“I didn’t like his mouth,” Savich said, shrugging, and flexed his hands. “He came at me, and I ended up shutting it.” Nick saw him rub his knuckles, a very slight smile on his face. “Nothing out of his mouth but foul language.”
“Now he can repent at his leisure,” Sherlock said comfortably, and patted her husband’s arm. She knew Dane wouldn’t tell a soul that his boss had decked a big Hollywood jerk with shiny abs. She must remember to buy some iodine; she had some Band-Aids in her purse. She always carried them for Sean. Dillon must really have been mad to hit him with his fists.
After Sherlock finished doctoring him, Savich, with a grin at his hands that now sported two Flintstones Band-Aids, pulled the Taurus out of the narrow driveway that sat atop stilts a good thirty feet from the canyon floor, and said, “Kleypas is one miserable lad, but he’s more pathetic than dangerous. He’s too busy drinking to be doing much of anything else.”
“The word over at the studio,” Dane said, “is that Kleypas is having trouble getting work because of that drinking problem. The Consultant was more or less his last chance. He’s really bummed that it’s been pulled. He’d be the last one to submarine the show.”
The following morning, Nick was blow-drying her hair—another item Dane had bought for her—half an eye on the local TV news. She dropped the hair dryer and yelled, “Oh, no!”
It bounced against the wooden dresser, then clattered to the floor.
Dane was through the door in a flash, zipping up his pants.
“What is it—” He came to a fast stop. She was standing there, clutching her middle, staring at the TV. She didn’t say a word, just pointed.
There she was, in living color, walking beside him down Pico Boulevard toward their parked car. There was a close-up of her face and the newscaster said in a chirpy voice, a voice so carefree and pleased he could have been talking about how he’d gotten laid the previous night, “This is Ms. Nick Jones, the San Francisco police department’s key witness in the Prime-Time Killer murders. Sources tell us that Ms. Jones was living in a homeless shelter in San Francisco and just happened to see the killer at Saint Bartholomew’s Church.”
“Well, damn,” Dane said. “I’m not surprised that they’ve got something, but all this? They’ve got everything, including your name and a shot of you.” He saw that Nick was as white as the bathroom tile.
He walked over to her and pulled her against him. “It will be all right,” he said against her still-damp hair. “You’ve got the fastest guns in Hollywood on your side. We’ll keep clear of the reporters. It’ll be okay.”
She laughed, a desperate laugh that felt like a punch to his gut. She raised her head to look at him and splayed her palms on his bare chest. “I’ve got to get out of here, Dane. There’s no choice for me now.”
“No. I said I’ll protect you and I will. You want more Feds around? Fine, I’ll speak to Savich. He’ll arrange it.”
“It was luck that saved me at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral, not you.”
“You’re right about that, Nick.” Dane hated to admit it. “I’ll get more folks to guard you,” he said again.
She just shook her head. Then, to his astonishment, she leaned her head forward and lightly bit his shoulder. Then she pulled away from him. “I hope I didn’t break that very nice hair dryer you bought for me.”
“You’re not going to run, Nick.”
She gave him a long look, then nodded as she said, “Very well,” and of course he knew she was lying. She didn’t do it very well.
He said nothing, just rubbed where she’d bitten him and left her room to finish dressing. He realized he’d never been bitten before. Did it qualify as a hickey?
Forty-five minutes later, they were in the Los Angeles field office, in the conference room with the SAC, Special Agent in Charge Gil Rainy. Sherlock said, “Sure the press found out about the murders being based on the first two episodes, but how did they find out about Nick? Not just her name, but that she was homeless.”
“Maybe the murderer himself,” Dane said. “He wants to flush her out, put her in the limelight.”
Delion said, “Already the media idiots—oops, I’m being redundant—have labeled the murderer the Prime-Time Killer. I swear, even if it cost lives, the media would spit it all out, no hesitation at all.”
Rainy said, “I bet they sat around and brainstormed to come up with the cute handle. But, bottom line, the leak isn’t any big deal. The murderer already knows about her so who cares if everyone else does, too? Still, it’s like the media wants to offer her up as the sacrificial goat.”