“We thought you were asleep. How do you feel, Dillon?” Lacey leaned over him, her fingertips lightly flaring through his dark eyebrows, lightly touching the bruise on his cheek.
“Alive.”
“Yes, that’s good. You’re kind of out of it, aren’t you, Dillon?”
“No, not at all. I hurt enough still to keep me out of the ether.”
“You don’t know what you just said, do you?”
“Yeah, I know what I just said. It does sound strange, don’t you agree?”
“I think,” Lacey said very slowly, staring down at the man who’d become more important to her than anything or anyone in her life, “that I could get used to it, until Marvin gets to know me well enough to call me Sherlock.”
“Good,” Savich said. “I hadn’t really meant to bring it up here, at this particular moment. It lacks suavity and timing. It just came out of my mouth. How about I try it again later, when three people aren’t staring at us?”
“Yes, I think that would be an excellent idea.”
His head fell to the side. He was out cold this time.
“Chicky Sherlock Savich,” Marvin said slowly. “Yeah, that’s so funny it would make Fuzz’s mouth split from laughing so hard.”
“I prefer Sherlock Savich,” Sally said. “That’s unforgettable. With a name like that just maybe they’d make you director one day.”
Some minutes later, Quinlan said from across the room as he placed the phone back in its cradle, “The car 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.”