Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Sherlock

Agent Kelly Giusti and Agent Cal McLain’s apartment

New York City

Wednesday morning

Sherlock perked up when Greeny’s “Give Me a Wet One” blasted out of her cell. “It’s Dillon,” she murmured to Kelly and Cal. She took a quick bite of Cal’s awesome strawberry crepe and excused herself from the breakfast table. She walked into the hallway with its bright prints of the Italian Riviera against a soft yellow wall. “It’s great to hear your voice. Tell me everything is peaceful, Sean ate his French toast, and Graciella took him to school?”

Savich laughed. “Yes, to all of the above, only I wasn’t paying attention and accidentally poured Cheerios and milk in Astro’s bowl. He couldn’t scarf it up fast enough. He’s sleeping off his Cheerios high, snoring like a freight train. How are Cal and Kelly?”

“Both of them are fine. Kelly says even though Cal is a pain in the butt, he’s a good boss. She doesn’t let him forget he wouldn’t have gotten the promotion if he hadn’t been assigned to be my bodyguard during those insane days before we brought down that terrorist on the steps of the Lincoln Monument. You caught us at the end of breakfast, only a few more bites of a strawberry crepe left. I wonder if Cal could teach you how to make those crepes. A little flavor of France to go with your amazing Italian? Oh yes, they’re planning on a June wedding.”

“I would never horn in on another man’s territory. Would you believe Cal called me and I told him how to make crepes. Sounds like he did them right.” After she snorted out a laugh, Savich continued. “Congratulations to them and to you for figuring out what happened. Have you had any luck finding the gun range Storin’s been using?”

“No, and I don’t know why. Kelly and I called most of the gun ranges within a three-hour drive of Brickson yesterday, texted them Storin’s photo, in case she used a fake name, asked the owners to show it around, but no luck. Today, we’ll be trying southern Connecticut.

“I’ll tell you, Dillon, after watching Kelly’s two interviews with Storin, I agree with her. Storin’s a card-carrying psychopath. She’s smart, very articulate, but like Kelly said, there’s something very off about her.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m tired of hearing myself talk about her. What’s happening at your end? How are you managing the CIA? And the operative?”

There was only a slight pause, but she knew something was going on but he didn’t want to tell her about it, didn’t want to split her focus; maybe it was dangerous and he didn’t want to worry her. “Come on, Dillon, spill it. I can multitask. What’s going on? Is it that bad?”

He laughed. “Never miss a thing, do you? All right, two men tried to kill the CIA operative, Olivia Hildebrandt, at her home Monday night, that or kidnap her. Her golden retriever, Helmut, woke her up. She killed one of the two men, the other escaped. There’s more, of course, but this really is top secret, and our cells aren’t secure. Since the man she killed is a foreign national, the FBI is in charge. We’re talking international intrigue here. And no, I shouldn’t tell you any more.”

Sherlock wanted to know every single detail, but she knew he’d shut off the spigot for now. She said, “I wish I could be there with you. You be careful, you hear me?”

“Don’t worry.” Because he wanted to distract her, he said, “When do you have your interview at the Guardian?”

“I spoke on the phone to the reporter, told her I’d stop by when I have time. Tell Mr. Maitland not to worry. She’s gung ho, so it will be a positive piece, as advertised.

“Dillon, I gave MAX a kiss before I left, told him I was counting on him finding out where Storin is always traveling to in Washington. Has he found anything at all? Maybe some kind of property?”

She could practically see his smile over the phone at the image of Sherlock kissing his laptop.

“Come on, spill it. What, Dillon?”

“MAX has come through like gangbusters. You’re going to like this.”