He laughed, then immediately sobered. Guilt because he'd spoken about Claire, then laughed? Suddenly, he laughed again. "I would too. Thanks, Sherlock."
She just smiled at him. "My head doesn't hurt anymore. One of those magic pills?"
"Yeah. Now, would you like to watch the news while I clean up the kitchen?"
"No dessert?"
"You didn't clean your plate and you're demanding dessert?"
"Dessert's for a completely different stomach compartment, and my dessert compartment is empty. I know I smelled cheesecake."
She ate his New York cheesecake while he cleaned up the dishes. She watched the national news. More trouble in China. More trouble in the Middle East. More wiping out of Kurds, only which Kurds? They were as divided a group as were all the countries surrounding them. Then, suddenly, there was Big
John Bullock, Marlin Jones's lawyer, full of bluff and good nature for the reporters, flinging out answers as they pursued him from the Boston courthouse to his huge black limousine.
"Will Marlin Jones go to trial?"
"No comment."
"Is Marlin crazy?"
"You know the ruling." He rolled his eyes and shrugged his massive shoulders.
"Will you plead him not guilty?"
"No comment."
"Is it true you told everyone that he had a bad childhood, a mother who beat him up, and an uncle who sexually abused him?"
"Public records are public records." "But there's a confession."
"It won't be admissible. The cops and the FBI made him confess."
"But what about that FBI agent? Your client knocked her cold and took her to that warehouse to kill her. They've got everything on tape and on film."
Big John gave an explosive wave of his arms. "Pure and simple entrapment. There wasn't a thought of killing her in his mind."
"I heard that he even knifed the agent."
Big John just shook his head. "No more. Just remember, it was entrapment. It was all a setup. It won't be admissible, you'll see."
And one woman newscaster said, "Oh, so you're saying if he'd killed the FBI agent then it wouldn't have been entrapment?"
Lots of laughter. And a lot of faces looking hard at Big John Bullock.
"No more questions, folks. Talk to you later."
A commercial came on for Bud Light.
She felt Savich behind her. She said quietly, "I'm going back to Boston. I've got to see Marlin Jones again."
"They won't let you see him, Sherlock."
"I've got to try." She turned slowly and looked up at him. "You see that, don't you? I've got to try. I can't just sit around waiting for some maniac to come after me again. If you tell them to let me in, they will."
"He's not the maniac who's after you now. Besides, you go talk to him again, and it could all come out that Belinda was your sister."
"No, I wouldn't tell him any of that. I wouldn't tell anyone about that."
"It's still a risk. Trust me on this: You can't begin to imagine what the media would do if they found out you were the sister of one of the murdered women and finding Marlin has been your obsession for seven years. You think the way I just said it sounds hard. Just wait until the media got hold of it. Big John would certainly squawk about entrapment then.
"I think a more worthwhile trip would be to San Francisco. Why don't I call the San Francisco office and have a couple of agents go talk to Douglas, your father, and your mother?"
She just shook her head.
"As for Marlin, maybe, after you've rested a couple of days. Look, it's Sunday. I want you to take it easy until Tuesday. You promise?"
She stroked the gold chenille afghan. "I guess I could use a good night's sleep."
"Two days, Sherlock. I want your promise that you'll lie low for two days. Then we'll talk about it."
She was silent, and he felt a good dollop of anger.
"You're an FBI agent, Sherlock. That means you do what I tell you to do. You carry out assignments that I instruct you to carry out. You don't go surfing any wave that catches your fancy. You got that?"
"You're nearly yelling. How could I not get it?"
He stepped forward, then stopped. "I've got a nice guest room upstairs. I also packed you a suitcase. It's still in the trunk of the car. I'll take you up, then bring it in."
She didn't think about her underwear until she was standing in the Victorian bathroom with its highly polished walnut floor, its claw-feet tub, pedestal washbowl, and plush pale yellow Egyptian towels with small flowers on them. She'd stripped down to her bra and panties, turned and seen herself in the mirror and stared. He'd picked out the softest peach silk set she owned. What had he thought when he picked them out