Catherine Coulter: Whiplash

Bowie wondered what was going on here. He hadn't smelled a thing. If she'd worn a mask, where were the marks on her face? Why didn't she want to let him in? Ah, there was probably a guy in there, and she didn't want him to be seen. But why? Maybe because the guy was married?

He leaned against the hallway wall, crossed his arms over his chest. The pose was intimidating, only he didn't realize it. Erin stood in front of him, her hands stuck in her jeans pockets, wondering what demon convinced her to work at home this morning, and prayed.

"My daughter is always talking about you, Ms. Pulaski. She told me you walked in the first day of class and announced to all the children and their parents that your name was Erin Pulaski and you were a Polish-Irish-American. I laughed at that, and so Georgie kept repeating it, at least half a dozen more times. I believe she's repeated every word out of your mouth. I suppose I feel like I know you and so that's why I came to you. I know I can trust you."

What? Talk about a leap. If only he had a clue.

He said, "You know, I really didn't smell anything. Surely it would be okay now inside your apartment."

Not going to happen, buddy.

When she said nothing, he plowed onward. "Well, I guess the hallway is just fine. I am Georgie's dad, not an imposter."

"I know who you are. I recognized you from TV. You're an FBI agent."

He nodded, then raked his fingers through his hair. "Oh, yes, I forgot how many TV guys were at the crime scene."

"A dead guy found behind a company headquarters surely isn't an everyday occurrence in Connecticut."

"That's for sure. It also means it's going to be very difficult for a while, which is why I'm here. Like I said, I desperately need your help, Ms. Pulaski."

"With Georgie? Is there a problem? Can't she make her ballet class tomorrow?"

He shook his head. "No, it's not that. Frankly, I've run out of options. I could be called away on this case at any time, and I was hoping, praying, actually, that maybe you could help me take care of her for a while when she's not in school, maybe come to my house for a few days. Georgie always talks about you being a dancer, like that's what you do for a living, and I thought-"

At her utterly bewildered look, he said, "Ah, you're not only a ballet teacher, are you? You also have a full-time job, and you don't have the time or the inclination to take care of a little girl?"

"That's right. Teaching ballet is a hobby for me, Agent Richards."

"What do you do for a living, Ms. Pulaski?"

"I'm a private investigator, Agent Richards."

He looked at her like she'd suddenly sprouted devil's horns. She supposed he'd expected her to say anything but that. She knew what she looked like, a beanpole in jeans and a white T-shirt, boots that brought her to nearly six feet, and nearly to his eye level, her plain brown hair in a thick French braid. Long silver hoops dangled from her ears.

"You know," she said patiently, "as in people hire me to solve difficult personal problems? Don't you know any private investigators, Agent Richards?"

"Well, yes, one guy in New York City. I think he was beat up last month by a husband who caught him spying on him and his mistress."

She didn't rise to that juicy bait. "Then you know we're self-employed and work long hard hours if we want to feed ourselves. Unlike you, I don't have a government job that pays me whether or not I show up. Sorry, that sounded snippy. What's wrong with Georgie's mother?"

"She died some time ago."

Erin had known that. Oh dear. "I'm sorry. She has a nanny, right?"

"Yes, but Glynn's had surgery and her mother came and took her back to Boston until she's well again."

"And you made no plans for this?"

"I should have said it was emergency surgery. Of course I have backups, but none of them is available."

And I'm dead in the water , she could read that conclusion plainly in his eyes. "I have no one to take care of Georgie. Actually, Glynn mentioned you, said you liked Georgie and dealt really well with her. I thought maybe, since you weren't married and Georgie really likes you that-sorry."

And he tipped his head at her. "Forgive me for bothering you." As he turned and strode off down the hall, Erin called out, "Wait. Wait a minute, let me see what I can come up with."

He jerked around on his booted feet, a look of hope on his hard face.

"Wait out here a moment, let me straighten up."

I will shoot myself later, a nice clean head shot, get myself out of my misery once and for all.

CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND

Sunday night

"That's got to be the weirdest thing I've ever seen," Sherlock whispered against Savich's ear.

They stared at something filmy white floating through the trees, not quite opaque, not quite transparent-"otherworldly" was the word the senator used, Savich recalled and dismissed the thought immediately. He very strongly doubted it was anything like ectoplasm manifesting itself in the small knot of woods at the back of Senator David Hoffman's backyard in Chevy Chase, Maryland. With all the wickedness in the world, it was far more likely the senator's specter was what he'd described to them-a swatch of carefully cut feathery material about the size of a standard pillow.

They watched the white object move slowly toward the house, pausing every few seconds, as if the person feeding out the wire it was attached to was having some difficulties. Open mind, Savich thought, since he really couldn't tell what it was.

"It appears outside my bedroom window," the senator had told him and Sherlock that morning as they sat in front of his impressive desk in his elegant home office, his voice low, strained, as if he knew even saying this out loud would bring ridicule down on his head. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting to Sherlock's curly red hair, then beyond her to the bookcases that lined the wall. Sherlock followed his gaze. "You see something, Senator?"

"What? Oh, no, Agent, I was just thinking I should read some of those books. Do you know they came with the house? I've never touched them." He shook his head. "This house has been my local residence for nine years now. That's not right."

Savich said, "Senator, this thing you see dangling outside your bedroom window, what exactly does it do?"

"It simply flitters around," the senator said. "Back and forth, then it sometimes just floats or billows a bit. The first time I woke up and saw it, I thought I was having some sort of weird hallucination, but it just kept dancing around. I got out of bed and walked to the window, I was scared, I'll admit it. Whatever it was just continued to float up in front of me, then it was gone, from one moment to the next"-he snapped his fingers- "it simply vanished. I stood there and waited for it to come back, but it didn't. I was convinced I'd dreamed it, that, or it was the consequences of too many oysters-until it happened again."

"How many times has this thing appeared?" Sherlock asked.

"A dozen times now, I've counted them. Actually, I've written each occurrence down in this notebook." He tossed a small brown leather notebook back into his desk drawer. "If I was going crazy, I wanted to be able to show the course of my mental deterioration." He gave a quiet laugh. "Now, I simply lie in my bed and watch the thing dance around until it disappears after ten minutes or so. I've timed it. And every single time, the thing is there one instant, gone the next."

Savich asked, "How does it wake you up?"

"I'll be dead to the world, then I hear this sort of huffing noise, like a person trying to suck in a breath, and it's loud enough, insistent enough, to wake me up. The draperies are open and there the thing is, dancing outside the window. I really can't give you a simpler description of how it acts."