“The rest we pretty much knew already. Bruce had been with him for four years, first as his executive assistant, and when Mr. Lansford decided to go into politics, Bruce flashed his political science degree, gave him a couple of recommendations, went right along with him. He said Bruce wasn’t all that hot as a personal assistant, but he was an excellent aide, which is why he fired him when his political future tanked. Then he remembered it was Bruce who suggested he get Kirsten a black Porsche for her birthday, and that made him even madder. I was feeling a bit sorry for him. This was a big blow, after all. Then he lit into the FBI again. He’d been royally used and betrayed by Director Mueller leaking everything to the press.”

“Did you hang up on him?”

“Tempted, but no. I’m convinced he had no clue about Bruce’s relationship with Kirsten. Maybe he can still help us.” Savich looked over at Lucy. She looked distracted, thinking about something else entirely, as she had at times last night. Of course, her grandfather, the ring. She’d been through a lot, and he knew she would work it out in her own way. The question was, could they count on her being all there tonight?

“Are you sure you’re up for this trip to Baltimore with us tonight?”

“Of course I am. I’m revved about it.”

“Lucy, I believe you told Coop he didn’t want to be around you. What did you mean?”

Savich imagined Lucy would take a strip off Coop when she was alone with him again. She looked past his left shoulder at Coop, fidgeted, finally said, “I, well, I told him I had stuff to do, Dillon, and I didn’t need him hovering over me.” Her chin went up, and she pushed a hank of hair back into her French braid. “I don’t need or want anyone hovering over me, not Coop, not anybody.”

She knew she looked miserable, knew she felt even more miserable. She was a liar—Coop knew it, Dillon knew it, probably the whole unit knew it. Would she never be able to tell anyone about the ring?

She said, “I’m fine. I can’t wait to nail Kirsten and Bruce Comafield.”

“Lucy, would you consider letting Dr. Hicks hypnotize you again? Maybe there’s more you can find out about your grandfather that might help put this to rest.”

She gave him a look. “Nice thought, Dillon, but I don’t think so.”

“Not really,” Savich said. “Pretty lame, actually,” and he stood, said over his shoulder, “We’ll all meet in front of the Texas Range at six o’clock this evening, and get ourselves in place. We’ll have plenty of backup, not to worry.”

“You going to call the Baltimore Field Office in?”

“Not this time. We don’t want to alert them by having too many agents hanging around, looking like they’re pretending to be bored.”

CHAPTER 39

Raven Street, Baltimore

The Texas Range Bar & Grill

Wednesday night

Over the wire, Sherlock wore a soft blue tunic with tight black jeans and black heels. She’d pulled her hair behind her ears, fastened with two gold clips. From her ears dangled gold hoops. There was no wedding ring on her finger.

She thought the wire was a waste of time. What were the odds Kirsten would get past Dillon and even make it inside? And even if she did, the other agents in the bar had eyes on her. As usual, Dillon had insisted, wanting to cover all the bases, anticipating every possible screwup.

She sipped the heavy dark Texas home brew, the specialty of the house called Texas Espresso, and tried to look depressed for the benefit of the four other agents she knew were watching her performance. She hadn’t wanted to miss Lucy and Coop taking Kirsten Bolger and Bruce Comafield down outside the bar, but someone had to be in here, growing mold along with the home brew, just in case.

She hoped Ruth, Dane, Jack, and Ollie, scattered around the bar, were at least enjoying their drinks.

Stop your whining and look depressed. She’d nodded only once to Mrs. Spicer, saw she was lit up bright as a Christmas Santa. She was relieved Kirsten wouldn’t ever get into the bar with Mrs. Spicer; she’d take one gander and know something was up. Sherlock studied the bartender, a thin-as-a-stick young woman with a chipped front tooth, who talked nonstop while she delivered drink orders to three waitresses and never got them wrong or spilled a drop.

She didn’t appear to know who Sherlock really was, and that was a good thing, what with Mrs. Spicer looking fit to burst into song.

Mr. Gator Spicer hadn’t shown himself yet, and that was also a good thing, since they didn’t need a duet. They’d cautioned Mrs. Spicer to simply go about her business and not to pay any attention to Sherlock or the other FBI agents, assured her they would stop Kirsten before she ever got into the bar. She was trying, but they all knew she wouldn’t manage to be discreet.