Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

by Catherine Coulter

  Carlos’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “I don’t know who he is, really,” he said again, his voice a whisper.

  Perry said, “You said he threatened us. Who’s ‘us’?”

  “If I didn’t put this note here, he said he’d kill Isabel.”

  Perry leaned in close. “You’re sure it was a he?”

  Carlos nodded. “Yes, it was a man, at least I think it was. Whoever it was had a deep voice, but it was sort of muffled, like he was talking through a wadded-up handkerchief, same as the first time.”

  “The first time? Start at the beginning,” Davis said. “When did you get the first call?”

  “He called me on my cell at work, the day before yesterday. That’s when he told me to write that message on the men’s room wall at the Post. I knew it was wrong, but it didn’t seem too bad. He knew all about me, about my family, and I’m not a citizen.”

  Davis said, “Carlos, when he first called you, didn’t you wonder how he got your cell number?”

  Carlos paused, frowned, then shook his head. “No, but I wondered later. I scrolled through my contacts, but it couldn’t have been any of them. And they wouldn’t have given out my cell number to a stranger.”

  Davis continued. “And it was you who came here last night, wrecked Ms. Black’s motorcycle?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, but yes. He called me again that day, told me I had to do that for him, too, or he would see to it Isabel would be buried next to her grandmother in Meadowland Cemetery. He knew everything about us.”

  All he had to do was a thorough Web search, Davis knew. Carlos had been too scared to realize that. But the threat to the girl he loved, that was potent, enough to terrify a young man into doing anything asked to protect her.

  “And yet he called you again, is that right? Sent you here tonight?”

  “No, it wasn’t me he called. I threw away my cell phone, so I wouldn’t hear from him again. Today he called Isabel.”

  Perry said, “Where have you been?”

  His eyes fell to his sneakers. He mumbled something.

  “What did you say?”

  “In Mr. Sallivar’s shed, in their backyard. Isabel brought me food. Then she found out the FBI was looking for me, and I didn’t know what to do. We thought about running away, and then the man called Isabel on her own cell phone today, made her bring it to me.”

  Carlos shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t want to take her phone because I knew it was him even though the call was blocked, but I was afraid not to answer.”

  “Of course you had to answer. I want you to think about this, Carlos. What did he ask you to do, exactly?”

  Carlos was quiet for a minute, then he said in a singsong voice, “He told me write that note, those words exactly, and put it in an envelope. He told me to come back here to Ms. Black’s house at midnight and gave me the code to the alarm, 25596. He made me write it down. He told me if I was quiet she wouldn’t hear me from the bedroom. He told me to leave it against her coffeepot in the kitchen, reset the alarm, and leave.

  “I didn’t have a choice. I decided to do this last thing, and then to run away, by myself. It wouldn’t be right to take Isabel with me. Her father would never forgive me. So I thought I might be seeing her tonight for the last time. I don’t mean I planned to have sex with Isabel, but—” He fell silent, and his smooth, lean cheeks stained red.

  So that’s why the condom. Davis wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He shoved Carlos back into the chair, patted his jacket, and straightened. He called Savich.

  “Yeah?”

  Davis heard a delighted laugh in the background, a female laugh, Sherlock’s laugh. He’d interrupted fun time.

  “I have Carlos Acosta here at Perry’s,” he said. “Turns out Carlos was hiding in Mr. Sallivar’s shed, with Mr. Sallivar’s daughter Isabel seeing to his creature comforts.”

  When Davis punched off his cell a minute later, he looked down at the slender young man who did look like Mr. Sallivar, only thirty years younger. He was a soft-spoken, handsome young man, and he looked scared, really scared. As he should be. Davis said, “All right, no jail time for you yet, Carlos. But you and Isabel are both going to be in protective custody for a couple of days. We’ll be going over your stories very, very carefully.” He hauled Carlos to his feet.

  Perry held out her hand. “Give me the condom.”

  Carlos gave her a long look, then looked toward Davis.

  She smacked his shoulder. “No, you idiot, it’s not for my use, it’s to keep your paws off Isabel. That is, if you have any honor left.”

  “I do, I swear I do. Please, we have to hurry. When he finds out I failed, he might kill Isabel.”

  When he finds out you didn’t get yourself killed and got caught instead, that ought to give him serious pause. Davis said, “He won’t get near Isabel. I’ll take care of that. Come along, Carlos.”

  He turned at the front door. “Keep a light on for me, Black.” His eyes flicked to her Kimber still on the coffee table. “Keep the gun close and reset your alarm.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Early Friday morning

  Blessed was nearly out of cash again. Before the accident—that was how he liked to think of it—getting cash was never a problem. He could walk into a bank—never in his hometown, Father had said that wasn’t smart—fasten his eyes on the teller, and very politely tell him or her to hand over whatever amount he wanted. He was never greedy, something Father had always preached. Of course, the teller would be short that night, and what a brouhaha that would cause, but it wasn’t Blessed’s problem.

  He wasn’t like every other pathetic human being that walked the earth, the common herd who had to work or steal what they needed. He never had been like them, and he wouldn’t accept it now.

  He’d had to use his knife twice to get money, and already he’d hated knowing what he’d become. At least now he had Agent Sherlock’s gun. He spotted a twenty-four/seven on a side street without much traffic. He waited for one customer to close the door behind him, leaving only Blessed and an older woman behind the counter. He fingered the agent’s Glock in his pocket. He knew the old biddy was eyeing him suspiciously, maybe getting scared. Do it, do it. And so Blessed looked her right in her dark, rheumy eyes and said quietly, “Open the register and give me all your cash.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d be afraid, afraid she might scream and pull out a gun. He wasn’t afraid she would shoot him, only afraid he’d fail. He nearly puked as he waited, his heart pounding, his eyes never leaving her face. But she smiled at him and opened the old-fashioned cash register. “No o-ones or f-f-fives,” he said, stuttering with relief. He watched her pull out all the tens and twenties. Then she lifted the cash drawer and pulled out a neat pile of fifties and a couple hundred-dollar bills.

  “Please put all the money in a bag.”

  She did, handed it to him.

  “Thank you,” Blessed said, and turned to leave.

  “What’s going on here?”

  It was an old man, probably the woman’s husband, and he was pointing a shotgun at Blessed. “You, jerkface, put my money back on the counter! Now, or I’ll blow your head off!” The old buzzard lifted the rifle, aimed it at Blessed’s head.

  Blessed was ten feet away from the old man. Too far, too far. He laid the bag of money on the counter. The old man hollered, “What’s wrong with you, Meg? Woman, get yourself together and call the cops!”

  But the old woman only stood there, a small smile on her mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” He turned back to Blessed, stepped toward him, his gun up. “What did you do to her?”

  Blessed looked into his faded old eyes and said, “Please shoot Meg. In the head, I think.”

  The old man said, “What? What did you say?” Then he blinked, turned the shotgun, and shot his wife’s face off.

  Blessed jumped back so he wouldn’t get splattered by the mess the shotgun made. Pieces of flesh and brain matter splattered against the sh
elf of cigarettes behind the counter, and blood fountained in all directions. He couldn’t see her now, and was grateful she’d fallen, not making a sound.

  He didn’t want to puke now. He wanted to shout with the pleasure and relief he felt. He’d done it; with just one look, one command, he’d made the old guy shoot her—blam! He was back. Blessed walked to the counter, took the bag of money, careful not to look down at the woman, and added over his shoulder as he walked out toward the door, “Now shoot yourself in the chest.”

  Through the glass, he saw a middle-aged couple coming toward the store, arguing about something. He walked out of the store, walked right up to the couple. Even as the shotgun blasted out again, he said calmly, “Hi. You didn’t see me.”

  He nodded to the couple and went on his way, whistling. He never missed a step when he heard the screams, the shouts. He was half a block away when he heard the first siren.

  Blessed got into his stolen Toyota and drove to Georgetown, parking two blocks away from the Savich house, to be on the safe side. He saw Savich and Sherlock climb into the hot red Porsche and pull out of the driveway. A little boy stood beside a woman in the open doorway, waving at them.

  He looked at the little boy, and wondered.

  Criminal Apprehension Unit

  Friday morning

  Sherlock was working with Dane Carver on four bizarre strangulation murders in Omaha, Nebraska, when Savich stuck his head out of the office and called to her.

  She knew immediately something was very wrong. She was inside his office in a flash. “What happened?”

  Savich drew in a deep breath. “It’s all right. That was Gabriella. I’d showed her Blessed’s photo, told her to be on the lookout. Before she took Sean to school, she checked out the front window and saw an older man slip from behind a tree and move behind another. She recognized Blessed. She locked the doors and called the cops, without Sean ever knowing anything was wrong. Then she managed to sneak in a call to me. I kept her on the line until I heard the knock on the door and knew the police had arrived. Gabriella put an Officer Blevins on the line, and I told him about Blessed. They’re out looking for him right now.”

  He drew a deep breath. “I told Gabriella to take Sean to school with a police escort. She’s going to pick him up later, after she’s packed for both of them. Then she’ll drive him to his grandmother’s house. I’m going to call Mom, tell her Gabriella and Sean will be there this afternoon.”

  Sherlock was as pale as her white shirt. He pulled her against him. He said against her temple, “Sean’s okay. Blessed won’t get anywhere near him. Blessed has no clue where Sean’s school is, and he doesn’t have the skills to find out. I asked Gabriella to have the principal keep an eye on him. Everything’s handled. It’s all done.” He held her, slowly rubbed her back.

  She said against his neck, “I’m going to kill him myself, Dillon, and do a happy dance on his grave. And then I’m going to smack you. Why didn’t you tell me about Gabriella’s first call?”

  He told her the truth. “I didn’t want both of us scared at the same time.” He kissed her temple. “I hope it won’t come down to your murdering Blessed. Oh, yes, I got a call from Ethan. He, pregnant Joanna, and Autumn are spring skiing in Colorado. If Blessed does head to Titusville with thoughts of nabbing Autumn, he’s out of luck. He’s out of luck here, too, Sherlock.”

  She said again, “But if he gets to Sean—”

  “He won’t. You know he won’t.”

  She leaned back, aware every agent in the unit was staring at them. She gave Dillon a pat on the shoulder and a smile, and stepped back. “You know what I think? We’re going about this the wrong way. I think it’s time we hunted him down, don’t you?”

  Natalie Black’s house

  Friday morning

  Natalie said, “Never would I have imagined Carlos Acosta breaking into Perry’s condo last night.”

  Davis said, “He was so scared I was afraid he was going to throw up on Perry’s very nice Persian carpet. In any case, now he’s out at the Jefferson Dormitory at Quantico. Savich wants to keep him close and safe, see if there’s something his subconscious picked up about the phone calls Carlos didn’t recall right away. They’ll be talking with Isabel this morning, too.”

  “That note he was going to deliver, it scares me, Davis. Perry’s a part of this, now more than ever. And I don’t understand why. Run away, Black—You’re not safe. Why are these people after Perry? Does she know anything about this she hasn’t told me? Are they pressuring me to resign by threatening her?”

  Davis said, “We’ll find out why, Natalie. Perry’s got a shadow on her, so no one’s going to get close. She’ll keep sharp.” Even though she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before; he knew fear had a way of goosing the brain. “I called her right before I knocked on your door. She’s fine, at the Post, and she’s working. She says she has a story to write.”

  Natalie gave him a dutiful grin, sighed. “I feel sorry for Carlos, and for Isabel.”

  “He’s lucky to be alive,” Davis said. “Whoever put him up to this was shrewd—it was undoubtedly an untraceable phone. We’re left with very little to go on. He knew her alarm code, which means the person who gave it to him had access to it. And that makes me think this is all closer to home than it seems. Tell me, Natalie, is your half-brother, Milton, still in Washington?”

  “Yes, he’s still at The Willard. He claims it’s the only civilized hotel in Washington.”

  “I think it’s time to go see him.”

  Davis rose. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Sallivar, told him they’d be picking up Isabel to question her. I had to tell him why. Mr. Sallivar is going to see to it she spends the next few days with a relative, out of town, instead of protective custody. He was grateful. Then he asked me point blank where Carlos had been hiding, and so I told him. Isabel is in for a major scolding.” He added without thinking, “I didn’t tell him about the condom.”

  “Condom? What condom?”

  “Yeah, well, no worries, Perry took it.”

  That got him a smack on the shoulder. Davis was explaining when his cell belted out Social Distortion’s “Ball and Chain.”

  Davis watched her pace up and down the breakfast room, her strides as long as her daughter’s. He listened, asked the occasional question. And soon he was smiling. Finally, she thought, something good must have happened.

  Davis punched off his cell.

  “Well? What was that all about?” She planted herself in front of him, hands on her hips.

  “Hamish Penderley called the CAU—remember, he’s the head of the Operational Command Unit at Scotland Yard.”

  Natalie looked ready to leap at him, pull the words right out of his mouth.

  “Penderley said they’ve matched the paint chips to your Jaguar, Natalie, so we have confirmation they’ve found the car that tried to run you off the road near Canterbury.”

  He thought she would start dancing. “That’s great. Who was the driver?”

  “They’ve got the owner in custody, a man by the name of Graham Suddsby. He’s a retired chauffeur who spends most of his time in his local pub now; that’s where they found him. He claims someone must have sideswiped the car when it was parked on the street, that he found it that way. A lie, of course. Now it’s a matter of the Brits convincing him he’s better off telling the truth.”

  “Now that they’ve got him, Mrs. Black,” Hooley said from the doorway, “it won’t be long before they know everything. The coppers in England, they’re tough and hard, no nonsense, if they want to get something out of you.”

  Connie said from behind him, “How do you know that?”

  “I was married to one of them a while back,” Hooley said matter-of-factly, “and she damned near killed me.”

  Davis stared after Hooley as he walked toward the front of the house to keep watch, whistling. He looked back at Connie, realized she was smiling after him. Really, Connie and Hooley?

  “Davis, sinc
e you’re going to be talking with my brother, Milt, I should tell you something. He was here to see me this morning.”

  The Willard

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday, noon

  Perry stepped onto the empty elevator ahead of Davis and pushed the button. “Come on, stop sulking, Davis, I know it was hard for you to call me and admit you need me for anything, but it was the smart thing to do. And you’re right, Uncle Milton will be more open to talking since I’m with you. By yourself, you’d scare him to death.”

  “Uncle Milt scared of me? I doubt it, since he knows me. I met him at the party Tuesday night.”

  “Yes, he knows you as my mother’s hot boy toy. It will be a shock for him to meet you as the big FBI agent here to question him.”

  An eyebrow went up. “I look hot?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Davis, it’s time to get serious.” She added with a good deal of satisfaction, “Now that they’ve found the car that tried to run Mom off the road in England, it shouldn’t be long before all the malicious rumors die down. I mean, if they find out why, I can see this making the front page.”

  Davis said, “So far the only thing they can prove is that someone fled the scene of an automobile accident, and that’s never been disputed. I don’t know the English press, but in the U.S., the wheels leading toward corrections in print turn very slowly, if they ever turn at all. No one’s ever been in a hurry to dismiss a juicy scandal with something as inconvenient as the truth.”

  Perry hated it, but he was right. She stepped up, knocked on the suite door.

  Inside, Barnaby Eagan stood by the window, rubbing his temples. He had a headache. He didn’t want to answer the knock to Mr. Holmes’s suite. What he wanted was quiet, a shot of single malt, and his bed for an hour, but it wasn’t to be. He looked out to see a big man in a leather jacket who wasn’t smiling, and, of all things, Perry Black, Mr. Holmes’s niece, standing beside him. He still couldn’t get over her writing about professional football, a weird thing for a woman to do, he’d always thought, but the senator’s parents raved about her. As for the senator, he’d mumble under his breath, things like the damned girl was unnatural, but what did you expect, given who her father was? He opened the door. “Ms. Black? What are you doing here? And who is this?”