Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(18)
Brakey’s mouth opened, closed. He whispered, “Somebody did it somehow. I swear I don’t know anything about it.”
Savich came out of his chair, leaned forward, grabbed Brakey’s shirt in his fist. “Since it’s obvious you were involved, the real question is, what were you thinking? If you didn’t want to get caught, what you did was idiotic. Was it a mistake? Did you panic after you stabbed Deputy Lewis? You stuffed him in the OTR, threw parcels on top of him, and went back to making your daily delivery to Ellie Moran at the Reineke post office? Did you leave that OTR there by accident, or were you too panicked to think straight?”
Brakey looked white as death, horrified, shook his head back and forth. Savich let his shirt go. Brakey leaned back as far as he could in his chair.
Savich slammed down a photo of Deputy Kane Lewis. “Look at him, Brakey. This is what a man looks like after you stab him in the heart.”
Brakey Alcott stared down at the photo, gulped once, twice. “He’s really dead, Deputy Lewis is dead. I liked him, more than that dickhead Sheriff Watson—” Brakey shot a look toward Sherlock. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but he is one, really, but I shouldn’t have said a bad word like that.” Brakey looked from one to the other. “You think I did this to Deputy Lewis? No, I’d never do that to anybody.”
“If that’s true, you’ve got to help us prove it,” Sherlock said. “Where were you last night, Brakey? What did you do?”
Brakey blinked at her. “Last night? I tried to get Laurie from Milt’s to go out with me, but that didn’t happen, so I went home and watched TV with my mom and grandma. We were watching the news, and that’s when I saw you, Agent Sherlock. Jonah, one of my brothers, he came over for a while, brought his kids over like he often does. Both my brothers live on our property, in their own houses across the yard from us.
“After they left, we all went to bed. That’s it, I swear it to you. I went to bed and I slept all night, woke up when the alarm went off at a quarter to four this morning.”
He was telling the truth. Brakey Alcott wasn’t a good enough actor, Savich knew, to be lying. He had no memory of what he’d done. And he couldn’t know that Walter Givens, the man who’d stabbed Sparky Carroll in the Rayburn Building corridor, had said the same thing. The press, thankfully, didn’t know that yet.
Savich placed photos of the two Athames in front of Brakey. “The one on the left is called a Dual Dragon Athame; the other one was used to stab Deputy Lewis to death. Where did you get that one, Mr. Alcott?”
“I didn’t. It’s not mine!”
Sherlock sat forward, her voice soft like Glinda the Good Witch’s. “But you recognize both Athames, don’t you, Brakey? I mean, your family are Wiccans, right? Are these Athames in a collection in your mom’s house?”
He shook his head violently. “No, really. I’m not sure. I’ve seen a lot of them. You should ask my mom, she’ll tell you.”
And now Brakey was lying. Was he protecting his family? Savich saw he was ready to fold down, from ignorance and fear, and too much knowledge.
Savich rose. “I would appreciate speaking with your mother, in fact. And your dad?”
“My dad died six months ago, in an auto accident on route 123. My mom’s still getting over that.”
“I’m sorry. That will be all for now, Mr. Alcott. I’ll have an agent drive you back to Plackett. I’ll be stopping by later this afternoon and talk with your family.”
Savich nodded to both Sherlock and Griffin, and out the door they went, leaving Brakey to sit as still as a block of wood.
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
The newly widowed Mrs. Lewis wasn’t alone. As Savich turned off First Avenue onto Briar Lane, they saw cars parked in the driveway, at the curb, across the street, stretching almost a block in both directions. The Lewis house was a simple two-story, maybe fifty years old, with a two-car carport attached. It looked comfortable, like an old armchair that had sat through years of ball games. The house could use a paint job and a lawn mower. Oddly, it didn’t seem like neglect, it seemed like a choice that fit the house’s and the owners’ personalities.
Savich parked the Porsche a block away. As they walked back to the house, he said, “Quite a crowd. That might actually help us get Mrs. Lewis alone.”
An older man who answered the door didn’t move, gave them a suspicious look. “Who are you?”
Sherlock gave him her sunny, guileless smile and showed him her creds. “Special Agent Sherlock, and this is my partner Special Agent Savich, FBI.” Savich showed the man his creds. “And you are, sir?”
“Sheriff Ezra Watson.” He looked over his shoulder at the living room full of people. “I’m showing in people who want to pay their respects. There’s no excuse for you people to come here today. Glory—Mrs. Lewis—and the family aren’t in any shape for questioning. Why don’t you come back, or call my cell later. I can tell you what you need to know.”
The sheriff wasn’t wearing his uniform. He was in a shiny black suit that looked like it hadn’t been worn in a long time and was now a size too small. He was nearly bald, sported a comb-over of light brown hair. His long, seamed face was grim, his mouth tight. It had been a rough day for him, Savich thought. He didn’t look like a man pleased with life or his fellow man. Savich stepped into his space and said, his voice pleasant, “I wish we could do that, but we have a job to do, Sheriff. Would you like to introduce us to Mrs. Lewis, or should we go in and introduce ourselves?”