Page 24 of Labyrinth (FBI Thriller 23)
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WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich slipped his cell back into his pants pocket, then turned to face Sherlock. Her eyes were clear, thankfully, and there was only a single Band-Aid covering the cut over her left temple. She was looking at him steadily, a half question on her face, a look he knew well. “We have an agent—Griffin Hammersmith—he’s in trouble in a small town in western Virginia called Gaffer’s Ridge.” He saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. “You remember Griffin?”
“I don’t know, but when you said his name—does he look like a god?”
“Yes. It’s his cross to bear.”
She cocked her head at him, a long-standing habit. “What happened to him?”
Savich told her what little Griffin had said before the sheriff took away his phone. “So I called the sheriff, but he wouldn’t speak to me, his dispatcher told me he didn’t have time, and she hung up on me. Whatever’s going on, Griffin wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t serious.”
“You sent him to this Gaffer’s Ridge on a case?”
“No. He was taking a short vacation to visit a couple of friends from college who live there and own a restaurant downtown, Jenny’s Café.”
“Are you going to call them? Maybe they know what’s going on.”
“You don’t miss a step, do you? I will now. I need to find out more about the situation before I call Bettina Kraus.” At her blank look, he added, “Bettina’s the SAC of the Richmond Field Office, took over from Walt Monaco. She’s tough as nails and the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. She’s a good leader, fair to a fault, and what’s best—she’s got a sense of humor.” He pulled out his cell, got the number for Jenny’s Café. A woman’s harried voice answered on the second ring. “Sorry, but we’re closing in fifteen minutes so we can’t take you now.”
“Is this Jenny? Jenny Wiley?”
“No, this is Aimée Rose Wallberger. Who are you?”
“I’m FBI Agent Dillon Savich, Griffin’s boss. Griffin called me, said he was in trouble. Have you spoken to him?”
“Trouble? How could that be? I saw him only a couple of hours ago. He was perfectly fine, going for a walk around town to keep himself upright and not nap away the afternoon. He was really tired. He’s expected for dinner with Jenny and me at our home at seven o’clock. Jenny’s already there, cooking his favorites.”
Savich told her about Griffin’s call and his own follow-up call to the bizarre woman at the sheriff’s station. “I believe this Sheriff Bodine has taken him and a woman whose name I don’t know to jail, apparently for no good reason. Griffin was worried, especially for the woman. The sheriff refused to speak to me and his dispatcher hung up on me. Before I call the Richmond Field Office, get them over to Gaffer’s Ridge, can you tell me about this sheriff?”
Aimée Rose stopped wiping the long counter in the kitchen. “This is bizarre. I can’t imagine what happened. All right, the sheriff’s name is Booker Bodine and he’s a pompous moron, and a bigot as well. But here’s the thing, he’s the sheriff because his family, the Bodines, are fixtures here, they’ve practically owned Gaffer’s Ridge for generations. The sheriff’s father, Calder Bodine, was sheriff before his son. The largest bank is owned by Quint Bodine, the sheriff’s brother. He’s the rich one, also owns a car dealership, a half dozen retail stores, and lots of land with mineral rights he leases out for big bucks.”
“What has Sheriff Bodine done to qualify as a moron and a bigot?”
“He hates that Jenny and I are gay and live together openly and don’t keep it in the closet, where he thinks such perversions belong. But he loves Jenny’s Mexican food as much as everyone else in town, so he doesn’t sneer at us when he comes to get fed. As far as I know, and I would know, he doesn’t talk trash about us around town, either. He wouldn’t dare. But I’m sure as I can be if Jenny’s Café wasn’t so popular and say instead we owned one of the antique stores, he’d be busy trying to run us out of Gaffer’s Ridge, tarred and feathered with signs around our necks. I suppose I have to give him credit for running a tight, peaceful town. Hardly anything bad happens here, no drugs, no gangs, no violent crime.
“Now, Agent Savich, you said Griffin’s in jail, with a woman? That’s crazy. He doesn’t know anyone in town other than Jenny and me. Listen, let me call Jenny, close the café, and get over to the jail, see what’s going on.”
“Another moment, Ms. Wallberger. You said nothing bad ever happens?”
“Sorry, my head’s spinning about Griffin. Something terrible happened three months ago—a young local girl named Heather Forrester disappeared without a trace. Turns out two other girls—all of them sixteen, or close, I think—have disappeared a month apart from two other towns in the area. They’re all still missing, maybe kidnapped or dead. So far as I know there are no clues as to who did it. Our customers with teenage daughters are really scared. I mentioned the missing girls to Griffin, but how could he know anything? He only just got here. So why is the sheriff pissed enough to put him in jail?”
Her voice had risen an octave. Savich said, “I don’t know yet, but the sheriff will have a reason. Call and ask if they’ll let you see Griffin and get back to me. Tell him I’m calling Bettina Kraus. I’ll try to be there tomorrow.”
He punched off his cell, looked over to see Sherlock listening to his end of the conversation, an eyebrow arched. “Dillon?”
He felt a leap of hope, she saw it and quickly shook her head, whispered, “I’m sorry. I used your first name because I heard Agent Noble call you Dillon. And since you’re my husband, I figured I did, too.”
“Yes,” he said. “You do.” And he told her what he knew about Agent Griffin Hammersmith.
He watched her take it all in. “You had a flash of memory of Griffin, that’s a good start.”
“Yes, but I didn’t recognize the agents who visited.”
“Like I said, seeing Griffin is still a good start.”
