Cal said, “If he does try to strangle you, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me take him apart this time.”
“Well, okay, I can hold myself back, let you get your licks in. Oh, yes, Agent Giusti doesn’t know you’re coming. She’s probably already assigned another agent to protect me.”
“Another body who can shoot a gun can’t hurt. I heard Giusti’s got quite a rep as a badass in the New York office, and that’s saying something, since a lot of them are yahoos.”
“You have the same rep, Cal. That’s one of the reasons Dillon wanted you with me.”
He looked surprised. “Me? A badass? Nah. Now, Giusti, I’ve never met her, but like I said, I’ve heard some things. I expect she’ll try to take me down a notch—or two—if she can manage it.”
Sherlock pictured Kelly Giusti’s ramrod-straight back and squared shoulders, remembered the small smile she’d finally managed to coax out of her. “My money might be on her, Cal. She’s tough, smart, and focused—hmm, sounds like you, doesn’t she?—except I’m not sure she has your sense of humor. Yeah, I think you can expect some grief from her. So could Darth Vader. I’m sure you’ll both be professional about it, right?” And she punched him in the arm.
“No worries, I’m the very definition of the word.” He fell silent and drummed his fingertips on his knee. “I heard Savich didn’t like your getting involved in this. Can’t say I blame him.”
All Sherlock said was “He wasn’t thrilled.” Dillon had been silent, which meant he was afraid, not about what he was dealing with, but for her. He’d held her so tight she felt her ribs creak. She’d leaned back, held his face between her hands, and kissed him, twice. “I love you. I will be all right. I’ll call you as often as I can.” She had time only to call Sean, tell him she had to leave, a couple of days, no more. New York? He’d asked her to visit FAO Schwarz and buy him something very cool, like Captain Munchkin’s new video game with the river trolls.
EAST THIRTY-FOURTH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Friday afternoon
It was a beautiful afternoon in New York City, the sun glistening off the East River. Their helicopter flew low over the river toward the thick traffic on FDR Drive. J.J. set them down smoothly on the Thirty-fourth Street helipad. As soon as they were away from the helicopter, J.J. gave them a grin and a wave, and lifted off.
Agent Kelly Giusti, with the wind from the rotor blades whipping her dark hair around her head, strode forward and shook hands with Sherlock, then turned to stare at Callum McLain, a dark eyebrow arched, a look Sherlock admired and had never managed. She was impressed. Giusti said, “Who is this?”
Sherlock gave her a sunny smile. “This is Special Agent Callum—Cal—McLain. He’s in counterterrorism in Washington, so the two of you are automatically on the same team.”
“That remains to be seen,” Giusti said, her dark hair settling into a wild tangle around her face. “Why is he here?”
Cal waved his hand. “Hello, I’m standing right here.”
Giusti never looked away from Sherlock and Sherlock never dropped her smile. “Like I said, Cal’s in the counterterrorism section. Mr. Maitland assigned him as a liaison to our office and to assist in the investigation. We know him and trust him to protect me. Can’t have too many experienced hands, right?”
Cal gave Sherlock a sideways glance. She’d heaped some tribute on his head, but he didn’t think Giusti was buying it. She was looking at him like the Wisconsin lineman who’d slammed him into the ground so hard he’d almost broken his throwing arm. Odd how he’d pictured her older and heavier, with maybe a cell phone bud hooked to her ear and a thin mustache on her upper lip. She was the very opposite—tall, dark-haired, about his own age, almost as tall as he was, wearing black pants and jacket, a white stretch cami, and a lanyard around her neck with her shield. Even though her hair was all over her head, the rest of her was stiff and straight. And would you look at those dark laser-beam eyes—talk about pinning a guy. He wondered if she ever laughed.
He smiled, stuck out his hand.
Giusti shook his hand. “I suppose I could get in trouble if I dumped you in the East River, McLain, so stick close to Sherlock. If anything happens to her, we’re both screwed forever and I will personally cut off your most beloved body parts—if you live.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Cal said.
Sherlock said, “Trust him, Agent Giusti, Cal’s not going to let anything happen to me.”
Giusti turned to the older man who stood at her elbow. “Agent Sherlock, Agent McLain, this is Special Agent Erwin. Pip was supposed to guard you, Sherlock.”
The two men eyed each other. Pip Erwin said, “You look tough enough. Are you fast on your feet?”
“Yes,” Cal said. “Maybe as fast as you once were.”
“Good to hear,” Erwin said, “because I ain’t wired to be a bodyguard.”
Cal liked the looks of Pip Erwin, black wing tips and all. He was pushing fifty, looked fit, a sharp dude in his regulation black Fed suit. He took in the world through intense dark eyes, darker than Giusti’s, harder even, like a man who’d seen most everything and couldn’t be surprised, his cynicism fairly dripping off him. Then again, Giusti was younger and she looked like nothing would surprise her, either.
Giusti waved them toward a big black SUV. “We’ve got to get going. We’re heading out straight away to Colby, Long Island. We’re keeping Nasim Conklin there in a safe house.”
Erwin eyed them in the rearview mirror as they climbed in. “Hey, interesting name, Agent Sherlock. Any relation to that Holmes fellow?”
“I believe he’s somewhere back there in the family tree.”
Erwin smiled at that. It changed him utterly. “You get lots of that, don’t you?”
“It’s been a while. Thanks for reminding me of my roots.”
“How are you faring with the media, Agent Sherlock?”
“Both of you, call me Sherlock and him Cal. It’ll take some time before they get tired of camping out in our neighbors’ front yards. But now I’m in New York, where no one expects me to be.”
Giusti pulled two tablets out from a leather briefcase and handed one to Sherlock. “There are classified files on there for you about our investigation thus far. I didn’t know you were bringing Mr. Hot Dude, so he’ll have to look over your shoulder. They’re updated regularly. You can fill yourselves in on some of what we’ve learned about Nasim Conklin on the way.”
“That’s Special Agent Mr. Hot Dude,” Cal said, and was sure he saw a corner of her mouth kick up.
Sherlock turned on the tablet, and she and Cal dug in as Erwin pulled out his opaque aviator glasses and got the behemoth running. Cal smiled as he watched him negotiate the insane traffic like a bomb squadron leader, ignoring the obscene gestures from taxi drivers screaming at him in languages he didn’t understand. It wasn’t long before they were on the Long Island Expressway.
After reviewing the info, Sherlock looked up at Giusti. “So there’s still no definite link between the bombing at Saint Pat’s and Conklin’s grenade attack at JFK?”
Giusti shook her head. “Other than the timing, no, though there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind. It’s a classic, pulling first responders and resources in one direction, then attacking in another.
“You’ll see we have a partial facial of the bomber at Saint Pat’s, but no ID. He was careful. Cell-phone videos are still being turned in and posted, but we don’t have more than that yet. We’ve found traces of C-4 in the crater the bomb left at Saint Pat’s, right in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and we’re trying to trace it. It wasn’t a low-tech, homemade bomb. This was well planned.”
“I’ll bet that’s made New York really pleasant now,” Cal said. “All that rerouted traffic.”