Sherlock said, “Be careful, Venus. Tell your driver, MacPherson, to be extra careful, all right? Have him escort you in and out of the building. And don’t worry, we’ll figure this all out.”
“Yes, of course you will. I feel better now that you know. MacPherson will love playing my protector. He’s been complaining he has too little to do. This should keep him occupied.”
7
* * *
Sherlock laid her hand over Savich’s as he was firing up the Porsche’s magnificent engine. “I’m so glad we came, Dillon. How do you want to handle looking into Rob? There’s got to be something new happening between him and Venus, some reason she still seems to be protecting him.”
“Which might be a mistake. First thing I’m going to do is find him, call him in for an interview.” He’d pulled away from the curb when Carrie Underwood sang out Two Black Cadillacs. It was Ollie with additional crime scene photos of the murders in Bar Harbor, Maine, he wanted Savich to look at right away. He pulled the Porsche over again as he went over them with Ollie. He’d just slipped his cell phone back into his pocket when three fast shots rang out from behind them. From the Rasmussen mansion.
He slammed the Porsche into reverse and skidded to a stop in front of the house. He and Sherlock were out in a flash and headed for the garage on the far side of the house, Glocks drawn. They heard a fourth shot.
They saw MacPherson in the Bentley first, saw him floor the car straight back toward a man who was standing next to the garage, a gun raised, aimed toward him. The man leaped out of the Bentley’s path and fired twice more at MacPherson. MacPherson, no fool, was scrunched down low in the driver’s seat. The man had shot out the back window of the Bentley and now the driver’s window shattered. Where was Venus? Had he hit her?
“FBI! Drop the gun, now!” The shooter jerked around to face them, fired two wild shots, then jumped through the ornamental gate that led to the gardens in the rear of the house, and out the service entrance to the alley.
“Sherlock, stop him from getting to the service road. I’ll follow him.” He stopped a moment next to the Bentley. “MacPherson, are you all right? Is Venus all right?”
“Yes, we’re both okay. Mrs. Rasmussen is down on the floor in the back.”
Venus popped up, shouted, “Dillon, go get him!”
“Stay with her. Call 911.” Savich jumped the garden gate and ran down the winding path bordered by cascading jasmine and trellised roses, past a beautiful Italian fountain and several stone benches. He stopped near the service gate and listened, heard the man still running, in the alley now. Had Sherlock made it around to the service road? He yelled, “Drop your weapon! FBI!”
The shooter didn’t drop his gun, he whirled around and fired twice, wildly, then ran, bending over. Savich raised his Glock and fired back at him. He heard the sound of garbage cans flying, and a curse. He crouched low as he went through the open gate, heard two bullets hit the garden wall behind him, two feet above his head.
Savich fired again toward the garbage cans. He heard a loud ping, then silence. He looked around the gate, but saw no one, not the shooter, not Sherlock. He couldn’t fire again, couldn’t take the chance of hitting her.
He stepped out into the service alley, heard Sherlock yell, “Stop right there, it’s over! You try to shoot again and I’ll blow off both your ears.”
He saw the shooter now, crouched behind the garbage cans, looking back toward Sherlock, and he moved forward, his Glock center mass on the shooter. “You heard her, drop your weapon!” His voice brought the shooter’s attention back toward him, but the shooter rolled and came up, running, his gun raised, and fired off two shots at Sherlock. Savich’s heart was beating madly as he ran toward them. He heard another gunshot and his heart stopped. When he came around the alley into the service road, he saw Sherlock standing over the shooter, rocking back and forth on his knees, moaning, holding his right wrist, Sherlock standing over him. His gun—it looked like a .45 Chief’s Special—lay on the ground beside him. Sherlock kicked the gun away, looked up and grinned at Savich. He slipped his Glock back into his waist holster as Sherlock planted a knee in the middle of the shooter’s back, pulled out her handcuffs, jerked back his left wrist and snapped a cuff on. She hesitated. She couldn’t very well handcuff his other hand, not with his wrist shot up. “All right, stay down—” The shooter grabbed her knees, threw her off, rolled and pulled a knife out of his jacket with his left hand. He was panting with pain, and fury, jabbing the knife at her as she jumped to her feet, her Glock aimed at him. He cursed, and took off down the service road.
“Not smart, you moron!” she yelled after him. “Don’t make me shoot you again.”
She started after him, but Savich ran past her. He was on the man fast. He stopped, reared back on his left leg, and kicked out at the shooter’s left arm. He heard the bone break above the elbow, watched the knife go flying. The shooter screamed and fell to his knees, both his arms at his sides, his right wrist gushing blood, the handcuff dangling off his left.
They looked down at the groaning man who was now in the fetal position. “A real tough guy,” Savich said. “You okay, Sherlock?”
“Yes, but this dude isn’t.”
Savich knelt down by the shooter, pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his bleeding right wrist. “I suggest you press hard to stop the bleeding.” The bleeding wasn’t that bad now, but thinking about it might focus his brain and keep him quiet. He ran his hands over the guy’s legs and belt, no more weapons.
The shooter looked up at him, eyes glazed with pain and shock. Then he looked over at Sherlock. Savich saw rage in his dark eyes, and he wanted to kick him again. “Now both your arms will be out of service for a while. I doubt you’ll lose either of them, although you deserve to for being so stupid.”
Sherlock said, “I’m giving Ollie a big kiss. If he hadn’t called with those crime scene photos, we wouldn’t have been here.” She went down on her knees. “We’ve got help coming. You want to tell us your name?”
The man whispered between groans of pain, “You bitch.”
“Well, that’s a unique name.”
He whispered bitch again, turned his head away, and said nothing more. She imagined the pain had to be over the top. Then he whispered, his voice blurred with shock. “I can’t believe you’re FBI, I mean, driving that fancy Porsche? I watched you talk, talk, talk to the old biddy, and then I heard you rev that engine and leave.”