“Yes, he told me that. What do you think?”
“I agree with Father. He’s a psychopath. He probably skips a woman’s name every time he recites them. Why did he happen not to recite Belinda’s name? I don’t know. Random chance? He probably doesn’t know either. It has to be coincidence. There’s simply no other explanation.” She sat forward, clasping her hands between her knees. “But you know me, Douglas, I’m going to have to check to make triple certain that he did kill Belinda.”
“Of course he killed her, Lacey. There’s absolutely no other choice.”
“You’re right, of course, it’s just that-” She broke off and dredged up a smile for a very nice man she’d known for nearly twelve years. “I’m sorry. It’s still so painful for you as well. How long are you staying in Washington?”
He shrugged and rose when she did. “Drop it all now, Lacey. Don’t do any more searching. That kook killed all those poor women. Let him rot for what he did.” He walked to her, his smile deep, his eyes intent.
She took a step back, turning quickly out of the living room into the small front hallway. He followed her.
“Will you let it all go now, Lacey?”
She took another step toward the front door. “It is all gone. Just details now, Douglas, nothing more than silly details. Shall we have dinner tomorrow night? Maybe you’ll have made some decisions about Candice.” Were they going to perform this same act every couple of weeks? Would he leave after tomorrow night? She hoped so. She hoped he’d leave for good. She was exhausted.
He brightened at that and took her hands between his. “It’s good to see you again, Lacey. I wish I could see you all the time, but-”
“Yes, ‘but,’ ” she agreed and stepped back. “I’ll see you here about seven tomorrow night.”
Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland nodded to Lacey but said to Savich, “I heard from Captain Dougherty that Sherlock here didn’t do what she was told to do, that she wrote her own script. He let some of it drop, then I pried the rest of it out of him. John Dougherty and I go way back. He’s a good man, fair and hard.”
Savich didn’t change expression, merely cocked his head to one side in question. “She got the job done, sir.”
“I don’t like having my agents knifed, Savich. What the hell did she do?”
“I can answer that, sir.”
Both men turned to look at her.
“It better be good, Agent Sherlock,” Jimmy Maitland said, and broke a pencil between two fingers. Maitland had been a Special Agent for twenty-five years. He was bald, built like a bull, and held a black belt in karate. His wife was five foot nothing, blond, and punched her husband whenever she wanted to. They had four boys, all over six foot three. She punched them whenever she wanted to as well.
She shrugged. “Really, sir, the perpetrator took us a bit by surprise, that’s all, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Savich yelled out. I shot him at practically the same instant he threw the knife. I was already down and rolling when he released it. It’s just a minor wound.”
“That’s exactly what Savich said. Did you two rehearse this?”
“No, sir, certainly not.”
Maitland raised an eyebrow at Savich, then said quickly, “Fine. Okay. You’re excused, Agent Sherlock. Savich, you stay a moment, there’s been another murder in Florida. It wasn’t a nursing home on the Star of David matrix MAX generated. As for the perp disguised as an old woman, that doesn’t look good anymore. They talked to every old woman in the nursing home. All of them longtime residents. Damnation! Tell MAX he’s got to do better.”
“Agreed,” Savich said. “I’ll get Sherlock back on the Rad-nich case with Ollie. I’ll see you later.”
18
SHE PRAYED HER INVOLVEment in the String Killer case would be kept under wraps, and it had been, at least so far. She knew that Savich had spoken privately with Captain Dougherty and Ralph Budnack. If anyone blew the whistle on her, it wouldn’t be one of them. So far no one in the media knew anything about her relationship to one of the victims of the String Killer. It would be a nightmare if anyone found out.