Power Play
Page 3
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Savich grinned, shook his head. “I can confirm that Jitterbug—name’s Paul Jones—is in surgery at Washington Memorial to remove the bullet from his shoulder. Metro’s in charge.”
Special Agent Lucy Carlyle, soon to be Lucy McKnight, was shaking her head. “Davis, listen to me. You could be in the bed next to Mr. Bug at Washington Memorial instead of sitting here trying to make us laugh. I can see it all: you’re moseying to your Jeep, sipping your latte, thinking about who you’ve got a date with tonight, when that idiot grabs the lady.”
“It was not a latte.”
“Yeah, yeah, macho black. One part of your brain is trying out jokes to tell your girlfriend tonight and all of a sudden, your manic brain snaps to figuring out angles and distances, the drugged psychology of Mr. Bug, and calculating probabilities for survival, right?”
Davis said, “Hey, I already know what jokes work.” He paused for a moment. “And my brain isn’t manic. It’s a finely tuned instrument. Do you know, though, I think she’d have taken Jitterbug down herself once she got over her surprise at his popping out of the box like that. I gotta say it’s possible she really didn’t need me. Tough, that one. Lots of red hair, like yours, Sherlock. I bet she’d impress you.
“I did follow her home to this swank gated mansion on a huge lot in Chevy Chase, halfway down Ridgewood Road, through this big secure gate with a guardhouse, cameras, and an intercom. It’s all woods out there, with very few houses. The ones that are there are big and set back and very private. The guardhouse was empty, but she didn’t have to speak to anyone on the intercom. Nope, the gate opened up fast, which means there were cameras inside monitoring. I was right behind her in my plebian Jeep on her big circular driveway. Before we’d even stopped, this big guy comes running out of the house, makes a beeline right at me like he’s going to rip my tonsils out. She climbs out of her BMW and calls out something like ‘Hooley, it’s okay.’
“Since I had to come to work and couldn’t toast her with the bourbon, she patted my face and gave me another kiss. Hooley’s standing only six feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, measuring me for a coffin. He was a bodyguard, I’m sure of it. I’m thinking maybe she’s someone important.”
“Well, what’s her name?” Coop McKnight said.
“Does anyone recognize the name Natalie Black?”
Sherlock stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Davis’s town house
Euclid Avenue, Washington, D.C. Monday, early evening
When Davis pulled his Jeep into his driveway, he saw a big yellow Harley idling at the curb, the rider still astride it all in punk-black, from boots to helmet to thin black leather gloves. Now, what was all this? Maybe it was Jitterbug’s brother, out for revenge. He ambled over to where the Harley and its driver sat waiting. As he neared, the driver revved a loud scare-the-birds-out-of-the-trees hello. He loved the sound of the Blockhead engine.
It wasn’t Jitterbug or one of Davis’s informants—none of them had that kind of juice, and the Sportster 1200 Custom was a nice one, a hog right up there in the Harley food chain. Who, then? He smiled as he came to a stop a foot from that gorgeous machine with its beefy front end. “I like the hissy-fit yellow paint job. Haven’t seen that color before. You like the pull-back handlebars?”
Off came the helmet and out fell a reddish-brown braid, thick and heavy past her shoulders. He’d heard one of the agents in the unit call the braid a fishtail. Okay, he could see that. She was wearing dark sunglasses. She pulled off her leather gloves and began drumming her fingers on the fuel tank. Her nails were clean and buffed, and she wore no rings. “The handlebars were a pain until I got used to them. Now they’re good.” She eyed him up and down. “Mom said you sort of moseyed, like you had all the time in the world. I told her you sounded like a druggie yourself. She said no, couldn’t be, you were an FBI agent, plus you were too cute to be stupid. You’re Special Agent Davis Sullivan?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Who are you?”
She pulled off her sunglasses. Would you look at those pale green eyes. He’d never seen that color before, well, yeah, he had, that very morning. She was striking, like her mother.
“I’m her one and only kid.” She leaned over and shook his hand. “Thank you for keeping my mom out of deep doodoo this morning. She seems to be getting herself into weird situations lately, and I try to be around to help her out, only I wasn’t this morning, so thank you again. She couldn’t believe that little twerp wanted to carjack her new Beemer, right in front of the shopping mall. All she was doing there was picking up her dry cleaning.”
Special Agent Lucy Carlyle, soon to be Lucy McKnight, was shaking her head. “Davis, listen to me. You could be in the bed next to Mr. Bug at Washington Memorial instead of sitting here trying to make us laugh. I can see it all: you’re moseying to your Jeep, sipping your latte, thinking about who you’ve got a date with tonight, when that idiot grabs the lady.”
“It was not a latte.”
“Yeah, yeah, macho black. One part of your brain is trying out jokes to tell your girlfriend tonight and all of a sudden, your manic brain snaps to figuring out angles and distances, the drugged psychology of Mr. Bug, and calculating probabilities for survival, right?”
Davis said, “Hey, I already know what jokes work.” He paused for a moment. “And my brain isn’t manic. It’s a finely tuned instrument. Do you know, though, I think she’d have taken Jitterbug down herself once she got over her surprise at his popping out of the box like that. I gotta say it’s possible she really didn’t need me. Tough, that one. Lots of red hair, like yours, Sherlock. I bet she’d impress you.
“I did follow her home to this swank gated mansion on a huge lot in Chevy Chase, halfway down Ridgewood Road, through this big secure gate with a guardhouse, cameras, and an intercom. It’s all woods out there, with very few houses. The ones that are there are big and set back and very private. The guardhouse was empty, but she didn’t have to speak to anyone on the intercom. Nope, the gate opened up fast, which means there were cameras inside monitoring. I was right behind her in my plebian Jeep on her big circular driveway. Before we’d even stopped, this big guy comes running out of the house, makes a beeline right at me like he’s going to rip my tonsils out. She climbs out of her BMW and calls out something like ‘Hooley, it’s okay.’
“Since I had to come to work and couldn’t toast her with the bourbon, she patted my face and gave me another kiss. Hooley’s standing only six feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, measuring me for a coffin. He was a bodyguard, I’m sure of it. I’m thinking maybe she’s someone important.”
“Well, what’s her name?” Coop McKnight said.
“Does anyone recognize the name Natalie Black?”
Sherlock stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Davis’s town house
Euclid Avenue, Washington, D.C. Monday, early evening
When Davis pulled his Jeep into his driveway, he saw a big yellow Harley idling at the curb, the rider still astride it all in punk-black, from boots to helmet to thin black leather gloves. Now, what was all this? Maybe it was Jitterbug’s brother, out for revenge. He ambled over to where the Harley and its driver sat waiting. As he neared, the driver revved a loud scare-the-birds-out-of-the-trees hello. He loved the sound of the Blockhead engine.
It wasn’t Jitterbug or one of Davis’s informants—none of them had that kind of juice, and the Sportster 1200 Custom was a nice one, a hog right up there in the Harley food chain. Who, then? He smiled as he came to a stop a foot from that gorgeous machine with its beefy front end. “I like the hissy-fit yellow paint job. Haven’t seen that color before. You like the pull-back handlebars?”
Off came the helmet and out fell a reddish-brown braid, thick and heavy past her shoulders. He’d heard one of the agents in the unit call the braid a fishtail. Okay, he could see that. She was wearing dark sunglasses. She pulled off her leather gloves and began drumming her fingers on the fuel tank. Her nails were clean and buffed, and she wore no rings. “The handlebars were a pain until I got used to them. Now they’re good.” She eyed him up and down. “Mom said you sort of moseyed, like you had all the time in the world. I told her you sounded like a druggie yourself. She said no, couldn’t be, you were an FBI agent, plus you were too cute to be stupid. You’re Special Agent Davis Sullivan?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Who are you?”
She pulled off her sunglasses. Would you look at those pale green eyes. He’d never seen that color before, well, yeah, he had, that very morning. She was striking, like her mother.
“I’m her one and only kid.” She leaned over and shook his hand. “Thank you for keeping my mom out of deep doodoo this morning. She seems to be getting herself into weird situations lately, and I try to be around to help her out, only I wasn’t this morning, so thank you again. She couldn’t believe that little twerp wanted to carjack her new Beemer, right in front of the shopping mall. All she was doing there was picking up her dry cleaning.”
