The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [204]
Ralph Budnack reached back and lightly shook her shoulder. She fell more onto Savich.
“Yeah, she’s out like a light. Keep an eye on her, Savich. She scared the hell out of every cop in that warehouse, but she sure got the job done. Funny thing how her shooting him saved his life. If you hadn’t called a quick halt, the cops would have turned him into a pincushion. Hey, we’ll call tomorrow. Oh yeah, we got a lot on film.”
Savich carried her into the hotel, over one wimpy protest. At least it was late and only one old guy thought Savich was a pervert, from the way he was licking his chops. Because Savich was worried about leaving her alone, he took her to his room, pulled off her shoes, and tucked her into his bed. He turned the light on low over by the desk by the windows. He called Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland, to tell him they’d caught the String Killer. He wasn’t about to tell his boss just yet that Agent Sherlock had nearly gotten herself killed because she’d lost all sense and turned into a cowboy, something the Bureau ferociously discouraged.
Lacey slept through the night. She came abruptly awake early the next morning. Her eyes flew open, she realized her arm felt on fire, and yelped.
“Good morning. You’re alive, I see.”
She frowned up at him, trying to piece things together. “Oh, I’m in your room.”
“No one should croak alone,” he said. “You look like hell. However, I got your clothes from your room. If you feel up to it, go bathe and change. When you come out, breakfast should be here. Lots of protein, lots of iron, lots of orange juice.”
“What’s the orange juice for?”
“To keep you from coming down with a cold.”
He watched her swing her legs over the side of the bed. That hair of hers had come loose from the clasp and was rioting around her face—red hair that wasn’t really a carrot red or an orange red or even the auburn he’d thought, but a mixture of this color and that. She had lots of hair. Actually very beautiful hair. She looked totally different. He backed up a step. “I even put out some female stuff on the counter for you. If you need to shave your legs, forget it. I’ve only got one razor.”
He was distracting her from the pain in her arm.
“Oh yeah, Sherlock, before you go haring off to catch another killer, hold on just a second.” He disappeared into the bathroom, then came out a few moments later. “Here, take two pills. Doctor’s orders.”
She knew the little blue one would take the wretched cutting pain away. Then maybe she could attack that breakfast Savich was talking about.
“You’re eyeing those pills the way the cannibal would the sailor in the cooking pot.” He handed her the pills and a glass of water. She was fast getting them down.
“Why don’t you just sit there until the meds kick in. I’ll call room service.”
Forty-five minutes later, wrapped in a robe, bathed as well as she could with just one hand, Lacey was seated opposite Savich, a fork piled with scrambled eggs very nearly to her mouth. She sighed as she swallowed.
He let her eat for three minutes, then said, “I didn’t tell Assistant Director Maitland that you’re an idiot, that in your first situation you didn’t follow orders, you taunted the suspect until he threw the knife at you, that you nearly got yourself whacked because of this damned obsession you have.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Cut the ‘sir’ stuff. He’ll find out soon enough. I still might kick your butt out of the Bureau. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen, Sherlock.” He’d said it all the previous night, but she might have been too dazed to get it all. He needed to pound it in.
“I wanted to push him to the edge. I wanted him to tell me everything—the why of everything. I don’t know if I believe that maze story he told me about his father.”
“It’s a fact easily checked. I’ll bet you Ralph has already got in calls to Yuma, Arizona. Tell me, Sherlock, is the obsession