Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  She sipped her own tea. “It always surprises me what the Departed have to say to the living, and the living to the Departed. And what they don’t want to say.”

  He watched her rise slowly to her feet and thought again how graceful she was. He agreed with her for a moment that what the Departed would have to say to the living might be surprising. Then he put on the brakes, realized what she’d done. “What did you put in my tea, Zoltan? A psychotropic drug? LSD?”

  She flapped her white hands at him. “Goodness no, Agent Savich. It’s merely my own special blend of herbs, designed to help my clients relax, to put them in an easy state of mind.”

  “Don’t you mean make them more receptive to whatever you say? Did you give the same blend to Rebekah Manvers last night?”

  She studied him. “How very curious. No one has ever noticed anything different about my special tea, except you. There’s nothing to be alarmed about, but that’s not the point, is it?” She walked to the fireplace. She fiddled with an antique andiron, straightened it, and went to stand behind a love seat. “Of course, you think my special tea is some diabolical attempt to manipulate my clients into believing what I want them to believe. That is not it at all. As you can imagine, when people come to me, they’re upset, often in distress. I provide the tea because it helps level them out, calms them, makes them less afraid, if you will. Speaking to the dead isn’t an easy thing to face, Agent Savich. Better, I’ve found, to ease them into it, when they’re a bit more relaxed and calm. If there is communication, it’s far more comfortable for them, and, I’ve learned, less emotional.

  “The fact is, Agent Savich, I’m a simple but lucky woman, well aware of the benefits to others my special gift provides. I could never have imagined such a thing possible before I met Zoltan. I didn’t ask for this gift, nor have I ever lied about any of it. I help grief-stricken people reach their Departed and speak to them. Nothing more, nothing less.” She paused, looked rapt. “Zoltan gave me the keys to his kingdom, Agent Savich.”

  And what did that mean exactly? Savich wanted to ask her, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why. He nodded to Zoltan, picked up the thermos, and walked out. He closed the front door quietly behind him.

  11

  HOOVER BUILDING

  CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT

  FRIDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

  OCTOBER 30

  Denny Roper walked into the CAU carrying the second package at nearly the same time he’d brought the first one. There were more than a dozen agents behind him this time. Roper had clearly gotten the word out when the second package had arrived. Savich, knowing there was no choice, motioned them all into the conference room.

  “It’s the same, marked ‘PERSONAL,’ to you, Savich.” Roper was broadcasting excitement.

  Everyone crowded around as Savich slit open the box and lifted out another red box. “Only a day after the first red box arrived, as expected.” Savich carefully unfolded the red paper. “Either good luck or very fine planning.”

  No one was surprised to see more puzzle pieces. Once they were fitted together and placed above the pieces from yesterday, they showed more buildings, part of a commercial area, but no printed names that could identify them, and a single street sign—Main. There was also more of the ancient pier, the focal point. Was the town on the Potomac? The Chesapeake?

  Agent Davis Sullivan said, “Looks like the wacko added a few more bones, nothing else. And how did he manage to find a time when no one was around to snap a photograph?”

  No one had an answer for that.

  Lucy said, “It has to be a photograph someone took, not a precut puzzle you’d buy. There are tons of companies that take photos you send and make them into puzzles, like Shutterfly. I looked some up. There’s Puzzleyou.com and goodness, even Walgreens does it, pages of them and that’s only here in the U.S.”

  Sherlock said, “The person who’s red-boxing you could even have access to whatever equipment he’d need and make the puzzle himself.”

  Ruth said, “And that would make him as good as invisible. We couldn’t track him.”

  Ollie said, “I’m wondering if there’s more than one person involved, and that means—”

  Shirley finished his sentence. “—the greater the chance of our catching them.”

  Savich looked around at the group of agents. “We have more now, but still not enough. I don’t suppose anyone recognizes this place?”

  To everyone’s surprise, a woman’s voice called out, “Yes, I do. It’s my hometown, St. Lumis, Maryland, on the Delmarva Peninsula, south of Mayo in Anne Arundel County, right on the Chesapeake.” At the blank looks, she added, “Just south of Annapolis. Yes, I’m sure. Growing up, I fished off that pier with my mom for striped bass and red drum.” She paused, added, “But I don’t remember any dead seagulls on the pier or human bones on the sidewalk.”

  Everyone in the conference stared at Agent Pippa Cinelli. She was newly assigned to the CID, the Criminal Investigative Division, one of the recent stars to graduate Quantico. Most everyone was aware of who she was, even if they hadn’t been introduced. She was tall with long blond hair worn in a French braid, green eyes, a looker, no doubt about that. And at the moment, she was munching on a bagel, a dot of cream cheese on her upper lip. She popped the last bit of bagel into her mouth, patted her upper lip with a paper napkin, pulled out her cell, and scrolled through her photos. “Here we go, way back in my archives.” She handed her cell to Savich. “St. Lumis is a destination for weekenders who know the area, mostly. There are nice beaches, good fishing, and it’s rarely too hot in the summer. It’s a cute town, with a few tourist shops. At least that was true seven years ago, the last time I visited.” She smiled. “My family moved to Boston, so no, I don’t have any relatives left in town. Now? I’ll bet it’s probably triple the size.” She stuck out her hand. “We haven’t met, Agent Savich. I’m Agent Pippa Cinelli, Financial Crimes.”

  Savich shook her hand, smiled really big. Did she realize she’d made his day?

  Pippa was looking at the puzzle again. “Everything looks the same. Almost. The person who sent this is seriously disturbed.”

  Agent Davis Sullivan said, “Or crazy like a fox. Why would this wack job send Savich puzzle pieces to put together of your hometown, Cinelli? And with the bones and dead birds? Did something horrific happen there? Something that might have involved Savich personally? Is the puzzle announcing some sort of weird payback?”

  Everyone thought about this. Pippa said, “I can’t remember hearing about anything really bad happening, nothing violent, only what you’d expect—domestic violence, pilfering from local stores, some vagrancy, but no murders. We were neighbors with the chief of police, Barnabas Cosby.” She turned to Savich. “You want me to call, see if he’s still there? See if he can help us?”

  Savich said slowly, “No, hold off. I think the person sending the red boxes doesn’t believe anyone will recognize the location until the puzzle’s complete. This might give us an edge.” He smiled at Sherlock, who’d told him about Cinelli. She’d said they’d sweated together a couple of times in the gym at Quantico, practicing martial arts. She’d told him Cinelli was smart, focused, and as fit as, maybe even stronger than, Sherlock was. She was, Savich thought, just the ticket.

  “Let me give your chief a call, see if I can spring you from Financial Crimes for a couple of days. You interested?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m very interested. I finished up a case only two days ago, so maybe—” She was nearly dancing in place, her eyes sparkling.

  Savich held up a hand. “Everyone, I’m sure we’ll meet here again when the third red box arrives, probably on Monday. Agent Cinelli, come with me. Happy Halloween tomorrow night, everyone.”

  Sherlock gave a little wave as Pippa followed Dillon into his glass-fronted office. Savich pointed Cinelli to a seat, sat behind his desk, and called her unit chief, Jessie Tenley, a hard-nosed veteran, and proceeded to negotiate the quid pro quo for lending Cinel
li to the CAU.

  A deal was struck and it wouldn’t cost Savich a thing, but Agent Griffin Hammersmith probably wouldn’t be too happy to hear about it. Savich grinned. He would tell Griffin to suck it up and take himself to a surprise birthday party for Jessie’s nearly eighteen-year-old daughter, Paige. She’d seen Griffin and begged her mother to introduce her. Well, Griffin could deal with a smitten eighteen-year-old, a whole roomful of eighteen-year-olds. He’d be the highlight of Paige’s birthday party Sunday afternoon. At least Griffin liked cake.

  Savich turned back, studied Cinelli a moment, then stuck out his hand and shook hers. “Agent Cinelli, you’re now a temporary member of the CAU.”

  Pippa’s cell sang out the Black Keys’ “Lo/Hi.” “It’s Agent Tenley.”

  “She’s calling to give you a pep talk. Go ahead and speak to her, and I’ll check on the chief of police to see if he’s still there. Barnabas Cosby, right?” He called the police station in St. Lumis. When he punched off his cell, Pippa had already slipped hers back into the breast pocket of her white shirt.

  Savich said, “Did Jessie give you the gung ho speech?”

  “She told me I was representing her and the unit and suggested I shine bright. The ‘or else’ was unspoken, but understood. Even when Jessie doesn’t say it out loud, she’s still very clear.”

  He grinned. “Here’s the deal in St. Lumis. Chief of Police Cosby retired three years ago. The new chief is Matthew Wilde. Now, Agent Cinelli—”

  “Please, call me Pippa.”

  “Call me either Dillon or Savich.”

  Pippa cocked her head to the side, sending her thick French braid swinging over her shoulder. “Dillon, if that’s okay. It’s what Sherlock calls you. Now, I’ve never heard of a local family called Wilde. He must be an import from outside, new to St. Lumis.”

  “I didn’t ask to speak to him. His dispatcher sounded bored. Give me a minute.” Savich typed Wilde’s particulars into MAX. When he looked up, he was silent a moment. “Matthew Carlton Wilde, age thirty-three. He was a detective in the Philadelphia Police Department for three years, resigned three and a half years ago after one of his team members and his best friend was shot when Wilde was in Cleveland bringing a prisoner back to Philadelphia. To date the murderer has not been identified.”

  Pippa shuddered. “Imagine carrying that memory around with you. I bet he investigated his team member’s killing, couldn’t solve it, and ended up leaving. I wonder how that works, teams rather than partners? No matter. How long has he been chief of police in St. Lumis?”

  Savich looked down, read. “About three years.”

  “Talk about making a big change, not only his responsibilities, but the atmosphere, the people, the smallness of St. Lumis compared to Philadelphia.” She paused, then, “Like I told you, when I left, St. Lumis was a quiet town. Seemed like half the people there were visitors during the summer months, but they caused few problems.” She shook her head. “I imagine nothing’s changed. St. Lumis is about as different from Philadelphia as Paris is from Bermuda.”

  She was so hyped, she was very nearly vibrating. Savich could practically see her nerves firing. He said, “Pippa, I want you to go in as a civilian there for Halloween, a short holiday. You can make up your own cover story. See if you can find out why that particular town is part of this bizarre message aimed at me.”

  “You don’t even want me to introduce myself to Chief Wilde? Give him my creds? Tell him to keep it under wraps?”

  He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Not right away. You need to get to know him, assess his value to you if you get into trouble, then maybe yes.”

  Pippa said, “All right, Dillon, I’ll become his new best friend. Luckily, I’ve never done much social media, well, at least since high school. But people could look me up, see I’m an FBI agent. Shouldn’t I use an alias if I want to stay unnoticed?”

  Savich shook his head. “Too much risk someone could recognize you. Since you haven’t advertised you were at Quantico, you should be good for a while. You should be well in place before the person sending the red boxes gets to the point of this puzzle. Email me photos of all the players, and call me with daily updates. And, Pippa, be careful. With all the work this person is doing to set the scene, he could be seriously disturbed. And dangerous.”

  He watched Pippa Cinelli stride out of his office, stop by Sherlock’s station, and give her a light punch on the shoulder. He heard Sherlock laugh, saw them speak for a few moments. He had a gut feeling Cinelli was the right agent for this job. He thought about adding a partner but decided to let Pippa go in alone. From the gleam in her eyes, she wanted to do this, bad.

  He called Jessie Tenley back to get her assessment of Pippa. Tenley said, “It’s early yet, but I have a feeling Pippa’s got the nose, Dillon. She’s a lawyer with an accounting minor from NYU. She can read a financial document and tell you there’s a sentence in paragraph four that could point to the whole scam. She reads people, too, adapts well to the different roles she has to play. From the short time she’s been in my unit, I already know she’s a bulldog. She gets her teeth into something and gnaws away. She knows how to handle herself. I wish she would give more thought to some situations before rushing in, but she’ll learn.

  “A week, Dillon, you’ve got her for a week. That’s the deal. I’ll need her back. The Calypso case is heating up, banking fraud, of course. The bankers involved are funneling money in and out of accounts in the Caymans. I hope Griffin can handle an infatuated eighteen-year-old at her birthday party who very well might puddle at his feet. Or faint. And all her eighteen-year-old friends as well.” Jessie sighed. “Was I ever eighteen?”

  “Don’t worry, Jessie, Griffin’s fast on his feet.”

  “Then maybe he’ll have a chance. A pleasure doing a deal with you. Happy Halloween, Dillon.”

  12

  ST. LUMIS, MARYLAND

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  HALLOWEEN

  Pippa Cinelli pulled her small black-and-white Mini Cooper into the rear gravel lot of Major Trumbo’s B&B on Flounder Court. She’d forgotten how many streets in St. Lumis had fish names. It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, the drive from Washington longer than she’d expected with weekend traffic. She had only a couple of hours before it was dark.

  She lifted her go bag and a single carry-on from the skinny back seat and made her way up the flagstone walkway to a large Victorian house, once owned, she remembered, by the Calder family, and now, evidently, by the Trumbos. It looked prosperous and well-maintained, painted white with blue, green, and yellow trim. A large skeleton hung in a downstairs window, and jack-’o-lanterns lined the sidewalk. She’d snagged the last room available, the honeymoon suite on the third floor. Half the nightly rate was coming out of her own pocket, but she wanted to stay in the very center of town. She was so excited, she was nearly bursting through her skin. This wasn’t about pulling crooks off golf courses, this was about a maniac with a flashy preamble, obviously proud of himself for his originality, proud of the alarm and fear his puzzle would cause. Dead birds? Bones? He was showing off, matching wits with Savich, and now with her. He had set the game in motion with no one watching, no one chancing to see. It was up to her to find out who and why.

  She remembered Halloween was a big deal in St. Lumis, and sure enough, she’d seen dozens of carved pumpkins as she’d driven in, and assorted skulls and goblins adorning some houses and businesses. Most of the town would turn out for the yearly Halloween party at Leveler’s Inn and Conference Center, a local happening as big as the Fourth of July. She’d checked, and the Halloween bash was still being held at Leveler’s Inn. She’d come prepared for the festivities with an ornate Venetian mask, bought two years earlier when she’d visited Las Vegas for a bachelorette party, and a long crimson cloak to go with it. What a fine opportunity to start nosing around.

  She was shown to her honeymoon suite by Mrs. Trumbo, a big woman with silver-and-black skeleton earrings hanging from h
er earlobes and an apron with a picture of a growling red cat on it tied around her substantial middle. She smelled great, and Pippa said so. “Oatmeal cookies?”

  Mrs. Trumbo beamed. “Yes, and wait until you taste one. Just look at me.” Mrs. Trumbo patted her middle. “My special Halloween oatmeal cookies are shaped like ghosts and goblins and monsters. I decorate them all in orange and black—well, the ghosts are white. They’ll be out of the oven in exactly six minutes. Do come down and have one while they’re nice and warm and gooey. I don’t suppose there’s a Mr. Cinelli coming? To make proper use of this marvelous suite?”

  “Sorry, I’m alone, a real shame. This will be my home away from home for a while, maybe a week. I heard about the Halloween party at Leveler’s Inn. Do you go? Will it be fun?”

  “Oh my, yes, it’s always a drunken hoot. I hear it’ll be even bigger this year. Guess what, Ms. Cinelli. I have a special circular bed for you. I’m told it’s all the thing for young people. Me? I think it’s strange, myself, feels like I’m sleeping on a big round cookie.”

  “First time I’ll be sleeping on a round bed,” Pippa said. “I’ll let you know. Thank you, Mrs. Trumbo. I’ll be down as soon as I can for the cookie. Have you been here long?”

  “You know, I lived here, then left, then moved back, and when the Calders left five years ago to retire to Maine, not Florida, I bought the house and turned it into a B&B.” She paused a moment. “My husband, the late Major Trumbo, had thoughts, too, of a B&B, but then he up and died of a heart attack. When you have breakfast tomorrow in the living room, I’ll show you his urn on the mantel, all gold and shiny. So now it’s my B&B, all mine.” She beamed at Pippa. “I had to spend a pretty penny updating the bathroom here. Cut out a utility closet to make it nice and big, and to fit the Jacuzzi tub, large enough for a party, if you ask me.” She sighed. “Major Trumbo would have gotten a kick out of it, poor old geezer.”