Кэтрин Коултер - Whiplash

He nodded. "I felt as if something or someone is trying to communicate. It would seem the senator isn't able to understand. But it keeps trying. His wife, Nikki? Maybe."

Sherlock said, "But we're here and it was here as well. If it is Nikki, you think she came because she thought you could help? You'd recognize who and what she was?"

"All good questions. It's been over fifteen minutes, and there's nothing here now. Let's go home."

"Dillon, there's something I don't understand." She was frowning toward the senator's bedroom window.

He waited, his fingers rubbing the back of her hand.

"I would expect you to see it. But what about me? I've never seen anything. But I saw it too, clear as day."

"So did the senator."

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Monday morning

Savich was wide awake at two a.m., listening to Sherlock's even breathing, wondering if a ghost was going to come tell him a story.

Nikki, where are you? I saw you, you let both Sherlock and me see you. Were you trying to tell me something about the senator? Is there some sort of trouble heading his way?

There was nothing from Nikki.

He finally fell into a surprisingly deep sleep and didn't stir until the alarm went off at six-thirty a.m.

He opened his eyes to see Sherlock, on her elbow above him, staring down at him. He shook his head. She leaned down to kiss him when-

"Papa, Mama, you're still in bed! Gabby will be here soon and I've got to be ready for her to take me to the Gumby Exhibition."

The Gumby Exhibition at the Throckmorton Center didn't open until ten o'clock. Sherlock grinned at her son standing in the doorway wearing only SpongeBob SquarePants pajama bottoms, his black hair as tousled as his father's. He was so beautiful it made her heart ache. "I'll be right in to help you, Sean. Go brush your teeth."

When she heard him whoop down the hallway, Sherlock kissed her husband, and cupped his face between her hands. "Stop worrying about it. Things always happen when they're supposed to."

He surely hoped so.

What he didn't expect was anything to happen in the middle of an emergency meeting that morning with Mr. Maitland and Eurydice Flanders, known as Dice to her federal lawyer colleagues, a fifteen-year veteran of FBI headquarters here in Washington.

"Dillon, how's tricks?"

Savich shook her hand and sat down beside her. He thought about the wonderful nine and a half minutes he'd had that morning with Sherlock before Sean came back, his teeth brushed, and raring to go. "Tricks are good, Dice. What's up, sir?"

"Early this morning a pair of runners found a murdered man in Van Wie Park, in Stone Bridge, Connecticut. That's federal land and makes it ours. The dead guy's name is Helmut Blauvelt, and he's a German national. We haven't released any information on him yet to the media. He's been employed for the past ten years by Schiffer Hartwin Pharmaceutical, reports directly to the director, Adler Dieffendorf."

Dice asked, "What do you know about Schiffer Hartwin Pharmaceutical, Savich?"

"They're one of the largest drug companies in the world. Family owned, established back in the late nineteenth century, in Hartwin, Germany. Very profitable."

Dice nodded. "They're also very powerful and well connected locally. They employ close to forty thousand people worldwide."

Mr. Maitland rubbed the faint black stubble on his chin. "Bowie Richards, our New Haven SAC, called me this morning after he'd identified the man, asked me if we had any interest in him or his employer, the Schiffer Hartwin Pharmaceutical company.

"We didn't until I found out about this Herr Helmut Blauvelt. Okay, Dice, tell Savich what we know about him."

Dice was tall and leggy, with blond hair cut in a sharp wedge, and was smarter than she probably deserved to be. She sat forward and sniffed. "You smell very hot, Dillon. Did Sherlock buy you some new cologne?"

"Dice, focus, please," said Maitland. "Hey, my wife bought me some new cologne and you didn't say anything."

"Very fruity, sir. I like it." She gave him a big grin, then sobered, and continued in her slow sweet southern drawl that camouflaged a knife-sharp brain. "Okay, Dillon, here's the deal. Helmut Blauvelt wasn't just any employee, he was Schiffer Hartwin's main problem-solver and troubleshooter, their Mr. Fix-It, for over a decade now. The directors sent him all over the world, wherever there was a possible threat to the company, whether it was local union problems, suppliers reneging on contracts, or politicians asking for kickbacks. He was apparently very good at it, that is-poof-problems gone. His methods included bribery and violence. Of course, there's no real proof, especially since he rarely spent much time in any one jurisdiction or country. But there were enough questions asked for Interpol to have a file on him."

"But is he a killer, Dice? And if so, how come there's no proof of that?"

"Not as such, but the word is, folks have disappeared-in Africa, in Egypt, in England. Mostly we think he strong-arms, intimidates, and strikes deals the company can't publicly avow. And now he's dead, murdered on our soil. As of yet, his bosses in Germany haven't made a peep. Bowie called them a couple of hours ago. I suppose they've got to figure out how to respond to the murder of their Mr. Fix-It right here in the U.S. of A.

"We naturally wonder what he was here to fix. Or who. And how this ties in with the company. And that is why you and I are both here at the get-go, Dillon."

Savich said, "Tell me you have some ideas."

"Well, no, sorry," said Dice. "This murder is wide open. But believe me, the director wants to find out, and that's why Mr. Maitland brought you into it."

Maitland said, "Dice said they hadn't let out a peep. Well, they did, a loud one, just before I walked in here. They called Bowie back to inform him they're sending over a German Federal Intelligence Service agent from the BND to represent them in the investigation."

"Sounds like the corporate office wants to put a lid on it," Savich said.

"I would like to agree with you," Maitland said, "but our Legat in Berlin says this guy-Agent Andreas Kesselring-has the reputation of being a straight arrow in Germany, and he has an exemplary record.

"He'll be arriving at JFK tomorrow afternoon. Bowie Richards will be sending a car to fetch him."

Dice's left eyebrow shot up. "Don't you want Savich to pick up Kesselring, since he's going to head the investigation in Stone Bridge? Get an up close and personal feel for the guy?"

Maitland said, looking over Dice's left shoulder, "Savich isn't really going to head up the investigation."

Dice went on red alert. "Why, for heaven's sake?"

"You should know that Bowie Richard's family and Vice President Valenti's family are close. Really close."

Just dandy, Savich thought, a SAC with juice and a German federal agent, both. Not to mention a multinational pharmaceutical house with as much money and resources as the FBI.

"Look, guys, it's the hand we've got to play. I know you'll deal well with Bowie Richards, Savich. Here's a couple of photos of Helmut Blauvelt." Maitland slid over two five-by-sevens.

Dice took one look at the photo and quickly closed her eyes. "Eeew, he's got no face left. Why would someone do this to him?"

The dead man looked middle-aged from the clumps of bloody brownish gray hair still on his head, Savich thought, and Dice was right, someone had whaled on him and hadn't stopped. And why was that?

Dice kept her eyes on Maitland's face. "This overkill, it makes no sense. One blow and he's dead. Was it to keep him from being identified? That might have been true fifty years ago, but give me a break. Surely the murderer had to know we'd still be able to identify him."