Point Blank

by Catherine Coulter

  “That’s some combination, Agent Quinlan.”

  Savich said immediately, “Please send a few of your guys over to guard that redheaded woman standing against the Porsche at the curb. It’s critical. I’ll explain later.”

  Quinlan and Savich watched Detective Millbray quickly assemble four cops and dispatch them to surround Sherlock.

  “Thank you, Detective. What have you got?”

  Detective Millbray handed Savich the device. “Would you take a gander at this harmless-looking little gadget. It’s a piece of a cell phone, used as a homemade detonator. It’s a pretty popular item in the Middle East, as you probably know. Turns out the blast didn’t cause all that much damage, but it created enough of a rumble and spewed out enough thick black smoke to scare the crap out of everybody. Whoever went to the trouble and tossed the bomb could have put a much bigger charge on it. It was just enough to set off the mad stampede. It almost looks like some kind of sick stunt, like someone wanted to close the place down.”

  “It wasn’t about closing this business, Detective,” Savich said. “When Agent Quinlan called me, I knew it could have been Moses Grace. He knows I perform here on occasion and am friends with Ms. Lilly. That’s why I asked for protection for Agent Sherlock. She’s my wife.”

  Detective Millbray grew very still. “You mean that crazy old guy every cop in the city is looking for? And that teenage girl?”

  Savich nodded.

  Detective Millbray shouted for his sergeant and stepped away for a moment. When he returned, he said, “I’ve told him to tell everyone the perpetrators might still be here. And I’ve told him who it might be. If he knew this place, knew the owner was important to you, then why did he just flirt with this pissant little bomb and not make it a full-bore disaster?”

  Another plainclothes detective stepped up. “I’m Detective Jim Fortnoy. I’ve called for more police. We’re going to do a sweep for those two.”

  Savich nodded, then turned back to Detective Millbray. “You asked me—”

  He heard Sherlock yell. She was swinging her SIG upward, to a point beyond his right shoulder. She yelled, “Dillon, get down!”

  She fired off two shots as she ran toward him, the four cops running behind her, their guns out, firing up at the two-story building.

  But Savich wasn’t looking over his shoulder, he was looking at his Porsche. He thought of the bomb Moses had left at Hooter’s Motel. There were a dozen people milling around the Porsche, and he knew as surely as he knew his name what Moses had planned. He cupped his hands around his mouth, yelled as loud as he could, “Run! Get away from the Porsche! There’s a bomb! Run!”

  Fortnoy and Millbray shouted with him even though they didn’t understand. Wasn’t Moses Grace in the building behind them? But there was no return gunfire.

  No one hesitated. Nerves on hair triggers from the terror in the club made them scatter fast.

  Detective Millbray grabbed Savich’s arm. “Why do you think there’s a bomb there? Your wife and the police have been shooting up at that building. What’s happening, Savich?”

  Savich heard the roar as his Porsche exploded into a ball of flame. There was an incredible concussion and a wave of heat that sucked up all the air. The power of the blast flung the dozen people closest outward, forcing them to the pavement or hurling them into one another. Savich heard screams, and a policeman yelling for everyone to stay down and remain calm. Savich, flanked by half a dozen cops, ran toward them. He fell to his knees in front of a young woman lying motionless on the sidewalk, and touched his fingertips to the pulse in her throat. Thank God, she was alive. He yelled for a paramedic. After an eerie moment of quiet, firemen started to rush toward the burning Porsche, some pulling their fire hoses, others pulling people to safety, carrying those who couldn’t walk.

  It was a nightmare landscape—the screams, the moans, the weeping, the roaring orange flames that gushed into the night air, the struggle to control panic and fear.

  Savich whirled around, yelling Sherlock’s name. He’d seen her for only an instant when she ran toward him, looking up, firing her SIG. He saw her then. Her wool cap was gone, her hair streaming about her shoulders looking like it was on fire in the surreal glow of the orange flames.

  Then she was there, right in front of him, her face black, her heavy coat ripped. “I thought I saw him up in a window on the second floor. He was aiming down at you. Some of the cops went up there to look.” She hugged him close, her hands patting him all over. “You all right?”

  He nodded against her hair.

  She pulled back, studied his face. “He blew up your Porsche. He wanted me to go out with it. Do you think he could have detonated it from that window up there?”

  “We’ll find out soon.” For a moment, he couldn’t speak. It had been so very close. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you saw someone up there. It saved your life.” That actually sounded calm, he thought, as he stared down at the most important person in the world.

  Then she grinned up at him, filthy and beautiful. “You were the psychic about the car bomb. Where do you think Moses went?”

  “Millbray and Fortnoy have half the cops in Washington on it.”

  After fifteen minutes of chaos, people began to sort themselves out, growing calmer once their loved ones were close and safe. Many simply left, grateful to be alive, afraid of more explosions. Paramedics went from group to group, leading the injured to waiting ambulances. Television cameras were everywhere, the spectacular footage of the explosion’s aftermath already on the airwaves.

  “Savich!”

  Savich looked up to see Ben Raven running toward them, Callie Markham behind him, her coat flapping around her boots. “I’m here with Sherlock. We’re okay.”

  Ben was panting, sweat running down his face. “All right. Good. What an unholy mess. I just put a man, probably with internal injuries, into an ambulance. A kid, here to check out the scene, got hit in the head with a piece of metal. I think he’ll be okay. Damn, Savich, your Porsche. Your beautiful Porsche.”

  “You sound like you’ve just lost your best friend,” Callie said and punched him in the arm. “Get a grip here, Ben, it’s only a car. What’s important is that Dillon and Sherlock are okay. I’ve never seen anything like this, but the cops are dealing. It’s amazing how well they’re dealing.”

  “But I never got to drive it.”

  Savich said, “Moses Grace and Claudia might still be close by, but I doubt it. Too risky. He had to be close enough to set up the Porsche, and Sherlock spotted him up in that window. He must have picked the moment to drop the bomb in the car and walked away, not that difficult with all the people milling about. He must have been waiting for me to walk back to it. Until Sherlock spotted him.” It hit him again, a cold shot to the gut. He looked at Sherlock, pulled her so tight against him she couldn’t breathe. Her coat was still warm, and her hair smelled like dirty smoke.

  “I’m all right,” she whispered. “Really, I’m okay.” She relaxed against him, stroked her hands up and down his back.

  “I’m an idiot. We shouldn’t ever have come here. You were right, it was a setup. If you hadn’t seen Moses and run toward me, you would have been killed, you and those cops with you.”

  Ben and Callie looked at each other. Slowly, Callie pulled out her tape recorder and began speaking into it quietly.

  “Please, Callie, off the record,” Dillon said.

  He watched her until she nodded and turned off the recorder.

  Savich turned to look at the smoldering ruins of his Porsche, his pride and joy since his dad had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday. Now it was nothing but twisted metal and black smoke. He saw a plate-size chunk of red metal sitting askew at the edge of the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry about your Porsche, Dillon.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Savich pulled her close to him. He felt something wet under his right hand, and his heart dropped to his feet.

  “Sherlock, what�
�s wrong, what’s—”

  “Oh dear,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “I guess maybe I didn’t clear the minefield.”

  Savich jerked off her coat, saw blood staining her right arm.

  Savich picked up his wife and carried her to the paramedics, who were packing their medical supplies away in the back of an open ambulance. John Edsel, not a day over twenty-five, tall and buff as a surfer, immediately snapped to. “Hey, what’s this? Hold on, Gus, we got more business.” John motioned for Savich to ease Sherlock down on a gurney. He lifted her legs.

  “No, please, Dillon, let me sit up. The last thing I want is to be flat on my back.”

  Savich sat her on the edge of the gurney, held her against him as he spoke to the paramedic.

  Edsel nodded. “Agent, you’re going to have to let her go. Take two steps back, that’s all the room I need. Let me take a look. You said she’s been wounded in this arm before?”

  Savich nodded. “Yeah, a knife wound a few years back when she didn’t move fast enough.”

  “Why didn’t you move fast enough?” John asked her as he cut away her sweater to see the wound.

  Sherlock knew he was trying to distract her, but sudden throbbing pain hit her so hard she nearly passed out. She’d forgotten how pain like this could slam down like a hammer on bone. She tried to keep focused on the present. “I guess I didn’t work out enough so I was slow. Dillon was really angry, took it out on me at the gym when I was well enough, worked me so hard I sweated off my eyebrows. Now I’m so strong I could lift that ambulance. Don’t worry, I’m not going to pass out.”

  “Oh I see, you’re an FBI agent, too. You guys sure lead exciting lives. Was that your Porsche that got blown up? Okay, this isn’t too bad, Agent, your coat really protected you. Whatever hit you wasn’t flying too fast. You’re going to need a couple of stitches. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

  John paused to look over at the twisted, smoking ruin. “A real pity about your Porsche. Okay, you ready to lie down, Agent?” John turned her on the gurney and helped her to lie down, but he was looking over at the Porsche carcass, shaking his head.

  CHAPTER 32

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  LATE FRIDAY NIGHT

  IT WAS CLOSE to midnight when Ben Raven brought them home in his Crown Vic. Sherlock, full of pain meds, her right arm in a sling, was singing the theme to Star Wars, but she was so loopy it wasn’t coming out right. She said good night to Ben and let Dillon carry her inside the house. After they had told Graciella what happened, Savich carried her upstairs. He sat her on the side of the bed and started to undress her when his cell phone rang.

  Sherlock stopped singing, whispered, “It’s midnight, right on the dot. He has a sense of timing, doesn’t he?”

  She watched Dillon nod as he drew a deep breath, saw his control settle in. He let the cell phone ring three times, then nodded to her, and Sherlock dialed the Hoover Building on their land line to alert them that Dillon was on with Moses Grace.

  Savich said, “Quite a splash you made, Moses.”

  “Lit up the night, didn’t we? And there you and your little wife were. I like that, shows me how important I am to you. Claudia and I had a ball watching all those yahoos blast out of that club, screaming, pushing, knocking each other over. People are so rude, aren’t they? Good manners only on the surface. No such thing as right and wrong when it comes down to survival. I picked the Bonhomie Club just for you, what with all your friends there. I knew you couldn’t stay away.

  “And sure enough, here you come roaring up in your shiny red car, just like I knew you would. Claudia saw you jump out and practically licked her lips.”

  The old man cackled, hiccupped, and swallowed phlegm. Savich could almost see him rubbing his veiny hand over his mouth. “Hey, a pity about your pride and joy, boy. I believe I had a tear in my eye when it went up in flames.

  “Claudia says we’re getting to know each other too well, you know that? Your little wife spots me up in that window. Surprised the hell out of me when she started yelling and firing her gun. She nearly got me, but Claudia pulled me away in time.” The old man sighed. “Then you had to guess what was going to happen.

  “Claudia was bummed that your little cutie wasn’t plastered against your Porsche when it blew. She wanted to see her fly through the air, like the pieces of your car.”

  Savich let the contempt blast out. “Yeah, you screwed up again, just like at the motel. But you’re an old man, Moses, lost your edge because you’re so sick and weak. You know something else? You’re a liar, a pathetic, twisted liar.”

  “Huh? What’re you talking about, boy? We was playing games, we didn’t really want to blow your flesh away from your bones, not at Hooter’s, but if it happened, well then, fun time would have been over, wouldn’t it? What’s this about me lying to you? I ain’t never lied to you, boy.”

  “Oh yeah you did. You claimed I tortured a woman, made her scream, and then you said I murdered her. That’s a lie. I never tortured anyone, never murdered anyone, man or woman. Only you and that psychopath Lolita you’re with do that. Why’d you make something like that up, Moses? Are you so pathetic you have to make up ridiculous crap like that to feel important?”

  Savich heard the roll of phlegm, heard the old man’s breathing hitch and bubble, then his voice exploded through the phone. “I didn’t make up anything, you bastard! You showed her no mercy, and you’re not going to get any!”

  Savich bore down, his voice snarly. “You’re a liar, Moses. Why are you lying?”

  “You waited until she was free, and then you murdered her. I’m going to make you sorry for that. Tell you what, boy, I’ll be sure you know who she was before you die. Just before. Everything up to now was for fun, but not any longer. Now I’m going to get to you and I’m going to make you suffer like she did. You’re going to pay.” The phone disconnected, cutting off in the midst of an awful hacking cough.

  Savich slipped his cell phone into his shirt pocket and turned to his wife. “He sounds like he’s drowning. You called Agent Arnold, let me call Mr. Maitland so he can get enough cops out when we find out where Moses is. Then I’ll get you out of those clothes.”

  She touched her hand to his cheek. “That was very well done, Dillon. Did he tell you enough?”

  “Yes, I think I know everything I need to, and not only from what he told me. Moses repeated that I killed the woman he’s connected to. Think about it, Sherlock. Moses planted a bomb in my car tonight, right in the middle of dozens of police. No one saw him at the motel or at the cemetery, or anywhere near the Denny’s, though he had to have been near. Who have we ever known who could pull off something like that? Make people see what he wants them to see, not what’s really there, him included.”

  She stared up at him. “Only Tammy Tuttle.”

  “Bingo,” he said. “She may have learned at his knee.”

  “But we looked at her file. We found no connection.”

  “And we were wrong.”

  She got to her feet. “Agent Arnold will call back in a minute, then we’re going to nail that crazy old man.” She placed her fingertips against his mouth. “No, don’t undress me and don’t argue. We’re in this together. I’m not going to keel over on you. Hey, I might even sing you another song.”

  AT TEN-THIRTY SATURDAY morning, Savich opened his front door to see Ruth with Brewster nestled in the crook of her arm, Sheriff Dixon Noble and his sons standing behind her, grinning.

  “Well, this is a surprise. Now, Ruth, I told you guys last night everything’s all right. You shouldn’t have come, you—”

  “Be quiet, Dillon, just be quiet. I’ve been so worried, I had to see for myself. Where’s Sherlock?” Then Ruth threw herself against him, Brewster between them, barking manically. “The news reports, Dillon, all those awful clips we saw on TV. It looked like a scene out of hell. Please tell me Sherlock is okay.”

  “She’s fine, I promise.”

  “Okay, okay. We couldn’t stan
d it. We had to make sure.”

  “In other words,” Dix said, stepping forward to shake Savich’s hand, “you could have been lying to Ruth, could really have been stretched out in a hospital bed, riddled with bullets and burning metal.

  “Truth is, we were as worried as Ruth. She was convinced you were being stoic, said she’d belt you one if you weren’t upright and smiling when we got here. Your Porsche—on the news they showed you pulling up in front of the club, panned to all the insane chaos, then they showed the Porsche burning. Some sight that was.”

  “All right, Brewster, come here.”

  “Be careful, Savich, you know how he is,” Dix said.

  “Yeah, I will.” Savich let Brewster lick his chin, then held him slightly away. But Brewster didn’t pee.

  Rafe said, “We just walked him thirty minutes ago, so I guess his tank’s empty.”

  “I’m convinced he has an auxiliary tank,” their father said.

  Rafe said to Savich, “Rob says you can get any girl you like when you drive a car like your Porsche.”

  “Yeah,” Dix said, “it’s all over for him now, boys. Tough break.”

  Sean walked into the entrance hall, his mother behind him. He stopped and stared at Brewster, who was wildly licking his father’s face. He smiled.

  Ruth saw the sling. “Ohmigod, Sherlock, Dillon said you hurt your arm, but just a little bit. What happened?”

  Sherlock said, “I’m fine, really. It was a piece of flying metal, hardly touched me. Hello, Rob, Rafe, Dix. It’s great to see you guys. Come in, come in. Oh dear, Dillon, quick, move Brewster off the carpet, he’s peeing.”

  Half an hour later, the four adults sat around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and tea and eating raisin-stuffed scones from the new Potomac Street bakery, Sweet Things. The three boys had consumed half a dozen scones and were now in the living room with Graciella and Brewster, who occasionally barked and butted his head against Sean’s hand.