Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  Manvers quickly read the card, looked down at the pile of letters on the white carpet, and slowly, he eased. He stepped forward and took his wife’s hand, brought her close against him, and kissed her cheek. Then he smiled at her and read the birthday card again. “I don’t understand. What is this all about?”

  Griffin said, confiding now, man-to-man, “I think it’s time to add your own thoughts to this mystery, sir. Rebekah, tell your husband about Nate Elderby.”

  Manvers cocked an eyebrow. “Nate Elderby?”

  “I was very little when Nate died, and honestly I don’t remember him, even though he must have been around a lot. Rich, do you remember what happened?”

  “The police ruled Elderby was drinking, fell overboard, and drowned. Why the interest now?”

  Rebekah said, “I’m not sure. It’s sort of like a blank canvas I’m trying to fill in. Rich, after those two men tried to kidnap me, I wanted to do something, to help somehow. That’s why I’m showing Agent Hammersmith my grandfather’s letters. I hoped we might find something.” She shrugged. “But probably not.”

  Griffin said, “Do you know of any trouble between the two men back in the nineties? Any idea what her grandfather meant by Nate not being lucky?”

  Manvers said, “No, I don’t remember his ever talking about Nate with me, but it’s possible I’ve forgotten. It was a long time ago.” He looked down at his wife and lightly kissed her cheek. “Believe me, sweetheart, after you told me about your séance with Zoltan, I’ve given your grandfather a lot of thought. I honestly don’t know if this Big Take was real, but maybe when your grandfather wrote that Nate wasn’t lucky, he was referring to this Big Take. Maybe they were partners but then Elderby drowned, leaving your grandfather with the prize, whatever it was. Would that make sense?”

  Rebekah shook her head. She pulled away from her husband and began to pace the bedroom. She paused a moment to straighten an impressionist painting of a field of lavender, a painting she’d selected herself. She looked from Griffin to her husband. “I remember clearly that Grandfather was devastated when Nate died. Even as young as I was, I remember him crying. Could the two of them have stolen a huge amount of money?”

  Manvers said, “I trust not, but all we can do now, Rebekah, is to keep you safe until the authorities find out who attacked you.”

  Rebekah thought of the poem and her promise to her grandfather. She only nodded.

  When Griffin left a few minutes later, Manvers was holding Rebekah, stroking her hair. Griffin heard him say, “I’m so sorry about all this, Rebekah. I know Thursday was terrifying for you. But I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

  Griffin started to call Savich but decided his boss and Cinelli had enough on their plates at the moment. He was surprised when he realized he was driving toward the Savich house in Georgetown, but he didn’t stop. Something was nagging at him. He dialed Sherlock. On the third ring, she said, “Griffin? What time is it? Oh goodness, it’s not all that late. I was wiped out and went to bed early, out like a light. What’s up?”

  He felt foolish and guilty for waking her. Nothing was wrong. “Sorry I woke you, but with Savich gone, I guess I wanted to check in with you, make sure everything was all right. I’m close by if there’s anything you need.”

  She laughed. “I’m fine without Dillon for a night. Hey, maybe even two nights.” She paused, and he could picture her smiling into her cell phone. “I’m okay, Griffin. Thank you for checking.”

  In that instant, he heard a sound blast, a loud whoosh, like a giant grill lighting. He knew that sound. “Sherlock, there’s a fire starting at your house. Get out now! I’m calling 911. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Go!”

  30

  ST. LUMIS

  CHIEF WILDE’S COTTAGE

  MONDAY NIGHT

  Savich, Pippa, and Chief Wilde sat in the cozy living room dominated by an oversize ancient sofa, both ratty and charming. Pippa laughed and pointed. “Your mom? Grandmother?”

  “Actually, my great-uncle Marlbury’s third wife, Irene. Yeah, I know it’s chintz, that’s the word she used.” He shrugged. “I haven’t gotten around to buying much of anything new.” He stared at the sofa, realizing he’d been in St. Lumis three years and hadn’t even tried to make this rented cottage his home. What he’d been doing was marking time. And for what?

  He walked to the fireplace and set a match to the wadded-up newspapers he’d stuffed between logs. He rose, wiped his hands on his jeans. “The fire should get going soon. Odd how quick it’s turned into November.”

  He looked at the two FBI agents drinking coffee in his living room and marveled at what life could dish up with no warning at all. He’d told Cinelli the truth. The red box, the puzzle pieces of St. Lumis, the attack on her—he hadn’t realized how much he missed feeling the excitement, the beating pulse of real police work. He hadn’t felt anything like that since he’d left Philadelphia. He looked over at Agent Cinelli, at the drying clumps of hair still sticky with her blood. Her thick French braid was in bad shape, long blond hanks hanging around her face. Every few minutes she shoved the hair behind her ears only to have it slither back. At least she didn’t need stitches. He’d pulled the skin together with butterfly strips. He looked at her hands, covered with ointment and wrapped in soft gauze. Did she feel the same sort of excitement he did after all she’d been through? There was an intense focus in her eyes as she reported to Agent Savich what she’d already told him.

  He said, “I recognize you, Agent Savich. I’ve seen you on TV—the Kirsten Bolger case? Most detectives in the squad room were jealous you’d gotten her and not one of us.”

  Savich smiled. “It was a team effort, always is. She’d kidnapped one of my agents, Cooper McKnight, and he was the one who ended it in Florida. In a tobacco field.”

  “I wish I’d been in on that, too. Sherlock told me how scary it was.” Pippa yawned. “Sorry, guess my exciting day is catching up with me.”

  “No wonder. You sure you don’t want to get checked out, Pippa?”

  She waggled her fingers at Savich. “No, please, Dillon. The chief fixed me up. I’m sorry I screwed up and got myself bashed in the head and made you come out here. All right, don’t blast me. I can see you don’t want any more apologies from me, so no more mea culpas. Sherlock told me you wouldn’t dress me down if something went wrong, you believed your agents bashed themselves enough. You don’t like to pile on.”

  Sherlock had told her that? He said, “You did what I would have done, Pippa. You did well to get away. I don’t imagine your deputy has reported seeing anyone out there, Chief Wilde?”

  “I checked a few minutes ago. Davie hasn’t seen anyone. I think this Black Hoodie will keep his distance tonight.”

  “Now that I’m here, I want to stay awhile,” Savich said, “go back to that old grocery store in the morning with you, Pippa, have you show me exactly what happened, then talk to Maude Filly, look at her puzzles. The third red box arrived today, and the last part of the puzzle was altered. The hotel window Major Trumbo is leaning out of is on fire.”

  Pippa stared at him, said slowly, “That old hotel never burned. Maude may be our best chance to find out what the fire means. As I told you, when I went back to speak to her again, the shop was closed early. I don’t know why, but tomorrow we can sit her down.”

  Savich looked at Wilde. “I hope you’ll join us, Chief. This is your town. You’ll catch anything unusual more easily, maybe point us toward someone who could be involved.”

  A compliment from a Fed. Wilde was surprised, given the few times he’d dealt with the Philadelphia FBI. He hadn’t warmed to them. At all. But both Cinelli and Savich seemed different. “As I told Agent Cinelli, I can’t place Black Hoodie as anyone in town. And if he’s not a local, someone might have spotted him.”

  Pippa said, “Chief, do you have an artist available? I can’t give many specifics since I saw only a part of his profile. When he leaned over me, he didn’t take any chances and pulled a handk
erchief over his nose. But I can try.”

  Wilde said, “Yes, my artist lives in Annapolis. She’s an amateur, usually does flowers, but I saw a charcoal sketch of her son. She’s good.”

  “If you would set her up with me tomorrow first thing, I can work with her, give your officers a general idea of the man to look for. I doubt we’ll be lucky enough for Dillon—Agent Savich—to get enough for facial recognition.”

  “From a drawing? How is that possible?”

  Pippa said, “Dillon and a colleague at Scotland Yard have developed software that can work not only with photographs but with drawings.” She sighed. “But again, I strongly doubt anything will come of what little I saw of his face.”

  How’d she know about that? Savich said, “Still a work in progress, Chief, but it helped on an important case a year or so back. Pippa, I want to go back to Major Trumbo’s B&B with you. I don’t want you alone tonight. I don’t know how secure the B&B is, so if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay in your room.”

  Pippa laughed. “Wait till I tell Sherlock I shared my honeymoon suite with her husband. Did you bring a go bag?”

  Savich shook his head.

  “We’ll ask Mrs. Trumbo if she has an extra toothbrush.” She turned to Wilde. “Do you happen to have an extra gun? Mine’s a Glock nine-millimeter, but a Beretta’s no problem, either. I grew up with one.”

  “I’ve got an old Walther P99, semiautomatic, my grandfather’s.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Savich’s cell rang. He held up a hand. “Sherlock? What’s going on?”

  A second later Savich yelled over his shoulder as he ran to the front door, “Chief, keep Pippa safe here with you.”

  He ran out.

  31

  SAVICH HOUSE

  MONDAY NIGHT

  Gasoline? Did she smell burning gasoline? Didn’t matter. She had to move. Sherlock pulled on jeans, jerked a heavy Redskins sweatshirt over her head, shoved her feet into her sneakers and her Glock in her pants, slipped her cell phone into her jacket pocket, and raced down toward Sean’s bedroom.

  The smoke alarm went off, loud enough to wake the neighborhood. With the warning Griffin had given her, she had a bit more time. Soon after Sean was born, she and Dillon had planned out what to do in case of a fire and practiced every step. But this was different; this was real. It was all up to her. Sean ran out of his bedroom to her, Astro on his heels. “Mama, what’s wrong? What’s that smell? Is it fire? Are we on fire?”

  So much for Sean not understanding. No time to be calm and reassuring. “Yes. Sean, don’t move!” She ran into his bedroom, grabbed the blankets off his bed, and ran back to where he stood, exactly where she’d left him. She wrapped him up, lifted him in her arms, and headed down the hall to the stairs, Astro barking madly at her heels.

  “Mama, I can run by myself.”

  “Let me carry you tonight, sweetheart. Arms around my neck, real tight.” Sherlock double-stepped down the front stairs and luckily didn’t stumble.

  Thick smoke was gushing out of the kitchen, filling the living room, moving fast. Soon the smoke would engulf the house in a choking gray fog. She felt the heat from the flames behind them and pulled the blankets over Sean’s head. She unlocked the front door and ran full tilt out of the house, Astro right beside her, the security alarm blasting an ear-splitting accompaniment to the smoke alarms. She turned and stood panting in the front yard, rocking Sean, Astro hugging her leg, whimpering. She jerked out her cell, punched Dillon’s number. “Dillon, our house is on fire. We’re all right. Hurry!” She heard someone shout her name. She saw Luke Mason, a firefighter, jump off his porch five houses down and race toward her, shrugging into a jacket as he ran. She quickly slipped her cell back into her pocket. He grabbed her arms, did a quick once-over, and pulled back the blankets. “You’re good, Sean, and so’s Astro. You’ll be okay. Your mama was fast. Savich isn’t here?”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “Didn’t matter, you did great. My guys are on the way, another couple of minutes. Hear the sirens? Stay put, Sherlock. I want to check this out.”

  She shouted after him as he ran toward the back of the house, “Someone set the fire!”

  “Sherlock!” It was Thomas Perry from next door.

  Then she remembered. “Thomas, take Sean!”

  Before he could stop her, he had an armful of little boy. Sherlock ran back into the house, her sweatshirt pulled up over her mouth and nose. She didn’t think, didn’t pause, just raced up the stairs into Dillon’s study. She grabbed MAX and raced back down, wheezing from the smoke, thicker with every passing moment. She felt heat pumping out of the kitchen like a blast furnace. She heard the flames crackling, making terrifying sputtering noises, pictured her kitchen, and swallowed convulsively. It’s only a kitchen. Get a grip.

  Sherlock couldn’t believe it when she saw Griffin carefully lifting Dillon’s grandmother’s painting down from above the fireplace. He gave her a manic grin. “Got it. Let’s get out of Dodge!”

  They ran out of the burning house to the sidewalk just as the ear-splitting sirens stopped. Two fire trucks pulled up, one on the street, one on the sidewalk. Firefighters jumped out of the trucks with dizzying speed. In a couple of minutes, they had hoses trained on the back of the house, now lit up like a torch. Thick, arcing streams of water shot into the heart of the fire, turning the flames into smoke that gushed upward like a mushroom cloud. It was like a Bosch painting of hell. A firefighter waved them across the street onto Mr. McPherson’s yard. She saw neighbors pouring out of their houses, those close by grabbing hoses and watering down their roofs. Other neighbors from farther away gathered around Sherlock and Griffin. Mr. McPherson came out of his house to stand beside Sherlock, Gladys at his side, her tail wagging. He was wearing what Sherlock called his Nanook-of-the-North padded coat. He was old and frail, but that didn’t matter. He was there for them, one of his veined hands lightly rubbing Sean’s back, Sean once again in Sherlock’s arms. She heard one neighbor wonder aloud how the insurance company would try to weasel out of paying for damages this time and nearly laughed.

  Sherlock felt immense gratitude at that moment to Griffin for giving her those few extra precious moments. She was light-headed, realized Sean was choking her, his arms tight around her neck. She tickled him, gave him a smacking loud kiss. Sean laughed, music to her ears, but soon he was sucking his fingers, something he hadn’t done in at least three years. She felt his tears against her neck, listened to his little-kid hiccups. She rocked him and softly sang Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” to him.

  When Sean hiccupped a final time, Sherlock turned to Griffin, saw he was grinning. “Good song.”

  She nodded. It was still hard to comprehend, even looking at the flames, that someone had set fire to their house. Someone had wanted to burn it down with them inside. She felt a ball of bile rising in her throat, and swallowed. She took Griffin’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you, Griffin, for calling, you gave me enough time—” She gulped, and her voice fell off a cliff.

  He said nothing, only stared at the flames and the gushing smoke. She looked at the painting plastered against his leg, covered with his own coat. “Thank you for saving Dillon’s painting. He would have been heartbroken if even one of his grandmother’s paintings had burned, but you know he’ll call us both idiots for running back into a burning house.” She sighed. “I guess we are idiots. But can you imagine MAX burning up?”

  Griffin shook his head and moved closer. Together they watched the water winning the battle, but clouds of smoke still spurted upward. She kept rocking Sean, now only whispering the words from “Three Little Birds” against his cheek. He was calmer, no longer sucking his fingers.

  Luke Mason’s teenage daughter had picked up Astro and was cuddling him close by. Mr. McPherson stood straight and tall, one hand on Gladys’s head and the other still lightly stroking Sean’s back.

  It was the weirdest thing. Sherlock felt oddly disconnected from
the burning house in front of her. The rancid smoke, the flames didn’t touch her because it didn’t seem real, but like a fire she’d seen on the news. How could it be her house? How could it be happening? She coughed, and it snapped her back. Her house, Dillon’s house—their home—was burning. And it wasn’t an accident. She began shaking. Someone had wanted to kill them.

  She heard the neighbors talking, getting organized. Mrs. Rodgers, a neighbor three houses down, handed her and Griffin a glass of water each, and a small cup for Sean. “For your cough, dears.” Sherlock hadn’t realized her throat was raw. It hurt to swallow, but the water felt heavenly. Sean swiped his hand over his eyes and drank.

  Soon there were thermoses of coffee and hot chocolate for everyone, piles of blankets, and hugs, lots of hugs. Everyone crowded in. No one left.

  She nearly dropped Sean when he suddenly reared back in her arms.

  32

  Sean had seen Marty, not only his best friend but, he’d told them many times, his future wife. Sean sniffled and whispered fiercely against Sherlock’s cheek, “Mama, Marty’s here. I can’t cry in front of her. She’ll think I’m a sissy and she won’t marry me. She’s going to be really mad when she finds out I don’t have my basketball anymore. Don’t tell her, Mama, promise.”

  About his crying or his basketball? She heard Griffin stifle a laugh. She wanted to laugh, too, but knew this was serious business for a five-year-old. “I promise, on both counts. Look, Sean, she’s bringing you some of your clothes.” Some of Sean’s clothes hung in Marty’s closet from their sleepovers, just as Marty’s jeans and T-shirts were in Sean’s closet.

  Sherlock watched Sean run to his five-year-old soul mate. She waved and shouted a thank-you to Marty’s parents, the Perrys. Astro struggled out of Lauren Mason’s arms and dashed after Sean.

  Sherlock pulled out her cell and dialed their longtime insurance agent’s number. Sure it was late, but she was up and so she figured Ethan Brothers should be, too. When she punched off, she said to Griffin, “Ethan, our insurance agent, will be here in thirty minutes.”