Whiplash

seat belt and looked over at him. He was staring straight ahead.
    "After all that's happened, you should be over your snit by now, Bowie."
    "Oh, no," he said as he drove the Taurus away from the Royal house. He gave her a quick look, his face hard. "I really can't believe you, Erin. You break the law, betray all of us who trusted you, and to top it off, you put my daughter in danger."
    She didn't look at him. "I've already apologized ad nauseam. What else do you want from me? And I didn't put Georgie in danger."
    His hands tightened around the steering wheel. In that moment, she realized what was really wrong-he was scared.
    She laid her hand over his. "Thank you for staying at my apartment. I feel completely safe now because of you."
    He still didn't look at her. "I don't want my daughter in any danger."
    She grinned at him, lightly smacked his arm. "I don't believe I've told you I think you're the best cop I've ever met."
    The breath whooshed out of him, even as he was shaking his head. "Yeah, sure, isn't that the truth. Another dead body right under my nose. Yeah, there's no doubt, I'm the greatest."
    "Stop beating yourself up, it really pisses me off. I'm sorry, Bowie. Please, believe me. Just please don't be angry with me any longer. I can't stand it. And really, having you sleeping at my apartment, it means a lot to me."
    He was stone silent for two blocks, then he said in an emotionless voice, "My wife, Bethany, drove into a bridge abutment. They told me she died instantly. She was drunk. Another driver saw the whole thing. He said her car was weaving in and out of her lane, and she just kept accelerating as she neared the bridge. He said she was doing at least seventy when she drove into the abutment. She was an alcoholic. This happened right after Georgie's third birthday."
    Erin remembered her brief marriage, remembered how she'd felt lower than a slug since she'd been lied to, her heart stomped. But this? She couldn't begin to imagine such a thing. "I'm very sorry."
    "It happened four years ago. All of it's faded now, for which I'm profoundly grateful. Georgie missed her mother for a little while, but then her nanny Glynn came. It was Glynn who told Georgie I loved her mother so much that I'd never marry again." He looked over at her, his dark eyes shadowed. "Glynn called me. She's feeling better every day. She wants to know when I need her back."
    Erin said, "No time soon."

44

    STONE BRIDGE POLICE STATION
    Late Friday morning

    Four hours of sleep did wonders for the brain, Bowie decided as he sat down at the conference table in the police station. He felt alert and focused. Erin didn't look bad either, what with a couple of aspirin on board to keep the throbbing down in her back. She'd refused Vicodin, said she wanted to be able to face the two Schiffer Hartwin directors with a clear head. He knew no one was going to like the fact Erin was here-this was an official meeting, after all-but she'd looked at him and said simply, "I've got to come, Bowie. Surely you see I've got to come."
    He'd said nothing more, simply touched his fingers to her cheek, then nodded. Where'd she get all this grit, this bravery, in the face of all the bad stuff raining down on her? She'd even managed to keep Georgie in the dark, hard to do at any time, but she had, laughing with her, helping her dress, brushing her hair and French braiding it, something he did well himself. At least he'd put out the Grape-Nuts and made toast, with apricot jam, Georgie's favorite. They'd taken Georgie to school together, hugging her, telling her to have a nice day, and bless her heart, she'd been oblivious to her early morning car ride to a murder scene. They'd come back to Erin's apartment, Georgie never stirring.
    It was eleven o'clock Friday morning before the four of them congregated in the conference room to await the arrival of Adler Dieffendorf and Werner Gerlach. Sherlock looked over at Dillon, wondering how he could look so well rested when he'd slept for only an hour after they'd gotten back to their B&B room with its Psycho posters. She'd awakened to hear his beautiful baritone in the shower, recounting the story of a cowboy named Ben who'd lost his horse to a bordello madam.
    Bowie's cell played a very nice rendition of "Silver Bells." Bowie felt around in his pants pockets, then his jacket pockets, frowned, tried to track the sound as the song segued into the chorus.
    Erin said, "It's under your briefcase."
    He pulled it out,