Tail Spin ft-12

by Catherine Coulter

  “Would you look at that,” Sherlock said, eyeing her own watch. “It’s getting late. Come along, Rachael. I, for one, am starving. Dillon, we’ll see you at that cafe across the street when you’ve got everything wrapped up.” Sherlock turned to Rachael, smiling all the while. “I’m sorry, but I missed your last name.”

  “Abercrombie,” Rachael said, voice stony.

  “A nice name, very English, very retail,” said Sherlock, thinking, You are a really rotten liar. “Let’s go have some scrambled eggs.”

  She was trapped, very neatly. She looked back at Agent Crowne’s still face. With all the black smoke and blood cleaned off, she saw a good-looking face with an olive complexion, all strong lines and good bones, stubborn bones, she’d bet, and an indentation in his chin. He’d been in the FBI Elite Crime Unit? She didn’t know exactly what they did, hut it sounded scary. He’d nearly been killed by a drug addict? Was this Dr. MacLean a criminal he was flying back to Washington? Or a friend who was in trouble? She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to get involved She wanted the time and privacy to enjoy her death. The last thing she needed was more complications.

  Agent Sherlock was still smiling at her. Well, no choice. She said to Agent Savich, “Would you mind bringing my duffel with you to the cafe?”

  “My pleasure,” Savich said.

  “Thank you, Agent Savich,” Rachael said, as she fell into step beside Sherlock and left Dr. Post’s clinic, the half-dozen people in the waiting room staring at them, some with curiosity, some with hostility since they’d had to wait so long.

  Savich stayed with Jack awhile longer, watching him breathe, checking his pulse to reassure himself. He’d stepped back toward the waiting room door when a slender straight-backed man in his mid-forties came through, wearing bib overalls, a long-sleeved bright red flannel shirt, a holstered .38 strapped to the wide belt around his waist. Savich didn’t sigh at this example of local law enforcement, but he wanted to. He knew this was very likely going to be a chore. SEVEN

  I’m Sheriff Hollyfield,” the man said, and stuck out a slender hand hardened with calluses. Savich shook it, introduced himself, showed him his creds.

  “A pleasure, Agent Savich. Sorry I’m late. That dratted septic tank of Mrs. Judd’s busted again. The first time, that damned dog of hers fell in and we had to pull him out. Come along outside, we can talk more privately.”

  “Maybe you could send a tow truck out to the crash site to fetch Rachael’s car?”

  “I’ve got a tow on my truck. Let’s go. We can talk on the way.”

  Savich nodded and followed the bib overalls out the door.

  The day was warming up nicely, the sun bright in the morning sky. “I appreciate your coming over, Sheriff,” Savich said as he climbed into the passenger side of a big white Chevy Silverado.

  A pale eyebrow shot up nearly to his hairline. “This is the last place I’d expect the FBI to come visit. I heard from Benny—one of the paramedics who met the medevac helicopter at the crash site— he told me the guy was in pretty bad shape. What’s goingon, Agent Savich?”

  “I’ll be happy to tell you when my agent who was flying the man to Washington wakes up. He’s suffering a concussion and lacerations on his leg.”

  “What happened?”

  “Agent Crowne crash-landed, managed to walk away, more or less. That’s all I know at present, Sheriff, I’m sorry. We haven’t gotten the status on the other man yet.”

  “You wouldn’t be holding back on a local cop, now would you?”

  “I might, but the fact is, I don’t know how or why the plane came down.”

  “Very well. I’ll tell you, Agent Crowne must have had an angel sitting on his shoulder since Cudlow Valley’s the only flat stretch of land for miles around. Even our two-lane road is all twists, impossible to land on it. If he’d crashed in the mountains, it would have been the end of him and his friend.

  “Incidentally, I’m a detective from Boston PD, so you can hang up thinking I’m a backwoods hick who doesn’t know his butt from his pinkie finger.”

  Savich had planned to politely shuffle aside this sheriff named Dougie who tended septic tanks wearing his .38 over bib overalls. Time to reevaluate. He said, “I’ll bet worrying about septic tanks wasn’t in your job description in the BPD. How long have you been down here in Kentucky?”

  “About ten years, sheriff of Parlow for nine. My wife was born here, missed it, so we moved here. You’re real smooth, Agent Savich. You don’t want to tell me a blessed thing, I get that. You thought you’d get away with a nice courtesy call, blow me off, and go about your fed business. But I am the sheriff, I’m not stupid, and, praise be, I’m not the stereotypical tobacco-spitting jughead who runs a still in his backyard.” Then ho looked down at himself and laughed. “Regardless of the picture I’m currently presenting, you might discover I’ve got a good brain, and it’s at your service since we had a plane come down in suspicious circumstances in my jurisdiction. You don’t want to come clean with me—well then, maybe I’ll just have to do some checking on this myself. Who’s the guy in Franklin County Hospital?”

  Savich saw clearly now that this man not only had a good brain, he also wouldn’t stop, he’d do exactly what he said, he’d check into this himself. Well, all right, he also knew the terrain, both people and geography. Savich gave Dougie Hollyfield a long look. He said, “I like the .38 over the overalls, nice touch.”

  Dougie Hollyfield grinned. “My wife was laughing too hard to tell me what she thought. Now, you going to level with me? Let me do my pitiful best to help you?”

  “Yes,” Savich said, “I think I am. The man in Franklin County Hospital is Dr. Timothy MacLean, originally from Lexington, Kentucky. His family owns the MacLean racing stables; perhaps you’ve heard of them.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield nodded.

  “His family knows Agent Crowne and his family, and so they asked for his help, told him Dr. MacLean believed someone was trying to murder him in Washington, where he’s a psychiatrist to some big-name patients. MacLean’s wife got him to come back to Lexington, to his family. There was another attempt on his life, so Agent Crowne flew to Lexington to fetch him back to Washington for protection, and to get to the bottom of this.”

  A pale brow shot up, fingers hooked the wide belt over the bib overalls. “You gave me a lot more than I thought you would. Let me remark that the FBI doesn’t do things like fly planes to fetch a noncriminal citizen back to Washington, Agent Savich.”

  Savich said, “Since Agent Crowne knows the family, it was personal.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Why don’t you add that the main reason the feds are in this is because some very big, high-profile names are involved? What did this Dr. MacLean do to really piss off one of his high-roller patients?”

  “Now that I can’t tell you.”

  “All right, I’ll buy that for the moment. So we keep things even here, Agent Savich, let me tell you Dot—she’s Parlow’s other paramedic—told me about the downed search-and-rescue plane. She figured the pilot was from a law enforcement agency since they’re the ones who usually use those planes. She said the pilot was good, bringing the plane down in the valley. She should know—Dot’s a pilot herself, as well as a paramedic. She wondered why Agent Crowne was flying it since she hadn’t heard about any accidents.”

  “I believe it was the only plane available.”

  “So after they medevaced Dr. MacLean out, Dot examined the plane.”

  Savich waited. He knew there wasn’t much left after it had exploded on the ground. He also knew he wasn’t going to like what the sheriff was about to tell him.

  “Dot didn’t have the time or the expertise to do a thorough check, but from the look of what was left of the fuselage, it looked to her like the luggage compartment was blown outward by some sort of explosion, maybe a bomb. Seems like it didn’t work too well, since the plane wasn’t blown out of the sky. So, I’d appreciate it, Agent Savich, if you don’t try to pawn off th
e crash on some sort of a malfunction.” Sheriff Hollyfield was rocking back and forth on his toes. He was wearing galoshes, Savich saw, though very clean, thankfully, as if they’d been hosed down.

  “Yes,” Savich said, “that’s what Agent Crowne thinks. We’ve got an expert coming to verify. If you wouldn’t mind keeping a deputy at the crash site to protect it until our people arrive.”

  Sheriff Hollyfield nodded. “All right, then. You’ll keep me in the loop, Agent Savich?”

  Savich nodded. You never knew when you were going to find good law enforcement, he thought as he shook the sheriff’s hand, thankfully as clean as his galoshes.

  Savich looked over the scattered wreckage while Sheriff Holly-field hooked up the tow to Rachael’s Charger. “Hard to imagine surviving that,” Sheriff Hollyfield said, straightening to look out over Cudlow Valley, his hand over his eyes to shade against the strong morning sun.

  “Believe me, we are very grateful.”

  Before the sheriff dropped him and Rachael’s duffel off at Monk’s Cafe, Savich said, “Could I come to your office a bit later, Sheriff, and use your landline to call the Franklin County Hospital? See how Dr. MacLean is doing?”

  Sheriff Hollyfield nodded.

  First Savich wanted to speak to Sherlock, see what she was doing with Rachael Abercrombie. He tried his cell again, but couldn’t get a signal. Mix mountains with the boondocks, and technology didn’t mean squat.

  Monk’s Cafe was on Old Squaw Lane, a small skinny white building with an apartment on the second floor, sandwiched between May’s Cleaners and Clyde’s 24/7. It was kitty-corner from the Parlow Clinic on Rosy Bill Avenue.

  Savich set Rachael’s duffel next to her on the seat.

  “Thank yon, Agent Savich. Where did you have my car towed?”

  “We’ll talk about that in a moment.” Savich picked up a menu. “What’s good?”

  A waitress with impossibly ink-black hair sprayed up in a cone walked briskly to their table, her bright yellow high-top sneakers thumping on the worn linoleum, wearing a huge apron over jeans and a man’s white dress shirt.

  She stopped, looked him over, gave him a big smile showing teeth as white as her dress shirt. “Well now, Deliah—she’s my sister, the nurse at the clinic—she called me about the federal agents being here, one of them bloody and nearly dead in an examining room. But that isn’t you, thank the good Lord.” She paused a moment, tapped her pencil on her chin, and eyed him. “Aren’t you ever a hottie, that’s what Deliah said. She didn’t know about the other one ‘cause he was in such bad shape. You’re all dangerous-looking, not a single soft edge on you. I’ll bet you’re a real bad boy. Of course, that’s what makes the women perk up when you’re around—even my sister, who never even noticed her own husband before he passed. Just look at you—two pretty girls here, ready and waiting.”

  Sherlock snorted. Suzette, the waitress, ignored her.

  Suzette was old enough to be his mother, Savich thought, and gave her a big smile. “Nah, I’m only dangerous when I don’t get my Cheerios for breakfast. May I please have some very hot tea ... Suzette?”

  “You can call me Suz,” she said, licking the tip of her pencil before writing down the order. “We only got tea bags, that all right?”

  Savich nodded. He could already see the tea bag floating in the lukewarm water.

  “I know it’s still early, but Tony just took his meatloaf out of the oven. Or, if you’re into healthy eats, I’ve got some fish sticks, nice and deep-fried.”

  Savich ended up with scrambled eggs and wheat toast with some gooseberry jam Suz promised was the greatest. She nodded at Sherlock and Rachael. “Your two pretty ladies sure thought so.”

  He looked up to see Rachael grinning at him. “Something tells me you don’t eat many deep-fried fish sticks, Agent Savich.”

  “No, but our kid would eat them every day if we let him, between tacos and hot dogs.”

  Rachael’s eyes flicked over them. “What’s your kid’s name again?”

  “Sean’s our boy, big into computer games and football, wants to help the Redskins build a dynasty, though he doesn’t really know what that means.”

  “Married FBI agents. I never imagined such a thing, and Sherlock tells me you work together.”

  Savich nodded.

  Sherlock turned to him. “When you came in, Dillon, Rachael was refusing to tell me what’s going on with her. You’d think what with sharing a lovely brunch that I offered to pay for, she’d have a bit more trust in me, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s tough to trust someone, Sherlock,” he said slowly, “when you’re scared to your toes. I’ll tell you one thing, though, we can’t let her leave because she’s clearly a material witness.”

  Sherlock looked straight at Rachael. “Who’s to say she wasn’t more directly involved in bringing down Jack’s plane? You know, the spotter on the ground?”

  Rachael banged her fist on the table, making her spoon jump. How could they know so quickly that she was in trouble? It wasn’t fair. She was an idiot, dead for only two and a half days. If she wasn’t more careful, she wouldn’t make being dead to the end of the week. “What did you say? A material witness? I know more about the plane crash? Listen, you can’t hold me, I was only an innocent bystander, you can’t—”

  Sherlock leaned forward to touch her ring finger. “Maybe you’re running away from your husband?”

  Husband? She choked down a hysterical laugh and felt panic shoot through her. She grabbed her purse and duffel bag, slithered out of the booth, and was out of the cafe in under five seconds.

  Suz, carrying Savich’s plate, the scrambled eggs steaming, stopped to stare after Rachael. “Isn’t this par for the course—a sexy guy with two girls—I’ll just bet the little redhead here threatened to whomp the blonde with that cute braid, right?”

  “You’re very observant, Suz,” Savich said.

  Sherlock rolled her eyes, tossed her napkin down over the one cold bacon strip left on her plate, and headed after Rachael.

  “At least if there’s a catfight, it’ll be in the street and not in here. Tony would hate that, remind him too much of his mother-in-law.” EIGHT

  Sherlock caught up with Rachael at Bobolink’s Bakery on the corner of Old Squaw Lane, leaning against the display window, her old duffel beside her, staring down at her scuffed boots. Sherlock lightly touched her shoulder. Rachael didn’t move. “You know,” Sherlock said, “when things get tough, it doesn’t mean you have to deal with everything alone. I’m a fed. I do tough really well. Dillon and Jack do tough well, too. That means it’s your lucky day since I figure we all owe you.”

  Rachael said, “I don’t need tough, I don’t need help. All I need is to have my car fixed so I can leave. I’ve got to go ... There are people expecting me. I want Agent Savich to tell me where he had my car towed.”

  Sherlock smiled. “Well then, let’s go back to the cafe and ask him.”

  “I couldn’t get away from you, could I? Maybe coldcock you?”

  “Probably not. Dillon pulls his moves on females. I don’t.”

  “Since I don’t have any transportation, I don’t have much choice but to go back with you.” She could walk to Slipper Hollow it she had to, but it’d be stupid not to have a means of escape — just in case. She prayed Agent Savich hadn’t cleaned off the license plate. He could run the plate and find out exactly who she was, probably in under a minute. She was worrying herself nuts over this when Sherlock asked, “Where were you headed, Rachael, when your car hroke down?”

  “Cleveland,” Rachael said brightly. “All the way to Cleveland.”

  Sherlock thought, Another big whopping lie.

  Monk’s Cafe was filling up with the early lunch crowd. Conversation stopped dead when they walked in. Sherlock had no doubt the gossip winds had blown directly into the cafe when the federal agents had arrived.

  When they sat down opposite him, Savich said, “I spoke to

  Dr. Hallick at Frankli
n County Hospital. He said Dr. MacLean’s still not conscious. They have more tests to run before they can give a halfway decent prognosis. I asked Sheriff Hollyfield to send a couple of deputies to guard Dr. MacLean until federal agents arrive.”

  Rachael raised her head at that. She wanted to pin him immediately, ask him where her damned car was, but what came out of her mouth was, “Jack—Agent Crowne—said something about a bomb, then he clammed up.”

  “Could be. An expert will be arriving sometime today to see what brought down the plane. If it was a bomb, he’ll be able to tell us why the Cessna didn’t explode into a fireball when it detonated, not that it should have mattered, given the terrain.”

  “Why would someone want to kill this Dr. MacLean?”

  Why not? Sherlock thought. It wasn’t a state secret. After all, trust was a two-way street. “Well, let me just say that Dr. Timothy MacLean, psychiatrist, has lots of very high-profile people scared of what he might say about them.”

  “You mean, he was breaking patient confidentiality? A shrink?”

  “So it seems,” said Savich.

  Rachael sat forward. “Agent Savich, truly, it’s been a pleasure to meet you and Agent Sherlock, but I must leave. Please tell me where you had my car towed.”

  “I’ll take you over to the garage when we’re done here. But the thing is, Rachael, the way I’m figuring it is that we need you. You’re the only witness to Jack’s forced landing. You saw everything. You’ll remember more details, trust me. Are you willing to stay with us for a while?”

  Rachael looked from her duffel bag to the two agents. For the time being, until her bloody car was repaired, she was stuck in Parlow, and all she could do was pray that no one recognized her. Secrets never stayed secrets, even in the boondocks. At least, she thought, she would be safe with a pack of FBI agents. “I’d planned on getting to where I was going by now. I don’t have much time left, or money.”