“You’re teasing me. You know very well the moment Sean is down, you’ll spend three hours with MAX.”
“Hair rollers first,” he said, kissed her again, and grinned.
She rolled her eyes and climbed out of his sexy Porsche.
CHAPTER
21
SAVICH LAY ON his back, staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock tucked against him, asleep, her leg sprawled over his belly, her soft curly hair brushing against his jaw. Her breath was warm and steady against his neck. He should have been asleep, but Danny O’Malley’s girlfriend, Annie Harper, filled his mind. He wished there’d been time this evening to visit her at the hospital, to judge her state of mind, to see how coherent she was. To walk in and find your boyfriend’s murdered body, it was a ghastly experience for anyone, particularly an innocent young woman.
Well, there hadn’t been time. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’d see to it. Savich knew that Annie had to know something, even if she didn’t realize it, he was sure of it. But right now he had to slow his brain down, had to get some sleep. First thing in the morning, he’d call George Washington University Hospital—
He was suddenly aware he was dreaming. He was also very strongly aware of himself being in the dream. Sherlock was there with him, pressed against him, but it wasn’t Sherlock he felt, it was a change in the air itself. It seemed suddenly heavier somehow, a bit more difficult to draw into his lungs. It wasn’t particularly frightening, just different, something he’d never experienced in a dream before. That heavy air seeped slowly into him, and with it, something that should have been solid, but wasn’t. He was no longer alone inside his mind; he was filled with something that stirred the hair on his arms, something he recognized because she was full-blown, right there with him.
It was Samantha Barrister.
How interesting that she was able to simply plug herself right into his brain. He still felt no particular fear, it was a dream, after all, nothing more. But he felt her fear, and her urgency, a dreadful urgency. She was waiting for him to acknowledge her, to let her know he was aware of her.
In that instant he saw her clearly. Her black hair, long and straight, nearly to her waist—an old hippie style from the early seventies when women parted their hair in the middle. She was wearing the same summer dress, the one she’d been wearing that night in the Poconos. She was very pretty, with dark blue eyes. Black Irish, that’s what she was, although he didn’t know how he knew. He’d been barely older than Sean when she’d been murdered.
He focused on Samantha’s white face, and said in a whisper so as not to awaken Sherlock, “I’m here, Samantha. What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
She didn’t answer him, just looked at him, afraid.
“You’ve got to know that I’m an FBI agent, Samantha,” he said quietly. He spoke aloud because she seemed to understand him that way. “You’ve also got to know that my wife and I were called away from Blessed Creek when that Supreme Court Justice was murdered. I have to deal with that, no choice. But I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve got my laptop—” Suddenly she looked perfectly blank, and he very nearly smiled because her confusion was quite clear to him. “It’s a computer, a really smart machine that can look up old records, something that wasn’t around back in the early seventies. Computers are fast now, part of our daily lives. Well, never mind that. I’ve gotten my computer started to find out about you—as soon as I can, I’ll help you. I promise you that.”
“My boy, my precious boy.”
“Samantha, what is going to happen to your boy?”
“Dillon?”
Savich jerked awake, opened his eyes wide. He shook off the dream. There was a sliver of streetlight coming through the bedroom window, not much, but he could see that around the bed at least there was no one there. Well of course she wasn’t standing at the end of his bed, beckoning to him with ghostly fingers he could see through.
“Dillon?” Sherlock’s hair tickled his nose as she raised her head, her eyes instantly focused on his face, but her voice still a bit slurred from sleep. “Who are you talking to? Were you dreaming? Are you okay?”
Then she stopped cold, her eyes alert, her elbows locked over him. “Were you dreaming about Samantha again?”
“Yes. I’m okay, I’m awake now.” The heaviness in the air was gone, and she wasn’t in his brain anymore. He was awake, but oddly enough he sensed a sweet smell that lingered, jasmine, he thought. He smelled jasmine. He kissed Sherlock. “I can’t let this go on any longer, Sherlock. In my dream, she was worried about her boy. I could be crazy, but I’ve got to deal with this. I’ve got to get up and go to MAX.”
She kissed him quickly, let him go when he pulled away.
He paused in the doorway. “I was awake, thinking about what Annie Harper might know. I’m going to see her first thing in the morning. I’d like you to go to headquarters for me, coordinate all the information for MAX with Ollie.”
He pulled on a pair of jeans, and then he was off to his study, top button open on his jeans, wearing nothing else. Sean liked the house warm, so jeans were all he needed.
Sherlock turned over and tried to go back to sleep—big fat chance of that happening. The strange thing was that she did just that, in only a couple of minutes, and her sleep was deep and dreamless.
Sherlock didn’t know when Dillon came back to bed, only that he was holding her very tightly when the clock radio buzzed the following morning, and the early morning radio host began talking about a six-car pileup near the Tidal Basin.
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY MORNING
ANNIE HARPER LOOKED about twelve years old. Her face was clean of makeup, her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her hospital gown hung off her left shoulder. Even that thin shoulder looked twelve.
She was pale, her skin pulled taut over her cheekbones, as if something deep and vital had been sucked out of her. But it was her eyes that held him, dark eyes that seemed old, not twelve at all.
“Hello, Ms. Harper,” Savich said, smiling as he walked to her bed, then immediately realized she wasn’t alone. Her parents were standing close by, looking at him with their arms crossed over their chests, looking defensive and angry.
He wished for a moment they weren’t here, but there was nothing to be done about it. She was, after all, only twenty-three, and it was good for her that her parents were with her, supporting her through this nightmare. “Do I know you?” Annie said, looking at him vacantly. She was probably still sedated to the gills.
“Not yet,” Savich said. “I’m FBI Agent Dillon Savich. I was at Danny O’Malley’s apartment.” For a moment, he lightly clasped one of her pale hands. Then he turned to her parents, who were now crowding next to their daughter’s bed, his hand extended. “Agent Dillon Savich.” Mr. Harper finally uncrossed his arms and shook his hand, as did Mrs. Harper. Savich was patient, hoping to show them that he cared about their feelings, and indeed, he did feel compassion for these people. “Mr. and Mrs. Harper, I don’t want to cause Annie any more pain than she’s already experienced. Feel free to stay, but I do need to speak to her. I’m sure that you, as well as Annie, want us to find the man who killed Danny.”
Mr. Harper opened his mouth, then shut it. He studied Savich’s face and slowly nodded. But when Mrs. Harper spoke, her tired voice was full of anger. “How could this have happened, Agent Savich? We knew Danny, we liked him. He was a fine young man—a law clerk for the United States Supreme Court for heaven’s sake—and you let a Supreme Court Justice get murdered in the Supreme Court Building itself where there must be a hundred police, and what did they do? Nothing. And now everyone is saying that Danny was killed because he was involved somehow in Justice Califano’s murder or knew something about it. I’m telling you, Danny liked Justice Califano, do you hear me? Liked him, respected him, and yet everyone is saying he did something wrong! This can’t be true.”