Catherine Coulter - FBI 1 The Cove

by Неизвестный

  "Good-bye, Noelle. If you love me-if you've ever loved me-please keep the FBI agent talking as long as you can. His name is James Quinlan. Please, don't tell him I was here."

  "How do you know the name of an FBI agent?" "It's not important. Please don't tell him anything,

  Noelle."

  "Mrs. St. John, we saw the car parked on Cooperton. Sally was here. Is she still here? Are you hiding her?"

  Noelle St. John stared at his ID, then at Dillon's. Finally, after an eternity, she looked up and said, "I haven't seen my daughter for nearly seven months, Agent Quinlan. What car are you talking about?"

  "A car we know she was driving, Mrs. St. John," Dil-lon said.

  “Why are you calling my daughter by her first name? Indeed, Sally is her nickname. Her real name is Susan. Where did you get her nickname?''

  "It doesn't matter," Quinlan said. "Please, Mrs. St. John, you must help us. Would you mind if we looked through your house? Her car is parked just down the street. She's probably hiding here in the house waiting for us to leave before she comes out."

  "That's ridiculous, gentlemen, but look to your hearts' content. None of the help sleep here, so the house is empty. Don't worry about frightening anyone." She smiled at them and walked with her elegant stride back into the library.

  "Upstairs first," Quinlan said.

  They went methodically from room to room, Dillon waiting in the corridor as Quinlan searched, to ensure that Sally couldn't slip between adjoining rooms and elude them. When Quinlan opened the door to a bedroom at the far end of the hall, he knew immediately that it had been hers. He switched on the light. It wasn't a frilly room with a pink or white canopied bed and posters of rock stars plastering the walls. No, three of the walls were filled with bookshelves, all of them stuffed with books. On the fourth wall were framed awards, writing awards beginning with ones for papers she'd written in junior high school on the U.S. dependence on foreign oil and the gasoline crisis, on the hostages in Iran, on the countries that became communist during Carter's administration and why. There was a paper that had won the Idleberg Award and appeared in the New York Times, on the U.S. hockey win against the Russians at Lake Placid at the 1980 Olympics. The high school awards were for papers that ran more toward literary themes.

  Then they stopped, somewhere around the end of high school-no more awards, no more recognition for excellent short stories or essays, at least no more here in this bedroom. She'd gone to Georgetown University, majored in English. Again, no more sign that she'd ever written another word or won another prize.

  "Quinlan, for God's sake, what are you doing? Is she in there or not?"

  He was shaking his head when he rejoined Dillon. He said, "Sally isn't here. Sure, she was here, but she's long gone. Somehow she knew we were close. How, I don't know, but she knew. Let's go, Dillon."

  "You don't think her mother would have any idea, do you?''

  "Get real." But they asked Mrs. St. John anyway. She gave them a blank smile and sent them on their way.

  "What now, Quinlan?"

  "Let me think." Quinlan hunched over the steering wheel, wishing he had a cup of coffee, not good coffee, but the rotgut stuff at the bureau. He drove to FBI headquarters at Tenth and Pennsylvania, the ugliest building ever constructed in the nation's capital.

  Ten minutes later, he was sipping on the stuff that could be used to plug a hole in a dike. He took Dillon a cup and set it near the mouse pad at his right hand.

  "Okay, she's got the Oldsmobile."

  "No APB, Dillon."

  Dillon swiveled around in his chair, the computer screen glowing behind his head. "You can't just keep this a two-man hunt, Quinlan. We lost her. You and I, my friend, lost a rank amateur. Don't you think it's time to spread the net?"

  "Not yet. She's also got my wallet. See what you can do with that."

  “If she keeps purchases below fifty dollars, chances are no one will check. Still, if someone does check, we'll have her almost instantly. Hold on a minute and let me set that up."

  Dillon Savich had big hands and large, blunt fingers. Quinlan watched those unlikely fingers race over the computer keys. Dillon hit a final key and nodded in satisfaction. "There's just something about computers," he said over his shoulder to Quinlan. “They never give you shit, they never contradict you. You tell 'em what to do in simple language and they do it."

  "They don't love you, either."

  "In their way they do. They're so clean, Quinlan. Now, if she uses one of your credit cards and there's no check, then I've got her within eighteen hours. It's not the best, but it'll have to do."

  "She might have to use a credit card, but she'll keep it below fifty dollars. She's not stupid. Did you know she won a statewide contest for a paper she wrote about how much credit card crooks cost the American public? You'd better believe she knows she's bought eighteen hours, and she might figure that's just enough, thank you."

  “How do you know that? Surely you had other things to talk about with her? Jesus, you had two murders in that damned little picturesque town, and the two of you found both bodies. Surely that's enough fodder for conversation for at least three hours."

  "When I was in her bedroom I saw that the walls are loaded with awards for papers, short stories, essays, all sorts of stuff that she wrote. That credit card essay was one of them. She must have been all of sixteen when she wrote it."

  "So she's a good writer, even a talented writer. She's still a rank amateur. She's scared. She doesn't know what to do. Everyone is after her, and we're probably the best-meaning of the lot, but it didn't matter to her. She still poked your own gun in your belly."

  "Don't whine. She has around three hundred dollars in cash. That's not going to take her far. On the other hand, she got all the way across the country on next to no money at all riding a Greyhound bus."

  "You don't keep your PIN number in your wallet, do you?"

  "No."

  "Good. Then she can't get out any more cash in your name."

  Quinlan sat down in a swivel chair beside Dillon's. He steepled his fingers and tapped the fingertips together rhythmically. "There's something she said, Dillon, something that nearly tore my guts apart, something about no one she'd been around cared about anybody but himself. I think she trusted me so quickly because something inside her desperately needs to be reaffirmed."

  "You're sounding like a shrink."

  "No, listen. She's scared just like you said, but she needs someone to believe her and care about what happens to her, someone to accept that she isn't crazy, someone simply to believe her, without reservation, without hesitation.

  "She thought I did, and she was right, only, you know the answer to that. She was locked up in that place for six months. Everyone told her she was nuts. She needs trust, complete unquestioning trust."

  "So who the hell would give her unconditional trust? Her mother? I can't believe that, even though Sally went

  to see her first. There's something weird going on with Mrs. St. John. Sure as hell not her husband, Scott Brai-nerd, although I'd like to meet the guy, maybe rearrange his face a bit."

  Quinlan got out her file. "Let's see about friends."

  He read quietly for a very long time while Dillon put all systems in place to kick in whenever Sally used one of the credit cards.

  "Interesting," Quinlan said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. "She had several very good women friends, most of them associated with Congress. Then after she married Scott Brainerd, the friends seemed to fade away over the period before Daddy committed her to Beader-meyer's charming resort."

  "That cuts things down, but it doesn't help us. You don't think she'd go to her husband, do you? I can't imagine it, but-"

  "No way in hell."

  There was a flash and a beep on the computer screen. "Well, I'll be swiggered," Dillon said, rubbing his hands together. He punched in several numbers and added two more commands.

  "She used a credit card for gas. The amount is just $22.50, but
it's their policy to check all credit cards, regardless of the amount. She's in Delaware, Quinlan, just outside of Wilmington. Hot damn."

  "Wilmington isn't that far from Philadelphia."

  "It isn't that far from anywhere, except maybe Cleveland."

  "No, that's not what I meant. Her grandparents live on the Main Line just outside of Philadelphia. Real ritzy section. Street name's Fisher's Road."

  "Fisher's Road? Doesn't sound ritzy."

  "Don't let the name fool you. I have a feeling Fisher's Road will wind up being one of those streets with big stone mansions set back a good hundred feet from the road. Gates too, I'll bet."

  "We'll see soon enough. It's her mother's parents who live there. Their name is Harrison. Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Oglivee Harrison."

  "I don't suppose Mrs. Harrison has a name?" "Nah, if the guy is rich and old, that's the way they do it. I've wondered if sometimes they just make up that highbrow middle name for effect."

  17

  "I MEANT TO tell you why Sally used a credit card and not some of your three hundred bucks."

  Dillon was driving, handling his Porsche with the same ease and skill he used with computers.

  Quinlan was reading everything he had on the grandparents with a small penlight. He had to look up every few minutes so he wouldn't throw up. "I hate reading in a car. My sister used to read novels all the time-in the back seat-never bothered her for an instant. I'd look at a picture and want to throw up. What did you say, Dillon? Oh, yeah, why Sally used the credit card. While you were getting your coat, I checked the rest of the information they gave on the credit card check. The license plate number was different. She bought a clunker, probably used about every cent of that three hundred bucks."

  Dillon grunted. “Hand me the coffee. Another hour and we'll be there."

  "It took time for her to sell the Olds and buy the clunker. It cut down on her lead. Let's say she's got two hours on us. That's not too bad."

  "Let's hope she doesn't realize you're anywhere in the vicinity, like you seem to believe she did last time at her mother's."

  "She did know. Listen to this. Mr. Franklin Oglivee Harrison is the president and CEO of the First Philadelphia Union Bank. He owns three clothing stores called the Gentleman's Purveyor. His father owned the two largest steel mills in Pennsylvania, got out before the bottom fell out, and left his family millions. As for Mrs. Harrison, she comes from the Boston Thurmonds, who are all in public office, lots of old money from shipping. Two daughters, Amabel and Noelle, and a son, Geoffrey, who's got Down's syndrome and is kept at a very nice private place near Boston."

  "You want to stop at that gas station in Wilmington? We'll be there in half an hour."

  "Let's do it. Someone will remember the kind of car she was driving."

  "If she got something for three hundred bucks, it would really stand out."

  But the guy who'd sold her the gas had gone home. They drove straight on to Philadelphia.

  Sally looked from her grandfather Franklin to her grandmother Olivia. She'd seen them two or three times a year every year of her life, except this past year.

  Their downstairs maid, Cecilia, had let her in, not blinked an eye at her huge man's coat over the too tight blouse and jeans, and calmly led her to the informal study at the back of the house. Her grandparents were watching Seinfeld on TV.

  Cecilia didn't announce her, just left her there and quietly closed the door. Sally didn't say anything for a long time. She just stood there, listening to her grandfather give an occasional chuckle. Her grandmother had a book on her lap, but she wasn't reading, she was watching TV as well. They were both seventy-six, in excellent health, and enjoyed the Jumby Bay private resort island off Antigua twice a year.

  Sally waited for a commercial, then said, "Hello, Grandfather, Grandmother."

  Her grandmother's head jerked around, and she cried out, "Susan!"

  Her grandfather said, "Is that really you, Susan? By all that's holy, my poor child, whatever are you doing here?"

  Neither of them moved from the sofa. They seemed nailed to their seats. Her grandmother's book slid from her lap to the beautiful Tabriz carpet.

  Sally took a step toward them. "I hoped you could give me some money. There are a lot of people looking for me, and I need to hide someplace. I only have about seventeen dollars."

  Franklin Harrison rose slowly. He was wearing a smoking jacket and an ascot-she hadn't known those things were still even made. She suddenly had an image of him wearing the same thing when she'd been a very young girl. She remembered how he'd held her and let her stroke the soft silk of the ascot. His white hair was thick and wavy, his eyes a dark blue, his cheekbones high, but his mouth was small and tight. It seemed smaller and tighter now

  Olivia Harrison rose as well, straightening the silk dress she was wearing. She held out her hand. "Susan, dear, why aren't you with that lovely Doctor Beadermeyer? You didn't escape again, did you? That's not a good thing for you, dear, not good for you at all, particularly with all the scandal that your father's death has produced."

  "He didn't just die, Grandmother, he was murdered."

  "Yes, we know. All of us have suffered. But now we're concerned about you, Susan. Your mother has told us how much Doctor Beadermeyer has done for you, how much better you've gotten. We met him once and were very impressed with him. Wasn't that nice of him to come to Philadelphia to meet us? You are better, aren't you, Susan? You aren't still seeing things that aren't there, are you? You're not still blaming people for things they didn't do?"

  "No, Grandmother. I never did any of those things." Strange how neither of them wanted to come close to her.

  "You know, dear," her grandmother continued in that

  gentle voice of hers that masked pure iron, “your grandfather and I have discussed this, and we hate to say it, but it's possible that you're like your uncle Geoffrey. Your illness is probably hereditary, and so it isn't really your fault. Let me call Doctor Beadermeyer, dear."

  Sally could only stare at her grandmother. "Uncle Geoffrey was born with Down's syndrome. It has nothing to do with mental illness."

  "Yes, but it perhaps shows that instability can be somewhat genetic, passed down from a mother or a father to the daughter. But that's not important. What's important is getting you back to that nice sanitarium so Doctor Beadermeyer can treat you. Before your father died, he called us every week to tell us how much better you were getting. Well, there were weeks with setbacks, but he said that in the main, you were improving with the new drug therapies."

  What could she say to that? Tell them all the truth as she remembered it and watch their faces go from disbelief to fury on her account? Not likely.

  She saw the years upon years of inflexibility, the utter rigidity, in her grandmother. She remembered what Aunt Amabel had told her about when Noelle had come home, beaten by her husband, when Sally was just a baby. How they hadn't believed Noelle.

  It had always been there, of course, this rigidity, but since Sally had seen her grandmother so infrequently, she'd never had it turned on her. More clearly than ever, Sally could see now how her grandmother had treated her daughter Noelle when she'd come here begging for help. She shuddered.

  "Well," her grandfather said, all hale and hearty, so good-natured, so weak, "it's good to see you, dear. I know you don't have time to stay, do you? Why not let us send you back to Washington? Like your grandmother said, this Beadermeyer fellow seemed to be doing you a great deal of good."

  She looked from one to the other. Her grandfather, as tall as James, or at least he used to be, a man who had lived his life by a set of rules of his wife's making-or perhaps his father's-a man who didn't mind if someone strayed from the proper course but who wouldn't defend that person if his wife was anywhere near.

  She'd always believed him so dear, so kind, but he wasn't coming anywhere near her, either-God, she wondered what he really thought of her. She wondered why he had that tight, mean mouth. She said, "I was in Th
e Cove. I stayed for a while with Aunt Amabel."

  "We don't speak of her," her grandmother said, taller now because her back had gotten stiffer. "She made her bed and now she must-"

  "She's very happy."

  "She can't be. She disgraced herself and her family, marrying that absurd man who painted for a living, painted pictures!

  "Aunt Amabel is an excellent artist."

  "Your aunt dabbled at many things, nothing more. If she were a good painter, then why haven't we heard of her? You see, no one has. She lives in this backwater town and exists on a shoestring. Forget about Amabel. Your grandfather and I are sorry you saw her. We can't give you money, Susan. I'm sure your grandfather would agree. Surely you understand why."

  She looked her grandmother right in the eye. "No, I don't understand. Tell me why you won't give me money."