The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [174]
Ollie nearly leaped out of his chair in excitement. “When, Chief?”
“Eight A.M. United flight from Dulles.”
Suddenly Ollie blanched and raised his eyes heavenward. “I won’t get too up for this. No, I’m a fatalist. If I really want to go, then my future mother-in-law will tell Maria that I’m a workaholic and lousy husband material and Maria will dump me. It’s the way my life works.”
“Don’t worry, Ollie,” Savich said, closing his folder. “It’s no big deal. We’ll just go down there to see if there’s anything they haven’t seen. I think it’s time to look the situation over firsthand.”
“Do you already know who did it?” Sherlock asked, sitting forward, her hands clasped on the conference table.
Savich heard that utterly serious voice, looked at that too-intense face, at that thick curling auburn hair trying to break free of the gold clasp at the back of her neck. “Not this time—sorry. Now, Ollie, don’t panic. Nothing to it.”
Still, Ollie looked doubtful. Lacey had heard that he’d already wagered with at least a dozen other agents that his wedding wouldn’t come off because either a terrorist would blow up the church or the preacher would be arrested for stealing out of the collection plates.
“I sure want to catch this creep,” Ollie said.
“I do too,” Savich said. “Like you and Sherlock and every cop in Florida, I want to know how he keeps pulling off this ghost act.” He stood. “Okay. Everyone is cooking along just fine. No big problems or breakthroughs. Cogan, see me for a minute. I’ve got an idea about those murders in Las Vegas.”
At six o’clock, Lacey walked into the World Gym on Juniper Street, wearing shorts, a baggy top, and running shoes, her hair pulled back and up high in a ponytail. She paid her ten dollars and went into the huge mirror-lined room. There was the usual complement of bodybuilders who watched every move they made in the mirrors. She got a kick out of watching them walk. They were overbulked and couldn’t really get around normally. They moved like hulks.
There were beautiful young women who were six feet tall, professional women on the StairMasters, looking at their watches every few minutes, probably thinking about their kids and what they were going to cook for dinner and did they have enough time if they did just five more minutes.
And there were quite a few professional men, all ages, all working hard. She didn’t see a single slacker. Then she saw Savich. He was wearing shorts, running shoes, and a sleeveless white cotton tank. He was doing lat pulldowns.
He was slick with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his head. He looked good. Actually, he looked better than good; he looked beautiful. Then she saw him glance over at a clock, do two more slow pulldowns, then release the bar and slowly stand up. He turned, saw her immediately, and waved. Seeing him from the front made her realize that she hadn’t seen any male as a man in a very long time. She let herself appreciate the clean definition of his muscles, the smooth contours of sinew, then she set him away from her, back into his proper role.
He looked her over as he approached. “I’ve decided your delts are okay. What you need is karate. I didn’t like the fact that despite the SIG and your Lady Colt, I still disarmed you with no sweat. You need to know how to protect yourself, and guns are dangerous. What do you say?”
What could she say? She’d begun karate and then had to stop it because she’d broken her leg skiing. Two years before. She’d gotten pretty good. But two years was a long time to be away from an art like karate. He was offering her another chance. She nodded. What followed was a warm-up, then stretching, then the most grueling hour of her life. Savich realized quickly enough that she’d already had some training. He threw her, hurled her, smashed her, and encouraged her endlessly. After one particularly bouncing toss,