Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  She managed a smile. “I know I look like I’ve been mugged, but I’m basically okay. There is a problem, though. The man who did this—he’s wearing a black hoodie—is probably looking for me. Could I come in, and can we lock all the doors and windows? And maybe I can borrow your cell phone? Black Hoodie took mine.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, slammed the door. “What? My cell phone?”

  “Yes, Black Hoodie took mine. He also took both my Glocks and my creds. I escaped and must have just missed him coming back to the building where he tied me up. Like I said, he’s probably out there, looking for me.”

  He started to say something, then shook his head. “No, Gunther, stay down.” Pippa was hit with another wave of dizziness and grabbed the closest thing—his arm.

  “Whoa, you need a doctor.”

  “No, no, give me a second. I’ll be fine. I’m a bit concussed is all.” The dizziness passed, and Pippa straightened. She saw she’d gotten blood on his sleeve. “Please lock the front door, Chief. He must be out there, maybe close, watching the house. I’m sorry I got blood on you.”

  “Don’t worry about the blood. Stay put.” He drew his Beretta and went outside, closing the door behind him. Pippa stood there, tense, afraid Black Hoodie would shoot him. Minutes rolled by. Finally, he was back. He locked the front door, slid the dead bolt home. “No one’s around that I could see. We’re all secure. Come with me to the kitchen, and I’ll see if I can fix you up while you tell me what happened to you.”

  “I really do hate to lay this on you, Chief, but I was ordered to come to see you if I got myself into trouble. And I did.”

  He came to a standstill. “Ordered? Who are you?”

  “I’m Special Agent Pippa Cinelli, FBI. Ah, I really need to borrow your cell phone right now. My boss has got to be worried I didn’t check in. He isn’t going to like this at all. Could you please shut off the living room light? Just in case he’s snuck up on the house?”

  She was a fricking FBI agent? Why would the FBI send an agent to St. Lumis? What was going on? Why hadn’t she identified herself Saturday night at the Halloween party? Par for the course, the federal yahoos hadn’t bothered to alert him, to give him any warning at all. He’d find out why soon enough, but first things first.

  A moment later, they stood in the dark and he was speaking to the single deputy she’d seen in the police station. “Yes, I want you to patrol around my house, make a circuit of the neighborhood, call me immediately if you see anyone, specifically a man in a black hoodie.” He punched off, said, “All right, let’s go to the kitchen.”

  Wilde took her arm, led her down a short, dark hallway, and flipped a light switch. He walked her into a roomy, old-fashioned kitchen with dark cabinets and scarred granite surfaces that were, to her surprise, covered with gleaming modern appliances. Blue wallpaper with huge hydrangea blooms covered the walls. The room was cozy, welcoming, and warm. He sat her down at an old oak table topped with a mason jar filled with daisies, a small basket of napkins, and old-fashioned glass salt and pepper shakers. Why was she paying attention to any of that? To distract from her fear? She rose and walked to the back door, locked it. She pulled the curtains over the three kitchen windows. “Chief Wilde, would you please turn on the hall light and turn this one off? He could still see us through the windows.”

  Wilde said nothing, did as she asked. When he came back, she was again seated at his table. He said, “Could you identify this man looking for you? This Black Hoodie?”

  “Unfortunately, no, only his profile, really, but I got the impression he was on the younger rather than middle-aged side.”

  “All right. Stay seated. You’re safe here.”

  Pippa started to pick up the salt shaker, realized her hand was bloody, and pulled it back. “My hands—I didn’t realize I’d cut them so badly.” She looked up at him, blinked. “You see, my hands were tied behind me, so I had to cut myself loose on a sharp hook.”

  He said, “I should take you to our urgent care facility.”

  “No, please, I’d rather not leave here. I don’t think the cuts are bad enough to need stitches. But the blade was filthy, and I need to clean them. Do you have a first-aid kit?”

  He stared at her hands a moment, slowly nodded. “All right. I’ll get it and some hot water.” He looked down. “What’s this? Your head—”

  “He struck my head twice with his gun. There’s only a bump and a bit of blood. Nothing, really.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll get the blood out of your hair, see what we’ve got. And in the meantime you can talk to me, Ms.—Special Agent Cinelli.”

  “First I have to call my boss.”

  28

  Chief Wilde handed Pippa his cell. She picked up a paper napkin, wrapped it around her bloody hand, and dialed.

  “Chief Wilde?”

  “No, Dillon, it’s me, Pippa. I had to borrow Chief Wilde’s cell.”

  “You’re all right, Pippa?”

  “Yes, a bit on the ragged side, but okay. I’m at Chief Wilde’s cottage. It looks like I’ve stirred up the hornet’s nest, though I have no idea how anyone could have found out who I am or why I’m here so fast.”

  “Tell me what happened. Put it on speaker so the chief can hear everything, too.”

  As she spoke, Chief Wilde listened and Gunther moved closer, snuggled his head on her leg, and looked up at her with unwavering eyes, his waving tail metronome steady on the wooden floor. “I checked the police station and saw the dispatcher working a crossword puzzle, bundled up to his ears. Since you weren’t there,” she added, looking up at Wilde, “I came here.” She gave no hint of the grinding fear she’d felt, of running until she thought she’d vomit, her side on fire.

  Savich heard Wilde say, “Davie always feels cold, even in July, drives everyone nuts.”

  Savich said, “You’re still with me, and that’s what’s important. I didn’t expect you’d be attacked. I’m on my way to you. Chief, be honest and tell me how bad her injuries are.”

  Pippa started to reassure him, but Wilde shot her a look. “Her hands are bloody from cutting herself loose from some ropes, and her head’s bloody from being struck. I’ve just started examining her and cleaning her up. She doesn’t want to hear about any doctors. Yes, I already looked around outside and didn’t see anyone, and I’ve got Davie cruising the neighborhood. You should come directly to my house, 107 Upper Marlin Road.”

  Pippa said, “I’m all right, Dillon, I promise. No dizziness, no nausea, only a headache. After the chief bandages me up, I imagine he’ll want to know what the FBI is doing here in St. Lumis. Do you want me to tell him? From the beginning?”

  A pause, then, “Yes, there’s no way to keep him out of it now. If Chief Wilde believes you should visit the hospital, then you’re going, and that’s an order. All right, Pippa?”

  “Yes, but really, I’m okay. And I’m sorry, Dillon, I messed up—”

  “Be quiet, Pippa. You were right to involve the chief. He had a good close rate as a homicide detective at the PPD, so he’s competent.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Wilde said, “but it seems you know a hell of a lot more about me than I know about your agent here.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you’ll back it up,” Savich said. “Go ahead, Pippa, tell him everything. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Pippa punched off Wilde’s phone and handed it back to him. “Agent Savich drives a Porsche. Now he has a good reason to speed all the way from Washington to St. Lumis. I bet he’ll use his flashers.”

  “A cop drives a Porsche? That’s something I haven’t heard before.”

  “It’s red.”

  He didn’t laugh. He filled a stainless-steel bowl with hot water and opened a fresh bar of soap. She could tell he was pissed even though he was gentle when he lifted her hands into the water and washed both hands and wrists.

  “You’ve got a dozen small nicks from the very likely rusted blade. And your w
rists are bruised from the ropes. Hang in there, I know this hurts. I hope you’ve had your tetanus shot.”

  She nodded, but otherwise she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. She saw the water turning red with her blood. She drew a deep breath and looked up at Wilde. “I’d have thought you’d drive a truck, say a Silverado or an F-150.”

  “I traded in my truck when I came to St. Lumis. Now I drive that old compact outside. Easier to park, draws less attention. I’m going to call a doctor I know, see if he’ll think you need some antibiotics. No, be quiet.” When he finished cleaning both hands, he wrapped white gauze bandages around her palms and wrists, but left her fingers free. “Now, talk, Agent Cinelli, while I clean those bloody bumps on your head.”

  Pippa moved her fingers, stiff but workable. “Thank you. I don’t need a doctor poking around. Really, I’m fine, only banged up a bit. Listen now, it all started when a red box addressed personally to Agent Dillon Savich arrived at the Hoover Building on Thursday, filled with puzzle pieces.” She repeated how she’d recognized St. Lumis when the second red box had arrived on Friday and that was why Agent Savich had assigned her to come here. “Agent Savich wanted me to find out what was going on. I planned on cozying up to people who knew me back when, striking up conversations and asking questions, finding out if anything unusual has been happening here in St. Lumis. I haven’t met many people who remember me yet, but I’ve only been here two days. Here’s the thing, though: someone already knows I’m an FBI agent and came after me. That’s what’s surprising. I don’t know how anyone found out I’m FBI so quickly.”

  Wilde said, “Not much of a stretch with the Internet and social media. Someone could have looked you up, saw you’re FBI.”

  “When I was accepted to the FBI, I was told to keep who I was and what I did under the radar. I laid down the law with my friends and relatives. As far as I know, no one has posted anything about my being an agent. I certainly haven’t. I’m also a lawyer, and that’s what anyone would find if they looked. Sure, they could have looked deeper, but why would they?”

  He said nothing and began pulling her hair away from where the gun had struck her. She felt warm water run over the bumps, felt him pressing against them lightly with a wet towel. Her breath caught, and her eyes watered. He said, “Sorry, I’ll be more careful. Keep talking, it’ll be a distraction.”

  Pippa gritted her teeth and told him about what she’d found in Maude’s Creepy Puzzles. “If the third installment of puzzle pieces arrived today, I’ll bet Major Trumbo is hanging out that window, looking just as nasty and mean, but changed somehow. I still have no idea how all this fits together. But obviously there’s someone playing with the FBI, with Savich in particular, and this someone is very serious. Look how they found out about me”—she snapped her fingers—“that fast.” She sighed. “We’d hoped to have a leg up when I identified St. Lumis early.” She looked up at him. “It didn’t work out that way.” She flinched.

  “Sorry. Hang in there. I’m going to daub some antibiotic ointment on your scalp. There’s only a little blood left in your hair. If Dr. Salovitz thinks it’s all right, you can soap it out. Keep talking, Cinelli.”

  She told him about the old abandoned grocery store with its rows of rusted shelves, and how she was attacked by Black Hoodie when she went to investigate.

  “You said you only saw some of his profile, that he was youngish, slender, wearing loose jeans and a black hoodie.”

  She paused, frowned. “Yes, that’s right, and I saw him talking on a cell phone. Too bad I couldn’t hear what he said.”

  Wilde said, “He doesn’t sound like a local, but I can’t be one hundred percent sure. Whoever he is, he’s got to know I’m armed. And my deputy can be here in under a minute for backup. So I don’t think he’ll be hanging around.”

  He inspected his handiwork and nodded. “I’ve gotta say, I haven’t been this surprised since I left Philadelphia. Do you or Agent Savich have any guesses as to what this is all about?”

  Pippa flexed her fingers again. She said slowly, “No, except that someone seems to have a hate on for Agent Savich.”

  He smiled. “I’m just now realizing how much I’ve missed real police work. Okay, now we wait for Agent Savich.”

  29

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  KALORAMA HEIGHTS

  MANVERS HOUSE

  MONDAY NIGHT

  Rebekah Manvers sat on the white wall-to-wall carpeting in her bedroom, a large, well-appointed room furnished with nineteenth-century English antiques and an enormous sleigh bed. She pulled the last envelope from the rubber-banded pile of letters in her girlhood keepsake box, a gift from her grandfather for his letters to her.

  She wasn’t finding anything useful. The letters were loving, but mostly chitchat about his work in Congress and whatever new bills he was hoping to pass to help his district. She eyed the last envelope, a birthday card, which birthday she couldn’t remember. She did remember the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill she’d found tucked inside, a fortune for a little kid, and felt her long-ago excitement. She remembered her mother telling her it was going into her college fund. She’d sulked, but she never could budge her mother when she was set on something. She pulled out the card—a dog jumping off the end of a pier, about to splash into the water, a Frisbee in its mouth.

  She read:

  Happy Birthday, my beautiful girl.

  Here you are, already quite the reader. On your birthday I find myself wondering where life will take you. Things happen in life, things you don’t expect, things you are forced to face and deal with. Even though you were small, I know you felt very sad for me when my best friend, Nate Elderby, died. It still hurts me. We had so many years together. As it turned out, in the end he wasn’t the lucky one. I was. Ah, but that’s not important; you’re what’s important to me now, and always.

  My sweetheart, there will come a time when you outgrow my stories, but don’t forget I made them up only for you. Remember them and the promises we made to each other. You must always keep your promises. And now, a final bit of advice: When you grow up, stay in charge of your life. It’s yours alone, no one else’s.

  My love forever, Rebekah,

  Your Grandfather

  She looked up to see Griffin holding out his hand for the birthday card. She handed it to him. “You’re only the second person in the world who’s read that card or any of his letters. Grandfather made me promise I wouldn’t share them. I didn’t even let my mother read them. That birthday card—he writes about his stories, about his friend Nate and my promises. I think he was reminding me about the poem he had me memorize, the poem he made me promise not to tell anyone. Yesterday, I told Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock, and of course Kit, the poem. I suppose Agent Savich told it to you?”

  “Yes, he did. He also told me to keep it close.” Griffin opened the birthday card, looked it over. “The poem seems a major clue, but you have no idea what it means?”

  “No, it’s quite mysterious. At least he was clear in the poem about hiding something.”

  “And his telling you to keep the rhyme secret. I wonder what he meant about the key being in his head?”

  Rebekah shrugged. “So do I. Actually, I don’t know if I even want to figure it out. I don’t want any stolen money, especially if it was Grandfather’s, and I’ll have no part in ruining my grandfather’s legacy.”

  He raised his head, looked at her straight on. “I wonder what Nate Elderby did? Rebekah, do you have any idea?”

  She said, keeping her voice emotionless, “I was a little kid when he drowned. Of course I don’t know. I know Agent Savich wonders if Grandfather might even have killed Elderby, but I can’t believe that. I won’t believe that. Do you?”

  Griffin tapped the card against his palm. “I’m sorry, Rebekah, but if I had to guess, I’d say he might have. Can you speak to your grandmother about this?”

  “If I even brought it up gently, innocently, my grandmother would fry my liver. I can’t
remember a time she ever liked me. Even when I was little, I knew she hated to be around me, but it didn’t bother me because I had Grandfather and my mother. Once, my mother told me to ignore her. When I was older, I wondered if she was jealous of the bond between Grandfather and me.” Rebekah shrugged. “That sounds petty, but it’s all I’ve got. Even at Grandfather’s funeral last month she was distant. It was obvious she didn’t want anything to do with me. When she had to speak to me, she never looked directly at me. The staff at the Mayfield Sanitarium told me she very rarely visited. Why not? I don’t know.”

  “What are you two doing up here?”

  Congressman Richard Manvers stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at them—no, he was staring at Griffin, his hands fisted at his sides.

  Griffin and Rebekah were sitting on the floor facing each other, a pile of letters between them, Griffin still holding the last one.

  Rebekah jumped to her feet. “Rich, you’re early. If you’d called, Agent Hammersmith could have gone home.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Griffin got slowly to his feet. He knew instantly, of course, Manvers was pissed because Griffin was alone with his wife in their bedroom. It hadn’t even occurred to him when Rebekah waved him in that it was inappropriate. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced a pissed-off husband or boyfriend. It seemed there was always suspicion whenever he was within three feet of a woman. Get it through your brain, Hammersmith. Never go into a woman’s bedroom, no matter the reason. Well, unless it’s at gunpoint.

  He said easily as he got to his feet, “Good evening, Congressman. Mrs. Manvers and I were reading letters written to her by her grandfather. They’re very interesting. In this last one he mentions his best friend, Nate, and how he, Nate, wasn’t the lucky one.” Griffin held out the card to Manvers. Griffin said nothing more. Rebekah said nothing, either, but her face was flushed.