Free KnockOut by Catherine Coulter

need your strength,” Savich said. “Cookies first.”
    Lucy said, “You might have to fight those mighty dogs for the cookies. You’d best hurry now, guys, chocolate chips don’t last forever, you know.”
    The little boy and little girl went whooping across the front yard and next door to the Perry house, the dogs racing beside them. Lucy gave Savich a hand up, patted his shoulder, and took off after them. She called over her shoulder, “I’ll bring Sean and Astro home in an hour or so.”
    He was dusting himself off when Sherlock appeared in the open doorway, wearing white shorts and a flowy pink top. She was lightly tanned, her hair pulled up in a curl-packed ponytail, the sandals on her feet showing off toenails painted a soft pink. She looked about sixteen. Savich felt the familiar kick in his blood when she waved and smiled at him. Ah, he thought, a hot afternoon, a fan stirring up the air over the bed, the blinds pulled, and blessed quiet—surely some things were meant to be. On the other hand, maybe not. There was Mr. Maitland to call back. He sighed and thought maybe they’d have some time this evening. Around eight o’clock might be lovely, not dark yet in the deep summer—he’d check her scar as the air cooled down around them, and who knew? Maybe Sean would miraculously be eager to climb into his own bed.
    Fat chance.
    “I’d sure like some lemonade too,” Savich called out.
    Sherlock laughed. “Then you’ve got to help me denude the Meyer lemon tree.”
    He looked at her closely. “You’re not doing that, are you? Remember, your spleen became history only two months ago. Rest, Sherlock, you’ve got to rest.”
    “Yeah, yeah, I was growing mold. It’s good to be back to work, back to doing important things, like making lemonade.” She touched her fingers to his cheek. “I’m okay. I won’t overdo, I promise.”
    “You already did. You came roaring down to the Georgetown bank. Ruth told me you were outside running after that fourth robber, that Dane had to grab you.”
    “Nah, it wasn’t any big deal—oh, all right, that was a little much, but I’m better every day, Dillon. Don’t worry.”
    Still, he worried, and she knew he worried, and they’d both be worried for another month or so, until she was one hundred percent again.

12
    AFTER SAVICH DRANK DOWN half a glass of tart lemonade, something Sherlock made very well, he said, “Mr. Maitland called. Lissy, our sixteen-year-old-girl bank robber, is no longer under guard at the hospital.”
    “What?”
    He nodded. “Yep, she’s in the wind, probably with the help of the missing getaway driver.” He told her what Mr. Maitland had said.
    Her first comment was, “Daugherty isn’t stupid, Dillon, he’d spot fake creds in a nanosecond. And if they weren’t fake—now that worries me.”
    “You’re right,” he said. He dialed up Mr. Maitland, punched on the speaker. “Sorry it took so long. Both Sherlock and I are here now.”
    Maitland said immediately, “Bless Daugherty’s little pointed head, he finally remembered the last name of the agent on the FBI ID the guy flashed at him—Coggins. Turns out he’s Peter Coggins, an agent in the Richmond field office. Agents got over to his house fast, found his sister untying him and pulling duct tape off his mouth. She says she was pretty surprised to see him tied up on the kitchen floor. She’d brought him over a strawberry pie.”
    “That sure sounds good,” Savich said.
    “Yeah, it does. At least the guy didn’t kill him. Now, here’s how it went down, according to Coggins. He was mowing his backyard when this young guy trots up and asks for directions to Interstate Ninety-five into Washington. When Coggins turned to point, the guy bashed him over the head, stole his ID and his SIG. The Richmond SAC had just gotten our alert about Lissy Smiley escaping and called me pronto.”
    Sherlock said. “Is Agent Coggins okay?”
    “Yeah, the doc said he’s got himself only a