Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich took her shoulders in his hands and shook her. “You’ve made it through this, Rebekah. Everything’s all right now, you’re all right. Back away from all the what-ifs. That’s right, breathe slow and easy. Try to relax.”

  Finally, Rebekah was able to dial up a smile for him. She reached up and took his hand, held on tight. “Yes, Rich is wealthy, it’s no secret. Still, why me? This town is filled with wealth. I don’t understand any of this, and that’s the truth.”

  Ben tried to press her, but Savich recognized she was at the end of her tether. He didn’t suggest going to the hospital. What she needed was to get away from this place to somewhere she felt safe. What she needed was her husband and her home.

  Ben’s cell rang out with the theme from the old Hawaii Five-O. When he punched off, he said, “They found the SUV, parked on Hiller, about ten minutes from here. Forensics will go over it. Now, about the syringe.”

  Savich said, “Let me take it to our lab.” He saw Ben was about to protest and added, “The two men attacked a federal employee, and don’t forget attempted kidnapping. Sorry, Ben, that makes it FBI.”

  “Yeah, okay. Why don’t you take Mrs. Manvers home? Keep me in the loop, Savich, all right?”

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  Ben said to Rebekah, “Officer Hill will follow Agent Savich in your car, Mrs. Manvers. I hope I’ll be seeing you again, but just in case.” He handed her his card and walked back to his Malibu.

  Savich said, “Mrs. Manvers, please call your husband. He needs to know what happened, and I’d like to speak with him.”

  “You already agreed to call me Rebekah.” She managed a smile. “Actually, you can call me anything.”

  “I’ll stick with Rebekah. Call your husband now.”

  When she punched off, she said, “Joy, his secretary, said she’d get him right away.”

  “Good.” Savich had also called to give his regrets to Ambassador Black and Davis. He kept a close eye on Rebekah as he drove her home in Kalorama Heights. He said, “Who knew you were meeting your daughter-in-law at her house for lunch?”

  Rebekah turned her head to face him. “Most everyone who was invited, I guess, and my partner, Kit Jarrett, not to mention my husband, his senior aide, Daniel Drake, and most of the people in his family. Not good, I know. It seems everyone knew where I was going to be.” She sighed, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. “I didn’t park at Celeste’s house. I parked a block away because there were so many cars. I guess that decision didn’t work out so well.”

  “You’re right, of course. The two men were following you. Your parking on the street gave them their chance, and they took it.”

  Surprisingly, she gave him a small grin. “It’s got to be the only time in my married life I wish I’d been parked at my daughter-in-law’s house.” Then, “I think I know who you are. You’re Sarah Elliott’s grandson. I’ve seen your amazing whittled pieces in the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown. Your grandmother—her painting The Flanders Market Place has been one of my favorites for as long as I can remember.”

  “Thank you. I have my favorite painting of hers hanging over my fireplace.” Because the insurance company didn’t want him to give away which painting it was, he didn’t say more.

  By the time Savich drove into the Manverses’ driveway on Belmont Road NW, she’d told him, somewhat unwillingly, he’d thought, about her visit the previous night to a medium named Zoltan who’d tried to convince her she’d spoken with her dead grandfather. She didn’t give him any details, said only the medium had to be a fake, and shook her head. He wondered if she’d told her husband any more. And why hadn’t she wanted to tell him? Perhaps the medium visit was a coincidence, but he would look into it.

  He met with Congressman Manvers, went through what had happened one more time as Rebekah added details, and listened to the congressman’s shock, then his outrage and demands the FBI make this their top priority. Since Manvers was a politician, he was naturally concerned about the media and what would happen if news of Rebekah’s attempted kidnapping got out, as of course it would. It was doubtless the main topic of conversation at Celeste Manvers’s luncheon. “Agent Savich, what would you suggest we do?”

  “I’d make a statement immediately, sir, explain what happened, and ask anyone with any information to call the FBI hotline.”

  Later that afternoon, Rebekah answered the door to the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. From behind her, Kit whistled. “I don’t care what you’re selling, I want a dozen. Maybe two dozen. Please come in.”

  He gave them a gorgeous white-toothed smile. “Actually, I’m not selling anything today. I’m Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith. Agent Savich asked me to come over and keep an eye on you, Mrs. Manvers. And he wants to know if you’ve thought of anything more to help us find whoever’s responsible for what happened to you.”

  6

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  HOOVER BUILDING

  CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT (CAU)

  THURSDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

  Denny Roper from Security appeared in Savich’s office with a large box in his hands. “Good day, Savich. This box just came over from Facilities and Logistics, cleared for delivery to you. It looked more than a little interesting, as it’s addressed to you as ‘PERSONAL’ in big black letters, so I offered to bring it to you myself. You never know what some fruitcake might have sent you. I had to bring those two guys from Security with me. They want to see what’s inside, too.”

  The four CAU agents working in the office today were just as interested in what had come in the package addressed to Savich personally, and followed Savich, Roper, and the men from Security into the conference room. Sherlock and Ruth weren’t due back from Norfolk until later. Savich set the plain brown paper–wrapped box on the conference room table, Denny at his elbow. He pointed. “You can see it was mailed here in Washington three days ago, got diverted to our Cheverly facility to be checked out, and then delivered here. Funny size, about a foot square.” He turned to Ollie Hamish, Savich’s second-in-command. “Any bets on what’s inside?”

  “Maybe it’s a baby gift you ordered for me, Dillon,” Agent Lucy McKnight said. “A monitor to sing lullabies?”

  There was laughter as Savich took the knife Denny handed him, slit through the tape, and peeled away the paper wrapper. They stared at a blood-red box inside. Blood-red? If someone wanted to make a statement, it was exactly the right shade of red. And addressed to him personally. He wondered if maybe the techs at Cheverly had missed something dangerous, but as far as he knew, nothing had ever gotten past them. He lifted the lid.

  Matching red wrapping paper was folded around what was inside. Savich carefully lifted it all out and laid it on the table. The box didn’t weigh much and the contents were solid but thin, like cardboard. Shirley, the unit secretary, all-purpose confidante, and logistics expert, joined them and looked with interest at the red wrapping paper so neatly folded in front of them.

  Agent Davis Sullivan said, “I was hoping for a severed finger or a kneecap, disguised to fool the X-ray.”

  “Disguised how?” Shirley asked, an eyebrow arched. “You mean like dipped in French’s mustard?”

  There was laughter again, but then everyone’s attention returned to the red wrapping paper. Denny rubbed his hands together. Savich didn’t think there were any people on earth more naturally curious—or nosy, depending on your point of view—than cops: federal, state, local, didn’t matter, it was a job requirement.

  He opened the paper and saw an eight-by-eleven piece of thick blank cardboard, puzzle pieces scattered over it.

  Savich started to fit the pieces together. With so many hands eager to help, the puzzle pieces soon formed the beginnings of a photograph—water lapping against pilings, a long, ancient wooden pier with spindly wooden legs sticking out of the water to hold its banged-up slats. There was a sidewalk, a rather narrow street, and the hint of buildings, some wood, some stone, some brick. There were no people, no s
igns, no animals, nothing to identify the location, no shadows to indicate the time of day. Savich moved the grouped pieces over to cover the bottom third or so of the cardboard.

  Lucy McKnight elbowed herself closer without a problem. She was six months pregnant, though at first glance you’d guess maybe three months, so no one got in her way. “A town on the water. What town? What is that body of water? It gives the impression of being old, well-established. Look at that rickety pier. Does it look familiar to anyone?” She drew a big breath and stared at the assembled agents around the table. “It’s kind of hard to miss the line of dead seagulls on the pier, and aren’t those human bones on the sidewalk?”

  Davis Sullivan said, “Maybe it’s some kind of warning, or threat. And the box was addressed directly to Savich, marked ‘personal.’ ”

  Denny said, “I don’t like this, Savich. A bunch of dead birds and bones. What do you think it means?”

  Mr. Maitland’s deep voice sounded behind Lucy. “What’s this all about, Savich? Some goofball’s sending you a freaking puzzle? And it’s taking this whole roomful of brains to fit the pieces together?”

  Savich nodded to Mr. Maitland, his boss, now standing beside Lucy, both of them bent over to see the puzzle better. Like with pregnant Lucy, no one got in his way, either. Not even when he cut the taco line in the cafeteria, claiming an urgent meeting, and no one believed him.

  “Yes, they helped, and the ‘freaking puzzle’ shows the bottom third of a town. And dead birds and bones. Nothing obvious yet. No one knows what town it is.”

  Savich shook out the red wrapping paper. It looked new, as did the red box. There was nothing else, no identifying marks on the box.

  Mr. Maitland pointed. “I’ll bet people have fished off that old pier for more years than we’ve been on this earth. It looks like those dead gulls were carefully lined up along that pier and the human bones arranged just so on the sidewalk. And no one’s around. That’s odd, too.”

  Savich said to the group, “A third of a puzzle, meant to be a teaser. We can shortly expect another red box with more puzzle pieces for us to fit together. I hope there aren’t any more human remains—”

  “Or whole bodies,” Lucy said.

  “Take photos and show them on our network. See if anyone in the building knows this waterside town. When the next box arrives—and it will come soon—Denny, would you please bring it to us yourself?”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Denny said.

  Mr. Maitland stepped back to let agents snap photos with their phones. He said to Savich, “Always something interesting going on in your unit, but this isn’t why I’m here. Come with me. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  When he and Mr. Maitland were alone in his office, Savich said, “That red box, I expected something horrific right off the bat, but this has some subtlety to it.” He paused. “Well, subtle for now, anyway. I’ll bet you when Denny arrives with the second red box, he’ll have agents from all over the building with him.”

  “You’d win that bet,” Maitland said. “Let’s hope it’s only a crazy and not a real threat to you.”

  Savich shrugged. “Whoever it is, this is his show for now. He wants to preen, show me how clever he is. Bones and dead birds?”

  Mr. Maitland said, “Trouble is, the finale of his show might be to drop a hammer on your head. You know that, right?”

  Savich nodded. Yes, he knew it was very possible.

  Mr. Maitland stretched out his legs and studied Savich’s face. “Whoever this is, he went to a lot of trouble. If he escalates, you’ll find out soon enough why you’re in his crosshairs. Use all the resources you need to get on top of this. We don’t know if this wacko is serious.”

  Savich nodded again.

  “Hey, Goldy told me Sherlock’s memory is one hundred percent intact again. That’s a huge relief.”

  Savich smiled and heaved a big breath. “An understatement. There are no more holes, no more questions or uncertainties. Her very fine brain and all her memories are once again with us.” He paused. “It took nearly two months for all the empty pockets to fill in. Sean never realized his mother couldn’t remember him, and for that we’re profoundly grateful.”

  Mr. Maitland sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. He said, “Halloween’s right around the corner. I remember some years ago now, my four boys got all dressed up like Freddy Krueger and scared the crap out of most of our neighbors when they opened their doors. June and I tried not to be amused. The four Freddy Kruegers came home loaded with candy, doubtless from extortion. What’s Sean going to be this year?”

  “Captain Corbin. Astro will be his sidekick, Orkett.” At Mr. Maitland’s blank look, Savich grinned. “A children’s series. Corbin hunts down crooks in the galaxy, and Orkett, his dog, eats oatmeal cookies and gets him out of tight spots. Now, sir, I presume you’re here to talk more about Mrs. Manvers’s attempted kidnapping today?”

  “I guess you didn’t see Congressman Manvers on TV this morning. He gave an account of his wife’s attack and asked for information. I was impressed. He acted quickly, he was straightforward, and he delivered a clear message. Viewers will empathize with him since they could see he was quite upset by what happened.” Mr. Maitland began to drum his fingertips on his chair arm.

  “All right, sir. So there’s more. Talk to me.”

  7

  Mr. Maitland sat forward, clasped his hands between his knees. “Yes, I have something more to tell you. Turns out Arlan Burger, President Gilbert’s new chief of staff, has been one of Congressman Manvers’s best friends since their Loyola days back in the eighties. Manvers happened to tell Burger about his wife going to a séance to speak to her dead grandfather last night, and now Burger knows about her attempted kidnapping, too. Have the lab and forensics reported in yet?”

  “Ben Raven told me they found the SUV with the exploded back tire, parked on a side street in Chevy Chase, not far from where the two men tried to take her. As of yet our FBI forensic team hasn’t reported finding anything useful in the SUV. It was stolen, as we thought. The lab just got back to me about the syringe. It was ketamine. It would have knocked her out almost immediately. They didn’t want to kill her, only take her fast, with little fuss. I’ve assigned Griffin to babysit Mrs. Manvers until we get a handle on motive, and the congressman plans to stay close to her.”

  Mr. Maitland nodded. “It could be a kidnapping for ransom of a rich young wife, but a congressman’s wife? Oh yes, Burger told me the wife has a healthy bank account herself, thanks to a legacy from her grandfather, John Clarkson. So there’s money on both sides. You’re too young to remember John Clarkson. He was also a congressman, Clarkson from the Richmond area. He was quite a bigwig back in the day, had the nickname of Methodist, didn’t hang it up until after the turn of the century.”

  “How did he die?”

  “All I know for sure is he was in a coma for years before his body finally shut down only about a month ago. His funeral was very well attended.” Mr. Maitland sat forward. “Tell me about this medium last night.”

  Savich said, “As I told you, Mrs. Manvers did tell me she went to a séance, but she went tight-lipped when I wanted to know more about it, and for no reason I can think of.”

  Mr. Maitland said, “I know this business of talking to dead folks is claptrap, but still, I’d have liked to be a fly on the wall at that séance last night.”

  “Actually, I would have, too,” Savich said.

  “Tell me, how did Congressman Manvers react to the news of his wife’s attempted kidnapping?”

  “He expressed shock, disbelief, and finally gratitude.” Savich grinned. “He promised never to bad-mouth the FBI again.”

  Mr. Maitland laughed. “I don’t suppose it’s possible Manvers hired the kidnappers, despite his excellent plea for help on TV? I mean, did you see anything off between them?”

  Savich shook his head. “No, only affection. He kept her very close throughout the retelling
. Well, he is a politician, practiced in dissembling, but he seemed legitimately upset at what had happened.” He shrugged. “It’s early. Maybe I’m wrong about him. We’ll see. As I said, Griffin is keeping an eye on her and of course interrogating the household.” He rubbed his thumb over his chin. “My gut tells me her attempted kidnapping is connected to the séance last night, maybe even as a direct result. I’m wondering if I should talk to Rebekah Manvers again, urge her to tell me exactly what Zoltan had to say to her last night, or see Zoltan first?”

  “I know you, you’ll see the medium first.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  Mr. Maitland gave Savich a fat smile. “I’m sure you’ll do both, boy-o. Chief of Staff Burger is counting on you.” He was pleased, Savich knew, to take the matter off his own hands and put it firmly in his.

  Mr. Maitland rose. “Lots of moving parts here, Savich, maybe unrelated, who knows? Keep me informed.”

  Savich watched his boss make his way through the unit, pausing here and there to touch base with the agents. He saw Mr. Maitland speak to Sherlock, who had just arrived, more than likely about the Beach Killer case she was working on with Ruth in Norfolk, Virginia. The Beach Killer was the moniker the media had tagged to the man who’d murdered several young women and left their bodies on the beach near the high tide mark, covering them in sand, with only their faces visible. Sherlock gave Savich a wave and started speaking with Ollie, no doubt to fill him in on the new information they’d brought back from the Norfolk police. They’d update him about the Norfolk case soon enough.

  Savich turned to MAX. There were thousands of hits about Rebekah’s grandfather, Congressman John “Methodist” Clarkson from Clairemont, Virginia. Savich scrolled through them quickly until he found an odd news story and stopped. It was a story about Clarkson’s close friend Nate Elderby, a criminal defense attorney who’d drowned in 1995 while out fishing alone on Dawg Creek, the local fishing hole where the two men often spent lazy afternoons together. He read the rumors about how Nate had drowned—speculation about a marriage gone sour, bad feelings between the good friends. Police investigated and concluded Nate Elderby drank too many Buds, fell overboard, and drowned. The locals said Clarkson was usually with him, but he claimed he wasn’t that day. He was a powerful congressman, so surely he couldn’t have been involved, said the police, much less murdered his best friend. But it appeared the gossip didn’t go away. Savich sat back, his gut doing the rumba. Could this Nate Elderby, long dead, have anything to do with what was happening now?