Slowly, Nicola picked up the final two pages in the letter. John’s journal. She read.
Enough, Nicola thought when she finished reading. It was enough. She grabbed her coat and was out the door and on her way to John’s condominium in three minutes flat.
She was going to get the truth, tonight.
The star of
Sherlock stuck her FBI shield in his face.
He took another drink and sneered even more. “Oh yeah, you’re the Keystone cops.”
“That’s right,” Savich said. “We’re the Federal Keystone cops. We want to talk to you, Mr. Kleypas.”
“Federal Keystone cops. Hey, that’s funny.”
“It’s Mr. and Ms. Federal Keystone cops to you,” Dane said.
“Very funny, hot shot.” Joe Kleypas had planted himself firmly in the doorway, his arms crossed over his bare chest, a well-worked-out bare chest. Nick wondered how Dane would look if he polished his abs. She wondered if you just walked into a drugstore and asked for ab polish.
Kleypas said, “I already talked to Detective Flynn. I don’t want to speak to any more Keystone cops, even Federal ones. Just get the fuck out of here now, all of you. Hey, you’re awful pretty, you an actress? You want, maybe we could go someplace, have a little drink. My bedroom’s got a good view of the canyon, the sheets aren’t too bad.”
Neither Sherlock nor Nick knew which one of them had struck his fancy. Nick said, “That’s nice, but not today, thank you.”
Joe Kleypas shrugged and his abs rippled a bit. “Then all of you can get out. Get out of my face.” He drank down the rest of his drink, hiccuped, gave a slight shudder. Not good, Sherlock thought. The man looked about ready to explode.
They’d been told he had a violent temper. A mean drunk-no worse sort of man than that, Sherlock thought, and took another couple of easy steps back in case he did something stupid, like let loose on Dane or Dillon. Sherlock said low to Nick, “Let’s go sit in the car,” and tugged on her arm. “We’re a distraction. Let the guys handle it.” They watched Savich very smoothly force Kleypas back into his house and follow him. Dane closed the door behind them.
When Dane and Savich came out some fifteen minutes later, both of them looking disgusted, Sherlock said, “Dillon, please tell me he confessed. It really would make my day.”
“Yeah, he did confess,” Dane said, “to about a dozen different love-guests, all in the last month, most of the ladies married. He prefers married ladies; he told us that about four times. I think he’d like the two of you to add to his list. Charming guy. Oh yeah, he was drinking straight vodka.”
“Dillon, look at your knuckles,” Sherlock said, and grabbed his hand. “You hurt yourself. I don’t like this.”
“I didn’t like his mouth,” Savich said, shrugging, and flexed his hands. “He came at me, and I ended up shutting it.” Nick saw him rub his knuckles, a very slight smile on his face. “Nothing out of his mouth but foul language.”
“Now he can repent at his leisure,” Sherlock said comfortably, and patted her husband’s arm. She knew Dane wouldn’t tell a soul that his boss had decked a big Hollywood jerk with shiny abs. She must remember to buy some iodine; she had some Band-Aids in her purse. She always carried them for Sean. Dillon must really have been mad to hit him with his fists.
After Sherlock finished doctoring him, Savich, with a grin at his hands that now sported two Flintstones Band-Aids, pulled the Taurus out of the narrow driveway that sat atop stilts a good thirty feet from the canyon floor, and said, “Kleypas is one miserable lad, but he’s more pathetic than dangerous. He’s too busy drinking to be doing much of anything else.”
“The word over at the studio,” Dane said, “is that Kleypas is having trouble getting work because of that drinking problem.
The following morning, Nick was blow-drying her hair-another item Dane had bought for her-half an eye on the local TV news. She dropped the hair dryer and yelled, “Oh, no!”
It bounced against the wooden dresser, then clattered to the floor.
Dane was through the door in a flash, zipping up his pants.
“What is it-” He came to a fast stop. She was standing there, clutching her middle, staring at the TV. She didn’t say a word, just pointed.
There she was, in living color, walking beside him down Pico Boulevard toward their parked car. There was a close-up of her face and the newscaster said in a chirpy voice, a voice so carefree and pleased he could have been talking about how he’d gotten laid the previous night, “This is Ms. Nick Jones, the San Francisco police department’s key witness in the Prime-Time Killer murders. Sources tell us that Ms. Jones was living in a homeless shelter in San Francisco and just happened to see the killer at Saint Bartholomew’s Church.”
“Well, damn,” Dane said. “I’m not surprised that they’ve got something, but all this? They’ve got everything, including your name and a shot of you.” He saw that Nick was as white as the bathroom tile.
He walked over to her and pulled her against him. “It will be all right,” he said against her still-damp hair. “You’ve got the fastest guns in Hollywood on your side. We’ll keep clear of the reporters. It’ll be okay.”
She laughed, a desperate laugh that felt like a punch to his gut. She raised her head to look at him and splayed her palms on his bare chest. “I’ve got to get out of here, Dane. There’s no choice for me now.”
“No. I said I’ll protect you and I will. You want more Feds around? Fine, I’ll speak to Savich. He’ll arrange it.”
“It was luck that saved me at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral, not you.”
“You’re right about that, Nick.” Dane hated to admit it. “I’ll get more folks to guard you,” he said again.
She just shook her head. Then, to his astonishment, she leaned her head forward and lightly bit his shoulder. Then she pulled away from him. “I hope I didn’t break that very nice hair dryer you bought for me.”