Tail Spin ft-12

by Catherine Coulter

  “And your wife?”

  “She, too, traveled widely with her family. She is one of those few people who can pick up a language like that.” He snapped his fingers and looked sour. “She speaks five languages. Five. I’ve always believed three languages quite enough, but five? It’s a bit over the top, I think.”

  Savich, who spoke only English, said, “So that’s why Jean David was born in New Jersey. You are travelers like your parents.”

  “If you must know, we were visiting friends at their beach house in Cape May. Jean David came three weeks early and so he is an American citizen, something we never intended or wanted.”

  At that meaty insult, Sherlock said, “As it turned out, it might have been better for everyone if Jean David wasn’t born here. The CIA would have been pleased if he’d joined his father at the French National Police, as well, Mr. Barbeau.”

  His breathing sped up. He looked at Sherlock like he wanted to hit her. Just as suddenly, the anger died in his eyes. No, Savich thought it was more like his eyes themselves died. He pictured Sean’s beloved face, and couldn’t begin to imagine the pain of losing his son.

  Savich said, “We would like to speak to your wife.”

  He started to protest, then simply turned and yelled, “Estelle!”

  Mrs. Barbeau, covered from neck to mid-calf in a thick white robe, her hair wrapped up in a white towel, appeared at the end of the hall. She’d known they were there, naturally, but she’d been staying back. “Go away,” she called out. “I am not dressed. It is Saturday morning. Leave us alone. We have nothing more to say to you.”

  Sherlock called out, “I understand you and your husband visited the Penyon Gallery last evening. What did you think of the special exhibit?”

  “It was pitiful. We saw nothing to interest us. I am not feeling well. I will not come any closer, I do not wish for you to become as ill as I am.”

  “Your illness, it came on very quickly,” Sherlock said. “Since you were all about town last night.”

  “Yes, it came on quickly. Go away.”

  Savich stepped closer to Pierre, clamped a hand around his right arm, to check once and for all that he was not the one Nurse Louise had shot. He felt thick material, but no bandage. Pierre didn’t jerk away, he very slowly pulled away. Had he flinched at all? Savich knew he’d tightened, he’d felt his muscles tense. Perhaps a very minor wound, Savich thought again, if Pierre was the man Nurse Louise shot.

  Why couldn’t anything be easy?

  Sherlock called out, “So you didn’t like the artists?”

  “Not particularly,” Estelle said. “It was all what I call commercial oatmeal—nothing of interest or import. Go away. Leave us alone. I am ill.”

  Savich said pleasantly, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Barbeau, why don’t you join us in the living room. We will be brief and we promise to stay three feet from you so you won’t have to worry about being arrested for infecting an agent.”

  Estelle made no pretense of civility. She came to stand in the living room doorway, but no closer. It was true, she didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was very pale. And, Sherlock thought, that bathrobe was very thick for June. Could it have been a woman on those hospital tapes?

  Estelle repeated what her husband had told them, probably because she’d listened to their conversation, Sherlock thought cynically.

  Finally, Pierre threw up his hands. “Will you tell us what has happened?”

  Savich said, looking Pierre right in the eyes, “A man pretending to be a physician tried to kill Dr. MacLean last night around midnight.”

  A moment of silence, then Estelle shrugged. “It is a pity, and a pity he failed.

  “Oh, I see. You believe my husband is the one who tried to kill that miserable excuse for a doctor? For a friend? I will tell you, he did not. We were together—all night. I want you to leave.”

  Sherlock eyed Estelle’s right arm. There could easily be a bandage beneath her robe. No, surely it was a man on the tapes—the walk, the posture, surely, but he wore loose clothing. Estelle was nearly as tall as her husband.

  Short of having both Barbeaus strip to the waist, there was no way to be sure.

  Savich wanted to go back to bed and sleep for a few hours or have Sherlock seduce him again. Both, actually.

  There was light traffic on Wisconsin. Savich’s foot went down heavy on the Porsche’s gas pedal. Then he sighed, slacked off a bit, sighed again.

  “You want to know what I’m thinking?”

  She touched his hand, felt his fingers slowly relax. “Tell me.”

  “This persistence—obsession—you said. I simply can’t see anyone we’ve spoken to being that dogged, that determined to kill Dr. MacLean. Maybe we should speak to Lomas Clapman, maybe he murdered a dozen people and Dr. MacLean’s forgotten about it.”

  “I think our killer is right under our noses. We’re missing something and that’s because we’re tired. It’s been a wild week, Dillon We’ve got to spend some time putting everything we know down on a timeline— and we’ve got to take some time to let it percolate.”

  Savich thought she was right.

  She said,“I’m thinking we could arrange a little party tonight with Rachael’s aunt and uncle, and maybe Stefanos. It would give us a chance to talk to them. You think they’d accept an invitation to the old family manse if Rachael asked them real nice?”

  Savich laughed. “Yeah, maybe if we sent a SWAT team with the invitation. And if we brought them in for questioning, they would come with a half-dozen lawyers, refuse to answer any questions, and demand we arrest them or release them. Then they’d try to sue the FBI out of existence.”

  Sherlock said, “I guess we’d need some evidence for that—like fourteen eyewitnesses.”

  “They’d still sue. Actually, I’ve been thinking about another way to get together with them—a special invitation they might actually accept. I’ll let you know if I can work it out.”

  Savich’s cell phone sang out “Camptown Races.” When he punched off, he turned to her. “Roderick Lloyd, the gun-happy yahoo at Roy Bob’s garage in Parlow? Ollie says he wants to deal. He’s willing to testify it was Perky who told him what to do.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Sherlock said, “but does he have a clue who hired Perky?”

  “No.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  Savich said, “Lloyd’s lawyer found out Perky couldn’t roll on him because she’s dead, so why not sing? It always warms my heart to see a lawyer at work.”

  She grinned, leaned her head back against the headrest. She felt the wind tear through her hair, felt the sting on her face. She looked over at him and said, “It’s Saturday. Let’s get Sean and go play some touch football in High Banks Park.”

  Savich said, “Sean’s getting pretty good. He doesn’t try to jump on our backs any longer.” Sex and a nap could wait. “High Banks Park? Why not?”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Rachael and Jack stood in the open doorway, Jack lusting after Savich’s Porsche as he pulled out of the driveway. He looked around at the well-lit neighborhood. Everything quiet, nothing moving. Still—”I’m going to check around, okay?”

  Rachael nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll clean up here. Jack, be careful.”

  He nodded and headed around to the side of the house.

  She went back into the living room, fluffed two English antique silk pillows, and set them carefully against the back of the sofa. She looked around the magnificent room. This house is mine now, she thought, still having difficulty believing it was true. But she hated what it had cost her. Only six weeks she’d had with Jimmy. With her father.

  Rachael was stuffing pizza boxes into the recycle bin in the pantry when Jack called out, “It looks clear.”

  “In here!”

  “You know,” he said as he walked into the kitchen, only to stop cold, charmed by that skinny braid dipping around her cheek, “it was nice having Savich and Sherlock over. I
can see Sean making a diving tackle on his mother to bring her down—”

  “—and claiming he had to do it, didn’t think a touch would stop her—”

  “—and Savich standing over the two of them laughing his head off.”

  Rachael made tea while Jack loaded the few dishes into the dishwasher. “Do you know, what just came to me? I was wondering what Laurel would look like if she changed her clothes, colored her hair, maybe put on a bit of lipstick.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen as long as she’s married to Stefanos,” Jack said. “Seems to me that guy was a jerk from the very beginning.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t kick him out? Divorce him and send him packing back to Greece.”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe she will now that her father’s dead. Maybe he forced her to stay with the guy.”

  Rachael handed him a couple of clean glasses. “You really think Mr. Abbott senior kept her married to Kostas?”

  “Why else would she have put up with him except for threats from the old man?”

  Rachael said, “Well, her father took my father away from my mother, threatened my mother while sending her a bloody check.” She realized her voice had gone up. The old man—dear heavens, he was her grandfather—he was dead, his eldest son dead, as well. There was no changing that. And here she was living in their house, alone, a house she hadn’t even known about until such a short time ago. “Jimmy told me when Laurel met Stefanos, she fell really hard for him, never saw any of the rot below the surface.”

  Jack turned on the dishwasher. “Seems weird to me the old man wouldn’t have checked him out thoroughly, seen the rot. So why did he let Stefanos marry his daughter?”

  “Good question. Jimmy said Stefanos had a big problem—namely he needed a huge influx of money, and Laurel was his solution. And evidently she wanted him badly. She was thirty-five, her biological clock ticking.”

  Rachael took the two napkins Jack had wadded up and began to methodically smooth them out and fold them. He watched her for a moment, said, “They’re dirty, Rachael.”

  “What? Oh, the napkins. It’s just that they’re so beautiful, so well made and ... Oh, I’m losing it. I’ll wash them tomorrow. By hand.” She stacked them neatly on the counter. “Jimmy showed me some photos of Laurel when she was young. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was smiling, full of hope. He said being married to Stefanos made her what she is today. It’s sad.”

  A dark eyebrow went up. “Sad? Give her something sharp and she’d slit your throat, Rachael.”

  “Yeah, I know. I also know she’s capable of a killing rage because I’ve seen her rage up close and personal. It’s stark and ugly. I can see it breaking over her when Jimmy told her he was going public with what he’d done.

  “She could have killed him—for herself, for her family, for the business, any and all of it. But her husband? Would he even care? Does he care about anything? And Quincy? I think he’s got dark wormy things inside him, but kill his own brother? I just don’t know.

  “If Laurel was the ringleader, it only makes sense she would want me gone, too. I suppose I could tell her and Quincy that I’m not going to give Jimmy’s confession for him, but—” Rachael shrugged. “I don’t know yet what I want to do. I suppose I could tell them I’ve dropped it, lie straight out. I’m not very good, but I could practice until I convinced myself. Uncle Gillette, now, he would have made a great spy. He could lie his way out of a pig convention even with bacon grease smeared all over his mouth.”

  Jack smiled “I’ve learned in my years with the FBI that many times people are never what they seem. We’ll see. Don’t forget, two people carried you down that dock, dumped you into the lake. We only know one of them for sure—Perky.”

  He added over his shoulder as he opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a wedge of Parmesan cheese, “Who was the other?”

  Rachael pointed to one of the cabinets. “There are crackers on the middle shelf.”

  He placed a slice of cheese on a cracker and handed it to her, then made one for himself. He leaned back against the counter. “Savich said all those initials and numbers in Perky’s address book—even MAX can’t crack it. Who knows what it means?”

  Rachael bit into a cracker.

  “I’ve been thinking, Rachael.”

  She said around the cracker, “About what?”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, fixed himself another cracker, and ate it.

  “What, Jack?”

  “Nothing. I’m tired. I think we should both sleep pretty good tonight.”

  “What are we going to do tomorrow?”

  “I go back to some solid, boring everyday police work, like running in-depth checks on everyone remotely involved in the case, and take another look at Perky and all her merry men.”

  She washed and dried her hands. She stood facing the kitchen window, her head bowed. I’m sorry.

  He pulled her back against him. “Don’t be stupid. You’ve every right to be freaked out.” He knew it was a mistake, but he did it anyway. He slowly turned her to face him and tugged her into his arms. He hadn’t imagined the shock of her, not only how she felt, but the way she fit against him, like she was made for him, no other guy, only him. But that was plain stupid. He shouldn’t be doing this. He wasn’t thinking right. No, he was simply offering her comfort. She needed comforting, no harm in that. Maybe he needed some comfort, too. He said close to her ear as his hands rubbed up and down her back, “Don’t stiffen up on me. I’m a friend, Rachael, and friends help each other. Remember how you helped me and Timothy when the plane crashed? You didn’t even know at that time what a great guy I am; you just charged right in and saved our bacon.”

  She laughed against his neck. Then she kissed his neck, added a little lick, then froze. “Ohmigosh, I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean to do that. It just happened. I mean, you’re here to protect me, not get involved... ” Her voice fell off a cliff.

  Jack said, “I guess not.” He knew she could feel exactly how much he wanted to be involved—actually, totally involved with her that very minute, maybe on that lovely oak kitchen table.

  He kissed her, and, bless her heart, she kissed him back. He tasted cracker and Parmesan and something else, something elusive and sweet. Then, just as suddenly, she flattened her palms on his chest, pushed back, and said, “I can’t do this. I can’t lean on you like this, compromise you. You’re an FBI agent. I’ll bet you’ve got rules and regulations regarding people you’re guarding. Right?”

  “No.”

  He pulled her in close again, leaned his forehead against hers. “Not a single rule except common sense, and common sense isn’t all that great a thing in every single situation, now is it? Hey, you’re not a shrimp. That’s good.”

  She said against his neck, “I’m so not a shrimp. I’d be licking your eyebrows if I were wearing heels. No, wait, I didn’t say that, did I?”

  She felt the laughter deep in his chest. “Yeah, you did. Anytime you’d like to, lick away.”

  She ran her fingers over his cheek, and he felt it in his gut. Jack knew he should release her this very instant, knew it, and knew he wasn’t about to. He lowered his forehead to hers again. “I’m not a teenager with my hormones dive-bombing my brain. You’re right, it isn’t the smartest thing we could do at this point in time.” And he cursed low, ripe, pungent curses. Rather impressive, she thought, and smiled. Uncle Gillette could curse like that. She could see him cursing at the rabbits who’d gotten through his tomato cages, digging underneath, hear her mom yelling at him that certain little girls had big ears.

  Slowly, Rachael stepped back. She said, “I’m very glad you don’t gamble.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  He saw her to her bedroom, looked at her mouth a moment. “I’m glad you realize I’m nothing like that jerk ex-fiancé of yours. But, Rachael, I’m hurting right now all the way to my heels.”

  “No, you’re nothing like him. My heels are i
n pretty bad shape, too.”

  He reached out his hand, dropped it, stepped back. “See you in the morning, Rachael. Sleep well.” To her surprise, and disappointment, he closed the door.

  She felt so revved, so ready to rock and roll—with Jack—she doubted she’d sleep at all, but within minutes, she was out.

  Black water closed over her head, something was pulling her down, no way to stop until she hit bottom and silt swirled up around her, blinding her until it slowly settled again. She knew she was going to die. It wouldn’t matter if she held her breath for ten minutes, she would die. No, she didn’t want to die, she didn’t—

  She lurched up in bed, abruptly awake, breathing fast and hard, sucked in air. But she wasn’t at the bottom of Black Rock Lake. She wasn’t drowning. She was here, in Jimmy’s house, in her bed, but— What had awakened her? Whatever it was, she was grateful. But what was it? She must have heard something that shouldn’t be there, something not part of the fabric of the house. She didn’t move a muscle, listened.

  It was Jack, she thought, trying to be quiet so as not to wake her. He was probably checking the alarm, the locks, or maybe he did his best thinking when he walked around.

  Still, even as her muscles uncoiled and eased, she kept listening. She realized that ever since her thankfully brief trip to the bottom of Black Rock Lake, she had not completely let go, even with Jack close by. Her brain was always charged, always looking, weighing, assessing, wanting to know if anyone was trying to kill her.

  Breath whooshed out of her and she realized she’d been holding it, just like when she was at the bottom of lake. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, ready to go to Jack, to ... what? Have him protect her, chase away her fears, or make love to her until she couldn’t think at all? She stopped cold, simply held very still and listened.

  It was quiet outside in the corridor. The summer night air was sweet and still. The nightmare had conjured up the bogeyman, put him so close she’d popped awake, covered with sweat. She looked out the window. The quarter moon lit up the sky. She looked at that moon, kept listening, waited. A minute, another.

  Nothing. She lay back down again, forced her muscles to relax, and she waited. She breathed deeply, but the question nagged her mind—Who is trying to kill me? Her brain squirreled around that until finally her breathing slowed, and her head fell to the side.