Split Second

about it?

Coop waited for twenty minutes, until she walked out of the elevator, carrying only her purse. But her purse was huge. He found himself wondering how much bloody weight women could actually carry until their backs gave out.

“So, what was in the box?”

She pressed her purse against her chest. He was on full alert.

“Come on, Lucy, state secrets from World War Two? Something so classified you’ve got tucked in that purse that if you tell me, you’ll have to either kill me or marry me?”

That brought an unwilling smile. “Well, we’ve already had the pre-honeymoon.”

“It was too short. I’d like to see the squirrel nightshirt again.”

“What was in the box is personal, so forget it,” she said, and walked beside him out of the bank. He saw a glow in her eyes, no other word for it. She was ready to kick butt. She’d found something significant, something related to what had happened twenty-two years ago. He wanted to know; he wanted to protect her. But from what?

“You aren’t going to tell me what your grandfather placed in that box?”

“No. Let it go, Coop.”

“I want to help you, Lucy. Surely you know that.”

She threw him a big, bright, utterly false smile. “Sure, Coop, but the thing is, I really don’t need any help. Hey, don’t you have to meet Sherlock, fly up to New York?”

CHAPTER 30

New York City

Tuesday afternoon

Detective Celinda Alba hated that the feds were coming, wished she could drop-kick them all in the Hudson, where she knew they’d all drown, weighted down by polluted muck or their egos. It was a homicide, and that was her business. But no, the feds had to stick their arrogant noses in it. Who cared if Bundy’s daughter had killed before in San Francisco, Chicago, Cleveland, or wherever? No one had caught her, so it didn’t matter. That woman was here in New York now, and they would deal with her, once and for all, if only the feds would let them.

Celinda knew she was good, a veteran cop with fifteen years under her belt. She had a feel for murderers, especially weird ones like Bundy’s daughter. Bundy’s daughter—now, that was amazing. As for her partner, Henry Norris, he was still so new his cop shoes squeaked, but she knew in a couple of years his cop shoes would stomp on bad guys. People seemed to trust him immediately and trip over themselves spilling their guts to him. She’d see to it he got over this hero worship he appeared to have for the feds.

And here they were, right here on her turf, introduced to her and Henry by Captain Slaughter. As usual, her captain looked tired and harassed, and he was giving her his cold eye, its meaning clear: Play nice. Cooperate, and don’t make waves. She’d heard it before. She shook the feds’ hands, even managed a stingy smile. She saw Henry’s mouth was open as he stared at the tall, slim woman with her curly red hair and ridiculous name. I mean, give me a break—Sherlock—and dressed all la-di-da in black pants, white shirt, black leather jacket, and black ankle boots. The dark guy standing beside her was taller than her captain, and he surely looked like he could kick your butt without breaking a sweat. She had to admit the boy was eye candy, no doubt about that, but so what? She wanted them gone. He wore black, too, as though he and the redhead were freaking twins or something, except his tie was red.

A fed rebelling? She wondered what color his socks were. She said to her captain, “Sir, why aren’t we dealing with the New York FBI?”

Captain Slaughter gave her a look because he knew she’d dated an agent at the New York office, and it hadn’t ended well. He guessed she’d rather have the snake she knew than ones flown in. “This comes from the top, Detective Alba. You will give Agent Sherlock and Agent McKnight whatever assistance they need.” And there was more cold eye; a buffalo wouldn’t miss that warning. When Captain Slaughter left them, Detective Alba said, “Agent Sherlock, I hear you and Agent McKnight want to interview Thomas Hurley.”

Sherlock could feel the wave of animosity rolling off Detective Alba, wondered which of the agents at the New York field office had put her nose out of joint, but knew they obviously had because those cowboys put everyone’s nose out of joint, including their superiors in Washington. As for Captain Slaughter, he was wary, afraid they were going to treat him and his people the same way. Sherlock said, “Yes, Detective Alba, we’d like to see Mr. Hurley right away. We understand you’re holding him as a material witness?”

Detective Henry Norris thought Agent Sherlock was very cool, more than cool, and her name, it was perfect. He inched closer to her. “Yes, that’s it. Celinda, you want me to take the FBI agents to see Mr. Hurley?”

Why don’t you lick her boots, you little schmuck? No way would Celinda let the feds tromp all over the little puppy. She said, “No, Henry, you need to continue with your witness statements. I’ll take them to see Hurley.”

Sherlock and Coop felt the eyes of every detective and patrolman staring after them as Detective Alba walked them to an interview room down an institutional hallway with cracked linoleum and light green paint, an unfortunate color that had seen better days.

Sherlock said easily, “You know already that Kirsten Bolger has murdered six women. We’re looking at another half dozen women we think she’s murdered in the San Francisco area, which is where she grew up.”

“Yeah, I know all about that. Captain Slaughter told us everything. Everyone around here will know everything soon, the media included. They’ll be blaring this all over the place anytime now, probably on streamers across the bottom of TV sets. Then Bundy’s daughter will dig herself a hole and we’ll never find her.”

“Nah,” Coop said easily. “Kirsten Bolger won’t ever run away and hide. It’s not in her genes.”

He had a bedroom voice, too, Celinda thought, and planted herself in front of the closed interview-room door, hands on her hips. “What do you think you can find out from Hurley that we couldn’t? You read the interview transcript, didn’t you? It was thorough, complete. There’s not another drop of juice in him.”

Sherlock didn’t smile. “You never know what’ll pop, do you, when he sees the FBI taking over the questioning?”

Coop was thinking Detective Alba looked like she wanted to belt Sherlock. She was a large woman, all muscle, and he’d bet she could give Sherlock a good go. It was too bad they wouldn’t get any help from her. He wondered briefly why she disliked them, but he didn’t really care. When he wasn’t thinking about Kirsten Bolger, trying to figure out what she’d do next, he was thinking about Lucy, and worrying. He’d tried to call her a couple times, but she’d turned her cell off. He hated voice mail, hated it. He also believed she’d turned off her cell so she wouldn’t have to speak to him. It had to do with what she found in that safe-deposit box, he knew it.

When Alba didn’t move, Sherlock said, a hint of steel in her voice, “Thank you for showing us the way, Detective Alba. We’ll take it from here.”

And she simply took a step forward, forcing Alba to either step aside or the two of them would bump noses. Alba took a fast step to the left. Sherlock and Coop walked into the interview room and closed the door in Alba’s face before she could do more than suck in her breath.

They looked at the young man sitting on the opposite side of a banged-up metal table. Thomas Hurley looked ill and wrung out, and scared.

“Mr. Hurley?”

Thomas nodded.

“No, don’t get up. I’m Agent Sherlock, and this is Agent McKnight, FBI.”

He perked up. “You’re really FBI agents? Honestly? I’ve never seen an FBI agent.” He rose to his feet, stuck out his hand. Sherlock, smiling at him, shook his hand, then Coop.

Sherlock motioned for him to be seated again, and she and Coop handed over their creds. They watched him study their IDs, but Sherlock didn’t think he was really paying much attention, more like studying them to tell his