The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [291]
Troy Ward was suddenly standing over him, his hand extended. “Do you want a rice cake? I’m trying to lose some weight, gotta get back into shape, you know, because, who knows, the Ravens might make the playoffs and I’ll be all front and center with the players. I may be doing some locker room interviews with the guys.” But he wasn’t holding a rice cake out to Savich, it was a huge Krispy Kreme the size of an inner-tube swing. Savich backed away from the doughnut and Troy Ward, that officious little sod of an overweight sports announcer, blurred into the tall gaunt features of Gifford Fowler, the car dealer, who was talking right in his face. “You want to buy one of my Chevys? I’ve been selling Chevys right here for the last twenty-two years! I’m solid, they’re solid. Like a Rock! Hey? Just like the commercial. Whatcha think, Agent Savich?”
“Did you kill your wife, Mr. Fowler?”
“Nah, I sell cars, I don’t kill wives. You divorce wives, not kill them. I divorced two before Leslie got herself whacked. Cops are stupid, but the fact is it’s just not worth the risk. I just know that if I’d knocked off Leslie they’d get me and then I’d only have eighteen good years left before they toasted me in the gas chamber. Whatcha think, Agent Savich?”
“It’s a lethal injection now, Mr. Fowler. Sometimes it’s even longer than eighteen years. That’s only the average. Did you love your wife?”
“Nah, she wasn’t a Mercedes anymore, looked more like a real old Chevy Impala. She used to be hot pink, then got too many miles and turned a dirty gray, ready for the junk pile. Glad we didn’t have any kids with me and her as parents—they’d be stealing cars off my lot, the little bastards.”
“Do you and Troy Ward, that famous Ravens announcer, ever bowl together?”
“Oh yeah, I heard about his bowling—always leaves splits and someone, it was his wife I hear, always had to come in and clean them up.” He laughed and laughed, slapping his knees. “Boy, is he fat, or what? None of the players or any of the coaching staff like him. He’s gross, you know? Not like me. Want to see my abs?”
“That’s all right, Mr. Fowler, leave your shirt on, but those cuff links, now, they really don’t go with that shirt.”
“Old junk-heap Leslie gave them to me. I’m wearing them to honor her—one more time, I figure she was worth it. Then I’ll flush ’em down. Hey, Agent Savich, you sure you don’t want to test-drive a Silverado? Cops like Silverados because they got that fancy coolant loss protection. It would fit your image, all hard muscle, really hot for the girls. Hey, let me show you my hard muscles.” As he unzipped his dark gray wool slacks he softly sang “When You Wish Upon a Star.”
Voices, Savich heard voices, and this time they were close and he recognized them and could even make sense of them. It was Dr. Able.
“In deference to your wife, Agent Savich, I’m closing your skin real pretty so she’ll think your scar’s sexy.”
His brain wasn’t floating anymore, it was hovering, and things made sense now, more or less. He said, “Sherlock thinks everything about me is sexy,” and was pleased because it was true. “Another scar’ll just give her someplace new to kiss.” He’d lost all sense and his tongue had lost its brakes. He heard a laugh, from Katie. Then he saw Troy Ward again, stuffing that huge doughnut into his mouth, and there was Gifford Fowler, dangling Silverado keys in front of him, winking, and then he threw the keys, and they went higher and higher and even though Savich jumped a good three feet in the air, they kept flying away.