Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  Most of the time Nathan found his sister tedious and annoying, but unlike their father, he recognized she was smart. As smart as he was? No, of course she wasn’t, but still, he knew in the deepest part of him if he didn’t stay alert, she’d try to find a way to bury him.

  He grinned at her now, knowing it would drive her nuts that he hadn’t answered her about sending the accounting department home. He said instead, “You sure look good in Armani black.” Not a lie. She looked like a powerhouse, a champ. Nikki wasn’t exactly pretty, her features were too strong, her focus too intense. At least she didn’t look bland, like his wife, who for some strange reason liked to copy Nikki’s clothes. But black Armani made his very pale-faced blond Crissy look like a crow—in mourning.

  Nathan eyed his sister again. No wonder she couldn’t keep a husband. She held even the smallest slight close to her breast, she nurtured resentment. There was never any forgiveness. She was a ball-buster, vindictive. Denting his cars, it was so typical.

  When his father finally retired, if he didn’t croak over his desk, Nathan would get her out of the main Bexholt campus, set her up at one of their plants in Spain. She could bust Spanish balls.

  Nikki said to their father, “Everything’s on schedule for the bankers’ conference on Monday. The Kentington Hotel will be swarming with security, and we’re making good progress on securing the conference room as well as the entire sixth and seventh floors. We’ve already started installing the acoustic panels and the Faraday cage.”

  “I was told you’re covering the entire room,” Nathan said. “You know that’s not really needed. What, you’re trying to impress them?”

  “Isn’t that the whole idea, Nathan? You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “You know their own security will examine the room for listening devices. I hope they don’t ruin all your work.” He paused, rubbed his hands together, and Nikki’s eyes went to the backs of his big hands. She hated his hands.

  “Let’s have no more bickering,” Garrick said. “I’m sure Nikki will do an adequate job.”

  Right, you bastard. She left her father and brother discussing their weekend plans to go out on the yacht with Nathan’s two boys. “No women allowed, Nathan, only us men,” she heard her father say when she was nearly out of his office.

  57

  * * *

  Nikki walked swiftly down the hall to her office, stopped when she saw a man and a woman talking to each other in low voices, her admin seated only six feet away. The Feds. She would have to be careful. Jasmine had already been spooked by these two, best not to underestimate them. What were they saying to each other?

  Savich said, “Mom said Sean talked her into pizza for dinner, pepperoni, of course.”

  “That’s his favorite?”

  “Well, it’s your favorite and so that’s his favorite, too.”

  “What’s yours, Dillon?”

  “I’m a vegetarian, so it’s always Vegetable Delight for me, but Sean’s a carnivore like you.”

  He was a vegetarian. Sherlock hadn’t noticed what he’d eaten, even at Jenny’s Café.

  And Sean. He was the image of his father, dark eyes and dark hair, a rich olive complexion. She looked down at her white hands, wondered what part of her he had. Sean. She liked the sound, the feel of his name, but when she pushed, there was the white door, again closed. Did he have a middle name?

  Savich rose. “Ms. Bexholt? I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock.” He handed her their creds. Sherlock rose to stand beside him.

  Nikki pretended to study the creds, but she’d have known very well who these two were even if Jasmine hadn’t told her. She’d seen Agent Savich on TV enough, and Agent Sherlock—everyone knew who she was. She returned the creds, stuck out her hand, shook theirs. “Do come into my office. Paul, please go home now.”

  A tall, middle-aged man with a sharp goatee nodded, smiled at Sherlock. He moved quickly to open the door for his boss, then quietly closed it after they’d all filed inside.

  Should she gush over Agent Sherlock? Paul probably already had. She wanted to, but she had to remember she was the one near the top of the food chain at Bexholt, not someone they’d expect to bow and scrape.

  She said, “I know you’re here to speak to me about a member of my accounting department, Eleanor Corbitt. I understand she was killed last night. We at Bexholt are all greatly disturbed and saddened. We all want to know what you’re doing to find out who killed her, but I’m not certain I understand why you, the FBI, are here. Isn’t the FBI only involved with federal crimes?”

  Savich studied this woman while she spoke—smoothly, calmly, in charge. She was tall, fit, and dressed in black, her hair nearly as black as her suit, pulled up high on the back of her head in a sort of twist, held by a pearl-encrusted comb. The style suited her. She had a strong, arrogant face, an expressive face. Expressive? Why had he thought that? Because there was something that worried her, profoundly. Her hands were restless, her fingers tapping on the desktop, obviously a longtime habit. As if she realized what she was doing and he’d noticed, Nikki quickly motioned them to the chairs facing her desk.

  She sat down, clasped her hands in her lap. Such a ridiculous habit, the finger tapping, one she’d seemed to develop overnight after the first time she saw her father hit her mother in the stomach with his fist when Nikki was eight years old. She’d started tapping her fingers after that, if she didn’t pay attention, no matter the time or place. She cleared her throat. “So, what can I do for you, Agent Savich? Agent Sherlock?”

  Sherlock gave Bexholt her patented sunny smile, so much a part of her it was second nature. “We understand you and Ms. Corbitt lunched together on several occasions, that she visited your office a number of times. She was obviously closer to you than any other employee in the accounting department. She was your friend. We would like you to tell us about her.”

  Nikki froze. How did they know that? Jasmine wouldn’t have said anything. She and Ellie had always been discreet, bordering on paranoid, yet people had noticed and people had talked. She wanted their names, and when she found out, they’d pay.

  She said, her voice trembling a bit, as if on the verge of tears, “Of course I knew Ellie. She was a friend, but not really a close friend. What I mean is she was an employee in our accounting department and she did some work for me on a couple of special projects. I did find her very nice and competent. I will miss her, as will all her co-workers.”

  “Did you ever visit her home?”

  “I remember when she bought a condo last year and was very excited about it, showed photos all over the office, but no, I never visited her. The couple of times we had a business lunch was in a little pizza place just up the road from the Bexholt campus. I’m sorry, but I really don’t know about her life, you know, her outside interests, or who her close friends were.” Nikki rose. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Savich didn’t move, said easily, “We find it interesting and a bit too coincidental that two Bexholt employees—Eleanor Corbitt and Jasmine Palumbo—are both connected to Justice Cummings, the CIA analyst who was thrown over the hood of Agent Sherlock’s car on Tuesday. Of course you know it was Ms. Palumbo who caused the accident. We believe Ms. Palumbo spotted Cummings, and was trying to catch him, which means, of course, that’s why the accident happened. Chasing him distracted her and she struck Agent Sherlock’s car.

  “As for Eleanor Corbitt, she appears to have specifically targeted Justice Cummings. She came on to him, invited him for coffee after work, but she never showed up. She even used a false name—Christy Blake. And now she’s dead, murdered. You know both of these women, Ms. Bexholt. Tell us what they were doing.”

  Nikki sat back down, giving her time to think. Even after Jasmine had warned her about their sudden attacks, she had still underestimated these two. Jasmine had screwed up big time, true enough, but Nikki had believed there’d be no connection made. How had they found out about Ellie setting up Cummings? An
d using that fake name, the name of her married sister? Inviting him for coffee? Not showing up? Evidently Cummings had told someone and that someone had told the FBI. But who had Cummings told? Get it together, they’re fishing, nothing more. She managed a concerned expression. “It does seem like a coincidence, as you say, and to me as well, Agents, but I believe that’s all it is—a coincidence. I can’t imagine why Eleanor Corbitt would even be at Langley, much less want to go out with a CIA employee, namely Justice Cummings. I mean, she didn’t even like men. I can’t imagine who would tell you such a thing. And Ms. Palumbo wanting to chase him down? That makes no sense to me.” Shut up, shut up. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  Gotcha. Savich hadn’t said a word about Langley.

  Sherlock said, “Do you believe Eleanor Corbitt was gay, Ms. Bexholt?”

  She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, defensive, but she managed to look at them dead-on. “I really don’t know about her sexual preferences, nor do I listen to office gossip. I remember she mentioned once her ex-husband was a worthless jerk and he’d burned her out on men. It was simply my impression she didn’t date. Other than that, I don’t know.” She shrugged.

  Sherlock continued, “What if I were to tell you that it was Justice Cummings himself who told us Eleanor Corbitt—Christy Blake—was the woman he was supposed to meet at the Blaze Café?”

  Nikki felt her heart seize, then laughed. “So you’ve watched old Perry Mason shows. I remember my dad laughing, saying the ‘what if’ lure was exactly what Mason said to witnesses to trip them up. Sorry, Agent Sherlock. No one even knows if this man is still alive—” She realized what had popped out of her mouth and froze.

  Another slip. Savich smiled at her. “So you know Cummings worked at Langley and he was CIA, and you know he’s missing. That’s a lot that you know, Ms. Bexholt.”

  “I am blessed to know people who tell me things.”

  “Give us names, Ms. Bexholt,” Sherlock said.

  Nikki shook her head. “No.”

  Savich picked it up. “I can also assume you knew Eleanor Corbitt lied to Justice Cummings, told him she worked in personnel services at Langley. We know she set him up. And you do as well, don’t you, Ms. Bexholt? Did you plan it?”

  Savich rose, laid his palms on her desk, leaned over, and said, his voice deep and steady, “You have all the money, you’re the one who wanted Cummings kidnapped. Tell us why.”

  She grabbed her landline and dialed three digits. “I want to speak to Mr. Phelps. What? He’s gone home? Very well,” and she forced herself not to slam down the phone. She cleared her throat. “Bart Phelps is one of Bexholt’s in-house counsels. I will have him call you on Monday. Now, Agents, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”

  Savich straightened, looked down at her, and said, his voice hard as nails, “When Mr. Phelps calls us, Ms. Bexholt, do have him tell us why you wanted Justice Cummings taken. And how Jasmine Palumbo and Eleanor Corbitt were involved. Is your father also involved? Your brother?”

  Nikki roared to her feet, so angry, so afraid, she was shaking with it. “This is an outrage. I want you both out of my office now. Get out!”

  Neither Savich nor Sherlock said anything more, simply turned and walked out the door. Savich was smiling when they rode the elevator down to the lobby. “That went perfectly. Ms. Bexholt is scared and furious and there’s not a doubt in my mind she’s up to her eyeballs in whatever this is.”

  Sherlock said, “Did you see her tapping her fingers? I got the feeling it was a habit and she didn’t want us to see her doing it. Why, I wonder?” She shrugged. “She’s strong and confident. She’s also arrogant and a liar. I’d say right now she’s scared spitless because she lost it a couple of times. Now you’re hoping she’ll make another mistake. And yes, the Armani suit was stunning on her.”

  He laughed, couldn’t help it, paused a moment, hugged her to him. “Can you think of a why?”

  Sherlock was proud of herself, she hadn’t frozen when he’d hugged her. She smiled up at him. “Too many pieces to this puzzle, too many possible turns. It’s like a maze—we haven’t found the key to it yet.”

  “More a labyrinth, I think, with Nikki Bexholt waiting at the center, a modern-day Minotaur.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  Sherlock said, “Did you notice that bust of Athena on the pedestal by her desk?”

  He nodded. “The goddess of war and wisdom.”

  “I wish I’d thought to ask her why Athena.”

  They walked out into the warm late afternoon, Savich holding her hand. Sherlock stopped, breathed in deeply. “Smell the night jasmine.” She looked up at him. “I suppose you have someone in place to follow Ms. Bexholt when she leaves for the evening?”

  “You bet. I’ll make a call right now, tell Lucy we’re leaving.”

  When he slipped the cell back into his jacket pocket, he said, “All set. Let’s go home and get to know our guest better.”

  “I’ll heat up your spaghetti sauce, whip up a salad.” She stopped cold. “How do I know it’s your sauce?”

  He tapped a finger to her temple. “A sure sign you’re on the mend.” They got in the Porsche and passed through the kiosk, the guard giving a nod and a thumbs-up to Savich on the Porsche.

  “There’s Lucy pulling up now. She begged me to take this surveillance since Coop is out of town fishing and she said she’s bored to tears, wants some work to chew on.”

  Sherlock saw Lucy sitting at a workstation, heard her talking on the phone. Then she was grinning up at Sherlock, patting her stomach, and Sherlock was hugging her, congratulating her. The white door slammed. “But, Dillon, Lucy is four month pregnant, she can’t be on surveillance, I mean—” Sherlock couldn’t believe what she’d said and began shaking her head at herself. “What’s wrong with me? It doesn’t matter if she’s pregnant, she can do anything. Excuse me while I give myself a smack.”

  Savich laughed. “Lucy said her only drawback is having to pee more than usual, but she assured me she’s got it figured out. Yeah, I was a bit concerned, too, but she gave me the don’t you dare say anything look. She’ll keep Ms. Bexholt well covered tonight. If Bexholt goes home, goes to bed, Lucy will leave for the night and Ollie will take over tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay, that’s good. It was smart you didn’t tell Nikki Bexholt we have Justice Cummings. You left her not knowing what’s happened to him. I can see the stress of wondering about him, wondering what could happen, might lead her to make a mistake, or close up shop, cover up as best she can. Or run.”

  Savich said, “Yes, any of the above. And Mr. Maitland’s agreed we’re not going to tell Farriger about Justice, either, not yet.”

  58

  * * *

  GAFFER'S RIDGE

  EAGLE'S NEST

  FRIDAY, EARLY EVENING

  Griffin pulled up to the gate to Eagle’s Nest, pressed the intercom. “Good evening, Mr. Bodine. I would like to speak with Rafer.”

  There was a moment of silence, then, “I told you not to come here again, Agent Hammersmith. We do not have to speak to you. Go away.”

  Griffin said easily, “Believe me, Mr. Bodine, this short interview with your son would be far preferable to me bringing a warrant and taking Rafer in for questioning under federal custody.”

  Quint Bodine didn’t answer. The gate opened and they drove to the house. Quint was standing in the open doorway. Behind him stood his brother, Sheriff Booker Bodine.

  Griffin pulled up in front. He said as he got out of the Range Rover, “As I said, I’d like to speak with Rafer.”

  Quint raised his hand to keep Booker quiet. “I’m afraid it isn’t possible, Agent Hammersmith. My son is sleeping. He had a bad day. He took a good deal of pain medication, as you can well imagine, since it was you and this woman who hurt him so badly.” He looked past Griffin to Carson, now standing beside him.

  Griffin said, “Unfortunately this is of great importance. Please wake him up, Mr. Bodine.
”

  Quint Bodine didn’t move. He crossed his arms. His voice was controlled and smooth even as his anger radiated off him in waves. “You will listen to me, Agent Hammersmith. I’m sure if I call Mr. Jobs, our attorney, he will agree you have no justification for being here, harassing us. Once again, you have no proof my son was involved in any of the kidnappings. You have no reason for coming.”

  Griffin said, “Another sixteen-year-old girl, Linzie Drumm, disappeared today, assumed kidnapped from Whytheville.”

  “That’s Sheriff Cruisie’s town.” Booker looked like he’d been kicked in the gut. He was slowly shaking his head. “Nobody called me. But how could this happen? Everyone was on the alert in this area, parents, all law enforcement. Every family with a daughter should have been watching over her.”

  Quint said, “My son has been here since we brought him home from the hospital. He has not left the house.” He looked at Carson, and his mouth seamed. “What are you doing here?”

  Griffin said over him, “I have questions for him, Mr. Bodine. As I said, I can talk to him here, or I can take him into custody for questioning.”

  Booker laid his hand on his brother’s arm. “It’s okay, Quint. You told me Rafer hasn’t left the house. Cyndia can verify that. Let him speak to Rafer. It doesn’t matter.”

  Quint Bodine didn’t say anything more, simply stepped back. “My wife and Jessalyn are making dinner, so be quick with your questions. I’ll go wake my son.”