"It won't be admissible. The cops and the FBI made him confess."
"But what about that FBI agent? Your client knocked her cold and took her to that warehouse to kill her. They've got everything on tape and on film."
Big John gave an explosive wave of his arms. "Pure and simple entrapment. There wasn't a thought of killing her in his mind."
"I heard that he even knifed the agent."
Big John just shook his head. "No more. Just remember, it was entrapment. It was all a setup. It won't be admissible, you'll see."
And one woman newscaster said, "Oh, so you're saying if he'd killed the FBI agent then it wouldn't have been entrapment?"
Lots of laughter. And a lot of faces looking hard at Big John Bullock.
"No more questions, folks. Talk to you later."
A commercial came on for Bud Light.
She felt Savich behind her. She said quietly, "I'm going back to Boston. I've got to see Marlin Jones again."
"They won't let you see him, Sherlock."
"I've got to try." She turned slowly and looked up at him. "You see that, don't you? I've got to try. I can't just sit around waiting for some maniac to come after me again. If you tell them to let me in, they will."
"He's not the maniac who's after you now. Besides, you go talk to him again, and it could all come out that Belinda was your sister."
"No, I wouldn't tell him any of that. I wouldn't tell anyone about that."
"It's still a risk. Trust me on this: You can't begin to imagine what the media would do if they found out you were the sister of one of the murdered women and finding Marlin has been your obsession for seven years. You think the way I just said it sounds hard. Just wait until the media got hold of it. Big John would certainly squawk about entrapment then.
"I think a more worthwhile trip would be to San Francisco. Why don't I call the San Francisco office and have a couple of agents go talk to Douglas, your father, and your mother?"
She just shook her head.
"As for Marlin, maybe, after you've rested a couple of days. Look, it's Sunday. I want you to take it easy until Tuesday. You promise?"
She stroked the gold chenille afghan. "I guess I could use a good night's sleep."
"Two days, Sherlock. I want your promise that you'll lie low for two days. Then we'll talk about it."
She was silent, and he felt a good dollop of anger.
"You're an FBI agent, Sherlock. That means you do what I tell you to do. You carry out assignments that I instruct you to carry out. You don't go surfing any wave that catches your fancy. You got that?"
"You're nearly yelling. How could I not get it?"
He stepped forward, then stopped. "I've got a nice guest room upstairs. I also packed you a suitcase. It's still in the trunk of the car. I'll take you up, then bring it in."
She didn't think about her underwear until she was standing in the Victorian bathroom with its highly polished walnut floor, its claw-feet tub, pedestal washbowl, and plush pale yellow Egyptian towels with small flowers on them. She'd stripped down to her bra and panties, turned and seen herself in the mirror and stared. He'd picked out the softest peach silk set she owned. What had he thought when he picked them out
of he drawer? Without thinking, she ran her hand over her belly, the silk smooth and slithery against her palm. What had he thought?
No, she wouldn't think about that. They were just a bra and drawers, no matter how exquisite.
How potentially sexy. He probably hadn't even thought a thing just grabbed them up. She loved pretty underwear This set she'd bought herself for her last birthday. So expensive. Soft and flimsy and wicked. She took off the bra and rubbed the smooth lace against her cheek. She hadn't worn it in months. Dillon had picked it out.
"Sherlock."
23
SHE QUICKLYWRAPPED A towel around herself and looked around the bathroom door. He was standing in the middle of the bedroom, a suitcase in his hand.
"On the bed, please, Dillon."
He thought she looked beyond tired. He probably should have left her at the hospital, tied to the hospital bed. He looked again. He'd never before realized a towel could look so sexy wrapped around someone. "You need any help?"
That made her smile. "No, sir. I can brush my teeth without you holding my arm up."
"Then I'll see you in the morning. There's no reason for you to wake up early. Just sleep in. When you wake up, just holler, and I'll bring you breakfast. Don't forget, Sherlock, you promised to stay put."
She hadn't, but she nodded. "Thank you, Dillon."
"Oh, another thing. I need to run a couple of errands tomorrow morning. While I'm gone, I want you to leave the doors locked and don't open up for anybody, I don't care who anyone says they are. There's lots of food, even some pesto left over for you. You don't need to go out. You open it only for me, you got that?"
"I got that."
"Your SIG-Sauer is downstairs in my office. Your Lady Colt is in the drawer by your bed. Now, just let me decide what we'll do about this mess. I'll tell you tomorrow."
"What are your errands?"
He frowned at her. "Not your business. I won't be gone more than a couple of hours."
"Would you sing me a couple of lines before you go?"
"You want something down-home?"
"Yeah, real down-home."
His rich deep baritone filled the room, sounding really twangy this time. "She ain 't Rose but she ain 't bad. She am't easy, but she can be had. So am I when she whispers in my ear. She ain't Rose, and Rose ain't here.''
"Who's Rose?"
He grinned at her, gave her a salute, then left, closing her bedroom door behind him.
It was dawn when he shot straight up in his bed. He hit the floor running when another scream rent the silence.
She was wheezing, her arms wrapped around herself. She struggled to sit up in bed.
"Sherlock. You're awake? What's wrong?"
She was still sucking air into her lungs. It was as if someone had tried to suffocate her. He sat down beside her and pulled her against him. He began rubbing her back. "It's all right now. Did you have a nightmare?"
Slowly, so very slowly, her breathing began to steady, but it still hurt to breathe, as if someone had clouted her in the ribs. She couldn't talk yet, didn't want to talk. "That's it, just relax. I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you, nothing."
Her face was buried in his shoulder, her arms limp at her sides. Then, suddenly, she put her arms around his back and held on tight.
"Yeah, I'm real and I'm solid and I'm mean. No one's going to hurt you. It's okay."
He could feel her harsh breathing against his flesh, then she said, "Yes, I know. I'm all right now."
He tried to pull away from her but she still held on tight. He could feel her shivering. "It's really okay, Sherlock," he said again. "I'm not going anywhere. You can let go now."
"I don't think I want to. Give me a few more minutes." She tightened her grip around him.
She was still shivering. "Sorry, but I seem to have packed you the wrong kind of nightgown. You must be freezing.?
"You're a man. You picked it out because it's sexy and sheer, just like my underwear."
"Well, yes, I suppose you could be right. It feels really soft and nice. Sorry, but my hormones must have gotten the better of me. Listen now. Let me go, Sherlock, and lie back."
If anything, she gripped him tighter.
He laughed. "I promise you everything's okay now. Listen, you've got to let me go. Come on now."
"No."
He laughed again. He sounded like he was in pain. "Okay, tell you what. I'm cold too. Why don't we both lie back and I'll keep holding you until we both warm up."
He knew it wasn't a good idea, but he was worried about her. Truth be told, he didn't want to think about his motives. He was wearing boxer shorts, nothing else. No, this was definitely not a good idea.