Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes.”

  Hooley pulled out his cell, punched in numbers. “Is this Special Agent Sullivan?”

  Connie was looking at Hooley, listening to his low voice. She looked, Perry thought, alert and focused. Like Perry, she was probably wondering what Hooley was saying to Davis. Perry drew closer to her mother and lightly laid her hand on her shoulder.

  Hooley punched off. “Agent Sullivan said he still can’t reach Carlos. He said he also spoke again to Mr. Sallivar, who hadn’t heard from Carlos, either. You know Carlos isn’t one to stay out late and party, he’s a responsible kid. Sullivan said neither of you is to leave the house. He’ll be right over.”

  Perry said, “Mom, where is the key to dad’s gun case?”

  Hooley took a step toward her, held up his hand. “Whoa, Perry, no way. I’m here, Connie’s here, and I’ll get Luis up here from the guardhouse.”

  “Don’t bother, Hooley. Mom?”

  “Come with me,” Natalie said, all business. “I’ll get it for you.”

  Both women walked out of the workout room, Connie and Hooley on their heels. Perry kept her mouth shut—smart, since she didn’t want to end up lying on her back on the floor with a bruised kidney. She never wanted to take on Connie.

  Natalie walked into her study, once her father’s study, no longer as imposing as it had been, with oversized dark leather sofas and chairs and shadowy chocolate-painted walls. Now it was a light, airy room, still filled with books, true, still stacked high and tight on deep inset shelves, but somehow they no longer overwhelmed. Natalie opened the drawer of an elegant Regency desk, pulled out a Redskins key ring weighted with a good half-dozen keys, and walked to a discreet cabinet beside a narrow closet door. She unlocked the doors, pulled out another key, and unlocked the glass doors inside.

  Hooley was impressed by the collection. Lots of firepower. There were at least a dozen handguns—a couple S&W M625s, a Ruger Redhawk, even a Cimarron Thunderer and an American Lady Derringer. Were those Savage Weather Warriors? Yes, two of them, and there was a SIG Sauer 556 Classic Swat. He watched Perry lift out an automatic and hand it to her mother. “The Walther PPK still your favorite, Mom?”

  “Oh, yes.” Natalie took the Walther, racked the slide, checked that the chamber was empty—Hooley saw her whisper “clear,” a well-learned habit. Then she took the magazine Perry held out to her, shoved it in, racked the slide once again to put a bullet in the chamber. “Good to go. You’re quite right, Perry. I should have armed myself the second I got back to the States, or at least after I was nearly run down in Buckner Park. It comes from spending so much time in England, where one doesn’t do that sort of thing, especially not an ambassador.” She patted the Walther’s barrel. “It was Ian Fleming, though, who changed James Bond over to the Walther PPK. It suits me better than the Beretta 418.” She grinned over at her daughter. “I always figured what was good enough for Bond was good enough for me.”

  Perry pulled out a nine-millimeter Kimber Sapphire, a striking handgun with its blue three-inch barrel, racked the slide, shoved in a magazine, racked the slide again, checked to see a bullet was chambered, and nodded. She took down a belt clip, fastened the Kimber to it, and clipped it to her jeans. She eased her leather jacket over it.

  Natalie looked at her daughter’s gun clip, and then down at her shirt and yoga pants. “Give me one, too, Perry. I’ll go shower and change.”

  Hooley wanted to take on both of them, but he knew dead serious when he saw it. He had to admit both women handled the guns competently, with caution and respect. But still he couldn’t help it, the words burst out of his mouth: “Wait a minute, Mrs. Black, Perry, you’re civilians, protecting you is my job. You could hurt yourselves—”

  Natalie held up her hand. “Don’t worry, Hooley. We’re both very good shots, and Brundage went to great lengths to secure us all licenses to carry in Maryland. Stop fussing.”

  Perry said to Hooley, “You don’t have to worry about our shooting ourselves in the foot or you or Connie by accident. Now, as for Davis, I’ll have to think about that. Mom and I used to shoot together every month or so. Right, Mom? Have you practiced lately?”

  “It’s been a while. You know as well as we do, Hooley, once you get good, your muscle habits are set. Now, I’d like to speak to Agent Sullivan myself.”

  Hooley said, his voice desperate, “Agent Sullivan should be here in fifteen minutes or so, ma’am. I don’t think he’s going to approve of you and Perry carrying weapons.”

  Perry shrugged, looked at her watch, then patted the Kimber snug against her waist. “Mom’s boy toy should be here by now. Let’s go see if he wastes time ranting or if he decides to be reasonable. Hooley, would you ask Mr. Sallivar to come to the house?”

  When Davis walked into the living room, the first words Hooley had for him were “Be careful the clients don’t shoot you, Sullivan.”

  Words jumped back and forth for a full two minutes before Davis realized this living room wasn’t the best terrain for a battle. He’d pound on Perry later, after he’d separated her from the Kimber. As for Natalie and her Walther PPK, he simply couldn’t imagine even Savich talking her out of anything she’d set her mind to. Better to retreat for the moment. He turned to Mr. Sallivar, who’d been watching with a fascinated eye the back-and-forth among Mrs. Black, her daughter, and these big men who were protecting them. Now he looked at Davis.

  Davis said, “Sir, did Carlos know the FBI would be talking with him today? Is that why he failed to come to work?”

  “If that’s so, Agent Sullivan, I didn’t know anything about it. Why? Is Carlos in trouble?”

  “We need to ask him some questions. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “As I told Mr. Hooley, I know where he lives, but he is not at home.”

  Davis thought for a moment. “Did Carlos ever express any anger or resentment toward Mrs. Black or toward Perry?”

  Mr. Sallivar looked horrified. “Oh, no, never. Carlos believes Mrs. Black is a great lady.” He bobbed his head toward her. “I have heard Carlos bragging that he works for the ambassador to the United Kingdom.”

  Davis said, “Tell us about Carlos, sir?”

  Mr. Sallivar said, “I am told Carlos looks like me. He is about my size, only he is about thirty years younger. My third daughter—I have seven, you know—Isabel is her name, she and Carlos like each other. Since I like Carlos, too, I have not interfered, except to tell Carlos to respect her, that if he didn’t I would cut—” He glanced over at Natalie, cleared his throat.

  Davis said smoothly, “Sir, did Carlos behave differently yesterday?”

  “He was more quiet than usual. But he is usually quiet. His cell rang about noontime. He said it was his mother and she needed him to run an errand for her. Then, when he didn’t come this morning, I called him, and his phone went to voice mail. I called Carlos’s mother, and she told me she hadn’t seen him since she had served his dinner last night.”

  Mr. Sallivar looked around, his face drawn and worried. “Please, tell me, what has happened.”

  Davis said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know where he is or if he’s hurt.”

  Mr. Sallivar said slowly, “That phone call, it wasn’t from his mother, was it?”

  “I’ll find out, sir. Could you please give us his mother’s address?”

  Once Mr. Sallivar had left, Davis said, “I’m off to see Mrs. Acosta. You two”—he pointed to Perry and Natalie—“stay here.”

  “Spoken like the emperor of the universe,” Perry said. “You’re not going to his house without me.”

  He opened his mouth, but she was faster. She raised her finger, wagged. “No barking. Heel,” and she walked past him to the front door.

  He followed her out, watched her open the front door of his Jeep and climb in. Well, why not let her come along? It would be easier to get the damned Kimber away from her and safe in his pocket.

  Gracias Madre Restaurant

  Seven Corners, Virginia
>
  Thursday, early afternoon

  Davis and Perry were eating tacos and shoveling in chips at Gracias Madre after they’d left Mrs. Acosta’s home a few blocks away in a heavily Salvadoran neighborhood. Perry eyed the chip basket, sighed, and folded her hands over her stomach. She looked him straight in the eye. “Now that you’ve blasted my ears with that insane ‘Time Bomb,’ stuffed your face with fish tacos, and crowed about leaving me in the car at Mrs. Acosta’s house, it’s time to tell me what you found out. Don’t deny it, I could tell from the wiped-clean expression on your face when you got back. You found out something. Spill it, Davis.”

  Davis picked up another chip, scooped up some salsa, and seemed to stare at it before setting it down on his plate. “My gut says Carlos has gotten himself in big trouble.”

  “That wasn’t hard to figure. Come on, what’d you find?”

  “Nothing specific. Mrs. Acosta told me he didn’t eat her sopas, which he loves, and that meant he was worried about something. Then he got a call and he went out and never came back.

  “I know she’s his mother, but she spoke of him in the same way as Mr. Sallivar. He’s not the kind of kid to be involved in any of what’s happened, unless he was in trouble, unless someone forced him to.”

  Perry said, “I told you I could hardly believe it last night.”

  “I thought to ask her if she’d called Carlos yesterday to run an errand for her, and, of course, she hadn’t.

  “There were no visitors, Mrs. Acosta said, but someone could have come in when she went out the previous day. I’ve put out a BOLO on Carlos Acosta along with his photograph. We’ll check his cell phone records. If he has the phone with him, we might find Carlos, too.”

  Her cell rang. She looked down to see Day’s name. She toyed with sending it to voice mail, but couldn’t. “Day, hi. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to hear your voice, make sure you’re okay.”

  She laughed. “We spoke not two hours ago. I’m fine. And yes, I have Special Agent Davis Sullivan with me, eating a very late lunch of tacos.”

  Davis watched her listen for a moment, then she said, “Yes, Day, it’s the same guy who was with my mother at your mom’s party Tuesday night. He’s a pain in the butt, but he’s trained at this, okay? I’m trying to help, too. No, don’t worry, I’m always careful. Hey, did you beat Brooxey at billiards?” And she laughed again at what he said.

  When she punched off, slipped her cell back into her bag, Davis said, “Your nose is going to grow with that lie, since I’m not a pain in the butt.”

  “Clearly a pain in the butt is in the eye of the beholder.”

  “That your boyfriend? He unhappy with me being with you?”

  “Nah, he’s worried, that’s all.”

  Davis chewed on a chip, handed her the basket. “Have you told your mother about the Harley yet?”

  She fiddled with a chip, radiating guilt. “No, not yet. But I will when we get back. I don’t want to, but I know it’s got to be done.”

  “I’ll tell you something else that’s got to be done. You’re going to unload that weapon, put it in a locked box, and take it home with you. If you carry it in Washington, D.C., I’ll have to arrest you.”

  Davis stood, pulled a twenty out of his wallet, and tossed it on the table. “So are you coming? Or should I bark at you?”

  Georgetown

  Thursday, late afternoon

  Savich turned into the parking lot of Metzer’s Grocers on Prospect Street. Sean was out of Cheerios, so there was nothing else to be done. “You want me to come in with you, Sherlock?”

  She laughed. “To buy a box of Cheerios? I think I can handle that, Dillon. Give me ten minutes.”

  He looked around the parking lot before he nodded. “Ten minutes. I’ll keep watch.”

  Sherlock climbed out of the Porsche, aware of everyone within a dozen feet of her, and nodded back at Dillon as she walked through the automatic doors. Since she didn’t know the store that well, she stopped a clerk, then headed to aisle nine. She bent down to pick up a box of Cheerios when she heard a low scratchy voice above her head. “Agent Sherlock, all that red hair, so easy to spot. I know your husband is right outside, looking like he’d tear out the throat of anyone who looks at all dangerous. I don’t look dangerous.

  “No, don’t you move or I’ll push this knife point into your scrawny neck, right above your collar. Feel that?” She felt the knife prick, the wet of her blood.

  “I want you to get up, yeah, grab the Cheerios.” He slipped her Glock out of her waist clip, fast and smooth. “Good, you mind your manners. You don’t want to have me kill any of the nice people buying their candy and popcorn, and I will, as many as I can, before your husband comes roaring in. I’ll be dead, too, but so will you and lots of others.”

  She stood quietly, feeling him press her own Glock against the small of her back. She felt like an idiot, a box of Cheerios in one hand, and Blessed close behind her. She said quietly, “I’m not moving, Blessed. Don’t shoot anyone. How did you manage to get in here?”

  “I told you I don’t look dangerous. Your husband didn’t pay any attention to a hunched-over little old lady, not too steady on her pins, moving slow with her cane next to her daughter and kiddos. Sweet little girl, all eager to help me, stayed real close in case I teetered. Who wouldn’t help a friendly little old lady out to buy her Polident to hold her chompers in? My mama used that stuff, you know. Still clacked when she talked. Yep, this was as easy as drilling a hole in a tooth.

  “No, look straight ahead. You and I are going out the back. I have a little Kia parked out there, lifted it this afternoon from a parking lot behind the bowling alley. You and I have lots to talk about, like that pretty hair of yours.”

  So many people, women with babies and toddlers, chatting, comparing heads of lettuce, or in a hurry, anxious to get home, none of them suspecting a thing. At least Blessed was focused on her. She had to keep it that way. She and Dillon had been right, Blessed hadn’t tried to make her lose herself, to make her brain go off into the ether; he had to use a weapon to control her. It was a huge relief. He was only a middle-aged man, albeit with her gun now, pointing her gun at her and determined to shoot her, but Dillon was close. He’d said ten minutes. He’d miss her sooner than that, because it had to take less than ten minutes to buy a box of Cheerios.

  “Walk, nice and easy, girl. If you try to turn on me, if you even twitch, I will kill you, then I will blast a bunch of mothers and their little kiddies.”

  “I’ll walk.” Sherlock walked slowly in front of Blessed and wondered exactly what he looked like walking behind her.

  “You need to pay for that, ma’am.”

  A young voice brought her up short. She realized she was still carrying the box of Cheerios.

  Blessed’s gun pressed hard against her spine.

  Sherlock gave the teenage clerk with his moon-round face and buzzed black hair a big smile. “Sorry,” she said, and handed him the box of Cheerios. “I met up with my aunt here and forgot I still had it.”

  Blessed didn’t say a word until the clerk, who, after one long, suspicious look, took himself off to aisle nine to restock the Cheerios. “See that restroom sign back there? That’s where we’re going. Walk.”

  “Why didn’t you hypnotize me—stymie me, as you call it?”

  The gun pressed harder against her back. “None of your business. Shut up.”

  “No more juice, Blessed? So now you’re like everyone else, aren’t you? How does it feel, Blessed, to be normal and vulnerable?”

  She felt him jerk behind her. He said, low, against her hair, “It feels bad.”

  He sounded shaken; she supposed. In theory, she understood. His gift had been part of him all his life, and now he felt like a man with one leg. Did he even know how to operate in a world where he couldn’t simply tell anyone to do what he wished and see it done? “Where are you getting your money, Blessed?”

  He hissed like a snake in her ear, �
�Ain’t none of your business,” he said again. “I can see your brain squirreling around, trying to figure out how to take me, but there’s nothing you can do. Don’t forget, I can shoot you right here, mow down a good dozen folk. That what you want?”

  “No, I don’t want that. Why do you want to kill me, Blessed?”

  “My ma didn’t like you, said you had no respect. Now shut your trap and keep walking.”

  “I can’t believe Shepherd said that. Why, I told her how beautiful her house was, and I meant it. So why?”

  She heard his scratchy old breath, then he said, “Ma was smart. She said you had to be killed first. She said once you were gone, Savich would freak out and I’d be able to get him easier.”

  She thought she’d choke on her fear. Shepherd was right, Dillon would freak. But she was also wrong. Dillon would hunt Blessed down like a rabid dog. She felt him turning slightly, one way and then the other. He was looking at the people around them. He laughed, a raw, low sound that was hardly a laugh, really. “I can’t wait to kill that man of yours. Mano a mano, hand to hand, that’s how it will be, but on my terms. It won’t be nice and quick like that bum.”

  What bum?

  Blessed said, “Autumn’s my niece. When she gets older, I’ll make her understand that.”

  “You remember Ethan Merriweather, the Titusville sheriff? He and Joanna married. The three of them are a family now. I believe they’re expecting another child. You need to forget about Autumn, or I promise, you’ll end up dead this time.”

  “Autumn is no concern of yours. If I ever see her again I’ll make her see me, really see me, this time.”

  Believe me, she really saw you the last time.

  “Keep going. We weave down the aisle through all those storage racks, right toward that exit sign and out the back door.”