Tail Spin

he said, that accent meant to warm and seduce. “There is no red hair like yours in my country. It is glorious.”
    Boy, you lay it on with a trowel, don’t you? She smiled at him.
    Quincy Abbott looked like he wanted to bolt, but inbred civility won out and he shook Savich’s hand. He gave only a mildly displeased nod to Jack, who was standing at Rachael’s shoulder. When he took Sherlock’s hand, his eyes went hot. Now that was interesting. It wasn’t lust, not at all like the message Stefanos had broadcast to her. What was it? Was it anger? Did his look mean he hated female cops? She’d heard Rachael say he was a misogynist. She looked at Dillon. He was stone-faced.
    Stefanos said, “You look magnificent, like a cabaret singer from the thirties, Agent Sherlock.”
    “Thank you,” Sherlock said.
    Savich agreed with Stefanos. Sherlock was wearing a long black skirt, a black top that bared her shoulders, and her hair was loose, a sunset of curls around her head, pulled back from her face with two black clips. She looked good, that was Savich’s remark when he saw her, and she’d known he wanted to haul her back upstairs. Even Sean, standing at his father’s side, had stared at her. “I wouldn’t know it was you if it wasn’t for your hair, Mama.”
    She’d laughed and kissed him soundly. But Savich bet she had no plans to kiss Stefanos Kostas.
    Stefanos said, “You’re really an FBI agent? You?”
    “You were thinking I was perhaps a runway model?”
    “Maybe that’s not too much of a stretch.”
    Rachael said, “Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock are married. They have a little boy.”
    “What?” Stefanos asked. “You’re actually married to him? But, I—”
    Laurel rolled over her husband. “Married? I’ve never heard of FBI agents being married to each other before, but I suppose our government allows just about anything.”
    “Not really,” Sherlock said.
    “I have two boys,” Laurel continued. “The elder is nearly grown up now. He met a girl in New York City and is convinced he’s going to marry her.”
    “How old is he?” Jack asked, though he knew very well.
    “Damian is sixteen.”
    Quincy said, “Stefanos isn’t happy about this, even though it’s only a young boy’s crush, isn’t that right?”
    Stefanos shrugged. “He can have his fun. I only hope he doesn’t contract some disease from her.”
    Quincy said, “You’re an expatriate xenophobe, Stefanos—you want both your sons to marry into old Creek families.”
    Stefanos smiled at his brother-in-law, sipped at his whiskey like an elegant sloth.
    Jack asked Laurel, “What did you think of the FBI press conference?”
    Her heavy face froze. “I already told Agent Savich it was ridiculous. To me it smacked of conspiracy theories, which are generally nonsense. It is like saying the Warren Commission lied. How can you disprove a negative? I suppose the FBI will continue prodding and poking about, annoying us until we have our lawyers manage to cut you off at the knees.”
    Savich said pleasantly, “I certainly agree with you about conspiracy theories. However, do you really believe, Mrs. Kostas, that your brother took up drinking again, that he got into a car after not driving for eighteen months?”
    “Perhaps the senator considered cutting back on his drinking, even spent some time not driving, but in the end, he seems to have been doing both. There seems no doubt about that. Stefanos, Quincy, do you agree?”
    Stefanos looked bored. Quincy, in a very discreet one-finger move, adjusted his toupee.
    Laurel said, “No matter what the senator said, he would not have called a press conference and made a grand announcement of his guilt. He knew if he spoke up, he would lose everything—the prestige and power of being a senator, all the privileges of being wealthy and sought after, of being endlessly feted and admired.”
    Jack said, “And last but not least, he would probably have gone to jail for vehicular homicide.”
    “That is not possible. The senator had excellent lawyers,” Stefanos said. “He would never have spent a day in jail.”
    That might be the truth, Sherlock thought.
    “No matter,” Laurel said. “The senator lived for those things. He did not like to lose. What happened the night he died was an accident. All these theories—and that’s all they are—they sound like those ridiculous conspiracy theory blogs.”
    “Jimmy told me he was going to do it,” Rachael said. “There was no