Blindside Read Free

wanted to meet the two widowers.
    Savich remembered what his friend Miles Kettering had said about the two math teacher killings just a couple of nights before, when he and Sam had come over for barbecue. Six-year-old Sam was the image of his father, down to the way he chewed the corn off the cob. Miles had thought about it a moment, then said, “It seems nuts, but I’ll bet you, Savich, that the motive will turn out to be old as the hills.” Savich was thinking now that Miles could be right; he frequently had been back when he and Savich had been agents together, until five years before.
    Savich saw a flash of hot-pink leotard from the corner of his eye. She started up on the treadmill next to his, vacated by an ATF guy who’d gotten divorced and was telling Bobby Curling, the gym manager, that he couldn’t wait to get into the action again. Given how many single women there were in Washington, D.C., old muscle-bound Arnie shouldn’t have any problem.
    Savich finished reading Dane’s report and looked outover the gym, not really seeing all the sweaty bodies, but poking around deep inside his own head. The thing about this killer was that he was in their own backyard—Virginia and Maryland. Would he look farther afield?
    Savich had to keep positive. Even though it had been unrelated, they’d saved James Marple from having a knife shoved in his chest or his head. It had come out last night that Jimbo had had an affair with Marvin Phelps’s wife, who’d then divorced Phelps and married Marple—five years before. But Savich knew it wasn’t just the infidelity that was Phelps’s motive. He’d heard it right out of Phelps’s mouth—jealousy, pure and simple jealousy that had grown into rage. The last time Savich had seen James Marple, his wife, Liz, was there hovering, hugging and kissing him.
    “Hello, I’ve seen you here before. My name’s Valerie. Valerie Rapper, and no, I don’t like Eminem.” She smiled at him, a really lovely white-toothed smile. A long piece of black hair had come loose from the clip and was curved around her cheek.
    He nodded. “My name’s Savich. Dillon Savich.”
    “Bobby told me you were an FBI agent.”
    Savich wanted to get back to Dane’s report. He wanted to figure out how he was going to catch this nutcase before math teachers in the area became terrified for the foreseeable future. Again, he only nodded.
    “Is it true that Louie Freeh was a technophobe?”
    “What?” Savich jerked around to look at her.
    She just smiled, a dark eyebrow arched up.
    Savich shrugged. “People will say anything about anyone.”
    Standard FBI spew, of course, but it was ingrained in him to turn away insults aimed at the Bureau. And, as a matter of fact, what could he say? Besides, the truth was that Director Freeh had always been fascinated with MAX, Savich’s laptop.

    “He was sure sexy,” she said.
    Savich blinked at that and said, “He has six or seven kids. Maybe more now that he has more time.”
    “Maybe that proves that his wife thinks he’s sexy, too.”
    Savich just smiled and pointedly returned to Dane’s report. He read: Ruth Warnecki says she’s kept three snitches happy since she left the Washington, D.C., Police Department, including bottles of bubbly at Christmas. She gave a bottle of Dom Perignon to the snitch who saved James Marple’s life, only to have him give it back, saying he preferred malt liquor.
    The booze Ruth usually gave to her snitches would probably burn a hole in a normal person’s stomach. They’d been very lucky this time, but what could a snitch know about some head case killing high school math teachers? They weren’t talking low-life drug dealers here. On the other hand, most cases were solved by informants of one sort or another, and that was a fact.
    He tried to imagine again why this person felt his mission was to commit cold-blooded murder of math teachers. Randomly shooting company CEOs—that was a maybe. Judges—sometimes.