Кэтрин Коултер - Whiplash

Could it be possible the dead guy had nothing to do with Schiffer Hartwin? Maybe he was just an unlucky out-of-towner, here to visit his mother, who managed to get mugged and killed? That was too good to believe. And if he was connected to Schiffer Hartwin, did his death have anything to do with her being there?

Fact was, she hadn't seen a thing, hadn't heard a thing, hadn't stumbled over a dead body, not, of course, that a single soul would believe her.

Then it hit her hard. How could she give all the documents from Caskie Royal's computer to the media now? She'd have her butt arrested within an hour.

Whatever she did, from this moment on, she was going to have to be very careful she wouldn't be connected to the murder.

When the doorbell rang an hour later, Erin was just beginning to organize her notes, Royal's Project A file, and her printouts and clippings.

As was her habit, she looked through the peephole instead of flinging open her door to avoid welcoming in a vampire or other miscreant. Good grief, hadn't she just seen that face on TV? She felt her heart fall to her toes. They'd found out about her so soon? No, impossible. She had to get a grip. "Who is it?"

"My name's Bowie Richards. May I speak to you, Ms. Pulaski?"

"Why?" But she knew why. They'd found a witness who'd gotten the license plate number off her Hummer, or the guard had somehow seen her on a camera she hadn't known was there and she'd been identified by Carla Alvarez, who'd recognized her from the gym or-

"It's personal, Ms. Pulaski. It's about my daughter, Georgie."

What? Georgia Richards-Georgie-was the daughter of an FBI agent? No, more than that-Bowie Richards was the big-cheese FBI agent in New Haven. Why hadn't anyone said anything? She felt a huge black cloud moving swiftly toward her and she wondered in that moment if her family's legendary good luck was fast heading south.

She didn't want to, but she opened the door and stepped up to block the doorway.

Bowie Richards looked different in person-bigger, and harder, and to her panicked eyes, the Agent of Doom embodied in a dark suit, white shirt, red and blue tie, and black wingtips. He was young to have the position of Special Agent in Charge in an FBI field office, no more than early thirties. He was olive-complexioned, his hair dark brown, his eyes light blue, with a lean, rangy runner's body.

She didn't move from the open doorway. "You're Georgie's father?"

He stuck out his hand and she automatically shook it. A really strong hand that could twist her small .22 around her fingers, and laugh. "Bowie Richards. Ah, do you have a few minutes, Ms. Pulaski? It seems I'm badly in need of your help."

She couldn't let him in, he'd see all the Culovort pages, all the stuff she'd copied off the Internet about drug company scandals. All her work sheets were still spread out haphazardly on the dining room table. It wouldn't take him more than two seconds to realize he'd walked right in on a potential murder suspect. Five minutes later and all those damning pages would have been in folders and tucked away. Her good luck was indeed now traveling south at warp speed.

Erin said, "Sorry, but I can't let you in. I just sprayed for bugs and the smell's toxic. I'm sure you can smell it from here so don't breathe deeply. I just took off my mask. Let me step out into the hallway." She closed the door behind her.

Erin smiled at him brightly. "What about Georgie?"

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.