“You called me ‘sir’ again.”
“Yes, I did. On purpose. Douglas is jealous of you. If I’d called you ‘Dillon,’ it might have pushed him over the edge. Then you might have had to fight him. You could have messed up all my beautiful new furniture.”
That gave him pause. He grinned, toasted her with his teacup, then said finally, “This was the man who was married to Belinda?” At her nod, he said, “And this is his new wife. Tell me about this, Sherlock. I love family messes.”
“I’ll say only that Douglas thinks he might like me a bit too much. As for Candice, his wife, she told him she was pregnant with his child, he married her, and then it turns out she wasn’t pregnant. He’s angry and wants a divorce. She blames me. That’s all there is to it, not a mess really, at least it doesn’t involve me.” She sighed. “All right, when I was talking to Douglas on the phone, he said some things he shouldn’t have said and she overheard them. She was upset. She probably wants to kill me more than Marlin Jones does.”
“Do you realize you’re speaking to me in nice full sentences? That I no longer have to pry basic stuff out of you?”
“I guess maybe I was a bit on guard when I first came to you. On the other hand, you were a criminal in Hogan’s Alley and kicked two guns out of my hand before I overcame overwhelming and vicious odds and killed you.”
“Yes, you were wary as hell. But it didn’t take too long to break you in. You’ve been spilling your guts for a good long time now. As for my day as the bank robber, you didn’t do too badly, Sherlock. No, not badly at all.” He raised his hand and lightly stroked his fingers over her cheek. “She walloped you pretty good, but I don’t think you’re going to bruise too much. Makeup should take care of it.”
Suddenly his cheekbones flushed. He dropped his hand and stood up. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a blue sweatshirt that read ACHY BREAKY COP. He looked big, strong, and harassed. His fingers had been very warm. They’d felt good against her cheek.
“Go to bed, Sherlock. Try to avoid any more trouble. I can’t always guarantee to drop by when you’re butt-deep in trouble.”
“I’ve really never had so many difficulties in such a short time before in my life. I’m sorry. But you know, I could have dealt with this all by myself.”
He grunted in her general direction, and was gone. Just plain out of there, fast.
She touched her own fingers to her face, saw his dark eyes staring at her with antagonism and something else, and walked slowly to the front door. She fastened the chain, clicked the dead bolt in place, and turned the key in the lock. What would have happened if Savich hadn’t shown up? She shuddered.
She’d caught Belinda’s killer and her life seemed messier than ever. What had her mother meant, “… since your father tried to run me down?”
She walked out of the doctor’s building the following afternoon, trying to put up her umbrella in the face of a sharp whipping wind and swirling rain-hard, heavy rain that got you wet no matter what you did. It was cold and getting colder by the minute. She got the umbrella up finally, but it was difficult because her arm was still very sore. She stepped off the curb, trying to keep herself covered, and started toward her car, parked just down the block on the opposite side of Union Street.
Suddenly she heard a shout, then a scream. She whipped about, the wind nearly knocking her over, her umbrella sucked out of her hand. The car was right on her, a big black car with dark tinted windows, a congressman’s car, no, probably a lobbyist’s car, so many of them in Washington. What was the fool doing?
She froze in that blank instant, then hurled herself back onto the sidewalk, her sore arm slamming into a parking meter.
She felt the whoosh of hot air even as she went down half into the street, half on the sidewalk. She twisted around to see the black car accelerate and take the next corner in a screech of tires. She just lay there staring blankly after the car. Why hadn’t he stopped to see if she was all right? No, naturally, the driver wouldn’t have stopped-he’d probably be arrested for drunk driving. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet. Her panty hose were ruined, as were her shoes and clothes. Her hair was plastered to her head and over her face. As for her healing arm, it was throbbing big-time now. Her shoulder began to hurt, as did her left leg. At least she was alive. At least she hadn’t been farther out into the street. If she had been, she wouldn’t have stood a chance.