Catherine Coulter - Whiplash

"It's all very important, I know," said Sherlock, "but given the murder last night of one of Schiffer Hartwin's German employees right in your backyard and the break-in into the CEO's office, I think I trump just about everything, don't you?"

"The dead man is German? I didn't know that. But who was he? I mean-oh goodness."

Sherlock stepped toward the big shiny door. She heard the angry voices before she even had the knob in her hand.

"No, wait, Agent Sherlock, I mean, really, let me tell them, inform them that-"

Sherlock flashed Lori Riker a sweet smile and opened the door to see a seated man and woman, their faces just inches from one another. The air was thick with acrimony, and sudden silence.

The woman straightened like a shot and moved quickly away from the man, going to stand behind her very modern glass-and-chrome desk. Every inch of it was covered-by stacks of papers, a sleek computer, printer, and two phones. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, with an athlete's body, hair dark as sin and nearly as short as her secretary's. She was wearing a navy blue suit and white blouse with a mannish blue tie, and plain dark blue pumps. Her eyes, also very dark blue, and as cold as ice, were narrowed on Sherlock's face. She should have looked severe and masculine in her getup, but, oddly, she didn't. She looked forbidding and angry. But just for an instant, Sherlock saw fear leap into her dark eyes.

Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them. "I believe you're Carla Alvarez, production manager, and you are Turley Drexel, accounting manager. Have I got that right?"

"Yes," Carla said, voice clipped. But Sherlock saw another flash of fear in her narrowed eyes before she wiped her expression clean. Her chin went up and the power player was back, full force. She asked, her voice steady as a rock, "You are a police officer? Here to question us about the murdered man in Van Wie Park?"

"I'm FBI-Agent Sherlock." She handed Carla her creds, then she handed them over to Mr. Drexel, who was looking at Carla Alvarez, eyes flat and hard. He didn't even bother to glance at Sherlock's ID. Finally, he nodded to her, and remained seated, looking hard again at Alvarez, mouth tight.

Alvarez asked, "Why is the FBI here and not the local police?"

"The body was discovered in Van Wie Park, and that's federal land, which makes it our case."

It was obvious neither Alvarez nor Turley had known that. Hadn't they watched the news? The murderer hadn't known it would draw in the feds either, Sherlock would wager. Sherlock decided she was going to rock and roll with this woman who was struggling to look so formidable.

Sherlock gave them both impartial smiles. "What were you fighting about?"

Turley Drexel was fifty-two years old, and cursed with a round baby face he'd hated for as long as he could remember. He answered her in the tone of a prim, tightly wound bureaucrat used to juggling numbers. "See here, Agent, we were simply having a business discussion, of no concern to you, I assure you, nothing at all to do with that dead man found out back. We don't even know who he is. No one's bothered to tell us. Was he a transient?"

Sherlock said easily, "No, not a transient, Mr. Drexel. Actually, I'm very sure both of you knew him. He was an employee of Schiffer Hartwin, from their headquarters, a German national. His name was Helmut Blauvelt."

Mr. Drexel paled, then quickly lowered his eyes to his black loafers and muttered something under his breath.

As for Carla Alvarez, her hand went to her throat. She said slowly, "Helmut Blauvelt? No, surely that's not possible, surely-you're certain?"

"Very certain."

"We didn't know, I mean, sure, we've met Mr. Blauvelt, but we didn't realize-we just thought it was some stranger who was mugged and killed in the park. This is unbelievable, Agent. Mr. Blauvelt-it just doesn't seem possible."

"He was identified very quickly." She gave them no details. She turned. "Mr. Drexel, if you would please return to your office, I would like to speak with Ms. Alvarez alone. I'll be in to speak with you soon."

After Turley Drexel nearly ran from the office, Sherlock turned back to Carla Alvarez, studied her a moment, and said, "Men are dogs, aren't they, Ms. Alvarez?"

"Dogs? What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, Caskie Royal is married, he's got kids, and here he is sleeping with you. I wonder how many women, how many employees, he's talked onto his sofa? Surely you realize you're not the first."

"That's insulting. If I were a man, you'd never say anything like that."

"Depending on where I happened to be, and what I happened to find, sure I would. Ms. Alvarez, I understand you and Mr. Caskie Royal interrupted a break-in last night, in his office, and I was thinking it really strange that neither of you called the police, that the security guard did it some minutes later, with no prompting from you. Why is that?"

"What does it matter who called the police? They were called, weren't they?"

"Why don't you tell me why that wasn't the first thing you and Caskie did."

Alvarez shrugged. "We were anxious to see if the thief got away with anything valuable, like confidential files or e-mails. So the guard called. I repeat, who cares?"

"I'm thinking you guys didn't call because you were afraid the first question put to you would be why the two of you were there alone on a Sunday night."

"We were working on the budget-we had adjustments to make, production dates to change-"

"That doesn't sound all that urgent. So how long have you been sleeping with Mr. Royal?"

"I am not sleeping with him!"

"What did the thief take, Ms. Alvarez?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. That's what Mr. Royal told me last night. He hasn't said anything different to me today."

"How many times did you meet with Mr. Blauvelt?"

"Only once, when he was here three, four months ago, his first visit to our office, I believe."

"No, he's been here many times. All right, what was your meeting about during this visit several months ago?"

Sherlock saw Alvarez's face go utterly blank, then watched her brain snap to. Alvarez said, her voice ice chips, "Not that you'd understand, but we spoke of the reasons behind some budget overruns on drugs we distribute. It's all very involved. After our discussion, he met briefly with Mr. Royal, then, so far as I know, he returned to Germany, pleased that we had resolved the situation."

"You're lying to me, Ms. Alvarez, and I do hate that. You know as well as I do that Mr. Blauvelt wouldn't know a budget overrun from a Gesundheit ."

"I am not!"

"Why did Mr. Blauvelt come here this time?"

"I have no idea. I didn't even know he was coming."

"You must know Mr. Blauvelt was Schiffer Hartwin's enforcer, their messy-problem solver. Whenever he showed up, it meant there was a screw-up that needed his brand of fixing. This always involved people, Ms. Alvarez, not production problems. Who was he here for this time? Who was the problem, Ms. Alvarez? Were you the one he came to see?"

CASKIE ROYAL'S OFFICE

Savich studied Caskie Royal, sitting erect and confident in his executive leather chair behind his equally impressive mahogany desk, and watched him thread a Cross pen through his large blunt fingers. He knew Royal had been first string quarterback in his senior year at Florida, and he still looked fairly buff, though living well was starting to thicken his waistline. His hair was thick, dark brown with flecks of gray at the temples, the politician's You can trust me look. Savich knew about his tomcat reputation and imagined Sherlock could tell him what it was that made women look his way. His dark eyes were intelligent, but Savich saw cunning lurking in them too. At first he looked decisive, a man at the top of his game, sure of his place in the sun. But his hands were the giveaway-nervous hands, fiddling with the pen, his fingers tapping. Savich imagined he'd been instructed to make nice and to get this mess shut down cleanly. He doubted Royal could be intimidated, at least not here on his own turf. A laid-back, more conciliatory approach, then.