The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [184]
Savich looked out over the park. He leaned back, stretching out his arms on the bench back. Horns sounded in the background, the sun slivered through the thick canopy of oak leaves, a father was shouting at his kid. “The Boston police have asked for our help. Why didn’t you tell Lieutenant Budnack that you were FBI? Chances are good he would have cooperated.”
“I knew that if I did, you’d hear about it and aim your computer toward Boston and you’d find out everything. Of course you did that anyway. I should have shown my badge. Maybe I would have gotten something before Budnack tossed me out on my ear. I was stupid. I didn’t think it through. I thought if I pretended to be a member of the Ramsgate family, it would be my best shot at getting information.” A pigeon darted close to her feet, then away again. “They’re used to being fed,” she said, watching the pigeon begin to pace in front of her. “I hope the person who feeds them isn’t dead.”
“Old Sal usually sits here. She isn’t here this afternoon because she’s picking up her Social Security check. Her health is better than yours. She has names for all the pigeons. Now, what are you planning to do?”
She stood abruptly and looked down at him, hands on hips. “What do you want from me? I already told you I’d resign.”
“Then I suppose you’ll hightail it up to Boston and go on a one-woman hunt for the String Killer?”
“Yes. I have to. I’ve prepared myself. I’ve waited a very long time for him to strike again.”
“Very well. I don’t seem to have any choice.” He stood up abruptly. He was very big. Inadvertently, she took a step back.
He looked impatient. “You afraid I’ll throw you here in the park?”
No, she’d been afraid that he’d kill her. Just as that man had killed Belinda. She tried to shrug it off. “I guess I’m just a bit nervous. Sorry. What don’t you have a choice about? You have a choice about everything.”
“If you only knew,” he said, and plowed his fingers through his hair. “I had you call me every night from Boston because I was afraid you’d get yourself into trouble.”
“I’m a trained FBI agent. What trouble? Even if I couldn’t get to my gun, I sure know how to fall.”
He grinned down at her, raised his hand, then lowered it. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You know more about this guy than any other living person. Would you say that’s accurate?”
“Yes.” Her heart began to beat in a slow cadence. “I guess you know I printed out all the police and autopsy reports from the seven murders in San Francisco?”
He nodded, looking toward an old woman who was pulling a grocery cart loaded with bags filled with old clothes, cardboard, empty cola bottles. “It’s Old Sal. I’ll introduce you, then we need to get back.”
Old Sal just looked her over with very worldly, bloodshot eyes. She could have been any age from fifty to ninety.
“Get your check, Sal?”
“Yeah, Dillon, I got it. You feed my little birdies?”
“No, Sherlock here wanted to, but I wouldn’t let her.”
The old eyes turned to her. “You Sherlock?”
“Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”
“You be good to my boy here, you get me, young lady?”
“I’m not a young lady, ma’am, I’m an FBI agent.”
Savich laughed. “She’s right, Sal. I rather think I’ll be the one taking care of her.”
“You get your problems solved, dear, then you can play with my boy here. He’s a good lad.”
“I will, ma’am.”
“I don’t like this ma’am stuff.”
“It’s okay, Sal. She calls me sir, right to my face, as if I were her father or something even worse.”
“How old are you, Sherlock?”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“That’s a good age. Dillon is thirty-four. Just turned thirty-four three and a half weeks ago. We had a little party for him here. Me and my birdies. Is Sherlock your first or last name?”
“It’s my last