The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  He plowed forward, the words forcing themselves out of his mouth. “Maybe, just maybe, I should think about another line of work.” There, he’d said the unimaginable, and the earth hadn’t opened up and swallowed him. It was out in the open now, those words between them, and he didn’t say anything else, just let the unthinkable settle around him, and he waited. Sean suddenly lurched up against his palm, and smiled at his father. He patted his father’s face again with wet fingers.

  Sherlock closed in and put her arms around him, just as they had after the shooting, with Sean between them. Then she began to lightly scratch around the healing wound in his back. They stood there silently together for several minutes. Finally, she raised her face, patted his cheek with her fingers, hers thankfully not wet, and said, “Do you know, Dillon, I agree with you entirely.”

  He nearly fell back against the window with surprise. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. But the only thing is, you’re the best cop I’ve ever met in my life.”

  “Maybe, but Sean—”

  She nodded. “This was so scary that both of us nearly went round the bend. But, you know, if you just stop to think about it, the solution to this isn’t difficult.”

  His head came up. “What solution?” He sounded irritated, and she was pleased. She could just imagine how deep he would dig in his heels if she argued with him, what with the worry and the guilt, worry and guilt that had nearly felled her as well.

  She went on her tiptoes and kissed him, and again hugged her boy and her husband tight.

  “Dillon, you’re a smart man.”

  “Yeah, well, what’s your point? What’s this easy solution?”

  She smiled up at him, kissed both him and Sean again, and said, “As I said, you’re smart. But here’s your problem; you’re just too much of a hero, Dillon; you feel too responsible, like you have to fix every bad thing that happens anywhere around you. It’s not just your job, it’s who you are.”

  “Yeah, sure, but—”

  “No buts. No more. You’re a cop, Dillon, one of the very best. It’s what you are, who you are. What happened in the park—it was scary, that’s for sure, but the fact is there are such things as random shootings. Would you have blamed yourself for being a cop then? I’ll tell you, there have been times when I’ve wanted to take you away to the Poconos, hide you in a cabin, and carry around six guns to protect you.”

  “And you don’t think I’ve felt the same way about you?”

  She gave him a big smile, reached up her hand and cupped his cheek. “I think we’re both doing exactly what we were meant to do. I plan for Sean to see us both well into old age. Get over it, Dillon. It’s time to move on.”

  He kissed her, pulled her hard against him again. Sean burped. “But—”

  “I know, there’s always a but. Let’s just work through this one day at a time, all right? You know as well as I do that the time to make a life-altering decision isn’t right after a huge scare.”

  Slowly, he nodded.

  “We’ve worked through everything else that’s come along and hit us in the chops. This is different because it’s the first time our jobs have come close to Sean, the first time our little tiger here could have been hurt because of what we do. It will be tough, but we’ll do the right thing. Don’t worry, we’ll sort it all out.”

  “Sherlock?”

  She lightly bit his neck in answer.

  “You want to spend some quality time with me?”

  She was laughing as she licked where she’d bitten. “Can I strip you naked and kiss you all over?”

  He swallowed hard, and nodded, looking at her smiling mouth. Sean burped again.

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  THE KETTERING HOME

  COLFAX, VIRGINIA

  Katie didn’t hurt if she stayed still, and that was a very nice thing. On the other hand, she wasn’t stupid enough to laugh or make any sudden movements. She was seated in Miles’s big comfortable leather chair, wearing sweats with a nice loose fleece top that hid the bandages under the sweats, her feet up on a big ottoman, her legs covered with a ratty afghan Miles’s mother had knitted many years before. She was wearing a pair of thick socks, no shoes.

  Cracker had taken Sam and Keely to a children’s movie matinee so they wouldn’t see or hear the cops. Both of them had seemed fine, thank God, neither suspecting that she had something other than the flu. She was thankfully spared enthusiastic hugs that would surely have brought a moan out of her. She smiled over Sherlock and Savich, who’d arrived a few minutes earlier.

  Miles brought in coffee and tea, and a plate of scones he’d picked up at Nathan’s Bakery just down on Cartwright Avenue.

  Detective Benjamin Raven said the moment he sat down on the comfortable sofa in the living room, ignoring both scones and coffee, “I am royally pissed, Mrs. Kettering. That was a really stupid thing to do.”

  To his surprise, she nodded. “I would agree with you, Detective, if I’d been wearing your cop’s shoes and not the victim’s.”

  It was Sunday, his buddies were waiting for him down at the sports bar with peanuts, beer, and the Redskins game. Then Mr. Kettering had called. He’d been nursing his snit for a good half hour now and he wasn’t about to let go without cutting loose on the woman who’d ruined his day. “You’re a cop, Sheriff, yet you pulled this stunt. You’ve come pretty close to obstructing justice.”

  “An interesting point, Detective,” Miles said, his voice mild, really quite reasonable now that he’d gotten over his own snit. He turned slightly in his chair and winked at Katie before he turned back. “I think it was pretty dumb, too, but we’ve already discussed why she did it. Can we move on to something helpful?”

  Detective Raven shouted at all of them indiscriminately, “Are all you people nuts? Your macho sheriff here could have bloody bled to death!”

  “I really prefer macha, Detective Raven.”

  “Don’t you try to jolly me out of this, Sheriff!”

  Miles said, “If she’d been shot bad, she would have yelled. She’s not stupid.” He paused a moment. “You would have yelled, wouldn’t you have, Katie?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve always believed you’ve got to live to fight another day.” She stared at Miles, then gave him such a brilliant smile he blinked.

  “Enough already,” Detective Raven said at last. He snagged a scone off the plate, poured himself a cup of coffee, and said, “If you guys are through praising this crazy woman, why doesn’t somebody tell me who you think fired at you.”

  Katie said, “I made a phone call back home to Jessborough just before you got here, Detective. Miles told you yesterday about all the hoopla we went through there. I asked about the congregation, about what was going on with them. Nothing, evidently. Interesting fact though. The place has been a disaster area what with all the storms, but once it started drying out, crews went out to the ruins of the McCamy house to start cleaning everything up and dig out the bodies. It’s still really slow going. There’s no word yet.”

  Detective Raven said, “You think one of the McCamys survived?”

  “No one could have survived in that house, Detective,” Miles said.

  “Then what’s your point?”

  Katie said, “I guess maybe I was just surprised that they hadn’t cleaned everything up. It’s just strange, all of it.”

  “Basically, we ain’t got anymore diddly than we had yesterday,” Detective Raven said, rising, and dusting off his jeans. “I’ve always hated too many possibilities. It sucks, big time.”

  “Yeah,” Miles said, “I agree.”

  Savich’s cell phone played the 1812 Overture. He held up a staying hand, listened, and when he hung up, he said, “That was one of my agents. The white Toyota Camry the shooter was driving was stolen two days ago from a Mr. Alfred Morley, in Rockville, Maryland. Right out of his driveway, during the night. He told the local police and they put out an APB on it.”

  “I don’t suppose the car’s turned up?” Detective Rav
en said.

  Savich shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Well, like my daddy always says, if things come too easy in life, you have more fun than you deserve. Okay, that’s it then. Thanks for the scones.” He looked down at his watch. “Well, damn, I’ve missed a good half of the game.”

  “The Redskins are probably losing anyway,” Savich said. “No fun watching that.”

  40

  MONDAY EVENING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Savich was depressed, he admitted it. Sherlock was in a meeting when he left headquarters early to stop at the gym. He wanted to sweat out some of the day’s frustrations and see what his back could manage. Maybe he’d find someone he could practice some easy throws with.

  What he didn’t want to find at the gym was Valerie Rapper; her eyes were on him the moment he came out of the men’s locker room.

  He nodded to her, nothing more, and headed into the big room to stretch. She followed him, stood at the barre in front of the mirrors and did some ballet moves with her toes pointed out. She said, “I’ve missed you, Agent Savich.”

  He didn’t answer her, tried to concentrate on stretching out his knotted muscles. The stress had left him feeling tight and cold. At least his back wasn’t bothering him.

  “Would you like me to walk on your back? I’m really very good at it and you look like you could use it.”

  “No, thank you, I’m about all set now,” he said and left the exercise room. He worked out hard, moving between the weights and the treadmill, aware that she was always near, and it was driving him nuts. When she got on the treadmill next to him nearly an hour later, he knew he had to put a stop to this.

  “Ms. Rapper.”

  “Yes, Agent Savich?” She cocked an eyebrow at him, actually ran her tongue over her bottom lip. He stared at that slip-sliding tongue of hers, not out of overwhelming lust, but amazement that she actually did that. The only thing he knew for sure about Ms. Valerie Rapper was that she had supreme self-confidence. Hadn’t any guy ever said no to her? Evidently not.

  He said with a touch of humor in his voice, “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Jake Palmer? You see the good-looking guy down there doing bench presses? He’s single, been divorced for a good long time, and I’ve heard he’s ready to start dating again. I’m not in the dating market, Ms. Rapper.”

  “I’m glad you’re not, Agent Savich. I want you all to myself.”

  Her arrogance astounded him, and he was silent for a moment. “I’ve already told you I’m married, Ms. Rapper. I’ve got a wife who wants me all to herself. I’m not available. Please, enough is enough. Hey, Jake can out-bench-press me.”

  She stretched out her hand and pressed the “stop” button on his treadmill. He stared at her as she stepped over onto his treadmill, right in front of him, ignoring the dozen or so people on the machines near them, and pressed herself against him. She went up on her toes, clasped her palms around his face and kissed him, hard.

  There was no punch of lust, just shock at what she was doing, and then anger.

  He heard a wolf whistle, but mainly there was just stupefied silence. There was a comment, within hearing, about at least taking it to the parking lot.

  “Shall we go to that sexy red Porsche of yours?” She said into his mouth. “But you’re a big man, Agent Savich. My Mercedes is roomier than a Porsche, so how about we go there instead?”

  Savich grabbed her arms, pulled them to her sides, and held them there.

  She looked up at him, her eyes on his mouth, and said, “You’re really strong. I like that.”

  “Dillon, why is this woman taking advantage of you on the treadmill?”

  Sherlock. He grinned like a loon. He was never so happy to hear her voice in his life. He let go of Valerie’s arms and pushed her back, but her lower body was still close to his groin. He heard a whistle and looked onto the main floor of the gym. There was Jake, giving him a little wave. So Jake had called Sherlock. He nodded back and said to his wife, “Hi, sweetheart, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “No, I can see that it would have been tough given Ms. Barracuda here all over you.”

  “Actually, this is Valerie Rapper.”

  Sherlock gave a cheerful smile to the woman who was standing frozen, still too close to Dillon. “Hi, Ms. Rapper. If you don’t get your hands, your mouth, and all the rest of yourself off my husband, and step off his treadmill, I will deck you. Then I will put my foot on your neck and I will rub your nose into a sweaty mat. Is that enough of a threat?”

  Valerie took a step back, couldn’t help herself, not knowing what to say to that miserable little red-headed monster. She wanted Savich, wanted him, not anyone else. He’d been playing the faithful game—oh yes, a man could be as coy and tease as well as any woman—but it would have ended quite soon. She said to him, “Would you just look at her. I’ll bet she dyes all that wild red hair. There aren’t any freckles on her face, and that means a dye job. It’s not even well done. I can see roots.”

  Savich said, “I can assure you that all that wild red hair is quite natural. I’m her husband, I’ve got the inside track on this.”

  “Dillon,” Sherlock said, “that’s a tad indelicate. Ms. Rapper, not all redheads have freckles. Now, please remove yourself or I will take action in the next couple of seconds.”

  Valerie waved this away. “You know if she weren’t here, you’d be pulling me out of this wretched gym in no time at all.”

  “Do you really think so?” Savich inquired, and a black eyebrow shot up a good inch.

  “Of course I do! This is ridiculous. Don’t you know who I am?”

  Sherlock said, head cocked to the side, “A pushy broad with an embarrassing last name?”

  “You little bitch, back off! My father is the CEO and major stockholder of Rapper Industries. I am his daughter.”

  “Fancy that,” Savich said, looking impressed, his mouth smiling, but his eyes hard. “Actually, when you said he was your father, I figured you just might be his daughter.”

  “I could buy your dumb-ass FBI with my trust fund!”

  Now this was interesting, Savich thought. “How ignorant of me. I hadn’t realized who you were. Just imagine, the daughter of the famed Mr. Rapper. Now that I realize you’re very rich as well as very beautiful, it makes all the difference. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”

  Sherlock, her smile still in place, nodded. “It sure does. It makes me realize it’s time to bring out my big guns.” She pushed Dillon out of the way and stepped up right into Valerie Rapper’s face, making three of them on the treadmill. “I don’t suppose you know who we are, do you?”

  Valerie Rapper blinked. “Of course, you’re a couple of unimportant little cops. So what?”

  “If he’s so little, then why do you want him?”

  “I was referring to you. I saw him on TV. I saw those women reporters looking at him. Go away now.”

  Sherlock didn’t touch her, even though she badly wanted to. She said, not an inch from Valerie Rapper’s face, “Oh no, he’s mine. Now, Ms. Rapper, you won’t believe my big gun—it’s a cannon really. My father is the famous federal judge Sherlock. If I tell him you’ve been annoying me, why, he could have your father and his entire conglomerate investigated. What do you think of that, missy?”

  Before Savich could throw in his own big gun and tell her he was Sarah Elliott’s grandson and he controlled millions of dollars in paintings, Valerie Rapper stepped off the treadmill, grabbed her bottle of water, waved it at them. “Both of you are crazy, totally crazy. Judge Sherlock! What a ridiculous name!”

  “You should know,” Sherlock said.

  “Don’t you dare have my father investigated, do you hear me?”

  “Well, I’ll think about it if you leave my husband alone.”

  “I’ll bet you dye everything so he won’t guess that your hair isn’t natural!”

  “Gee, I didn’t know that was possible. Thanks for the tip.”

  “What’s
going on here, Agent Savich?”

  It was Bobby Curling, the gym manager. He looked both amused and alarmed. “We got a problem here? These two fighting over you? Since when did you become such a sex object?”

  Savich grinned at his wife. “Actually, the three of us were just comparing our antecedents. It’s my considered opinion that Sherlock and I come from the better gene pool.”

  “You’re not worth my time, either of you!” Valerie Rapper whirled around. “As for you, Bobby, you can take your cheap club and shove it.”

  She took the stairs two at a time going down, something Savich had never seen anyone do before. Bobby grinned up at him. Savich gave Bobby a thumbs up. “No problem now, Bobby, everything’s cool.”

  “Yeah, but you guys just lost me a customer.”

  “Maybe,” Savich said. “But we also put on quite a show for everyone else.”

  “I’d say we’re easier to get along with anyway,” Sherlock said.

  Bobby hunched his huge muscled shoulders, took a last look at Valerie Rapper stomping into the women’s locker room. “She sure is pretty,” he said, and sighed. “I’ve been watching her go after you, so I guess in the spirit of keeping marriages together, it’s okay with me she’s leaving.” He sighed again, and turned away. “I’ll bet she’s really rich, huh?”

  “She says she is.” Savich turned to his wife, lightly touched his fingertip to her cheek. “Thanks for showing up. Good timing, as always.”

  “The Special Forces couldn’t have moved any faster than I did getting here. I’d hug you but you’re sweaty. Oh, who cares?” She plastered herself to him and whispered against his neck, “When I saw her pushing against you, I have to admit I nearly lost it. I wanted to heave one of the bicycles at her or throw her over the railing or knock her beautiful capped teeth into her tonsils.”

  “You were the model of restraint,” he said, hugging her.

  She cupped his face between her hands, pulled him down, kissed him hard. “Thank God you’re so sweaty, I can’t smell her on you. We’re a pretty good team.”