Blindside

“What are your plans?”

    Troy answered, but without the microphone in front of him, the reporters had to strain to hear him. “I’m planning to announce the game this Sunday. My wife would have wanted life to go on.”
    Gifford Fowler took his turn at the podium. He said simply, “My wife was the love of my life. I miss her every moment,” and he also thanked the public. He didn’t step back, though, and looked like he wanted questions.
    “Mr. Fowler, we’ve been told you’re going to speak at the Rotary Club this Wednesday.”
    Gifford Fowler said, “They said they wanted to show their support, to share their time with me for an evening. I am very grateful to them for inviting me.”
    Savich cut it off, stepping back to the podium. He wasn’t about to have Mr. Maddox in front of this group. His loss was too new, his control too tenuous. Besides, the world had seen them up close and personal. It was enough.
    “Have your computers been of any help yet, Agent Savich?”
    “Is MAX going to stand up there and announce the killer?”
    There was laughter.
    Savich smiled. “MAX is a tremendous tool. But here’s the truth: Crimes are solved by good old-fashioned police work. And that’s what we’re doing, as fast and as hard as we can. Thank you for coming.”
    When it was all over, Savich gave Sherlock a small salute, then turned to speak to the three widowers. “I thank you for coming. I think it makes a difference. Of course there’ll be more questions. I will be in touch with each of you. As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know.”
    He shook hands with all of the men, then watched them closely as they trailed out, following an agent through the rear door.
    Sherlock took his hand and said in a whisper, “That was quite a performance. Do you think it was worth it?”

    He turned, cupped her face in his hands, and said, “I think so. We’ll see.”
    Later that night, back home in Georgetown, Sean was asleep on his father’s shoulder after helping his parents eat a late dinner of his father’s pesto pasta. Sherlock said while she heated some hot water for tea, “Miles called. Dr. Raines is still seeing Sam. Miles thinks it’s best to keep him with her for a while longer. Also, he can’t imagine separating Sam and Keely just yet.”
    “I can’t imagine it either,” Savich said. “Sam is probably as safe there as at home, and Katie has a couple of deputies around him whenever she or Miles can’t be with them. I’ll bet he’ll get Katie to take him to see the McCamys.”
    Sherlock nodded. “You’re probably right. And right now, I can’t imagine Sam being away from Keely either.”
    “Yeah,” Savich said slowly, as he watched her pour his tea into his favorite Redskins mug, “and I was wondering how Miles would do away from the sheriff.”
    Sherlock shrugged. “Two very strong people slapped together in a mess like this . . .”
    “Yeah, but let’s keep out of it, Sherlock. Neither of us has a clue as to what will happen between them, if anything.”
    “The children are very important to both of them,” she said. The phone rang and she turned to answer it. It was Agent Dane Carver, to catch Savich up on his case in Miami.
    On Wednesday morning Savich was so stiff and sore, he knew he had to do something. Walking on the treadmill sounded like just what he needed. He’d forgotten all about Valerie Rapper. But evidently she hadn’t forgotten him. She was there at the gym, waiting for him. Did the woman have spies? Her timing was incredible.

    He raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning,” he said.
    “I sometimes like to work out in the mornings. I saw you on TV last night, Agent Savich,” she said, looking over at him as she pressed in ten minutes on the treadmill next to him. “Those poor husbands, I guess you really wanted to remind the public how horrific all this is, and that’s why you showed them off.”
    Savich grunted again. His back was sore, but the walking was helping to loosen it up a bit. Sherlock had bandaged him up really well, knowing he wouldn’t do anything too stupid, but since she’d been muttering under her breath at the time, he wasn’t sure.
    “What’s wrong? You’re moving like you’re hurt. What happened?”
    There was real concern in her voice. He looked over at her and said in his mildest, most unthreatening voice, “Nothing’s wrong. Just a pulled muscle.”
    “I thought you were moving a bit stiffly on