Illustrated magazine on his lap. He said hello to Griffin and Savich, then stood a moment and stared at Carson. “You clean up well, Dr. DeSilva.”
“Thank you, Agent Slick. You, too, although I miss the awesome impact of the riot gear.”
Slick smiled, then turned to Sherlock. The FBI grapevine was the fastest in the land, and he’d found out quickly enough she had amnesia from the accident Tuesday. Imagine waking up next to someone you didn’t know and not recognizing your own kid. It had to be hard on both of them. He studied her face a moment, took her hand. “I’m Agent David Foxx, Richmond Field Office. You can call me Slick. I’m very glad to see you up and moving, Sherlock.” He gave her a grin. “I gotta say, you don’t look too pitiful after your accident, but I guess the big guy here has been waiting on you hand and foot. How do you feel?”
Sherlock stared up at the man with his charming smile and cop eyes, and said, “I’m better, thank you.” Nothing else.
Slick nodded. “Most of us have heard about the guy who struck your windshield while you were whirling around like the teacup ride at Disney. Is he all right?”
Savich said, “He hasn’t been found yet, Slick. People have turned in cell phone videos from after the accident, but none are clear enough to run facial recognition. They’re running his blood, hoping he’s in the DNA database. We all hope he’s not too badly injured.”
Sherlock swallowed. Twice now she’d seen the huge smear of the man’s blood on her windshield, heard the heavy thump of his body when he struck the hood. But this time the image didn’t simply disappear behind the white door as it had those times. It faded slowly, and she realized it was more like a memory, not a flashback. Didn’t that mean her memory was mending itself? But why hadn’t she seen his face? She smiled up at the stranger who evidently knew her. “Will you tell me sometime how you got the nickname Slick?”
“Ah, there’s a story. I might need permission from Savich to tell you. And maybe my wife. And maybe my kids. The dog’ll be okay with it.”
“I wish we had the time,” Savich said, “but things are happening fast. Fill us in on what’s happened here.”
Slick pulled out a small notebook. “Last night at eight o’clock, Sheriff Booker Bodine, his brother and Rafer Bodine’s father, Quint Bodine, and a lawyer by the name of Harmon Jobs came to see Rafer. The lawyer closed the door, said he and his client were entitled to privacy. They stayed for thirty minutes. I heard the sheriff tell Rafer as they were leaving that he’d be going home soon. He looked pretty pleased with himself. Rafer’s dad, Quint Bodine, looked pissed, didn’t say anything to me. As for the lawyer, his card said he’s from Richmond, from the firm of Pringe, Weldon and Hayes. I looked them up, they’re big into criminal defense.
“As for Rafer Bodine, he was bitching nonstop—his head hurt, his wrist was killing him. He was claiming to anyone who’d listen that you, Griffin, kicked him in the ribs, in the leg, in the kidney, just about everywhere. He wanted to press charges for police brutality. However, after his visit with the sheriff, his dad, and the lawyer, he’s been quiet, not a word out of him.” Slick paused, looked over at Carson again and did another double take. He was married, blessed with three girls, all hellions, but as his brother always said when his wife wasn’t in the vicinity, he wasn’t dead yet, and DeSilva was a knockout. He said, “Dr. DeSilva, before the lawyer closed the door, I heard Rafer telling his uncle he wanted you arrested for hitting him so hard on the head with that pipe you nearly killed him. He claimed both you and Griffin were laughing as you slammed your boots into him.”
A thick lock of blond hair curled around Carson’s cheek and she tucked it behind her ear. “It’s a bummer, but I was wearing sneakers.”
Sherlock spurted out a laugh. “I can’t wait to meet this putz.”
32
* * *
Rafer Bodine was sitting up in bed, his wrist in a cast, looking fit, truth be told. He sneered at Hammersmith, the one his uncle Booker called the pretty boy, and wished he could have another go at him. Who cared if he was FBI? Were these some of the