Blindside

his jeans. “I’ve always hated too many possibilities. It sucks, big time.”

“Yeah,” Miles said, “I agree.”

Savich’s cell phone played the 1812 Overture. He held up a staying hand, listened, and when he hung up, he said, “That was one of my agents. The white Toyota Camry the shooter was driving was stolen two days ago from a Mr. Alfred Morley, in Rockville, Maryland. Right out of his driveway, during the night. He told the local police and they put out an APB on it.”

“I don’t suppose the car’s turned up?” Detective Raven said.

Savich shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Well, like my daddy always says, if things come too easy in life, you have more fun than you deserve. Okay, that’s it then. Thanks for the scones.” He looked down at his watch. “Well, damn, I’ve missed a good half of the game.”

“The Redskins are probably losing anyway,” Savich said. “No fun watching that.”

40

MONDAY EVENING WASHINGTON , D.C.

S avich was depressed, he admitted it. Sherlock was in a meeting when he left headquarters early to stop at the gym. He wanted to sweat out some of the day’s frustrations and see what his back could manage. Maybe he’d find someone he could practice some easy throws with.

What he didn’t want to find at the gym was Valerie Rapper; her eyes were on him the moment he came out of the men’s locker room.

He nodded to her, nothing more, and headed into the big room to stretch. She followed him, stood at the barre in front of the mirrors and did some ballet moves with her toes pointed out. She said, “I’ve missed you, Agent Savich.”

He didn’t answer her, tried to concentrate on stretching out his knotted muscles. The stress had left him feeling tight and cold. At least his back wasn’t bothering him.

“Would you like me to walk on your back? I’m really very good at it and you look like you could use it.”

“No, thank you, I’m about all set now,” he said and left the exercise room. He worked out hard, moving between the weights and the treadmill, aware that she was always near, and it was driving him nuts. When she got on the treadmill next to him nearly an hour later, he knew he had to put a stop to this.

“Ms. Rapper.”

“Yes, Agent Savich?” She cocked an eyebrow at him, actually ran her tongue over her bottom lip. He stared at that slip-sliding tongue of hers, not out of overwhelming lust, but amazement that she actually did that. The only thing he knew for sure about Ms. Valerie Rapper was that she had supreme self-confidence. Hadn’t any guy ever said no to her? Evidently not.

He said with a touch of humor in his voice, “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Jake Palmer? You see the good-looking guy down there doing bench presses? He’s single, been divorced for a good long time, and I’ve heard he’s ready to start dating again. I’m not in the dating market, Ms. Rapper.”

“I’m glad you’re not, Agent Savich. I want you all to myself.”

Her arrogance astounded him, and he was silent for a moment. “I’ve already told you I’m married, Ms. Rapper. I’ve got a wife who wants me all to herself. I’m not available. Please, enough is enough. Hey, Jake can out-bench-press me.”

She stretched out her hand and pressed the “stop” button on his treadmill. He stared at her as she stepped over onto his treadmill, right in front of him, ignoring the dozen or so people on the machines near them, and pressed herself against him. She went up on her toes, clasped her palms around his face and kissed him, hard.

There was no punch of lust, just shock at what she was doing, and then anger.

He heard a wolf whistle, but mainly there was just stupefied silence. There was a comment, within hearing, about at least taking it to the parking lot.

“Shall we go to that sexy red Porsche of yours?” She said into his mouth. “But you’re a big man, Agent Savich. My Mercedes is roomier than a Porsche, so how about we go there instead?”

Savich grabbed her arms, pulled them to her sides, and held them there.

She looked up at him, her eyes on his mouth, and said, “You’re really strong. I like that.”

“Dillon, why is this woman taking advantage of you on the treadmill?”

Sherlock. He grinned like a loon. He was never so happy to hear her voice in his life. He let go of Valerie’s arms and pushed her back, but her lower body was still close to his groin. He heard a whistle and looked onto the main floor of the gym. There was Jake, giving him a little wave. So Jake had called Sherlock. He nodded back and said to his wife, “Hi, sweetheart, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No, I can see that it would have been tough given Ms. Barracuda here all over you.”

“Actually, this is Valerie Rapper.”

Sherlock gave a cheerful smile to the woman who was standing frozen, still too close to Dillon. “Hi, Ms. Rapper. If you don’t get your hands, your mouth, and all the rest of yourself off my husband, and step off his treadmill, I will deck you. Then I will put my foot on your neck and I will rub your nose into a sweaty mat. Is that enough of a threat?”

Valerie took a step back, couldn’t help herself, not knowing what to say to that miserable little red-headed monster. She wanted Savich, wanted him, not anyone else. He’d been playing the faithful game-oh yes, a man could be as coy and tease as well as any woman-but it would have ended quite soon. She said to him, “Would you just look at her. I’ll bet she dyes all that wild red hair. There aren’t any freckles on her face, and that means a dye job. It’s not even well done. I can see roots.”

Savich said, “I can assure you that all that wild red hair is quite natural. I’m her husband, I’ve got the inside track on this.”

“Dillon,” Sherlock said, “that’s a tad indelicate. Ms. Rapper, not all redheads have freckles. Now, please remove yourself or I will take action in the next couple of seconds.”

Valerie waved this away. “You know if she weren’t here, you’d be pulling me out of this wretched gym in no time at all.”

“Do you really think so?” Savich inquired, and a black eyebrow shot up a good inch.

“Of course I do! This is ridiculous. Don’t you know who I am?”

Sherlock said, head cocked to the side, “A pushy broad with an embarrassing last name?”

“You little bitch, back off! My father is the CEO and major stockholder of Rapper Industries. I am his daughter.”

“Fancy that,” Savich said, looking impressed, his mouth smiling, but his eyes hard. “Actually, when you said he was your father, I figured you just might be his daughter.”

“I could buy your dumb-ass FBI with my trust fund!”

Now this was interesting, Savich thought. “How ignorant of me. I hadn’t realized who you were. Just imagine, the daughter of the famed Mr. Rapper. Now that I realize you’re very rich as well as very beautiful, it makes all the difference. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”

Sherlock, her smile still in place, nodded. “It sure does. It makes me realize it’s time to bring out my big guns.” She pushed Dillon out of the way and stepped up right into Valerie Rapper’s face, making three of them on the treadmill. “I don’t suppose you know who we are, do you?”

Valerie Rapper blinked. “Of course, you’re a couple of unimportant little cops. So what?”

“If he’s so little, then why do you want him?”

“I was referring to you. I saw him on TV. I saw those women reporters looking at him. Go away now.”

Sherlock didn’t touch her, even though she badly wanted to. She said, not an inch from Valerie Rapper’s face, “Oh no, he’s mine. Now, Ms. Rapper, you won’t believe my big gun-it’s a cannon really. My father is the famous federal judge Sherlock. If I tell him you’ve been annoying me, why, he could have your father and his entire conglomerate investigated. What do you think of that, missy?”

Before Savich could throw in his own big gun and tell her he was Sarah Elliott’s grandson and he controlled