Blindside

lower body was still close to his groin. He heard a whistle and looked onto the main floor of the gym. There was Jake, giving him a little wave. So Jake had called Sherlock. He nodded back and said to his wife, “Hi, sweetheart, I didn’t hear you come in.”
    “No, I can see that it would have been tough given Ms. Barracuda here all over you.”
    “Actually, this is Valerie Rapper.”
    Sherlock gave a cheerful smile to the woman who was standing frozen, still too close to Dillon. “Hi, Ms. Rapper. If you don’t get your hands, your mouth, and all the rest of yourself off my husband, and step off his treadmill, I will deck you. Then I will put my foot on your neck and I will rub your nose into a sweaty mat. Is that enough of a threat?”
    Valerie took a step back, couldn’t help herself, not knowing what to say to that miserable little red-headed monster. She wanted Savich, wanted him, not anyone else. He’d been playing the faithful game—oh yes, a man could be as coy and tease as well as any woman—but it would have ended quite soon. She said to him, “Would you just look at her. I’ll bet she dyes all that wild red hair. There aren’t any freckles on her face, and that means a dye job. It’s not even well done. I can see roots.”
    Savich said, “I can assure you that all that wild red hairis quite natural. I’m her husband, I’ve got the inside track on this.”
    “Dillon,” Sherlock said, “that’s a tad indelicate. Ms. Rapper, not all redheads have freckles. Now, please remove yourself or I will take action in the next couple of seconds.”
    Valerie waved this away. “You know if she weren’t here, you’d be pulling me out of this wretched gym in no time at all.”
    “Do you really think so?” Savich inquired, and a black eyebrow shot up a good inch.
    “Of course I do! This is ridiculous. Don’t you know who I am?”
    Sherlock said, head cocked to the side, “A pushy broad with an embarrassing last name?”
    “You little bitch, back off! My father is the CEO and major stockholder of Rapper Industries. I am his daughter.”
    “Fancy that,” Savich said, looking impressed, his mouth smiling, but his eyes hard. “Actually, when you said he was your father, I figured you just might be his daughter.”
    “I could buy your dumb-ass FBI with my trust fund!”
    Now this was interesting, Savich thought. “How ignorant of me. I hadn’t realized who you were. Just imagine, the daughter of the famed Mr. Rapper. Now that I realize you’re very rich as well as very beautiful, it makes all the difference. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”
    Sherlock, her smile still in place, nodded. “It sure does. It makes me realize it’s time to bring out my big guns.” She pushed Dillon out of the way and stepped up right into Valerie Rapper’s face, making three of them on the treadmill. “I don’t suppose you know who we are, do you?”
    Valerie Rapper blinked. “Of course, you’re a couple of unimportant little cops. So what?”
    “If he’s so little, then why do you want him?”
    “I was referring to you. I saw him on TV. I saw those women reporters looking at him. Go away now.”

    Sherlock didn’t touch her, even though she badly wanted to. She said, not an inch from Valerie Rapper’s face, “Oh no, he’s mine. Now, Ms. Rapper, you won’t believe my big gun—it’s a cannon really. My father is the famous federal judge Sherlock. If I tell him you’ve been annoying me, why, he could have your father and his entire conglomerate investigated. What do you think of that, missy?”
    Before Savich could throw in his own big gun and tell her he was Sarah Elliott’s grandson and he controlled millions of dollars in paintings, Valerie Rapper stepped off the treadmill, grabbed her bottle of water, waved it at them. “Both of you are crazy, totally crazy. Judge Sherlock! What a ridiculous name!”
    “You should know,” Sherlock said.
    “Don’t you dare have my father investigated, do you hear me?”
    “Well, I’ll think about it if you leave my husband alone.”
    “I’ll bet you dye everything so he won’t guess that your hair isn’t natural!”
    “Gee, I didn’t know that was possible. Thanks for the tip.”
    “What’s going on here, Agent Savich?”
    It was Bobby Curling, the gym manager. He looked both amused and alarmed. “We got a problem here? These two fighting over you? Since when did you become such a sex object?”
    Savich grinned at his wife. “Actually, the