Tail Spin ft-12

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes, I’m right beside you. I woke up maybe five minutes ago. Are you all right?”

  Now that was a joke. “Yes, but give me another moment.”

  “We’re both tied up.”

  “Yes.” Sherlock felt the ropes digging into her wrists. They’d tied her ankles, too, but around her slacks, so there was some protection. “Brady Cullifer,” she said, “he’s a real showman—all that concern about your father’s will. He staged it like a pro, sucked me in like a raw rookie. I’m sorry, Rachael, I didn’t protect either of us.”

  “Stefanos Kostas hit you.”

  “I know. I wasn’t fast enough.”

  “I’m the lousy judge of character here. I trusted Brady completely,” Rachael said. “He seemed to like me, right from the beginning, and he’d worked for Jimmy for at least two decades. Jimmy trusted him, felt he was completely loyal.”

  She sighed. “I never believed for a second he was involved. I liked him so much, he was so comforting, so sympathetic. It’s beginning to look like every single person Jimmy introduced me to is involved in this thing. And Brady Cullifer’s in the thick of it. He sucked Jack in, too.”

  “Yes, he got all of us. I wonder where we are?”

  “I woke up briefly. Before I went under again I realized we were moving, in a car. I think we were stuffed in a trunk. This room is too dark to see much of anything, so I don’t know where we are. Has Brady brought us to his office? His house?

  Sherlock heard voices. “Keep quiet. Play dead.”

  A door opened and light speared into the dark.

  “Looks like they’re still out,” Stefanos said, and came down on his knees. He placed two fingers against the pulses in their necks. “Strong. They’re not dead.”

  Laurel said, “All right, then. They’re alive, no bullet wounds or injuries, we can go through with what we discussed. It will be an auto accident. It is too bad, though, that we now have to deal with this damned FBI agent, as well.”

  Stefanos said, “I didn’t have a choice. But we’re good at this. We’ll stage it just like Nichols and I did with Jimmy.”

  “I’m not a murderer,” Cullifer said, his voice suddenly austere. “Stefanos struck both of them down. I helped bring them here as you asked. You can deal with them as you choose.”

  Laurel laughed. “So you draw the line at slipping barbiturates into Rachael’s wine? You didn’t think she was supposed to die? We will all deal with this, Brady, and don’t forget that. You’re certain that the real will the senator made is now in his papers?”

  “Yes, everything’s as it should be.”

  Laurel said, “Not ideal, but at least there will be no smoking gun for the FBI to discover when Rachael and the FBI agent are found dead in an automobile accident.”

  Quincy said, “I still can’t believe we’re ending up leaving Jimmy’s will to be found there and not our own version. After all that’s happened, we’ll have nothing at all to show for this, not majority control, not even a way to prevent an audit. I still think we should leave our version of his will. Why not? I mean, everyone can be suspicious, wonder why Jimmy didn’t leave anything to his adopted daughter, but what can they do?”

  “We’ve been through this,” Brady said. “I was very particular in my wording, emphasizing it was his father’s deepest wish that all stock remain in his children’s hands. But now—”

  Laurel said impatiently, “But now having our version of the will surface would be like waving a red flag at the FBI and confessing our guilt. Look, Quincy, all the stock will go to our two nieces and Rachael’s family. Yes, it’s a damned tragedy to have to deal with people like that, but perhaps we can buy them out. It will cost us, admittedly, but at least the will the FBI will undoubtedly find won’t be our forgery. They can prove nothing about the senator. They can prove nothing about Greg Nichols. As for Rachael, we’ve been extremely fortunate. We will be harassed, but I don’t see how they’ll be able to indict us. We will salvage this mess yet. Rachael has given us a golden opportunity. We will use it. Then we can go back to our lives, the nightmare behind us.”

  It had nothing to do with my father’s confession. Sherlock was right, it was about money the whole time, money and control of the company. Unfortunately for them, I didn’t die. When I showed up with the FBI, they knew they were in deep trouble.

  Rachael managed not to move when someone toed her in the ribs. Quincy’s voice came from above her. “I can’t believe this damned girl survived. I’ll tell you, I thought it was all over when she showed up with the FBI.”

  Keep it down, dammit, keep it down. But it wouldn’t stay down, wouldn’t—Rachael sneezed.

  “Well now, look who was playing possum,” Quincy said. “You trying to be cute, too?” He kicked Sherlock hard in the side. Her breath whooshed out at the sharp blow. “Come on, Agent Sherlock, time to rise and shine, as my nanny used to say.” He drew back his foot again.

  “Leave her alone,” Rachael shouted as she struggled to sit up. “Don’t, Quincy.”

  Laurel stared down at her. “You didn’t drown. Perky showed me the nice stout ropes, the block of concrete, and yet you still managed to get free, even full of those barbiturates. Imagine Quincy’s surprise when he went to the senator’s house to make certain everything was set. Pity he didn’t have time to get to you before you drove off.”

  “I guess you and Perky screwed up, or whichever one of you was with her at Black Rock Lake. But it didn’t matter much, did it?” Rachael said. “You found me fast enough.”

  “It took a bit of research to turn up that backwoods town Parlow, but you managed to survive that, too,” Laurel said.

  It was difficult to be conciliatory—no, it was impossible. Rachael was filled to overflowing with hatred. She looked up at Laurel, her coarse hair haloed in the light. “Greg Nichols didn’t survive. You appear to be getting better at poisoning people.”

  Quincy kicked her in the ribs.

  Rachael saw Cullifer move back to stand in the doorway. Was he afraid of what he’d done?

  Laurel dropped to her knees beside Rachael, grabbed her by her long hair, wrapped it around her fist, and jerked her head up. “How did you get out of Black Rock Lake? All of us were surprised, particularly Stefanos and Perky, who were sure you were dead.”

  Why not tell her? It didn’t matter. “Stefanos and Perky didn’t tie my wrists, only wrapped the rope around my chest. And they didn’t bother to check me out, Laurel. I was awake, and I can hold my breath for a good long time.”

  Laurel reared back a bit, and a hank of hair fell alongside her cheek. She brushed it back, shook her head. “Bad luck, it was just bad luck.”

  “And bad luck that two of the assassins you sent after me are dead, and two others are headed straight to jail, once they get out of the hospital. I don’t think I’d want to work for you, Laurel, even with a good life insurance plan.”

  Laurel struck Rachael across the mouth. She felt her lip split, felt the blood well up and dribble down her chin.

  Laurel screamed at her, “Shut up! Now, you look at me, you miserable whelp. Damn you, you look like the senator, don’t you? How he loved that stupid braid you wear. It makes you look like a teenage hooker.” She shoved Rachael onto her back, and rose.

  Stefanos closed his hand over her shoulder. His voice softened. “Don’t let her get to you, Laurel. It’s all right. We won’t have to worry about her any longer. Her luck’s finally run out.”

  Sherlock’s cell vibrated in her jacket pocket. She tensed, but managed not to move. If there was only some way she could open her cell phone, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Was it Dillon? Had he tried before, while she was unconscious? If he did, he had to be worried.

  “You might as well drag them into the living room, Stef, get ready to go. Quincy, make sure the windows are shut and the drapes pulled.”

  Quincy asked, his voice contemptuous, “Tell me, Stefanos, when did you last use this hidden bordello of yours?”

  Stefanos said,
sounding amused, “A good week now, Quincy, a good week. You know you love the decor, don’t be shy about it.”

  Being dragged about thirty feet into the living room hurt, but that was all right; it wasn’t as bad as the alternative. Rachael’s stomach ached from the blow from Quincy’s foot. She looked over at Sherlock, who lay on her back, her eyes closed, and, it seemed to Rachael, barely breathing. Then Sherlock’s eyes opened and she blinked in the bright light. They weren’t at Cullifer’s office or at his house. They were in a bungalow that indeed resembled a bordello, just as Quincy had said. Stefanos Kostas’s hideaway for his many mistresses?

  The living room walls were covered with flocked red velvet wallpaper, gold brocade draperies over the window. They were lying on a Persian carpet beside four chaise longues and large deep chairs.

  It was tacky Rachael thought, and called out, “I’m very thirsty. Could I have some water, please?”

  She was ignored.

  Sherlock said, “You poisoned Greg Nichols, didn’t you? You didn’t trust him anymore?”

  Stefanos threw back his head and laughed. “You were awake the whole time we were talking, weren’t you? Well, it doesn’t matter. Actually, Nichols planned how to kill his boss. He approached us to talk about the senator. He was more than willing to buy in since he didn’t want to go to jail with the senator, have his own life ruined. I went along for the ride since Nichols already knew everything he had to do to make it look like an accident. Then the fool lost it after you and Agent Crowne went to see him, Rachael. You must have really scared him. He whined how everything was crashing down, and he knew we were all going to jail. He wanted to leave town. He wanted money, can you believe that? Well, he left town all right, didn’t he?”

  Laurel walked to her husband, put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. “That was well done, Stef.”

  Stef? Laurel called her philandering husband Stef?

  His arms went around her. “It will be all right, matia mou,” Stefanos said, and kissed her hair. “I always snip loose threads.”

  “And why not?” Laurel said, eyeing both of them impartially. “Does everyone agree? We can’t have an FBI agent disappear. Agent Savich would never let that go, never. It would have been hard enough to have Rachael disappear. Our only choice now is an auto accident, fitting, I think, particularly for Rachael.”

  Quincy nodded.

  Stefanos stepped away from his wife and pulled a small blunt-nosed .38 from his jacket pocket. “Ladies, we will untie your feet. You will stand up and we will go out to Agent Sherlock’s car. You needn’t concern yourselves about anything else.” He turned to his wife. “I believe we’ll drive to those cliffs near where Rachael’s father died. There’s never much traffic there, even this time of day.”

  “Yes, that’s good. Let Brady help,” Laurel said.

  Quincy said, “Brady must have slipped out, the shitty little coward.”

  “No matter,” Stefanos said, and smiled at Rachael and Sherlock. “We don’t have to worry about Brady. He has a very strong sense of self-preservation.”

  SIXTY

  Dillon shut MAX’s top and rose. He said, “Excuse me, sir, but Agent

  Crowne and I have to go. There’s trouble.” He and Jack were halfway to the conference room door when Maitland called out, “But, Savich, where are you going? What happened?”

  “Sherlock’s in trouble,” Savich said over his shoulder, never slowing. “MAX helped me track down her cell phone GPS coordinates.”

  “But how do you know she’s in trouble?”

  There was no answer because Savich and Jack were gone. Savich roared out of the Hoover Building garage, only to hit the afternoon traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue. The Porsche preferred to fly, but Savich also knew how to skim around other cars, slip in and out whenever there was a sliver of an opening. Too many people, Savich thought, and turned onto Seventh Street and picked up some speed as they passed the National Mall. He caught Pennsylvania Avenue again, heading toward the Potomac, and crossed the John Philip Sousa Bridge at a crawl, but was soon speeding north on 295, the Baltimore-Washington Parkway still light with commuters.

  “Looks like we’re heading to Hailstone,” Savich said. “Eighteen minutes, if traffic stays light and the cops stay away.”

  “I can’t believe she and Rachael are at Stefanos’s mansion. Why? How’d they get from Rachael’s house to Hailstone, Maryland?”

  “We’ll find out. Jack, have one of our people check out Rachael’s house, see if her Charger and Sherlock’s Volvo are there. Is your seat belt fastened?” There was a break in traffic and Savich let the Porsche hit one hundred miles an hour, smooth as a slide of silk.

  Jack nodded and used his cell phone.

  A clear stretch ahead. Savich hit the hammer. The Porsche glided to 110, passed a speeding Cadillac. Savich saw the guy’s white face flash by.

  A black Ferrari danced with them for a mile or two, then let them go, Savich smoothly pulling around it. The driver sent Savich a look of surprise and a thumbs-up.

  Traffic thickened up and the Porsche growled back down to sixty. “They got both Rachael and Sherlock, Savich, you know they did. But how? Sherlock’s more careful than the Secret Service.” What are they going to do to them? But he didn’t ask that, his jaw locked so tight he couldn’t get the words out. “Why now? In the middle of the day? It’s a huge risk. What happened to make them move now?”

  The Porsche ate up the miles. Savich said, “Jack, I’ve never believed people like Laurel Kostas wouldn’t commit murder based on strong emotions. Everything has happened so quickly, we never really thought this through. I don’t buy they murdered the senator because he was going to talk, even harder to believe they were trying to murder Rachael because she was going to confess what her father did. It simply isn’t enough of a motive. And then even after she’s with us and they know we must know everything, they still tried to get to her, broke into her house. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Jack said slowly, “Okay, if the guy who broke into the house wasn’t there to kill her, then why was he there?”

  Savich said, “Money.”

  Jack said, his eyes locked on the highway ahead, at the blur of cars, “All right, something to do with money. But what?”

  “I have a feeling we’re going to find out right now.”

  The Porsche’s sexy female GPS voice told them the Hailstone exit was in 3.2 miles. “Good, good,” Savich said like a mantra. “Almost there. We’ll make it in a couple of minutes.”

  Savich took the exit in a tight, controlled turn. After another right turn onto Nimere Avenue into the town of Hailstone, he said, “Rachael said her father left her a third of his estate, including the company stock and the house.” He smacked his palm on the steering wheel. “Why is that worth so much to them?”

  “Maybe it’s about control of the Abbott empire,” Jack said.

  The Porsche took a left on Clapton Road as smooth as spreading butter, doing sixty.

  Jack said, “Wait, the Kostas mansion is back to the right. Where are we going?”

  The GPS announced the location was 0.5 miles ahead.

  “I don’t know,” Savich said.

  An old gray Chrysler pulled onto the road directly in front of the Porsche.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Laurel said, “Just a moment, Stef.” She looked down at Rachael. “Tell me why you didn’t make the senator’s grand confession for him last night when you had the perfect chance.”

  Quincy said, “That’s clear enough, Laurel. She finally realized she’d be considered a traitor to her father, and her idea for that damned foundation she wants to run would be trashed.”

  Keep them talking, keep them talking. Rachael saw it in Sherlock’s eyes, and so she said, “No, none of that. Fact is, Aunt Laurel, I decided that only Jimmy could make public a revelation with such far-reaching consequences. His decision, no one else’s.”

  “Are you telling the truth?” Quincy asked her.

  “
I’m lying here at your feet. Why would I lie?”

  Suddenly tears appeared in Laurel’s eyes. The prison matron was suddenly remorseful about murdering her brother? Tears? Rachael stared at her. What was going on here?

  Laurel said, “It means I didn’t fail. And do you know, I’d already accepted that I had? I despised you so much, Rachael. Daddy would never have forgiven me if you had spoken out. Never. He believed there was never any excuse for failure.”

  Daddy? Her father? That profane old man who took my father from my mother? But he was dead, months and months dead, dead before they murdered Jimmy. Daddy?

  “That old bastard,” Quincy said. “How did he even find out what Jimmy did? I didn’t have a clue until Jimmy told us.” Quincy banged his fist against his palm.

  “Dammit, he should have told me, too. I was his loyal son. I stayed, didn’t go haring off to the damned Senate. I was the son who did whatever he asked. Damned old bastard.”

  Rachael and Sherlock barely breathed.

  “Calm yourself, Quincy. Daddy never told me how he found out about it,” Laurel said. “I do know he had Jimmy followed now and again, had detectives check on him. He liked to know where all the pieces were on the chessboard—you know that was always his way. Plus, he was very angry that Jimmy ignored all his ideas for new legislation.”

  “Stop your whining, Quincy,” Stefanos said. “It is really unattractive, doesn’t go well at all with your patrician image.”

  “Shut your trap, you suck-up—”

  Stefanos laughed. “Is that envy I hear?”

  Quincy shouted, “Envy of what? That the old man invented your image to suit himself and his own purposes, and you let him?”

  Stefanos said, “I always thought it was one of your father’s better ideas.”

  Sherlock was working the knots at her wrists. Please, let them keep talking, let them thrash it all out, go for each other’s throats, for all I care. Three more minutes, that should do it. She worked until her wrists were raw and she felt the sting and wet of her own blood but it didn’t matter. They’d found her ankle holster and taken her Lady Colt, but they hadn’t searched her inner jacket pocket with its single Kleenex and her Swiss Army knife.