Кэтрин Коултер - Whiplash

Kesselring turned to look at her. Again, his eyes went hard and hot. "That is a curious thing, I will admit. It's the kind of thing that makes our lives crazy."

An attempt at humor? Sherlock didn't think so. His voice was flat, almost without expression. Those eyes of his when he looked at her, she couldn't begin to understand what was behind his beautiful eyes.

At that moment, Bowie would swear he heard Agent Dolores Cliff sigh. He nearly sighed himself, reminded that her brain was temporarily off the planet. He rose and walked over to Agent Kesselring. "I'm assigning Agent Graham Painter to work with you whenever you are in need of assistance. Agent Painter will get you settled at our local B-and-B." Bowie heard Dolores make a small distressed sound, but didn't acknowledge the sound or Dolores. He was going to keep Dolores and Kesselring as far apart as he could. As for Graham, he was a perfect foil, a good old boy from Little Rock, so easy in his manner and speech you'd think his IQ was about as high as that of the hamburger he was eating. But Graham was sharp and steady and wouldn't get taken in, like Dolores. He could get along with Godzilla, if he had to, and might even get a kick out of Kesselring. Better still, he would keep Kesselring out of their hair.

Bowie said to the group, "I'll be back shortly, after I introduce Agent Kesselring to Agent Painter. He can tell Agent Painter how he wishes to proceed finding this psychopathic mugger. Agent Cliff, you will remain here."

Dolores looked like she was going to say something, but under Bowie's cold eye, she slowly nodded.

When the conference room door closed behind the two men, Sherlock said quietly, "This isn't good, Dillon, not good at all. Do you think it's possible Kesselring is in Schiffer Hartwin's pocket? Here to sweep whatever he can under the rug?"

"Oh, no," Agent Cliff said, sitting forward. "Andreas feels so badly about all this. I know he wouldn't-"

Sherlock said, "Get it together, Agent Cliff, or I'll have to deck you."

Dolores jerked back. "I don't think you have any right to say that to me." Her surprise gave way to insult and then to sheer mean. "You don't look all that tough. I don't think you could do it."

Sherlock couldn't help it, she laughed. "Keep that attitude, Agent Cliff, really, you need to, particularly around Kesselring."

"Easy for you to say, married to him."

Sherlock had to agree. "You got me on that one."

Savich, who'd been on MAX again, looked up. "There's a French pharmaceutical house, Laboratoires Ancondor, that owns the patent on an oral chemotherapy drug called Eloxium. It appears to have different side effects from the usual 5-FU with Culovort. Some of the side effects of Eloxium can remain with the cancer patient for life.

"Here's the kicker-if an oncologist has to switch the patient to the new oral medication, even if Culovort were to subsequently become available, there's no switching the patient back, at least from what I've read. And the oral drug is very expensive since it's not off patent like Culovort."

"Hmm," Sherlock said. "Makes you wonder if there might be some sort of collusion going on between Schiffer Hartwin and Laboratoires Ancondor? Shutting down Culovort production so patients are forced to Eloxium? Remember Carla Alvarez talked about a windfall profit. You don't think-"

Savich said, "I don't know but I'll call Mr. Maitland, have him contact Dice, see what she can dig up."

Dolores Cliff said, "I know drug companies do crappy things, but to stop producing a drug for people with life-threatening cancer to force them to another, very expensive drug? That would be disgusting."

Savich said, "Yeah, it sure would. So please take your blinders off, Dolores. We need to know how to play this. I've got to say from what I've heard this morning, and what I've read on MAX, this doesn't look good to me."

Dolores Cliff didn't say a word. She popped her gum and began chewing viciously.

Tuesday afternoon

Erin looked down at her orange Day-Glo watch, a gift from her nephew. She had another hour before she picked Georgie up from school. Then it was back here to straighten the apartment and make sure both she and Georgie looked decent, since Bowie was coming over with take-out Chinese for dinner and bringing along two visiting Washington, D.C., FBI agents. Three FBI agents in her apartment. Three . And here she was, a freshly minted criminal. What had she done in life to bring three FBI agents to her dining table?

You took in Georgie, that's what, idiot. When life gives you lemons, add vodka. No, no, make lemonade.

She'd deal, no choice. If she was smart, they could be three major-league sources for her.

She also had to decide what she was going to say to Dr. Kender at lunch tomorrow. He had to be in agreement with whatever she planned to do with the files from Caskie Royal's computer. He was, after all, the client, and she couldn't be certain she could keep his name buried deep if the files went public. The feds would be all over her about Helmut Blauvelt's murder.

Erin could almost see the doomsday tsunami rolling toward her.

The doorbell rang. She slipped her cell into her shirt pocket and glanced through the peephole to see a woman she'd never seen before, a woman who'd make any breathing man grab his heart. Long streaked blond hair, wide brown eyes-ah, maybe a new client?

"Yes?" she said as she opened the door.

"May I speak to you, Ms. Pulaski?"

Lovely low voice, honey smooth.

"Yes, of course. Did you call my office?"

"Office? No."

So not a client. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm a friend of Bowie's and I would like to see Georgie."

Erin looked at the female treat with her buttercup yellow sundress, high-heeled sandals, pretty French pedicure, and lovely thin nose. Her very nice social smile disappeared as she stepped into the apartment and looked around.

"I'm Erin. And you are . . . ?"

The woman turned back to face her. "I'm Krissy Canter. As I said, I'm a friend of Bowie's."

"I see," and Erin did indeed see. She was facing one half of a couple. So why hadn't Bowie asked her to take care of Georgie?

"Actually, I'm here to take Georgie back to my apartment."

"Have you spoken to Bowie about this?"

"Yes, of course. Well, not precisely about that, but she'd want to be with me, Bowie would want that as well."

"Georgie's still in school."

Krissy looked down at her watch, frowned. "I forgot the school hours. I'll go pick her up, take her back to my place."

"I can't allow that, Ms. Canter, not unless Bowie tells me this is what he wants. It's his decision."

And everything went downhill from there.

When Bowie showed up with his married FBI agents in tow, delicious Chinese food smells wafting from two big brown bags with Feng Nian emblazoned on the side, Erin was wearing nice black slacks and her favorite pale blue cashmere sweater, Georgie standing beside her, in a clean pair of jeans and a pink polo shirt.

Krissy Canter had, mercifully, left after speaking tersely to Bowie on her cell phone. When she rang off, she'd said to Erin, "Once Bowie and I have a chance to talk this over, I'll be back for Georgie." She strode out of Erin's apartment without another word, looking as mean as a mud wrestler in beautiful sandals.

Bowie gave Erin a quick once-over. "You look really nice, Erin. Thanks for having us over. Savich and Sherlock here-" He didn't get out another word because his daughter launched herself into his arms. He laughed, hugged her close, kissed her ear, and set her back down. "Okay, kiddo, put on your company manners. I want you to meet Agent Sherlock and Agent Savich."

Sherlock came down on her knees, took the little girl's hand between hers. "You can call me Sherlock. And this big guy is Dillon. I'm married to him. He and I have a little boy, younger than you. His name is Sean. Unlike you, Sean can't dance."