Riptide

“Next time I’ll speak to him,” Becca said. “I’ll set one up.”

“You won’t be bait,” Adam said, his voice sharp as a knife. “No way.”

“Look, Adam, he wants me. If you made yourself the bait, he’d just shoot you and walk away. But not so with me. He wants me up close and personal. Only me. Help me figure out a way to do this, please.”

“I don’t like it.”

18

Hatch, a short, built like a young bull, sporting a large mustache, pulled off a tweed Sherlock Holmes hat to show his shaved head. For some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, Becca thought he was so impishly cute she wanted to hug him. She thought from the cocky grin on Sherlock’s face that she wanted to hug him right along with her.

This guy was potent. He had more charm than a person deserved, she was thinking a few minutes later when Adam held out his hand and said to him, “Give me the pack of cigarettes in your right pocket, Hatch, now, or you’re fired.”

“Yeah, sure, boss.” Hatch obligingly handed Adam a nearly full pack of Marlboros. “Just one, boss, no more, and I didn’t inhale much. All I had, just one. I don’t want to smoke anywhere near sweet Becca. I wouldn’t want to ever take a chance of hurting her lovely lungs. Now, tell me what to do to catch this creep so Becca can go back to writing speeches and smiling a lot.” Then he turned those dark-brown twinkling eyes on her and said, “Hi.”

Becca gri

“Hmmm. I don’t think the boss likes that. His jaw is all knotted up.”

Adam unknotted his jaw. “No, I don’t like it. It’s crazy. I don’t want her to take this kind of risk. Ah, shit, I can tell by the look on your face, Becca, that you’re going to do it regardless of what I think.”

“Look, Adam,” Savich said, “if I could think of another way, I’d dive on it, but there are enough of us to keep her protected. Now, Hatch, according to Adam, you have a pretty awesome reputation to maintain. Tell us what you’ve found out.”

Hatch took a slim black book out of his jacket pocket, licked his fingers, and ruffled some pages. “Most of this is from Thomas’s guys, who’ve been working their butts off trying to verify Krimakov’s death. Thomas got everyone working on it right away. Now, the CIA has actually spoken to the cop who was the one who poked around his body. Apollo-no shit, that’s his name-said Krimakov went over a cliff on the eastern end of Crete, near Agios Nikolaos, died instantly, one would suppose from the injuries. It could have been murder, he allowed, but nobody checked into it all that much for the simple fact that no one really cares. Nothing obvious about it, so they closed the case until our agents flew in and spread out and wanted to see and examine everything.”

“So he’s really dead,” Becca said.

Hatch looked up and gave them a big grin. “Nope, not necessarily. Here’s the kicker. Krimakov’s body was cremated. You see, for the longest time, our people were stonewalled by the locals, who wouldn’t allow them to view the body. It was only after the Greek government got involved that they let it out of the bag that they’d cremated him right away. Why? I don’t know, but there was a payoff, somewhere.”

No one said a word for a very long time.

“Cremated?” Adam repeated, disbelieving.

“Yes, burned to ashes, poured in an urn. Thing’s still sitting on a shelf in the morgue.”

Sherlock said, “So there is no definitive proof because there’s no body to examine.”

“Right,” Hatch said. “Now, while we all chew on that, let’s go back a bit. Krimakov moved to Crete in the early eighties. Just showed up and stayed. He was into bad things, but not bad enough so anyone would dig and find out exactly who and what he’d been in Russia. Actually, the impression is they never tried really hard to do any nailing. He probably paid everyone off.”

“Damn,” Adam said. “Okay. Now we’ve got to search his house, top to bottom and under the basement. If he ever was involved in this, there will be something there.”

“Our agents have gone over his house, didn’t find anything. No clues, no leads, no references at all to Becca. We heard that he had an apartment somewhere, but we don’t know where it is. That might take a little time. There aren’t any official records.”

Savich said, “If he had an apartment, I’ll find it.”

“Just you?” Adam said, an eyebrow raised.

“Didn’t Thomas tell you I was good?”

Adam snorted, watching Savich plug in MAX.

Hatch said, “More will be coming about his personal activities. But as yet, there isn’t anything out of Russia. It seems that way back when, all Krimakov’s records were purged. There’s little 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 McCallum. 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.”