Savich turned smoothly onto the driveway. Sherlock said as she took it all in, “Brakey must have given them all an earful. That was smart to tell him you’d let him go if he agreed to let us come speak to his family.”

“Hopefully his family goes along with it.” Savich stopped in front of the main house, which was charming, with a wraparound porch and a half-dozen chimneys that gave it a 1940s look, even though he knew it had been built in the past fifteen years. It was painted white, with dark brown trim. Flowers filled pots on the wide porch, hung from baskets from the porch beams. Trees crowded next to the wide expanse of lawn, and the smell of freshly mowed grass was heavy and sweet in the air. There were four children playing football in the front yard, all of them shouting, laughing, running around like berserkers. An old woman in a wheelchair sat on the porch, knitting in her lap, rocking slowly back and forth, watching them over the rims of her half-glasses. The children stopped playing abruptly and huddled together in a knot, staring at them.

A little boy called out, “Wow, that’s a beautiful car, mister!”

“It’s not just any car,” an older boy of about eight said. “That’s a race car.” Savich had to smile.

“Well, we’ve made a hit, Dillon,” Sherlock said, and patted the Porsche’s roof. “Would you kids like to come over and look at it?” It was lovely here for these kids, she thought, the smell of freshly mowed grass in the fresh spring air, no exhaust fumes anywhere. The kids gathered around. “I like red,” said a little girl wearing hand-me-down blue jeans she hadn’t grown into, rolled up to her ankles, a football pressed tight against her chest. “Are you here to visit grandma?”

Savich looked again at the old lady. He’d never seen a wheelchair that rocked before. She said nothing, only stared over at them, rocking back and forth. They walked right up to her, the kids following after Sherlock. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Special Agent Sherlock. We’re here to speak with the Alcott family.” Both he and Sherlock pulled out their creds.

She gave them a quick look, still rocking, and finally allowed a small lipless grin. “What a pretty boy and girl you are,” she said in a lovely drawl, sweet and slow as syrup. “Brakey said you’d be coming, said he’d made a deal with you. We let you talk to us and no jail for him. I bet you drove all the way from that wicked city of Washington here to make Brakey come clean. Why, that boy’s a sweetie, innocent as a lamb. You want to get the goods on him? Well, you won’t. He wouldn’t even play tackle football in high school, couldn’t bring himself to hurt anyone or anything. So you need to keep looking because your bad guy isn’t my Brakey. Tanny, get back, you don’t want these fancy law people to step on you.”

The little football girl took two steps back, but she never stopped studying them, never stopped easing closer. There was curiosity and awareness in her light green eyes well beyond her years, Savich thought, as if she knew some things most people didn’t. Savich sighed. She was a little girl, that’s all she was, a pretty little girl.

Sherlock looked closely at the old lady. She was all bone and parchment skin, domed purple veins riding high on the backs of her hands. She couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds. Her snow-white hair was pinned in a knot at the back of her head, the several bobby pins she’d poked into it looking ready to slide out, because there wasn’t enough hair to hold them in place. But when she’d spoken, beneath that drawl was hot spice and vinegar. “Yes, ma’am, we came from the wicked city,” she said. “And we’d appreciate any help you can give us.”

The old lady rocked and creaked. “I heard you visited with Glory Lewis today. I’ll bet the entire town was there, stuffed into her living room, eating all the casseroles they carted over. Kane was that popular. Now, Glory, she’s tough, lots tougher than Ezra and Kane put together. Ezra, he’s the sheriff, you know. You don’t want to cross Glory. If you do, you’re in deep trouble. Ezra’s the same way, but Glory’s better at hiding it.”

What did all that outpouring mean? “Yes, ma’am,” Sherlock said, “there were a lot of people at the Lewis house. I didn’t see any casseroles, though.”

The old lady smiled at them again, showing off the complement of white teeth too big for her mouth. “We’re all willing to help you with your job so long as you aren’t here to haul poor Brakey off to the federal jail. He’s a sweetie, like I told you, wouldn’t step on a spider, that boy, not even if his mama asked him to. Stick a knife in Kane’s chest? No, not Brakey.”