Paradox

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich parked Sherlock’s Volvo and they walked quickly out of the insane summer heat into glorious air-conditioning and what looked like controlled pandemonium. Families and children, happy to be out of the sun, crowded around the exhibits of the park’s history and its geology, the kids shouting questions to a docent. Savich asked for Park Ranger Sionna Harmon.

  A tall, leggy black woman with buzz-cut hair strode to them, everything about her screaming efficiency. They introduced themselves. “You called us about the green Kia,” Sherlock said.

  “That’s right. Sorry, but I never saw Victor Nesser. Last night, before I left, I walked through the parking area as I always do, my last duty of the day, looking for anything hinky, I guess you could say. I saw a banged-up green car and wondered about all the nicks and holes, wondered how it could still drive. And I forgot about it. Then this morning a police officer from Dumfries was here drinking my coffee, telling us about the news, and he happened to mention the green Kia. After he left I went back and took a look. It was the Kia. That’s when I called you.” She paused a moment. “Look, I’ve asked, but no one saw him come in.”

  Savich said, “Nesser probably drove the Kia in while you were on break. He did the same thing at a park in Maryland.”

  “Well, that makes sense. Parks aren’t prisons, and we aren’t guards. He could have snuck in if he was lurking, watching to see when I or another park ranger left the kiosk for a break. There are lots of places he could have parked out of sight.” She paused. “I didn’t look closely, but I was wondering. Are all those nicks in the car bullet holes?”

  “Yes,” Sherlock said.

  Harmon’s dark eyes studied Sherlock’s face. “I’m guessing it was your bullets in the Kia?”

  Sherlock only nodded.

  Sionna shook her head, ran her tongue over her lips. “This is beyond terrifying, Agents. Our park is full of families. So many kids who’d make hostages.”

  Savich said, “Let’s go look at that Kia.”

  They followed Sionna past the kiosk, where Terry Menard was busy processing a line of cars to enter the park. The Kia was the very last car in the parking lot. Savich pulled his cell out of his pocket and called a forensic team to Prince William Forest Park to go over it.

  Sionna’s cell phone rang. She listened, punched off. “That was Ranger Menard. Sure enough, one of our visitors, a Mr. Jules Dunn, reported his car was stolen from the parking area, a blue Honda SUV.”

  Savich met with Mr. Dunn, an insurance salesman from Leesburg, at the visitor’s center, got all his information, phoned it in, and got another APB going for the local area. When Ranger Harmon told Dunn who’d stolen his old blue Honda SUV, the man’s eyes bugged wide. In the next instant, he turned to tell his wife and three teenage sons. The oldest boy grabbed his hand and shook it. “Wow, Dad, the terrorist dude stole our car! We’re going to be on TV. Way to go!” Mr. Dunn grinned, did a high five, and Mrs. Dunn turned perfectly white, Sherlock saw, a more intelligent response. The three teenage boys were still excited, hooting and hollering, when their dad looked at his wife and stopped grinning. The reality of what had happened was beginning to sink into his brain. Savich said, “Local law enforcement will be on the lookout for your Honda. You’ll have to go in and file a report. Ranger Harmon will help you with that.”

  Mrs. Dunn said, “We won’t see the car again, will we, Agent Savich?”

  Savich shook his head. “Doubtful, but what’s important is you’re all safe.”

  When the Dunn family was seated in the visitor’s center waiting for a police car, Sherlock said to Ranger Harmon, “We’re going to try to find his campsite, but chances are slim he left anything useful.”

  Harmon said, “Would you like me to go with you? I’m a sworn officer, you know, and I have a gun for situations like this. I do know how to use it.”

  Savich said, “Thank you. If we need your help, you can count on us calling out fast and loud.”

  Harmon showed them the main trail and left them to it, though it was clear she still wanted to come with them. As they walked into the woods on a well-marked path, Savich called Ollie Hamish, his second in command in the CAU, who gave him the latest news on the church bombing aftermath. When Savich punched off, he said, “Looks like everyone is going to make it. No critical injuries reported. Needless to say, the politicians are lining up to get their outraged sound bites on the bombing of the church on the six o’clock news. Same old, same old.”

  Sherlock pointed. “Look at those red maples and the Virginia pines. We need to bring Sean back here.” She fanned herself. “Let’s wait for some cooler weather, though.”

  They started walking quietly, alert for any sound that wasn’t right, and soon heard footsteps and several voices. Like Savich, Sherlock carried her jacket over her arm, her Glock in her pocket. She eased it out. A family—husband, wife, two young kids—appeared around a curve in the trail ahead of them, hauling tents and camping equipment. They looked happy—well, the kids looked happy. The dad looked stoic, the mom tired and sweaty. Sherlock pressed her Glock against her leg. No sense scaring the bejesus out of them. Everyone said hi and walked on. They passed into a large designated RV camping area where people sat around in portable chairs, drinking sodas and beers, some grilling hamburgers for a late lunch. Sherlock breathed in deeply, heard her stomach growl.

  They walked to the far end of the camping sites, then followed a trail that led through poplars and white oaks so thick they formed a canopy overhead to block the sun. A blessing.

  They found what was probably Victor’s campsite some twenty yards beyond where camping was allowed and a Snickers wrapper, nothing else. The ashes in the freshly dug fire pit were cold. Victor had been gone a long time and he’d swept the area down.

  As they trudged back, Sherlock said, “How long do you think it’ll take Victor to dump Mr. Dunn’s Honda, and steal another car?”

  42

  * * *

  Victor didn’t steal another car. He dumped the Honda SUV that smelled like sweaty teenager socks in Alexandria and called a taxi to take him to Koons in Tysons Corner, where he paid seven thousand dollars cash for a dull brown 2009 Chrysler 300 LX. He gave a little wave to the salesman as he pulled out of the lot. It didn’t matter his face was all over TV and plastered in every cop shop in the area. No one would recognize him. He was no longer a clean-shaven young man with short brown hair. He couldn’t help his pale complexion or his size—skinny, his chinos hanging off his butt—but he’d changed as much as he could. Now he wore a longish dark brown wig and thick glasses with clear lenses, plus a bit of a goatee that was, unfortunately, coming off bit by bit, but he didn’t care. The goatee had been Lissy’s idea, and it itched. No more baggy chinos, either. He was wearing tight blue jeans and a black T-shirt under an open plaid shirt. The jeans itched, too, but Lissy assured him he looked sexy now, not at all like a nerd.

  I really like the new you, Victor. I always wanted you to walk on the wild side. Yum, love those tight jeans. I hadn’t realized you have a butt. Now you’re my dark, dangerous avenger and you’ll help me send that bastard, Buzz Riley, straight to hell. While we were suffering in that stinky psych ward, all those rules and having to sit through all those sessions with those idiot shrinks, he was having a big time, all free and happy after he killed Mama. Well, we’re going to end that. Right between the eyes, Victor, or maybe in his mouth. I really like that. Lights out!

  “We already checked his house once, saw his old car was locked up tight in the garage. I’ll bet you Savich told him to get out of town.”

  He heard her huff out a breath, then, You’re probably right, but that doesn’t mean we can’t come after him again, later, when he thinks he’s all safe from us. You did good with the church, Victor. Blew the sucker sky high, exploded it off its foundation. To see all those bugs flying out of there, trying not to get burned to a crisp, it was fun.

  “It was fun, Lissy, but you heard the radio. No one bit the big one, only minor inju
ries. I thought what with the fire bursting up through the church floor, they’d all go up in flames, but it didn’t happen.” Would she blame him? Call him incompetent? He waited, tense, already feeling his blood burn.

  She whispered softly against his face, The way you put that bomb together, such tricky work, Victor. I was amazed. And how you knew where to fix it to the gas pipe in the church basement, that was so hot. And you made sure no one saw you. Don’t feel bad. You know the FBI agents are paid to not panic. They’re supposed to be cool and save lives. So they did their job, nothing great about that. You still sent them a powerful message: screw with us and see where you end up.

  You did good with this car, too, dull brown so nobody will notice it. But why won’t you tell me where you’re getting all this cash? You peeled off all those hundreds from a big wad in your pocket. Why won’t you tell me where you got it?

  Victor sped up to pass an old Mazda, then immediately slowed again to the speed limit. “I’ll make you a deal, Lissy. You tell me where your mama buried all the bank robbery money in Fort Pessel and I promise to go back in a week or so and let you kill Buzz Riley. That’s a good deal, isn’t it?”

  She huffed and went silent.

  43

  * * *

  FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF HAGGERSVILLE

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  Ty pulled her Silverado into the parking lot at the end of West Clover Street between the Midas Hair Salon and the First National Bank of Haggersville. The bank was a stately, older two-story redbrick building, well maintained and important-looking, a place where you could be more confident than not your money would be safe.

  Sala waved at the salon. “Midas hair? Does that mean they dye your hair gold?”

  Ty said, “I tried pink once as a teenager, but never gold. Think it’s too late for me to give it another shot?”

  Sala laughed, gave her hair a tug. As they crossed the parking lot, Ty phoned Lulie Saks at the hospital. Gunny was out of post-anesthesia care, but she still wasn’t coherent. It might take some time, Dr. Ellis had told Lulie, before Gunny could be questioned and make sense. Both Lulie and Chief Masters were with her, and Officer Romero Diaz was seated outside her cubicle in the ICU. Gunny was safe and secure.

  Ty slipped her cell back into her pocket. “The killer will know soon enough Gunny’s alive, if he doesn’t already know, which he probably does. He couldn’t afford to let her talk to the FBI, so he either goes into the wind or tries to kill her again in the hospital.” She sighed. “Of course, if the killer knows she didn’t see him, he might think he has more time.”

  Sala said, “If he’s afraid she knows something that could bring him down right away, it wouldn’t matter if she saw him or not. I honestly don’t see how she could know who hit her on the back of her head. I’m hoping she heard something distinctive, smelled something, maybe a cologne she recognized, something like that.”

  “I’ve always believed there’s a lot of faith involved in law enforcement, otherwise you get ground under.” After a moment, she said, “You know what? In the short time I’ve known you, I realize you’re always situationally aware, know who and what’s around you. I’ve got to learn that.”

  “Well, maybe. My older brother was also in Afghanistan, still is. He taught me before I went in. Saved both our lives. All you have to do is clear out your mind, look and really see, listen and really hear. But none of that mattered with Victor Nesser.”

  Ty reached out, touched his arm. “You can’t see in the dark, Sala, plus you were sound asleep. Teach me, okay?”

  He studied her hand a moment, her long fingers and short buffed nails, a strong hand, a capable hand. He looked back into her serious face and smiled. “Yes, all right, I will do my poor best.”

  “Speaking of poor best, Victor didn’t manage to kill anyone in the church this morning. Only minor injuries reported so far. I wonder what he thinks about that? That he failed?”

  “Or maybe he’s happy he showed the world what a badass he is.”

  Sala held one of the big glass double doors open for a man in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops, and he and Ty followed him into blessed air-conditioning.

  “Wowza,” Ty said. “Would you look at the gold-veined brown marble floor?” She swept her hand around her. “It’s like a 1930s art deco Hollywood set. What a shine. Everything meant to impress.”

  A dozen or so desks and chairs were arranged artfully along the walls. There were old-fashioned windows, tellers on high stools manning each station. All of the bank employees seated at the desks were dressed sharply. People waited in a snaking line, peeling off whenever there was an open window. It seemed quiet and orderly, old-fashioned and really quite civilized.

  Sala said, “I hope Al Capone doesn’t burst in with a tommy gun.”

  She smiled. “I’ll bet the bank was built in the thirties, and everything is authentic. They’ve buffed it up, made repairs, and kept all the original stuff. It’s like stepping back in time. Would you listen to me, I’ve already lowered my voice to a whisper.”

  “Do you know, I can’t remember the last time I was actually in my bank. I do all my banking online now. But maybe I’d change my mind if I had a bank that looked like this.”

  Ty flashed to Harry Potter’s Gringotts Wizarding Bank. This layout was pretty close, minus the goblins manning teller windows and the huge chandeliers hanging overhead. They heard people talking to one another, all whispers, like they were in a cathedral, and more than once they heard the name Gunny Saks.

  They stopped at the security station, a beautifully carved art deco podium. A tall redheaded man with blue eyes and a big smile stood beside it. He was dressed in a well-pressed dark blue guard’s uniform. Sala thought he looked about as forbidding as a poodle, even with the SIG in his holster.

  They introduced themselves, showed Mr. Nathaniel Hoolihan their creds, and were directed toward the ornate staircase at the far end of the lobby. “Mr. Calhoun’s office is right behind the big bank of windows overlooking the floor.”

  Ty looked up. “Why would he have all those windows? Seems to me it would be distracting.”

  Mr. Hoolihan cleared his throat, leaned close. “When Mr. Calhoun became president, he broke out the wall and had those big windows put in. It lets him look down onto the floor, see the customers that come in every day—that and he likes to see we’re all doing what we’re supposed to. It wasn’t that way when Mr. Henry was running things.”

  Sala bent close to Ty’s ear as they mounted the beautifully shined staircase. “So Mr. Calhoun LaRoque has already seen us. Does he know who we are, I wonder?”

  “I’ll bet he does by the time we get to his office,” Ty said. “Are you ready to meet Mr. Eccentric?”

  “As in ‘too rich to be called crazy’? You bet.”

  At the top of the stairs they were met by a very pretty young woman wearing three-inch stilettos, a pencil-slim black skirt that wouldn’t allow for an extra pound, and a white silk blouse under a matching black jacket. She had spectacular dark hair in wild curls around her head down to her shoulders. She gave them a huge smile showing straight white teeth. “I’m Courtney Wells, Mr. Calhoun’s senior private assistant. Mr. Hoolihan called up, said you were FBI, that it was important you speak immediately to Mr. Calhoun. Is this about Gunny Saks? Did she die yet?”

  Ty smiled. “No, she didn’t die. And yes, we’d like to see Mr. LaRoque immediately. Thank you, Ms. Wells.”

  Courtney was too young to hide her disappointment. She huffed, turned on a skinny heel, and walked to a magnificent mahogany door, opened it, and stuck her head in. “Mr. Calhoun, the two FBI agents I told you about are here to see you.” She stepped back, waved them in.

  They walked into a big square office directly out of a fashion magazine in the 1930s. The magnificently carved desk, the chairs, the sofa, and the museum-quality credenza behind the desk were all classic art deco. On top of the credenza sat a series of framed photos—the frames art deco, of course—all of the ma
n himself and his wife, from their twenties to the present, a photo chronicle of their lives together. Behind the big desk sat Mr. Henry’s one and only child. He slowly rose and gave them a smile. Calhoun LaRoque looked to be about Ty’s father’s age, but unlike her dad, Calhoun was at least six foot three and skinny as a toothpick. He was dressed in a bespoke dark blue suit with narrow white pinstripes, a white shirt, and a bright red power tie, like a uniform in its way, like her father’s blue Washington State Patrol captain’s uniform with its black bow tie.

  Calhoun LaRoque had a head of thick pewter-gray hair with a few strands of black still woven in. His eyebrows were dark and thick over deep brown eyes. He waved at Courtney and very nicely asked her to close the door behind her.

  Courtney left the door open a crack. LaRoque cleared his throat, loudly. She closed the door with a snap.

  Calhoun said, “Courtney used to listen at the door, so I saw to it they put in a thicker one. It steams her not to know everything before anyone else.”

  “Why didn’t you fire her?” Sala asked.

  A dark eyebrow went straight up. “Didn’t you see her, Agent Porto? She’s drop-dead gorgeous, the most beautiful girl in Haggersville. Looking at her every day, believe me, it offsets her small, er, lapses, makes her mistakes seem nearly insignificant. She’s worked for me since she was nineteen. She’s twenty-three now. Did you see all that hair? She knows I like it in curls flying everywhere, so she’s careful to keep it that way. Now, I know you’re federal cops. Is this about poor Gunny Saks?”