Split Second

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?”

“I live only a block away, in that big high-rise off Calvert. Cheap jerks, they haven’t replaced the doorman yet,