Blindside

by Catherine Coulter

  “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 Raven 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 Sherloc
k. 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.”

  He looked down at her. “From the time I kicked your SIG Sauer out of your hand in Hogan’s Alley, I knew we would be.”

  She bit his neck, which tasted like salt. “I called Lily. She came dashing over to watch Sean. You want to go rescue your sister?”

  “Nah. Lily’s always complaining that she doesn’t get him to herself enough. Let’s give her another hour. Now, I’ve got to shower. Maybe we could stop off at Dizzy Dan’s and get a pizza. We could take a couple of slices home to Sean and Lily. They’ve both got a big pizza tooth.”

  Sherlock laughed. “A little kid and he loves his pizza with artichokes on it.” She grinned up at him. Yes, everything was under control. “Let’s do it. We’ll get you the Vegetarian Nirvana, which sounds scary to me.”

  “Only Sean and I truly appreciate pineapple and broccoli,” he said.

  “You got that right. Me, I’m pure carnivore,” she said, and bit his neck again.

  41

  NEARLY MIDNIGHT

  MONDAY NIGHT

  Agent Dane Carver said, “Glad you guys made it in time. He just made his move, see him? He’s over there by the side of the house, trying to hide in the shadows, but he’s too damned big. I was just on my way after him.”

  Sherlock said, “Would you look at that bulky wool coat he’s wearing. He looks like a huge black bat.”

  “Let’s have a closer look,” Savich said. Dane gave Savich his infrared glasses and Savich saw him clearly, skulking to the side of the small 1940s cottage using the oak trees as cover.

  Sherlock said, “Did you get her name?”

  “Ms. Aquine Barton, single, longtime math teacher at Dentonville High School. She’s in there alone, Savich.”

  “Okay, Dane, hang back and call the cops when I signal you. We’re going to let him heave himself over the windowsill into the cottage, then we’ll get him. I don’t want him getting close to the teacher. Just close enough so it’s the final nail in his coffin. Keep your fingers crossed he doesn’t try anything stupid, and keep your gun ready.”

  Savich, Sherlock on his heels, ran bent over, SIG Sauers drawn, to the front of the cottage. “We’re being cowboys,” she said to the back of his black leather jacket.

  “Not really. This guy’s not going to give us any problems once we confront him. Keep down and stay behind me.”

  “Sometimes I hate it that you’re the boss.”

  He grinned into the darkness as he eased the lock pick into the front-door keyhole.

  It took under three seconds. The lock released and the front door slid open with just a push of his toe.

  It was utterly black inside. The air smelled like jasmine, so much jasmine your nose felt stuffed with flowers.

  They paused, listening. They’d watched him jimmy the window into the dining room, not more than twenty feet away from where they were crouched over in deep shadows by the front door. It was lucky he hadn’t tried to go right in through a bedroom window. That, they couldn’t have allowed. They walked lightly, pressing themselves against the wall in the hallway, listening to him try to get through the window. How he could get in without awakening Ms. Barton neither of them could imagine.

  They heard him land hard on the dining room floor.

  “That’s it,” Savich said and ran lightly into the dining room.

  Savich said, quietly but clearly, “You can stop now, Troy. It’s all over.”

  Troy Ward’s head jerked up. He recognized Savich’s voice even though he couldn’t see him clearly.

  He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Get away!”

  As his voice echoed off the dining room walls, they heard a woman yell loud enough to make the crystals on the chandelier over the dining room table dance. “You little creep! How dare you come in here to rape me! Just look at you, all dressed in black like some sort of gangster, sneaking into my house, landing like a brick on my dining room floor! How’s this, you nasty little pervert!”

  There was enough light coming through the window to see Ms. Aquine Barton bring a huge old iron skillet down on Troy Ward’s head. Troy’s finger jerked the trigger on his gun in reflex, and a bullet slammed into the lamp on Ms. Barton’s sideboard. It exploded, sending shards of glass flying all over the room.

  “Get down, kids!” Aquine Barton yelled even though there were no kids around. “Look what you did, you little creep! That was my mama’s lamp.” She leaned over Troy Ward’s still bulk and kicked him in the ribs with her bare foot. Then she looked up, saw two more shadows, heard them breathing hard, and flipped on the light, skillet raised high. “Two more of you?” She waved that skillet toward them. “You just come here and I’ll lay you flat, too.”

  “Ms. Barton? Please don’t hurt us. I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock. We’re with the FBI. Please don’t slam us with that skillet.” He pulled out his shield and flipped it open.

  She looked them both up and down, then checked out his FBI shield. “A woman’s got to protect herself. Had this skillet under the bed for a good fifteen years now. First time I had to use it. Who is this nasty fat little man anyway?” She wav
ed the skillet very close to Troy Ward’s head. “What is all this about? What are you doing in my house at midnight? I have school tomorrow, you know.”

  “The man you just flattened, Ms. Barton, is the math teacher killer,” Sherlock said. “And you brought him down all by yourself. Thank you very much.”

  Ms. Barton stood there, staring down at Troy Ward, then back at Savich. “I know who you are now. This man was one of the widowers, standing behind you, Agent Savich, on that podium. I remember thinking he really needed to go to the gym, maybe even sleep there, no food. When was that press conference? A couple of weeks ago?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Savich said. “You’ve got a very good memory.”

  “But his wife was the first one killed. Oh, I see. It was him all along, the scummy little jerk.” She kicked him with her bare foot. “But why was he here?” Her dark eyes widened and she whispered, “Oh my goodness, he was here to kill me, to make me his next victim, wasn’t he?”

  “We wouldn’t have allowed that, Ms. Barton,” Sherlock said. “We were right with him all the way. We just had to wait until the moment he stepped into your house. Then we were prepared to arrest him. By catching him here, we’ve left no way for a lawyer to get him off. There was never any danger to you. I was looking forward to taking him in myself, but you didn’t give me a chance, you just bonked him on the head and laid him right out.”

  Bless Sherlock, Savich thought. She was excellent at distraction.

  “I see now. You boobs set me up.” Ms. Barton crossed her arms over her chest, still holding the skillet.

  A schoolteacher who had obviously heard better excuses than Sherlock’s.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sherlock said. “But you’re a heroine, ma’am. You’ve made things safe for math teachers again.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I have,” said Ms. Barton as she fussed over her knee-length nightgown.

  Dane appeared in the doorway, out of breath. “You got him, Savich?”

  Savich grinned and waved toward Aquine. “No, Ms. Barton here brought him down with her trusty iron skillet.”