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51
HOOVER BUILDING
FRIDAY, NOON
Savich slid his Darth Vader jump drive into MAX’s USB port to load his access codes off the decryption program MAX had outsourced from Quint Bodine’s encrypted files. With the program’s massive processing speed, it was possible MAX could, if necessary, break the encryption by brute force. How long would it take? He didn’t know. He watched the blur of scrolling figures, then satisfied, he rose. He looked out his office window at the agents in-house today, talking on their cell phones or typing on their computers, Ruth biting into a chocolate chip cookie from a batch Lucy had brought in. Since his door was open, he heard Ollie and Davis discussing a case they were working on. He saw Shirley, his invaluable secretary and organizational genius, sitting at her large desk as usual, facing the wide windows and glass door of the CAU unit. She fixed their problems, made any arrangements they needed, protected them like their mother confessor. He saw her looking at Sherlock, a frown on her face. Sherlock was staring fixedly at a tablet set up near her laptop on her desk. What was she looking at? In that moment, she looked up, saw him, and started. Slowly, ever so slowly, she nodded to him, not with a smile, but at least it was a sort of recognition. It was something.
He took a last look at the whirling letters and numbers on MAX’s screen, line after line of code, then rose and walked out into the unit. He spoke briefly to Shirley, checked up on the case he heard Ollie and Davis discussing. He took his time, no need to rush, until he reached Sherlock’s workstation. He looked down at her tablet and saw a video of Sean and Marty shooting baskets and making free throws, or trying, both children attempting to copy Steph Curry’s dribbling. They were yelling at each other, laughing. Kid play. Sherlock was staring fixedly at the screen. He saw a tear slide down her cheek.
It nearly broke him. He pulled a Kleenex out of the box on her desk and handed it to her. She didn’t make a sound, merely dabbed at her eyes. She continued to sit quietly, not looking at him, still staring at the softly playing video of two happy children in a perfect childhood bubble, as they should be, enjoying themselves immensely. He saw Sean make a basket and hoot and holler, and Marty tell him anybody could make that shot, even Astro, and that set them off arguing again. He remembered that afternoon nearly two months before because he’d taken the video. When they’d hit the grass, wrestling, Astro had danced around them, leaped on them, barking his head off. Savich shooed Astro away and let the kids pummel him for a while. He remembered Marty’s fingers touching his face, and her wet kiss, remembered Sean claiming Marty couldn’t make a basket if her spelling grade depended on it, and Marty screeching they didn’t even have spelling grades yet and he was lamer than her little brother, who couldn’t even walk yet.
Savich didn’t say anything, aware every agent was looking at them. They didn’t know how to treat Sherlock, what to do for her. She had no clue who they were when she joined them, but she always tried very hard to put them at ease. It was difficult for the entire unit, but everyone was dealing, everyone was trying to act naturally—good luck with that.
The video stopped with his holding each kid under an arm, walking back toward the house, Sherlock’s laughter behind him. She’d come out of the house, picked up the iPad, and taken over the recording.
Slowly, Sherlock closed the tablet. She looked up at him and tried to smile. “I know I should be writing up Jasmine Palumbo’s interview, but I happened to be looking—” Her voice trailed off.
He lightly touched her shoulder, not quite a pat. “We shot that video this summer. I remember it was on a Sunday, early July. After the kids drank a quart of lemonade and stuffed down a dozen cookies, we took them to the Roosevelt Memorial. You showed them Roosevelt’s sidekick, his dog Fala, and we walked along the Tidal Basin. There were lots of tourists, lots of kids. It was hot. We bought some peanuts. It was a great afternoon.” He paused, waited, but she said nothing. He said deliberately, “After we dropped Marty off at her house and put Sean down for a nap, we made love and had our own nap. You made Sean hot dogs for dinner with mustard and sweet relish, his favorite. You made me the sweetest summer corn-on-the-cob and a three-bean salad.”
She gulped. “It—it sounds wonderful.”
“It was.”
She raised her face to his. “I have this sudden craving for tacos.”
He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “Would you look at the time. Let’s go upstairs and get you a taco and me a veggie burrito.” Shirley gave them both a big smile as he escorted Sherlock out of the unit. When they were gone, Ollie Hamish, Savich’s second-in-command, turned to everyone. “She remembers Mexican food is her favorite, at least taco craving is a good start. She’s going to make it back.”
Lucy eyed the three remaining chocolate chip cookies, felt how tight her pants were, and moved the paper plate away. She said, “She asked me how I was feeling several times. She’s trying very hard.”
Ruth Noble said, “I wish I knew what to say to her. I babble about Dix and the boys and this and that case, and she tries to look involved, but I know she has no clue who or what I’m talking about.”
Her cell buzzed. “Agent Noble. Who? Dougie? What’s going on?” A moment, then, “I’ll be right there.”
She stood, looked at her watch. “I hate to interrupt them, but this is about Sherlock’s accident and the missing analyst. I need them now.”
