Sherlock punched up the speed, viciously, to match her mood, a mix of fury and fear so corroding she thought she’d choke on it. She shot a look at Dillon. He’d already moved on, his run smooth and steady, his breathing easy, moved on just as she would have done if she’d been in his shoes, curse him. But she hadn’t been anywhere near his shoes, and that was the problem. She owed Dane the world.
Sometimes—like right that instant—being married to Savich scared her to death. Because she was who she was, she’d far rather be pissed off than scared. She knew the only thing for it was to let off some serious steam.
Savich slowed a bit and turned to her. “Okay, what we know for sure is that Donley Everett is going down hard. The prosecutor had him sign his confession on the dotted line, so it’s all wrapped up. It’s a pity but I believe him; he doesn’t have a clue who hired Perky. But maybe he can give us a more specific location for where he buried Clay Huggins’s body.”
“Hypnotize him.”
“Yeah, we could do that. Good idea.”
All right, so he didn’t have a clue that her insides were at the boiling point; he was a guy, after all. More to the point, and the point galled her, she hadn’t said anything.
Everything’s okay, it’s over. Calm down. It’s not like you haven’t faced this before. She cleared her throat, said, “I wonder how Angel’s keepers are doing with her attitude at Fairfax Juvie. Do you think she’s been released yet?”
“Probably. Maybe Angel’s got a chance. She’s a bright girl.”
“Yeah, yeah, so am I, and look what happened to me.” A black eyebrow shot up as Savich turned to look at her. What was with the snark? He said, “What happened to you is that you married your boss—a pretty cool guy—you get to chase down bad guys, and you get to stay in shape. It’s like the perfect life for you.” She didn’t laugh, as he’d expected her to. She said abruptly, “It’s a bummer about those phone numbers you got off Angel’s cell phone. You were so happy to think your five hundred dollars paid off.”
No more snark, that was good. Savich pushed the incline higher and breathed deeply, steadily. “Yeah, I was hopeful we might have Roderick Lloyd more in the loop, maybe calling Perky’s boss, talking about killing Rachael in Parlow, but what we got are calls to Pizza Mac’s, ordering double pepperoni, thick crust.”
He still wasn’t breathing hard, Sherlock thought, feeling a line of sweat snake down her back. She wanted to punch him for that, as well.
He said, “And the other three calls to bookies—three different bookies—and he owed all of them money.”
Elvis belted out “Blue Suede Shoes.” Savich pulled his cell off the clip on his waistband.
“Yes? Savich here.” He slowed down and listened. When he punched off, he sped up again and said, “That was Dane calling from Memorial. He said Perky is still in surgery, but it looks good. She should be okay unless something unexpected happens. Then, just maybe, we can cut a deal with her.”
“It could be a week before she’s up to physically visiting Quantico. Maybe we can deal with her at the hospital, have Dr. Hicks visit her.”
“That’s a good thought.”
Sherlock pushed the cool-down button, a bit on the violent side. “I like to impress the boss.”
That black eyebrow of his went up again. “You do, every single day.”
“You’re a guy, so you’re easy,” she said, and stepped off the treadmill. “We need to get back to Dr. MacLean.”
Elvis’s voice crooned out again. “Yeah, Savich here. Hi, Jack. Talk to me.” And Savich listened, asked a few questions, listened for a very long time, actually, then, finally, punched off, looking thoughtful.
“What? He and Rachael okay?”
“Yeah, no problem. He told me a bit more about Laurel, Quincy and Stefanos. He said Laurel is the Big Peg, her husband is a slime, and Quincy probably has ulcers He said Laurel hates Rachael’s guts, doesn’t try to hide it. About Quincy, Jack said that’s a tougher call. Quincy Abbott’s all about packaging—he’s flashy, a near prince in his nice Italian duds, and he’s a coward, which probably also makes him a bully, but he’s under his sister’s thumb. He said Quincy’s toupee is prime.
“If we need to reach Jack, he said he’s staying with Rachael in her house in Chevy Chase.”
Sherlock said, stretching, “I’m not at all sure I like the sound of that.”
That eyebrow of his went up again.
“For heaven’s sake, I’m not talking about sex. I bet they could sleep in the same bed and Jack wouldn’t touch her. Well, that’s optimistic. I was talking about the danger.”
“You know Jack is good. Nothing surprises him. He’s focused and wily. Don’t worry, he won’t let anything happen to Rachael. They’re going to see Senator Abbott’s head staffer, Greg Nichols, tomorrow morning. Nichols is already heading up another senator’s staff. Jack said he can’t wait to see what Nichols has to say to them.”
“I’d like to speak to Nichols, too, feel out how much influence he had over Senator Abbott.”
Savich nodded, sighed. “Jack asked me about Timothy MacLean, asked me what he could do. Unfortunately I didn’t have anything to tell him.”
Sherlock sighed right along with him, her righteous snark all gone in the face of what was happening to Timothy MacLean.
Savich began to slow his stride. “I’m thinking you and I should focus on the two who appear to have the best motives—Congresswoman McManus and Pierre Barbeau. We’ve got to check out timelines, see if Jean David Barbeau drowned before the first attempt on Timothy’s life. To be on the safe side, I’ll have Ruth and Dane begin on his other patients.”
“That sounds logical.”
Savich said, “Let’s visit the congresswoman first, see what she’s got in the way of an alibi—not that it matters since she would have hired a thug to do the deed. I’ll have Ollie check with the Atlanta detective who worked her dead husband’s case, see if they had any leads. Maybe we can get a line on the thug she hired—in Savannah, was it?”
“That’s what Dr. MacLean said.” She cocked her head to the side as Dillon ended his cooldown. “Do you believe she really had her trucker husband murdered so he wouldn’t stop her run for Congress?”
“Yes, I do.”
Sherlock chewed on that for a moment. “Maybe so. Still, I’m betting on Pierre Barbeau. Lots of wormy stuff going on there.”
“We’ll find out. How’s your French?”
Laughter spurted out of her, from wherever it was hiding. “You’ve never complained before.”
He grinned as he wiped his face with a towel. “You made me forget why I was asking.”
Sherlock popped her knuckles. “You ready to come with me to the slam room?”
“Is that its new name?”
“Oh yeah. I’m going to make sure you’ll relate to it shortly.” She swatted at him with her towel as she walked past him.
Because he saw blood in her eyes and wasn’t a fool, Savich allowed himself to be pummeled and thrown, and generally smacked around. The kick pad he’d held for her fared no better. He thought, at the end, it was worth it because Sherlock was laughing as she counted the number of times she’d thrown him. Violence, he thought, as he showered, appeared to calm the woman down and restore her perspective He’d even called a halt several times during his royal butt-kicking to stretch and rub his muscles, and give her a chance to hoot and dance.