He smiled, stuck out his hand.
Giusti shook his hand. “I suppose I could get in trouble if I dumped you in the East River, McLain, so stick close to Sherlock. If anything happens to her, we’re both screwed forever and I will personally cut off your most beloved body parts—if you live.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Cal said.
Sherlock said, “Trust him, Agent Giusti, Cal’s not going to let anything happen to me.”
Giusti turned to the older man who stood at her elbow. “Agent Sherlock, Agent McLain, this is Special Agent Erwin. Pip was supposed to guard you, Sherlock.”
The two men eyed each other. Pip Erwin said, “You look tough enough. Are you fast on your feet?”
“Yes,” Cal said. “Maybe as fast as you once were.”
“Good to hear,” Erwin said, “because I ain’t wired to be a bodyguard.”
Cal liked the looks of Pip Erwin, black wing tips and all. He was pushing fifty, looked fit, a sharp dude in his regulation black Fed suit. He took in the world through intense dark eyes, darker than Giusti’s, harder even, like a man who’d seen most everything and couldn’t be surprised, his cynicism fairly dripping off him. Then again, Giusti was younger and she looked like nothing would surprise her, either.
Giusti waved them toward a big black SUV. “We’ve got to get going. We’re heading out straight away to Colby, Long Island. We’re keeping Nasim Conklin there in a safe house.”
Erwin eyed them in the rearview mirror as they climbed in. “Hey, interesting name, Agent Sherlock. Any relation to that Holmes fellow?”
“I believe he’s somewhere back there in the family tree.”
Erwin smiled at that. It changed him utterly. “You get lots of that, don’t you?”
“It’s been a while. Thanks for reminding me of my roots.”
“How are you faring with the media, Agent Sherlock?”
“Both of you, call me Sherlock and him Cal. It’ll take some time before they get tired of camping out in our neighbors’ front yards. But now I’m in New York, where no one expects me to be.”
Giusti pulled two tablets out from a leather briefcase and handed one to Sherlock. “There are classified files on there for you about our investigation thus far. I didn’t know you were bringing Mr. Hot Dude, so he’ll have to look over your shoulder. They’re updated regularly. You can fill yourselves in on some of what we’ve learned about Nasim Conklin on the way.”
“That’s Special Agent Mr. Hot Dude,” Cal said, and was sure he saw a corner of her mouth kick up.
Sherlock turned on the tablet, and she and Cal dug in as Erwin pulled out his opaque aviator glasses and got the behemoth running. Cal smiled as he watched him negotiate the insane traffic like a bomb squadron leader, ignoring the obscene gestures from taxi drivers screaming at him in languages he didn’t understand. It wasn’t long before they were on the Long Island Expressway.
After reviewing the info, Sherlock looked up at Giusti. “So there’s still no definite link between the bombing at Saint Pat’s and Conklin’s grenade attack at JFK?”
Giusti shook her head. “Other than the timing, no, though there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind. It’s a classic, pulling first responders and resources in one direction, then attacking in another.
“You’ll see we have a partial facial of the bomber at Saint Pat’s, but no ID. He was careful. Cell-phone videos are still being turned in and posted, but we don’t have more than that yet. We’ve found traces of C-4 in the crater the bomb left at Saint Pat’s, right in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and we’re trying to trace it. It wasn’t a low-tech, homemade bomb. This was well planned.”
“I’ll bet that’s made New York really pleasant now,” Cal said. “All that rerouted traffic.”
“Nothing short of a nightmare,” Erwin said, looking back at Cal. “And you wouldn’t believe the gawkers—tourists, for the most part. New Yorkers take one look, go home, and order Chinese takeout.”
Cal said, “This bomber Sherlock will be interviewing, Nasim Conklin. Your theory is he was coerced into lobbing the grenade at JFK? He was threatened with the murder of his family?”
Giusti nodded. “You’ll see from the profile there’s no other likely conclusion. We’ve found no suspicious electronic communications, not in his e-mail, Internet activity, or phone records, no evidence he might be capable of this. Every professional contact who knows him agrees this was way out of the blue. If he really is an operative, under deep cover for some purpose, blowing himself up would be a waste of a good resource.”