Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(68)

“Do you believe him? He was, after all, Deputy Lewis’s brother-in-law.”

“Do you know, I’m inclined not to.”

Savich had already gotten permission to meet with Walter again in the conference room. He was waiting alone when Savich and Griffin walked in.

“Agent Savich, do you know anything more about what happened to me?”

“We’re getting close. Walter, this is Agent Hammersmith.”

To Walter’s pleased surprise, Griffin shook his hand, smiled at him.

Savage studied the young man’s face. “Walter, we’re working hard to find out who’s responsible for all this. With your help, we’re hoping to work it out so you can go free.”

Color flooded Walter’s face, hope shined from his eyes. “Thank you, Agent Savich. I’ll help however I can, but I think I’ve told you everything I know.” He paused, raised agonized eyes to Savich’s face. “My folks, they look at me funny, you know? Even though they believed me when I told them I couldn’t remember anything, they still gave me these looks when they didn’t think I saw them. They’re horrified by all this. They really don’t know what to believe, and neither do I. But I really wasn’t responsible, was I? Are you sure it wasn’t some sort of fit?”

“No,” Savich said, “no, it wasn’t a fit. I’d like you to think with me, Walter. You called Liggert out last month, you told me, when you saw him hitting his little boy, Teddy?”

“Yes, sure. And then he laid into me when he got drunk at The Gulf. Deputy Lewis had to take him out of there.”

“Did you have any other contact with Liggert at any time in, say, the last six months?”

“No.” Walter frowned, tapped his fingertips on the conference table, made a decision. “Well, yes, once. He came to my shop about two months ago—a while after his dad got killed in that hit-and-run. He asked me about cars I’d repaired since his father got killed, cars that had been in an accident. Sure, I told him, all those fender benders help keep my shop open, even in a small town like Plackett. I remembered right away that Sparky had brought in his blue Mustang. He was proud as punch he’d bought that car from an old dude in Richmond, said it sat in his garage for over twenty years. Anyway, Sparky said he’d hit a deer and needed work on a panel and his right front fender.”

“You repaired it for him?”

Walter nodded. “I couldn’t quite match the color, it had changed so much with age over the years, but I did the best I could.” Walter paused. He looked a little guilty, Griffin thought, then he forged ahead. “I remember thinking it wasn’t too long after Mr. Alcott was hit and I wondered about the damage. Hitting a deer, it didn’t sound right, but Sparky was a real good friend, you know? Still, I knew I had to do something, so I called Sheriff Watson, but he was out of town, so I spoke with Deputy Lewis. He came over to see the car, told me he’d look into it. He didn’t want me spreading any rumors in the meantime, though.”

Griffin said, “Did Deputy Lewis get back to you, Walter?”

“Yes, the next day. He stopped at the shop, said he’d checked out Sparky and he couldn’t have been the one who hit Mr. Alcott. He wasn’t in town.

“Then, like I told you, Liggert came in asking about bodywork I’d done in the past months.” Walter’s eyes fell to his hands. “I wasn’t about to say anything, knowing Liggert. I didn’t want him blaming me, or accusing Sparky of anything, after what Deputy Lewis told me.

“Then he surprised me. He said he’d noticed a classic blue Mustang that had paint on the front bumper that didn’t quite match, asked me if I’d done the job. I couldn’t deny it, so I told him I did. Then I couldn’t believe it. Liggert didn’t try to hit me, no, he thanked me and left.”

Griffin said, “Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“No, not even my dad or my girlfriend. I did tell Sparky, but he said Liggert didn’t scare him anymore.”

Finally, everything was falling into place.

Walter swallowed. “I wonder if my girlfriend, Debbie, will even want to talk to me anymore after this, even if you do let me out of jail.”

Griffin was inclined to think Walter’s girlfriend wouldn’t want him within a mile of her. He said, “Hang tough, Walter, we’ll get back to you soon.”





PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

Sunday afternoon

Sheriff Watson’s big black Ford F-150 sat in the driveway of a small two-story white shingled house set back from the street. It was the last house at the end of an older established neighborhood, surrounded by oaks and maples, all gearing up for summer green, getting so thick they screened the houses from one another. A blue jay watched them, motionless on a low branch, as they walked toward the front door.

“Nice house,” Griffin said. “I don’t think I could get used to all this quiet, though.”

Savich didn’t think he could, either. He rang Watson’s doorbell, heard movement inside the house. The sheriff himself came to the door, wearing a ratty old T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet white and bare. He held a Diet Coke in his hand. He looked drawn, like he hadn’t slept well lately.

“On Sunday? Really? What do you two bozos want?” Hostility radiated from him. He stood squarely facing them at the open front door.