was rented to a Marlin Jones. Paid for in cash, but he presented them with a credit card with his name on it, and a driver's license.'
'I don't like this,' Lacey said, her face washed of color. 'I really don't like this at all. But wait, the picture couldn't have matched, could it?'
James Quinlan said, 'The guy said the picture was real fuzzy, but since the name was the same, the guy's age was about right, what the hell? So who knows?'
'Jones. Marlin Jones? Hey, that's the serial killer, isn't it?' Marvin the Bouncer asked as he set an old issue of the Economist magazine back down on the coffee table. 'I thought he was in the can, in Boston.'
'He is,' Lacey said. 'I spoke to him yesterday. He's in the can, probably in maximum security. He brought his fists down on his lawyer's temple. Knocked him out cold. Actually, as we were driving here, the news said that the first thing Big John Bullock said when he regained consciousness was, 'I'm going to get that little bastard off so I can kill him.' Then he passed out again. The doctors think it's a concussion.'
'The guy's a real comedian,' Quinlan said.
'I don't think he was concussed,' Lacey said. 'I know Big John meant every word.'
'I was hoping it would be one less lawyer,' Sally said from the kitchen. 'James, come out and help me. Everyone needs to have some dinner. It's nearly five o'clock.'
'I'll go catch us some bass,' Marvin said. 'Where's the rods, Quinlan?'
'Why'd the guy hit his lawyer?' Sally asked Lacey, looking up from the carrot she was alternately cutting and eating.
'He told him to shut the fuck up because he'd admitted to me that he'd killed the women in San Francisco. Marlin went nuts. Evidently he doesn't like bad language from men either. I wish the cops had just shot him then and there.' She sighed, her hands clasped between her knees. She rose slowly. 'I guess I'd better call Jimmy Maitland. I'm afraid that he's going to be really upset about this.'
Savich was mending. All he had to do was lie quietly, not breathe deeply, keep his eyes either closed or focused on Sherlock, and he'd be just fine. Sherlock Savich. Boy, that had a real ring to it. He couldn't wait to get her alone and kiss her. Then he could ask her to marry him again, only this time it would be properly done.
The pain in his ribs and hip and ankle came in waves, not really big surfing kind of waves, just small ones that were rhythmic, steady, and relentless.
He felt her hand on his cheek. 'I have another pain pill for you. Open up.'
He did. Soon the pain was nothing but an annoying throbbing that didn't even touch his mind. 'Good stuff,' he said.
'The best,' Quinlan said. 'It's from our favorite doctor.'
'Ah, Dr. Ned Breaker.'
'He said just give him a call if you need him to drive up and check you out.'
'Let's call him,' Sally said. 'Savich, you really don't look so hot.'
'I'm feeling better by the minute,' Savich said. 'Really. I'm not stupid. Everything's okay.'
'You ready for something to eat? Marvin caught three bass, good-size suckers. I gutted them and Sally fried them.'
Savich thought he'd puke right there. The thought of anything fried went right to his belly and turned nasty.
'No, I don't think so,' Lacey said, lightly cupping his cheek in her hand. 'We'll have the good stuff and Dillon here can have some soup. Got any chicken noodle, Sally?'
Lacey didn't want to leave him alone. She slept beside the sofa on three blankets, close enough to hear him breathing.
The next morning, Lacey came into the house to see Dillon standing at the small bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He was drinking a cup of coffee. He needed to shave.
'You're not dead.'
He grinned at her over the rim of his cup. 'Nope, but I appreciate you sleeping guard beside me all night. You know what might be fun, Sherlock? We could strip naked and have a bruise-off contest. I just might be catching up with you. How's your left side?'
'Hardly any bruising at all. How could Marlin Jones have rented the car, Dillon?''
'Obviously someone else did, using his name. You and I are going to California tomorrow, okay?''
'No, not until you're back to your full strength. I'm not going to take any more chances with you.'
'That sounds nice.'
She walked to him, lightly kissed his mouth, then pulled up his shirt. 'I'll be objective. Now, I think my ribs looked more like the Italian flag than yours do.' He felt her fingers on his flesh, light, so light, not hurting him at all, just skimming over his flesh, and to his own blessed wonder, he got hard. He didn't mean to say it, but the words just came right out of his mouth. 'Do you think you could go a bit lower?'
Her fingers stopped cold. Then, she laughed, 'Dillon, I'm going to have us fly First Class, all right?''
'Yeah, that's fine. I'll be okay by day after tomorrow, I swear it. We'll have a day to make some plans with Quinlan.' He sucked in his breath and stared at her.
Her fingers had gone beneath the waistband of his slacks, tangling in the hair at his groin. He didn't know about this, didn't know if he was going to start crying or shouting or just moaning, and not from any pain in his ribs. Her fingers touched him, then he was enclosed against her palm. He was going to die, lose it, be premature, the whole thing. But then it was academic. Marvin came into the house, singing at the top of his lungs.
'Sorry,' Sherlock said and kissed his ear. He sighed deeply. 'Do you think maybe I did something really bad in a former lifetime?''
'You're breathing awfully hard, Dillon.' 'Hey, Chicky, what'd you do to our boy here?' 'I was just checking him out. Just like you did, Marvin.' 'I doubt that, Chicky. I surely doubt that. More like you tortured the poor man but good.'
27
LACEY STARED AT THE doorbell for a long time before she rang it. Savich didn't say a word, just looked beyond the Art Deco three-story mansion to the incredible view of Alcatraz, the Golden Gate, and the stark Marin Headlands in the distance. The day was sharp and cool, so clear and vivid it made your eyes sting. There were dozens of sailboats on the Bay. The air was crisp and sharp.
A middle-aged black woman, plump, very pretty, her eyes bright with intelligence, opened the door, gasped, and grabbed Lacey into her arms. 'My baby, it's you, it's really you. Thank God you're home. They've been telling me for weeks that you'd come home and now you're here. But I'd begun to believe that you'd finally turned your back.'
Lacey hugged her back. Isabelle had been more her mother than the woman upstairs in her elegant bedroom had ever been. She'd been the Sherlock housekeeper and cook since before Lacey was born. 'It's good to see you, Isabelle. You all right? Your kids okay?''
Lacey drew back and looked carefully at the fine-boned black face, a beloved face that radiated warmth and humor.
'Things are fine with my family, but they aren't too good here, Lacey, no, not too good at all. Your daddy's all quiet and keeps to himself. Your mama never comes out of her room now, just stays there and looks at those ridiculous talk shows, best I can tell. She says she wants to write a book and send it to Oprah so Oprah will recommend it and your mama will become really rich and leave your papa. Hey, who's this guy with you?'
'This is Dillon Savich. He's also with the FBI. Dillion, this is Isabelle Tanner. She's the one who told me how wicked boys were just after my sixteenth birthday. She's the one who told me to keep out of Bobby Wellman's Jaguar.'
'You should have listened to her.'
'Oh, Lordie. You mean you let that boy crawl all over you in that little Jaguar, Lacey? Oh goodness, I thought I'd won that one.'
Savich shook her hand. 'Ms. Isabelle, I promise you that Sherlock here hasn't gotten into any more cars since the Jaguar. You taught her well.'
'You call her Sherlock,' said Isabelle, clasping her arms beneath her ample breasts. 'That sounds funny, but cute too. Well, come on in. I'll get you some fine tea and some scones that just came out of the oven.'
'Who is it, Isabelle?'
