Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [49]
Savich smiled at the man he’d never heard of before receiving the e-mail at four A.M. that morning. He extended his hand. “Mr. Matlock?”
“Yes. Thomas Matlock.”
“This is my wife and my partner, Lacey Sherlock Savich, but everyone calls her Sherlock. She’s also FBI and one of the best.”
Thomas found himself shaking the hand of a very pretty young woman, tall, slim with thick, curling red hair, the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, and he knew in his gut, knew without even hearing her speak or act or argue, she was tough, probably as tough as her hard-faced husband, a man about Adam’s age, who looked stronger than a bull. Meaner, too. He didn’t look like a computer nerd. Whatever that was supposed to mean nowadays.
“So,” Thomas said, “you’re Buck’s son.”
“Yes,” Savich said and grinned. “I know what you’re thinking. My dad was all blond and fair, a regular aristocrat with a thin straight nose and high cheekbones. I look like my mom. You can bet my dad wasn’t happy about that. I never had my dad’s smart mouth, either.”
“Your dad could charm the widow’s peak off a fascist general and outwit a Mafia don. He was an excellent man and friend,” Thomas said, eyeing the man. “I wasn’t expecting you to bring anyone else.” He found himself clearing his throat when Savich didn’t immediately respond. “This is all rather confidential, Mr. Savich. Actually, it’s all extremely confidential, there’s a life at stake and—”
Savich said easily, “Where I go Sherlock goes, sir. We’re a package deal. Shall we continue or would you like to call this off?”
The young woman didn’t say a word. She didn’t even change expressions. She just cocked her head to one side and waited, very quietly, silent. A professional to her toes, Thomas thought, like her husband.
Thomas said then, “Is your name really Sherlock?”
She laughed. “Yes. My father’s a federal judge in San Francisco. Can you imagine what the crooks are feeling when they’re hauled in front of him—Judge Sherlock?”
“Please sit down, both of you. I’m grateful that you came, Mr. Savich.”
“Savich will do fine.”
“All right. I understand you head up the CAU—the Criminal Apprehension Unit—at the FBI. I know you use computers and protocols you yourself designed and programmed. And with some success. Naturally, I really don’t fully understand what it is that happens.”
Savich ordered iced tea from the hovering waiter, waited for the others to order as well, then leaned forward. “Like the Behavioral Sciences Unit, we also deal with local agencies who think an outside eye might see something they missed on a local crime. Normally murder cases. Also like the BSU, we only go in when we’re asked.
“Unlike the Behavioral Sciences, we’re entirely computer-based. We use special programs to help us look at crimes from many different angles. The programs correlate all the data from two or more crimes that seem to have been committed by the same person. We call the main program PAP, the Predictive Analogue Program. Of course, what an agent feeds into the program will determine what comes out. Nothing new in that at all.”
Sherlock said, “All of it is Dillon’s brainchild. He worked on all the protocols. It’s amazing how the computer can turn up patterns, weird correlations, ways of looking at things that we wouldn’t have considered. Of course, like Dillon said, we have to put the data in there in order to get the patterns, the correlations, the anomalies that can point a finger in the right direction.
“Then we look at the possible outcomes and alternatives the computer gives us, act on many of them. You said Buck Savich was an excellent friend. How did you know my father, sir?”
“Thank you for the explanation. It’s fascinating, and about time, I say. Technology should catch crooks, not let the crooks diddle society with the technology. Yes, Buck Savich was an incredible man. I knew him professionally. Tough, smart, fearless. The practical jokes he used to pull had the higher-ups in the Bureau screaming