Free The Maze by Catherine Coulter Page A

bank robbers.”
    â€œSo may I take you out to lunch to celebrate your first case? How about we have lunch at one of the excellent restaurants you’ve got in this neighborhood?”
    She nodded. “How long will you be here, Douglas?”
    â€œI’m not certain. Perhaps a week. Did you miss me, Lacey?”
    â€œYes. And I do miss Dad. How is his health?”
    â€œYou write him every week, and I know for a fact that he writes you back every week. He told me that you don’t like the telephone. So he has to write letters. So you know he’s just fine.”
    Of course Douglas knew very well why she hated phones. That was how she’d been told about Belinda. “Soon I’ll probably be into e-mail full-time. My boss is really big on e-mail, and so is everyone else in the unit. It’s weird, you don’t hear all that many phones ringing.”
    â€œI’ll write my e-mail address down for you before I leave. Let’s go eat, Lacey.”
    â€œYou look like a prince and I look like a peasant. Let me change. It’ll take me just a minute. Oh yeah, everybody calls me Sherlock.”
    â€œI don’t like that, I never did. And everybody has to make a stupid remark when they meet you. It doesn’t suit you. It’s very masculine. Is that what the FBI is all about? Turning you into a man?”
    â€œI hope not. If they did try, I’d flunk the muscle mass tests.”
    Actually, she thought, as she changed into a dress in her bedroom, she liked being called Sherlock, just Sherlock. It just moved her one step further from the woman she had been seven years ago.
    It was at lunch that he told her about this woman who claimed he’d gotten her pregnant.

8
    S AVICH STOPPED by her desk Monday morning and said, “Ollie just told me that you still didn’t have any stuff for your apartment. I thought you were going to take care of it this weekend. What happened?”
    She looked over at Ollie Hamish and cocked her elbow at him, tapping it with her other hand. He waved back at her, shrugging.
    Why should Savich care if she slept in a tent? “A friend from California came into town. I didn’t have a chance.”
    â€œOkay, take off today and shop yourself to death.” Then he frowned. “You don’t know where to shop, do you? Listen, I’ll call a friend of mine. She knows where to find anything you could possibly invent. Her name’s Sally Quinlan.”
    Lacey had heard all about James Quinlan, presumably this woman’s husband. She’d heard about some of his cases, but none of the real details. Maybe when she met Sally Quinlan, she’d find out all the good stuff.
    It turned out that Sally Quinlan wasn’t free until the following Saturday. They made a date. Lacey spent the day learning about PAP, the Predictive Analogue Program, and all the procedures in the unit.
    That Monday evening, Lacey found two lovely, but small, prints at Bentrells in Georgetown, which would probably look insignificant against that long expanse of white wall in her living room. She bought some clothes at another Georgetown boutique. When she got back to her apartment, there was Douglas waiting for her. He’d been busy Sunday, hadn’t even had time to phone her. She said, “I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”
    He nodded and took her to Antonio’s, a northern Italian restaurant that wasn’t trendy. Over a glass of wine and medallions of veal, he said, “I guess you want to know about this woman, huh?”
    â€œYeah, you dropped that bomb and then took off.” She fingered a bread stick. “If you don’t want to tell me, Douglas, that’s all right.”
    â€œNo, you should know. Her name is Candice Addams. She’s about your age, so beautiful that men stop in midstride to stare at her, smarter than just about anyone I know.” He sighed and pushed away his plate. “She claims I got her