Officer Clooney said, “She gave as good as she got, Agent Savich. Look where the bozo’s ride ended up.”
Savich glanced over at the wrecked motorcycle.
Sherlock said, “Turned out okay, but I was aiming at him, of course. At least I got a tire.”
Savich took her arms in his hands. And felt something wet. His heart jittered. He looked to see her coat was ripped high on her arm. He said in a deep, calm voice, “He got you.”
Sherlock looked down at her arm, and of all things, she felt a sudden stab of pain. “Isn’t that a kick? I didn’t feel anything at all until you pointed that out. Now it hurts. Well, I did it again.”
Savich peeled off her coat, pulled her sweater off her shoulder, and saw it was only a graze, really, the bullet scratching through her skin. No need for stitches. Antiseptic and a small bandage should do it. Still, his heart was galloping even with the proof in front of him that it wasn’t much of anything, thank the Good Lord. It wasn’t even bleeding now. He pulled her sweater and coat back into place. He stood there with her hands now in his and wondered where his brain had gone. “You’re all right,” he said finally. “You’re all right.”
She knew he was scared, knew he was remembering San Francisco, knew that if it had been him, she’d be a mess. She smiled. “Yeah, no worries, I promise. We’ll take care of it at home. You made really good time, Dillon.”
“The nine-one-one operator called me.”
Officer Clooney smiled. “Which one, Agent Savich?”
“Jodie.”
Officer Clooney nodded. “Well, Agent, we’ve got two women, Agent Sherlock one of them, who both claim to be the guy’s intended victim.”
Savich stared hard at Sherlock. Her nose was red from the cold. She was pale, not from what had happened, but from something else, something like guilt from some knowledge she hadn’t shared with him? He looked away from her, over at the ruined tire, breathed in the smell of burning rubber, and said very calmly, “If Agent Sherlock says the shooter was after her, there’s no question here.”
The cop who’d been speaking to the older couple across the street jogged over. “Agent Sherlock, I asked that old couple to describe the man who jumped off the crashing motorcycle. They said they really didn’t see him.”
“But they were right there,” Sherlock said. She weaved where she stood. It was humiliating.
Savich said, “Guys, we’re going to leave the crime scene and the interviews to you because I’m taking my wife home to clean off the blood. We’ll follow up with you tomorrow. Thanks for coming so quickly.”
Clooney nodded toward the Porsche. “Nice car, Agent Savich.”
“Thanks.”
As he was leading Sherlock away, she called out over her shoulder, “Officer Clooney, I’ll personally call Glory Cudlow tomorrow and put her mind at rest. As for Mr. Huzar’s Kawasaki, you’ll notify him? Tell him it’s sort of totaled?”
Clooney nodded. “We’ll follow up on the ballistics, the witnesses while you get some iodine and a Band-Aid. I’ll get back to you with what we learn. We’ll need a full statement from you tomorrow.”
Savich put her in the Porsche, fastened her seat belt himself. She said even before he turned on the sweet motor, “The old couple, their name is Thompson, and I have their address. We’ve got to speak to them. I don’t understand why they told the officer they didn’t see the man. We’ve got to go see them, Dillon. Now.”
He eyed her, slowly nodded. “All right.” Actually, Savich wanted to yell at her, wanted to hide her under his coat, but he couldn’t, at least not right now. He pulled out his cell. “I’ll call Gabriella, tell her we’ll be a little late. She can wait awhile and then put the eggplant in the oven for us.”
Eggplant. It was too much. She began to laugh.
Natalie’s house
Chevy Chase, Maryland
Tuesday evening
Davis looked up to see Natalie Black glide down the posh wide staircase decked out in a long black gown, delicate strands of diamonds at her neck, her ears, and her wrist. Her incredible Sherlock-red hair was pulled back in a chignon, fastened with a diamond clip. She looked elegant, utterly certain of her world and her place in it. This was the woman who’d chomped down on Jitterbug’s forearm and bounced her fist off his face.
His Glock, always his reliable friend, was secured comfortably on his belt, and he knew no one would realize he was wearing it. His tux was cut that well, thanks to his mom, who’d forced him with believable threats to his father’s tailor. It wasn’t Armani, but it was close. He’d forked out a month’s salary for the privilege of looking like he belonged, no matter how high on the food chain a function was, and tonight’s was pretty close to the top. Hooley was wrong. Tonight Davis was nothing but cool in a bespoke tux with a gun at his belt and an incredible woman walking toward him. He hummed “Come Out and Play” by The Offspring.