Split Second

by Catherine Coulter

She said, “I’m fine. I can’t wait to nail Kirsten and Bruce Comafield.”

  “Lucy, would you consider letting Dr. Hicks hypnotize you again? Maybe there’s more you can find out about your grandfather that might help put this to rest.”

  She gave him a look. “Nice thought, Dillon, but I don’t think so.”

  “Not really,” Savich said. “Pretty lame, actually,” and he stood, said over his shoulder, “We’ll all meet in front of the Texas Range at six o’clock this evening, and get ourselves in place. We’ll have plenty of backup, not to worry.”

  “You going to call the Baltimore Field Office in?”

  “Not this time. We don’t want to alert them by having too many agents hanging around, looking like they’re pretending to be bored.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Raven Street, Baltimore

  The Texas Range Bar & Grill

  Wednesday night

  Over the wire, Sherlock wore a soft blue tunic with tight black jeans and black heels. She’d pulled her hair behind her ears, fastened with two gold clips. From her ears dangled gold hoops. There was no wedding ring on her finger.

  She thought the wire was a waste of time. What were the odds Kirsten would get past Dillon and even make it inside? And even if she did, the other agents in the bar had eyes on her. As usual, Dillon had insisted, wanting to cover all the bases, anticipating every possible screwup.

  She sipped the heavy dark Texas home brew, the specialty of the house called Texas Espresso, and tried to look depressed for the benefit of the four other agents she knew were watching her performance. She hadn’t wanted to miss Lucy and Coop taking Kirsten Bolger and Bruce Comafield down outside the bar, but someone had to be in here, growing mold along with the home brew, just in case.

  She hoped Ruth, Dane, Jack, and Ollie, scattered around the bar, were at least enjoying their drinks.

  Stop your whining and look depressed. She’d nodded only once to Mrs. Spicer, saw she was lit up bright as a Christmas Santa. She was relieved Kirsten wouldn’t ever get into the bar with Mrs. Spicer; she’d take one gander and know something was up. Sherlock studied the bartender, a thin-as-a-stick young woman with a chipped front tooth, who talked nonstop while she delivered drink orders to three waitresses and never got them wrong or spilled a drop.

  She didn’t appear to know who Sherlock really was, and that was a good thing, what with Mrs. Spicer looking fit to burst into song.

  Mr. Gator Spicer hadn’t shown himself yet, and that was also a good thing, since they didn’t need a duet. They’d cautioned Mrs. Spicer to simply go about her business and not to pay any attention to Sherlock or the other FBI agents, assured her they would stop Kirsten before she ever got into the bar. She was trying, but they all knew she wouldn’t manage to be discreet.

  “You’ve never been in here before,” the bartender said when there was a lull.

  “Nope, first time.” Sherlock looked at the faded name tag over the bartender’s left breast—Trisha. Nope, Trisha didn’t have a clue, thankfully. “I was out trying to walk off my mad at my jerk of an ex-boyfriend who stole my beautiful light blue Corvette. It was mine, and it was gorgeous, sexier than Brett Favre’s butt in his Wranglers. I saw your sign and decided it was time for a beer. Or two. Wow, this Texas Espresso has hairy knuckles.”

  Trisha poured three more Texas Espressos, lightly shoved the big, thick beer glasses toward a waitress, who scooped them up onto her tray with no wasted motion. Trisha said to Sherlock, “This is a good place for beer, and that’s a bummer for a bartender who lives off tips. I can make a mean martini, and there’s not much call for martinis here. Nope, folk come here to gulp down beers by the dozen, listen to country/western music, and munch on peanuts that have enough salt in them to make you thirsty again. Later on, when they’ve had one too many, they try riding that mechanical bull—his name’s Ivan—and I’ll tell you, old Ivan’s knocked many an urban cowboy on his behind.”

  “I can’t believe you got that all out without a breath and still filled two more drink orders,” Sherlock said, and raised her beer glass toward the bartender.

  “Yeah, I’m good that way. They used to call it working the bar; now they call it multitasking.”

  “How old is Ivan?”

  “He’s been here longer than I have. What is that—nine years come December. You don’t look like you’re crazy enough to climb aboard.”

  “Give me two more shots of your Texas whoopee, and I might take a ride.” Sherlock sighed. “What I really want to do is drink and mind my own business. Trisha, let me tell you, this beer not only has hairy knuckles, the freaking stuff has big hairy legs.”

  Trisha gave her a salute with a white towel. “I guess you’re not used to real Texas beer. Actually, neither am I. When I’m forced to drink some, I drink it even slower than you. I tell Gator—he’s the owner—he probably mixes the beer in his big Texas john.”

  “Now, there’s a happy thought.”

  An hour passed while Sherlock pretended to sip her hairy beer and listen in on stories told at the bar, mostly by an old man in a cowboy hat who claimed to have lost his shirt in Reno and was living in the backseat of his Chevy Impala, waiting for Lady Luck to knock on his window again.

  Kirsten had arrived at eight last night, and it was eight o’clock on the nose. Sherlock went on high alert, hoping she wouldn’t hear gunfire, hoping Dillon would bring that psychopathic killer down hard and fast, without the need for violence, without anyone getting hurt.

  Time passed slowly for her after that. Sherlock finally said quietly, “Another half hour gone, and still no Kirsten. Maybe she won’t show tonight.”

  Of course, there wasn’t an answer, since she could only transmit. She saw Trisha’s hands flying. The crowd was two-deep now at the bar.

  She’d forced herself to take the last drink of her first killer beer when she heard a mellow voice beside her right ear: “Hey, you all alone here?”

  CHAPTER 40

  Sherlock’s heart kicked a high step in her chest. It was Kirsten, and she was here, not outside, facedown on the sidewalk, handcuffs being snapped on her bony wrists, being read her rights. How did she get past Dillon, Coop, and Lucy? Had Bruce Comafield gotten past them, too? She’d have bet Sean’s favorite toy basketball Kirsten couldn’t ever get past Dillon, that he could sniff her out from across town. So somehow Kirsten had come in through the back, even though Coop had checked the alley door, made sure it was locked. And that meant Bruce Comafield had gotten past Dillon without being recognized, and then he’d slipped back and simply opened the back door for Kirsten. Had they followed the same routine the previous night? It made sense they’d be careful. Too bad Mrs. Spicer hadn’t noticed.

  New ballgame, new rules; she hoped the good guys would still win.

  Sherlock turned to look up into Kirsten Bolger’s thin, dead-white face, saw her dark eyes were glittering nearly as brightly as Mrs. Spicer’s. Her hair was short, spiky, and tonight not red but black as Morticia Addams’s. So she’d changed things up a bit. She was wearing a red blazer over a black turtleneck sweater with black jeans, and a red belt slung low. Kirsten had shoved her way through a dozen people to get to her.

  “You’re a girl,” Sherlock said. “From your voice, I couldn’t tell. Nice throaty sound. I hope you’re not a smoker.”

  “Yep, I’m a girl, and thanks. Nope, never picked up that nasty habit. Hey, best thing about me is I’m all alone tonight. My guy kissed me off when my best friend stuck her hand down his pants and turned the key. The bitch.”

  Sherlock raised her empty beer glass. “Here’s to the bitches of the world. May they join the bankers and the lawyers at the bottom of the ocean.”

  Kirsten laughed, leaned close, since the noise level had notched up even higher. So many people—too many, Sherlock thought, for much chance of taking Kirsten down without anyone getting hurt. Kirsten said, “Hey, what about ratty guys? Wait a sec.” She called to the bartender and asked for two beers.

&nbs
p; Sherlock frowned up at her. “You want to buy me a beer?”

  Kirsten laughed, waved that away with a very white hand, long, thin fingers and short, blunt nails. There was a big silver ring on her right hand. And the same ring on her left hand. “Hey, I’m not into girls. I wasn’t lying about the boyfriend. I’m lonely. I figure one always has to pay for companionship, right?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been lonely until tonight. My ex-boyfriend, the chigger-brained moron, stole my car.”

  “What’s a chigger?”

  “You know, one of those nasty little spider things, bite you in tall grass in the summer.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  Trisha set the two beers in front of them, shoved over another bowl of peanuts. She gave Kirsten an appraising look before she bounded away to fill half a dozen more orders. The jukebox music was tuned really loud now, and voices shouted above the music. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if they heard glass breaking soon. She took a lip-taste of the beer. “He took my car because the squatbrained dip likes my blue Corvette better than he likes that wimpbutt little white Miata of his. He said he was feeling insecure and figured the Corvette would impress his mama. Like I believed that. More like a dog-haired bimbo. Hey, thanks for the beer. Here’s to all the tarts that my rutting goat of a boyfriend sleeps with; may they swim with the seaweed.”

  The two women clicked beer glasses and drank.

  Kirsten tapped her fingers lightly against her glass, leaned close when someone bumped her, and gave the guy a killing look. “Hey, my name’s Stephani—that’s with an i at the end. My mom lost it there for a while, I guess, what with all the drugs they pumped into her. I was a C-section, as she told me every single day until I managed to get away from her the morning of my eighteenth birthday. Geez, nearly ten years ago next week.” She fell silent a moment, looking into the depths of her beer.

  Sherlock thought, Why would you lie about your age when it doesn’t matter? She hoped the agent listening to them could hear Kirsten clearly in this noise.

  Kirsten took another small taste of beer.

  So you want to keep your mind clear so you can kill me with no muss or fuss.

  Kirsten asked, “What’s your name?”

  Sherlock waggled her eyebrows. “Suzzie. With two z’s.”

  Kirsten grinned, showing straight white teeth.

  Sherlock said, “I guess my mama kind of lost it, too. I sure wouldn’t want to have a C-section.” She looked briefly toward where she knew Dane Carver and Ruth were sitting in a side booth, but she couldn’t see them through the crowd. Then she finally met Dane’s eyes. He nodded toward a young man at the far end of the bar. Sherlock looked at the guy, then away. A minute later, she searched his face again, then stopped, didn’t want to overdo. Did Dane think this guy was Comafield? The guy was young, sported a sad attempt at a goatee and a shaved head. He wore a nerdy tweed jacket with chinos, and thick black-rimmed glasses, not aviators. Could be him, could be. If it was, it was a good disguise. He was by himself, nursing what looked like straight vodka but was probably water. When he finally raised his head and turned to look at the jukebox, Sherlock’s blood ran cold. It was Bruce Comafield.

  That bald head got you past Dillon. I’ll bet you even wove yourself into a crowd, used them as camouflage. Smart boy.

  To be honest, she wouldn’t have recognized him if Dane hadn’t nodded toward him. One thing she knew for sure—Dillon wouldn’t ever take the chance of coming in here to take Kirsten down; no way would he risk a shoot-out in the bar. Too many innocent people, and who knew if Kirsten or Comafield carried guns along with the wire tucked inside Kirsten’s pocket? No, Dillon would take her down when she came outside with Sherlock weaving around like a drunk. But there were so many people, all of them talking, drinking, dancing, strolling in and out of the bar, always new people coming in. What if she pulled out her SIG and stuck it against Kirsten’s ribs and simply walked her outside? She could manage that, but there sat Bruce Comafield, and he was the wild card in the mix. Still, if push came to shove, she knew she could take Kirsten easily, and she’d said so to Dillon. Too bad he’d placed his hands on her shoulders and said, “This is boss to subordinate, kiddo, a direct order, so pay attention. If by any wild chance you get close to her, you do not try to take her by yourself, do you understand me?”

  And he’d had the nerve to wait until she’d finally nodded, as if he didn’t trust her unless she did. Smart man. Sherlock sighed. Well, at least now she had a role to play—she was center stage as the tethered goat.

  Kirsten said, “There are worse things than a stupid C-section, the whining cow.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like seeing that cow all decked out in diamonds, prancing around on her new husband’s arm, knowing she kept me from knowing my real father all my life.”

  Whoa.

  “You never knew your daddy? Why’d your mama not tell you about him? But she finally told you? Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  A woman tapped Kirsten’s shoulder to squeeze past her to the bar. Kirsten tightened all over. Sherlock could practically see her black rage boiling up. Then Kirsten smiled, moved closer to Sherlock. “My daddy wasn’t a nice man; that’s what she finally told me.”

  “Well, then, it was good she didn’t let you near him. He might have hurt you.”

  “Oh, no, he never would have hurt me. He would have loved me and admired me. Do you want to know what else? The bitch never even told him he had a kid—namely, me. He died without knowing I even existed.”

  Sherlock said, “He died? Your dad? How did that happen?”

  Kirsten’s eyes went dead, like frozen black water. “Monsters killed him. He didn’t have a chance.”

  Sherlock waited, but Kirsten said nothing more. She said easily, “Hey, you’re wearing the same ring on both hands. Why’s that?”

  Kirsten looked down at her hands, seemed to study first the ring on her left hand, then the one on her right hand. “They’re perfect, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t know about that—but they’re different-looking, unique. Someone special give them to you?”

  “Yeah, someone real special. One of the rings belonged to my dad. The other one was made for me. So, now I wear them both. I’m never really alone, you know?”

  “No, not really, but that’s okay. I guess my own problem isn’t in your league. I mean, ex-boyfriends litter the ground.”

  The frozen black water went liquid again. Kirsten smoothed herself out, gave her a smile. “Give it a try, Suzzie. The jerk stole your car, right?”

  “Yeah, like I told you, that dog-breathed fool stole my Corvette.”

  “I can see how that could make the list, but he’ll return it, right?”

  “Probably. He’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Hey, you’re funny. I’ll have to try out some of your descriptions. Dog-breathed fool, yeah, that’ll make my boyfriend stand up and bark. Yeah, my girlfriend has him for a while, but I plan to take him back.”

  “You’re pretty funny yourself. Hey, Stephani, I gotta hit the women’s room. You wanna come with me?”

  I can take you down in the women’s room; it’s nice and private. Dillon will understand, since I’d have you by yourself. Come on with me, come on.

  “Nah, it’s too crowded. I’ll guard your beer,” and Kirsten laughed, lightly laid her palm over the top of Sherlock’s glass. “Good luck getting through the mob. Have at it, Suzzie Q with two z’s. Don’t be long.”

  Bummer, Sherlock thought as she wove her way through the crowd, everyone so packed together the dancers could only sway in place. She passed Ollie and Jack seated across from each other, their beers on the small round table between them. She didn’t look at them, simply kept walking. She waited until she got to the door with an exit sign and the unisex bathroom figure beneath it before she said out loud, “I’m on my way to the bathroom so Kirsten can spike my beer. Behavioral Science and Dr. Hicks are going to
do back flips when they hear what she had to say. Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink any of the beer, I don’t want to get sick. Dillon, you know I’m not flying solo, not with all of our people in here, so don’t jump the gun.”

  When she headed back toward the bar, a guy tried to pull her into a dance. She pressed lightly on the nerve at his wrist, and he yipped and backed off.

  Hey, Kirsten, you finished spiking my beer? I hope Ruth got a lovely pic of you doing it.

  Sherlock felt her blood hum. She was so revved she felt ready to leap off a tall building and fly.

  Time to play this out now.

  CHAPTER 41

  Sherlock squeezed in next to Kirsten at the bar. Kirsten was still standing, guarding both her beer and her bar stool. Sherlock couldn’t help it, she gave a quick look at her new glass of Texas Espresso. Would she have to pretend to drink it? She felt Bruce Comafield’s eyes, knew he was watching her. She’d considered dumping the drugged beer on the floor beside her, but she gave that idea up, what with both of them watching her.

  Kirsten clicked her glass to Sherlock’s. “Hear, hear, Suzzie, drink up.”

  He’s watching; he’s watching to see what I’ll do. She didn’t want to drink it, didn’t want to, but she drew in a deep breath and took a small sip, then another. She didn’t taste anything different, but she knew bad things were about to happen to her. A guy accidentally hit her arm, and she knew she could have let him knock the glass out of her hand, but what would be the point? She took another small sip.

  Kirsten was so close to her now Sherlock could smell her perfume. She smelled like violets. “You know,” Kirsten said, “I was thinking about moving. I’m getting real tired of Baltimore. Where do you live?”

  “Two blocks over, off the Inner Harbor.”

  “What do you do to keep yourself in gold hoops?” She flicked a finger over one of Sherlock’s earrings.

  Sherlock forced herself to take another sip of beer. “I own one of those kitschy little tourist shops in the mall. I’ve got a great view of the boats in the harbor. It’s kind of fun. You?”