Riptide

He gri

He was so slippery, she’d bet if he were a pig in a greased pig contest, no one could hold him down, but she was tenacious.

“Who were you telling not to smoke?”

“Hatch. He’s my main assistant. He has more contacts than a centipede has legs, speaks six languages, and is real smart except when it comes to cigarettes and loose women. That’s the way I can control his smoking. I pay him very well and threaten to fire him if he lights up.”

“But I heard you tell him to put out the cigarette. Obviously he’s still smoking. And he knew you were on the other end of the line.”

“Yeah. It’s more a game now than anything else. He lights up just to hear me blow.”

“Did he find out anything about the skeleton? What’s this about DNA testing? They think they know who that poor girl was?”

He stretched, drank down the last of his coffee, carefully set the cup on the table, then stood up.

She was on her feet in the next instant. Two fast steps and she was in his face. She was fast, he’d give her that, and she was mad. He was gri

He grabbed her wrist. “That was a good shot. No, don’t hit me again or I’ll have to do something. I want to keep those pancakes happy.”

“Yeah, what?” She just didn’t care anymore. She smashed her other fist into his left kidney.

He held both her wrists now. He knew she’d bring up her knee next so he jerked her around so her back was pressed against his chest. He held her arms pressed to her sides. “You’d look better as a blonde. Usually a woman’s roots are darker than her hair. In your case, you’ve got all this baby-light hair at the roots.”

She kicked back, grazing his shin. He grunted. He sat back down on the chair, holding her on his lap. She was pi

“You need to shave. You look like a convict.”

“How do you know? You’ve got the back of your head to me.”

“You’ve got as much hair on your face as you do on your chest.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you did get an eyeful in the bedroom.”

“Go to hell.”

Adam’s cell phone rang. “Well, shit. Will you let me answer this without attacking me again?”

“Actually, I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

“Good.” He dropped his arms and she jumped off his lap.

He flipped open the small narrow phone. “Carruthers here.”

“Adam, it’s Thomas Matlock. Is Becca there with you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“All right, then, just listen. I sent an e-mail to Dillon Savich, a computer expert here at FBI headquarters in Washington. I knew his father very well. Actually, Buck Savich was the only other person who knew about all the mess with Krimakov. He’s been dead for a while. I e-mailed his son for help. His job is finding maniacs using computer programs. He’s good. He managed to track me down before I could even get back to him. That’s beyond good. He’s agreed to a meeting. I’m going to see him. We need all the help we can get.”

“I think that’s a mistake,” Adam said, thinking of the logistics. “I don’t think we need anyone else in on this. I’m worried about maintaining control here.”

“Trust me on this, Adam. We do need him. He’s got lots of contacts and is very, very smart. Don’t worry that he’ll talk and expose Becca’s whereabouts if he comes on board. He won’t. Have you learned anything more of value?”

“There’s nothing at all to be found in any of McCallum’s records. The governor says he doesn’t know a thing. I assume you’ve come up dry as well?”

“Yes, but I think that Dillon Savich will be able to help us there as well. Word is he’s magic with a computer and gathering information.”

Adam said, “We don’t need anyone else, Thomas.” The instant the name was out of his mouth, Adam jerked his head up. Becca was looking at him, her eyes narrowed, intent. He cleared his throat. “We don’t want more hands stirring this pot. It’s too dangerous. Too much chance of cracks and leaks. It could lead to Becca.”

“You slipped, Adam. Is she listening?”

“No, it’s okay.” At least he hoped it was. She was now simply looking wary and interested, both at the same time.

Adam said again, “Maybe you could just have this guy do some specific searches for you.”

“That, too, but he’s a specialist just like you are. All right. We’ll see. I’m meeting with him to see what he has to say. Maybe he won’t want to join up with us, or maybe he won’t have the time. I just wanted you to know. Keep her safe, Adam.”

“Yeah.”

Becca shook her head at him when he closed his cell phone. She knew there’d be downright lies or at the very least evasions out of his mouth. She was furious, frustrated, but, surprisingly, she felt safer than she had in weeks. When he looked like he would say something, she smiled at him and said, “No, don’t bother.”

The Egret Bar & Grill

Washington, D.C.

Thomas Matlock rose very slowly from his chair. He didn’t know what to say but he didn’t like what he saw. Damnation, Savich wasn’t alone.

Savich smiled at the man he’d never heard of before receiving the e-mail at four A.M. that morning. He extended his hand. “Mr. Matlock?”

“Yes. Thomas Matlock.”

“This is my wife and my partner, Lacy Sherlock Savich, but everyone calls her Sherlock. She’s also FBI and one of the best.”

Thomas found himself shaking the hand of a very pretty young woman, on the small side, with thick, curling red hair, the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, and he knew in his gut, knew without even hearing her speak or act or argue, that she was tough, probably as tough as her hard-faced husband, a man about Adam’s age, who looked stronger than a bull. Meaner, too. He didn’t look like a computer nerd. Whatever that was supposed to mean nowadays.

“So,” Thomas said, “you’re Buck’s son.”

“Yes,” Savich said and gri

“Your dad could charm the widow’s peak off a fascist general and outwit a Mafia don. He was an excellent man and friend,” Thomas said, eyeing the man. “I wasn’t expecting you to bring anyone else.” He found himself clearing his throat when Savich didn’t immediately respond. “This is all rather confidential, Mr. Savich. Actually, it’s all extremely confidential, there’s a life at stake and-”

Savich said easily, “Where I go Sherlock goes, sir. We’re a package deal. Shall we continue or would you like to call this off?”

The young woman didn’t say a word. She didn’t even change expressions. She just cocked her head to one side and waited, very quietly, silent. A professional to her toes, Thomas thought, just like her husband.

Thomas said then, “Is your name really Sherlock?”

She laughed. “Yes. My father’s a federal judge in San Francisco. Can you imagine what the crooks are feeling when they’re hauled in front of him-Judge Sherlock?”

“Please sit down, both of you. I’m grateful that you came, Mr. Savich.”

“Just Savich will do fine.”

“All right. I understand you head up the CAU-the Criminal Apprehension Unit-at the FBI. I know you use computers and protocols you yourself designed and programmed. And with some success. Naturally, I really don’t fully understand what it is that happens.”