heavily tinted windows, I have everyone checking
    on New York cars stolen within the past two weeks with those sorts
    of windows."
    Savich's cell phone rang again in eight minutes. He listened and
    wrote rapidly. When he hung up the phone, he said, "This is something.
    Like Hatch said, few commercial cars--domestic or foreign
    --are built with dark-tinted windows. Three have been stolen.
    The people are all over the state, two men and one woman."
    Becca said with no hesitation,"It's the woman. He stole her car."
    "Possible," Sherlock said. "Let's find out right now."
    She called information for Ithaca, New York, and got the phone
    number for Mrs. Irene Bailey, 112 Huntley Avenue. The phone
    rang once, twice, three times, then, "Hello?"
    "Mrs. Bailey? Mrs. Irene Bailey?"
    Silence.

"Are you there? Mrs. Bailey?"
    "That's my mother," a woman said. "I'm sorry, but it took me by
    surprise."
    "May I please speak to your mother?"
    "You don't know? No, I guess not. My mother was killed two
    weeks ago."
    Sherlock didn't drop the phone, but she felt a great roiling pain
    through her stomach, up to her throat, and she swallowed convulsively.
    "Can you give me any details, please?"
    "Who are you?"
    "I'm Gladys Martin with the Social Security Administration in
    Washington."
    "I know my husband called Social Security. What do you
    want?"
    "We're required to fill out papers, ma'am. Are you