The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Simon said, “All right, that’s enough. Listen up, Morrie. We want you to tell us who hired you. It could save your life.”

  Morrie started whistling “Old Man River.”

  Lily laughed. “Come on, Morrie, spare us. You got a brain? Use it. Herman Monk is dead, shot three times in the back.”

  “I don’t know no Herman Monk. Sounds like a geek. Don’t know him.”

  That could be true. Simon said, “Monk was a loose end. He’s dead. You’re a loose end, too, Morrie. Just think about your lawyer for a moment. Who is he? Who sent him? Who’s paying his bill? Do you really think he’s going to try to get you off?”

  “I hired him. He’s a real good friend, a drinking buddy. We watch the fights together down at Sam’s Sports Bar, you know, over on Cliff Street.”

  Lily said, as she tapped her fingers on the Formica surface, split down the middle by bars, with Simon and Lily on one side, Morrie on the other, “He’s setting you up, Morrie. You too stupid to use your brain? You know he told the sheriff that he took your case pro bono?”

  “I want a cigarette.”

  “Don’t be a moron. You want to die, hacking up your lungs? He said he took you on for free, out of the goodness of his heart. I want you to just think about all this. What did your lawyer promise you?”

  “He said I was getting out of here, today.”

  “Yeah, we heard,” Simon said, and it was true, according to Lieutenant Dobbs. The judge had called and was prepared to set bail. “You know what’s going to happen then?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to go get me a beer.”

  “That’s possible,” Lily said. “I hope you really enjoy it, Morrie, because you’re going to be dead by morning. These people really hate loose ends.”

  Morrie said, “Who did you say this Monk geek was?”

  Lily said, “He was the curator of the museum where my grandmother’s paintings were displayed. He was part of the group who had four of the paintings copied, the originals replaced with the fakes. When it all came out, when it was obvious that things were unraveling, he was shot in the back. That’s why they wanted you to kill me. They were my paintings and here I am doing what they knew I’d do—stirring things up until I find out who stole my paintings. I wonder how long before they shoot you, Morrie.”

  “I’m leaving town, first thing.”

  “Good idea,” Simon said. “But I see two big problems for you. The first is that you’re still in jail. Your lawyer said he was going to get you out? Who’s going to pay the bail, Morrie, and that’s your second problem. Your pro bono lawyer? That’s possible, what with all the money from the people who hired you in the first place. So, let’s say you walk out of here, what are you going to do? Hide out in an alley and wait for them to kill you?”

  Morrie believed him, Simon knew it in that moment. Simon waited a beat, then said, “Turns out I can solve both problems for you.”

  “How?”

  “Ms. Savich here will drop charges against you, we’ll get you out of here without your lawyer knowing about it. To sweeten the deal, I’ll give you five hundred bucks. That’ll get you far away from these creeps, give you a new start. In return you give me the name of who hired you.”

  Morrie said, “Look, I’m going to sue her the minute I get out of here. Five hundred bucks? That’s jack shit.”

  Simon’s gut was good. He knew he was going to get Morrie. Just one more nudge. He turned on the recorder in his jacket pocket. “You know, Morrie, Lieutenant Dobbs and the DA don’t really want me to cut any deal with you. I had to talk them into it. They want to take you to trial and throw your butt in jail for a long time. Since Lily hurt you pretty good, it’s more than your word against hers. You’d be dead meat, Morrie.”

  It took only three more minutes of negotiation. Simon agreed to give Morrie Jones eight hundred dollars, Lily agreed to drop the charges, and Morrie agreed to give them a name.

  “I want to see her sign papers and I want to see the money before I do anything.”

  Lieutenant Dobbs and the DA weren’t pleased, but knew that Morrie was incidental compared to the person who’d hired him.

  Lily, in the presence of Lieutenant Dobbs, an assistant DA, a detective, and two officers, signed that she was dropping the charges against one Morrie Jones, age twenty.

  Once they were alone again, Morrie said, slouching back in his chair, “Now, big shot, give me the money before I say another word.”

  Simon rose, pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and laid out the entire wad. There were eight one-hundred-dollar bills and a single twenty. “Glad you didn’t wipe me out completely, Morrie. I appreciate it. That twenty will buy Lily and me a couple of tacos.”

  Morrie smirked as Simon started to slide the hundred-dollar bills through the space beneath the bars. “Tell me a story, Morrie.”

  “I don’t exactly have a name. Hey, no, don’t take the money back. I got just as good as a name. Look, she called me. It was this woman and she had this real thick accent, real Southern, you know? Smooth and real slow. She didn’t give me her name, just Lily Frasier’s name. She described her, told me where she was staying and to get it done fast.

  “I went right over to the bank, picked up the money, then I went to work.” He slid his eyes toward Lily. “It just didn’t quite work out the way I wanted.”

  “That’s because you’re a wimp, Morrie.”

  Morrie half-rose out of his chair. The jail guard standing against the wall immediately straightened. Simon raised a hand. “How much did this woman pay you to kill Lily?”

  “She gave me a thousand for a down payment. Then she was to have five thousand to me when it was done and on the news.”

  “This is not a good business, Simon.” She stared at Morrie. “I was only worth six thousand dollars?”

  Morrie actually smiled. “That’s all. You know, I would have done it for less if I’d known you then.”

  Simon realized that Lily was enjoying herself. She was having a really fine pissing contest with this young thug. He pressed his knee against her leg.

  But she had one more line. “What I did to you I did for nothing.”

  Simon just shook his head at her. “Morrie, which bank?”

  “Give me the money first.”

  Simon slid the money all the way through. Morrie’s hand slid over it, presto. He closed his young eyes for a moment, feeling the money like it was a lover’s flesh. “Wells Fargo,” he said, “the one just over on First Street and Pine. The money was there in my name.”

  “You didn’t ask who had left the money waiting there for you?”

  Morrie shook his head.

  “Thanks, Morrie,” Lily said as she rose. “Lieutenant Dobbs thinks you’ll be out sometime this afternoon. He’s agreed not to tell your lawyer. My advice to you—get the hell out of Dodge. This time you don’t have to be afraid of me. The woman who hired you—chances are good she wants you dead, and she’s capable of doing it herself.”

  “You know who she is?”

  Lily said, “Oh yeah, we know. She’d eat you with her poached eggs for breakfast. Hey, what happened to the thousand bucks she gave you?”

  Morrie’s eyes slid away. “None of your damned business.”

  Lily laughed, shook her finger at him. “You pissed it away in a poker game, didn’t you?”

  “No, dammit. It was pool.”

  Clark Hoyt was waiting for them in Lieutenant Dobbs’s office. His arms were folded over his chest. He looked very odd. “I got a call from Savich. He was calling from Saint John’s, in Antigua, of all places, said to tell you that all hell will break loose in the media really soon now, but that he and Sherlock are okay. It seems that Tammy Tuttle got ahold of Marilyn Warluski and they’re gone. There was a big situation there at the airport. Savich called it a fiasco.”

  “Antigua?” Simon said. “I guess he couldn’t tell us he was there.”

  Lily said, shaking her head, “Dillon will not be a happy camper about this.�
��

  Hoyt himself wondered what had happened, but he said only, “Savich didn’t give me any details, said he’d call again this evening. I told him where you guys are staying now. Okay, tell me who hired Morrie.”

  “Yeah,” Lieutenant Dobbs said as he came into his own office to see the two civilians and the Fed. “Who was it?”

  “It was my mother-in-law,” Lily said. “No doubt at all that it was Charlotte. She didn’t give Morrie her name, but that accent of hers—it has so much syrup in it, you could sweeten a rock.”

  Lieutenant Dobbs shook his head. “So now you know, but there’s still no case. Both Hoyt and I interviewed the Frasiers—all three of them—separately. In all three cases, their lawyer, Bradley Abbott, a real son of a bitch hardnose, was present. The Frasiers refused to answer any questions. Abbott read a statement to us. In the statement, the Frasiers claim all of this is nonsense. They are sorry about Mr. Monk, but it has nothing to do with them, and this is a waste of everyone’s time. Oh yeah, then their lawyer told us that you were nuts, Lily, that you’d do anything to get back at them, for what reason they don’t know, but no one should believe a single word you say. We need more evidence before we can bring them to the station and put them in an interview room again.”

  Hoyt said to Simon and Lily, “We’ll have two agents on Morrie Jones. Lieutenant Dobbs hasn’t got a problem with that, especially since he’s short officers right now. We won’t let the little twerp out of our sight.”

  “Good,” said Lieutenant Dobbs. “All right, listen up. I’ve got a murder to solve. As for you, Lily, you’re just an attempted murder, so I guess I can let you slide just a bit. I understand this thing is more complicated than a Greek knot, and that all of it ties together.”

  Simon said, “If it’s okay with you, Lieutenant, I’d like to go to Wells Fargo to see if there’s a record of who gave Morrie a thousand dollars for the hit on Lily. That’d be too easy, but it’s worth a shot.”

  Lieutenant Dobbs said, “She paid that little dip just a thousand bucks to off Lily?”

  “Oh, no,” Lily said. “I’m worth lots more than that. There was another five thousand bucks when the job was done.”

  Simon said, “Okay, then, let’s get cracking.”

  On the way out the door, Lily looked at Simon for a moment, at his too-long, very dark hair, and realized she hadn’t really noticed before how it curled at his neck. “Those little curls—they’re cute,” she said and patted his nape.

  Simon rolled his eyes.

  Hoyt, who was walking behind them, laughed.

  Since Hoyt was along, they got instant cooperation at Wells Fargo. One of the vice presidents, who seemed more numerous than tellers at the windows, hustled onto the computer and punched up the money transfer transactions for the very morning Morrie had attacked Lily on the city bus.

  Mr. Trempani raised his head, looked at each of them in turn. “This is very strange. The money was wired in care of Mr. Morrie Jones by a company called Tri-Light Investments. Any of you ever heard of them?”

  “Tri-Light,” Lily said. “I don’t think Tennyson ever mentioned that company.”

  “Who are they?” Hoyt asked.

  “All we have is an account number in Zurich, Switzerland. It simply lists Tri-Light Investments and the Habib Bank AG at 59 Weinbergstrasse.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Simon said.

  Hoyt said, “I’ll call Interpol and get someone to check this out. But don’t count on finding anything out. The Swiss have duct tape over their mouths.” He paused for a moment. “You suspect someone, don’t you, Simon? And not just the Frasiers. Who?”

  “If the owner of this Tri-Light Investments is a Swede by the name of Olaf Jorgenson, then we’re confirming lots of things,” Simon said.

  “Makes sense,” Hoyt said. “He’s the collector, isn’t he? That’s how it all ties into Ms. Savich’s paintings. You guys think he’s the one who commissioned them.”

  “It’s possible,” Simon said.

  Lily punched Simon in the ribs. “It’s more than possible, Clark. Call us on the cell phone as soon as you know, okay?”

  Hoyt said, “You promised no hotdogging. That means you don’t go see Charlotte Frasier without having at least me along.”

  Hemlock Bay, California

  Lily pointed to the Bullock Pharmacy, and Simon pulled into an open parking spot in front of Spores Dry Cleaners next door. An old man was staring out at them from the large glass windows that held three hanging Persian carpets, presumably just cleaned.

  Ten minutes later, Lily came out of the Bullock Pharmacy carrying a small paper bag. She eased into the passenger seat and drew a deep breath. “It’s such a beautiful town,” she said. “I always thought so. You can smell the ocean, feel that light sheen of salt on your skin. It’s incredible.”

  “Okay, I agree, lovely town, lovely smell in the air. What happened?”

  “I had a real epiphany going into that pharmacy.” And then she told him what had happened. There’d been about ten people in the store, and all of them, after they saw her, were talking about her behind their hands. They stepped away if she came near them, didn’t say anything if she said hello to them. Lily was frankly relieved when Mr. Bullock senior, at least eighty years old, nodded to her at the checkout line. Evidently he was the spokesperson. He looked at her straight in the eye before he rang up her aspirin and said, “Everyone is real sorry you tried to kill yourself again, Mrs. Frasier.”

  “I didn’t, Mr. Bullock.”

  “We heard that you blamed it on Dr. Frasier and left him.”

  “Is that what everyone believes?”

  “We’ve known the Frasiers a long time, ma’am. Lots longer than we’ve known you.”

  “Actually, Mr. Bullock, it’s very far from the truth. Someone has tried to kill me three times now.”

  He just shook his head at her, waved the bottle of aspirin, and said, “You need something stronger than these, Mrs. Frasier. Something lots stronger. You’ll never live to be as old as I am if you don’t see to it now.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Lieutenant Dobbs in Eureka?”

  He just looked at her, saying nothing more. Lily didn’t feel like standing there arguing with the old man to change his mind, with the dozen other people in the store likely listening, so she just paid and left, knowing those people were thinking she was one sick puppy, no doubt about it.

  “That’s it. Nothing much, really.” She waved the bottle of aspirin. “Thanks, Simon.” He handed her a bottle of diet Dr Pepper, and she took two of the tablets.

  “Isn’t it interesting that no one wanted to speak to me,” she said, “except Mr. Bullock. They were all content just to hang back and listen.”

  “It’s still a beautiful town. Tennyson, Mom, and Dad have been busy,” Simon said. “How about some lunch?”

  After a light lunch at a diner that sat right on the main pier, Lily said, “I want to visit my daughter, Simon.”

  For a moment, he didn’t understand. She saw it and said, even as tears stung her eyes, “The cemetery. After I leave, I know I won’t be back for a while. I want to say good-bye.”

  He wasn’t about to let her go by herself. It was too dangerous. When he told her that, she simply nodded. They stopped at a small florist shop at the end of Whipple Avenue, Molly Ann’s Blooms.

  “Hilda Gaddis owns Molly Ann’s. She sent a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses to Beth’s funeral.”

  “The daffodils are lovely.”

  “Yes. Beth loved daffodils.” She said nothing more as they drove the seven minutes to the cemetery set near the Presbyterian Church. It was lovely, in a pocket nestled by hemlock and spruce trees, protected from the winds off the ocean.

  He walked with her up a narrow pathway that forked to the right. There was a beautiful etched white marble stone, an angel carved on top, her arms spread wide. Beth’s name was beneath, the date of her birth, the date of her death, and beneath, the words She Gave Me Infi
nite Joy.

  Lily was crying, but made no sound. Simon watched her go down on her knees and arrange the daffodils against the headstone.

  He wanted to comfort her but realized in those moments that she needed to be alone. He turned away and went back to the rental car. His cell phone rang.

  It was Clark Hoyt, and he was excited.

  21

  Saint John’s, Antigua

  There was nothing more for Savich to do in Antigua. Timmy Tuttle, with two healthy arms, had Marilyn, and Savich didn’t want to even think of what he was doing to her.

  Or maybe two different people had her, one wild-eyed man with black hair and two arms, and a woman with one arm and madness and rage in her eyes.

  Savich couldn’t stand himself. He’d set up Marilyn, gotten an FBI agent killed, along with a local police officer, and left chaos in his wake. He knew he’d see Virginia Cosgrove’s sightless eyes for a very long time, and that long red gash that had slit her throat open.

  Jimmy Maitland had taken his arm, trying to calm him down. “Batten down the guilt, Savich. I approved everything you did. We faced something or someone that shouldn’t have been there. It happened. You’ve got to prepare to move on.”

  Maitland shook his head, ran fingers through his gray hair, making it stand on end. “Jesus, I’m losing it. There’s nothing more we can do here. We’re going home. I’m leaving Vinny Arbus and his SWAT team in charge. They’ll keep looking for Marilyn and coordinate with local law enforcement. This confusion, Savich, it will unravel in time. There’s an explanation, there has to be.”

  Savich didn’t let Sherlock out of his sight. He realized soon enough that she was different—more quiet, her attention not on any of them, and he’d look at her and know she was thinking about what had happened, her eyes focused, yet somehow far away.

  There was so much cleanup, so many explanations to give, most omitting the inexplicable things because they didn’t help anyone to know the sorts of things that could drive you mad. And most important, there was no sign of the man who’d taken Marilyn Warluski from the Saint John’s airport.