The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Ruth said, “Maybe Helen called someone else, maybe she couldn’t remember all the names and she knew of someone else who knew, or she called one of the women.”

  Dix pulled out his cell and punched in his office. He said to his dispatcher, “Amalee, get Penny, Emory, and Claus in. I’ll meet them at the office in twenty minutes.” He paused for a moment, listening, then flipped his phone shut, and pocketed it. “Amalee already knew,” he said. He shook his head. “Of course she knew.” He scuffed the toe of his boot against the living room rug and cursed under his breath.

  They searched Helen Rafferty’s small three-bedroom house thoroughly. There wasn’t much to see because she’d simplified her life some time ago, according to her brother, preferring to have few possessions. But she loved photos. They were everywhere, on every surface. Mostly family. They did find some five-year-old notes Dr. Holcombe had written to her in a little box with a ribbon tied around it in her underwear drawer. Not hot and heavy love notes, but things like Dinner tonight, at your place? or Meet me at my house at six o’clock.

  It was all incredibly sad, Ruth thought.

  Helen Rafferty’s empty desk at Stanislaus was pristine, not a loose paper anywhere. Her computer screen looked polished. Since Dr. Holcombe wasn’t there, they took the time to go through all her desk drawers, but found nothing of interest. Soon everyone on campus would want to know what had happened. Everyone would be upset and confused—first Erin Bushnell, now the director’s personal assistant. Soon, Dix thought, everyone would be scared.

  Dix was starting up the Range Rover when his cell phone rang. He hung up a moment later. “That was Chappy. He said Twister is at Tara, drinking his Kona coffee, eating Mrs. Goss’s scones, and is of no use to anyone at all. He said Twister told him about Helen being strangled, and now Twister is crying and sniffling. Chappy sounded disgusted.”

  The sun wasn’t shining. The sky was steel-gray, heavy snow-bloated clouds dotting the horizon, and it seemed as cold as the South Dakota plains Dix had visited years ago with Christie and the boys.

  Dix kept to the back roads and pushed the Range Rover well beyond the speed limit. Seeing Ruth hug herself, he turned the heat on high. “Snow,” he said to no one in particular. “Probably by afternoon.”

  They pulled into Tara’s long drive twelve minutes later. “I wonder where my law enforcement officers are,” Dix said. “I was over the limit the whole way. Usually if there’s someone speeding, they know it.”

  “You’re the sheriff,” Ruth told him. “They gonna pull you over? I don’t think so. When was the last time one of your deputies came after you for speeding?”

  “Point made.”

  As Dix pulled the Range Rover to a stop, he said, “If you guys will bear with me, I want to hold off asking my uncle about his affairs with Erin and the others in front of Chappy. He’d probably howl with laughter, say he thought Twister was impotent or something, and go on forever. We really can’t interrogate him here. I want to confront him about Erin and Helen when he’s away from his brother.”

  “He’s your uncle, and it’s your investigation, Dix,” Savich said. “Your call.”

  Chappy answered the doorbell again, wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater, black wool slacks, and loafers.

  “Is Bertram still sick?” Dix asked him.

  “Yeah, he’s still sniffling around her house, his sister told me, complaining he hurts all over when he gets out of bed. Not a good patient, is Bertram. It’s about time you got here, Dix. I know Twister killed Helen. Come in and hand-cuff this pathetic wuss, get him out of here, he’s making me sick. I see you’re still towing the Feds around.” He stepped back, waved them all in.

  Gordon Holcombe was standing by the fireplace, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked like an Italian fashion plate in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a perfectly knotted pale blue tie. He looked sad and also somehow stoic, a strange combination, Ruth thought. Was he really sorry Helen was dead? Or relieved?

  Gordon didn’t say a word when they walked into the living room, and merely stood watching them.

  Dix said, “Gordon, I’m very sorry about Helen.”

  “Why are you telling him you’re sorry?” Chappy bellowed, waving his fist in his brother’s direction. “This mewling little psychopath probably killed her. I already told you he did. Go on. Ask him!”

  Ruth asked, “Did you kill Helen Rafferty, Dr. Holcombe?”

  Gordon sighed, set his coffee cup on the mantel. “No, Agent Warnecki, I most certainly did not. I was very fond of Helen. I’ve known her since I first came to Stanislaus. She was a remarkable woman. I don’t know who killed her.” Suddenly, he looked spiteful. “Why don’t you ask Chappy while you’re at it? He’s the loose cannon around here. How do you think he got so rich? He’s stepped over some bodies. Ask him!”

  “Ha! That was weak, Twister, real weak. As if I’d kill your former mistress. The good Lord knows you’re the only one with a motive, not me. Er, what was your motive?”

  Dix said, “How did you know she was dead, Gordon?”

  “I called Helen because I wanted to ask her about some details concerning Erin Bushnell’s memorial service. I got her answering machine, and I thought that was strange because everyone knows Helen is always at her desk by seven-thirty, so I called the reception desk in Blankenship and asked to speak to her. Mary said she hadn’t seen her. When I called her home, her brother answered. He was crying, poor man. He told me she was dead, that she’d been murdered, said you guys had just left.

  “I was upset, bewildered. I didn’t know what to do so I came here.” He shot his brother a vicious look. “Am I an idiot or what? No sympathy from Charles Manson here, the cold-blooded old bloodsucker.”

  Savich stepped right in. “When did you last see Helen, Dr. Holcombe?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, for only a moment after I got back from Gainsborough Hall. I was upset because they’d had to replace Erin with another student who simply isn’t in her league. Usually Helen would stay if I did, but this time she didn’t. She left, barely spoke to me at all. Naturally, I thought she was troubled over Erin’s murder.

  “I remember watching her walk to where her Toyota was parked, thinking she’d gained a little weight. I watched her get in and drive away.” His voice broke. “I never saw her again.”

  Chappy made a rude noise. “That was real affecting, Twister, gloomed my innards right up.”

  Mercifully, Mrs. Goss appeared in the doorway carrying a large silver tray.

  Sherlock found herself staring at the lovely Georgian silver service, so highly polished she could see her face in the surface. When Mrs. Goss left, she turned to Chappy, who looked as satisfied as could be, sprawled in his chair, his long legs crossed. “Why did you say your brother was crying, Mr. Holcombe? I don’t see a single tearstain.”

  Chappy only shrugged. “Because he was crying before you showed up, croc tears. Twister never cries about anything in his useless life unless it’s over something he wanted and didn’t get.”

  “Well, I didn’t want Helen dead,” Gordon said, his voice flat and too calm. “And well you know it, Chappy. You’re trying to cause trouble for me, nothing new in that, but this isn’t a joke. You little sadist, Helen’s dead, Erin’s dead. Even Walt’s dead. Someone tried to kill Special Agent Warnecki. Don’t you understand, you old geezer—everything’s gone to hell!” His voice had risen steadily until he was shouting. Chappy merely grinned at him.

  Ruth asked, “Dr. Holcombe, where were you last Friday afternoon?”

  “What? What is this? Erin—You think I had something to do with her murder, too? God almighty, this can’t be happening.”

  “What were you doing Friday afternoon?” Savich repeated.

  Gordon waved his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t remember—Wait, wait. I was stuck counseling a procession of idiot students all afternoon. They were driving me wild.”

  Gordon turned on Dix. “I didn’t kill anyone! You’re the bloody sheriff.
Who is going to be next? What are you doing to catch the monster who’s doing these things? I’ll tell you, it’s someone who hates me, who wants to destroy me and Stanislaus.”

  Ruth asked, “Did Helen call you last night, Dr. Holcombe?”

  “Helen call me? Why, no, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, I considered calling her, but I didn’t, more’s the pity.”

  “Why did you think to call her?”

  Gordon shrugged. “I was depressed. I suppose I wanted her to cheer me up, but I didn’t call. I don’t remember why I didn’t.”

  Dix waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know Jackie Slater, Gordon?”

  “Jackie Slater? No, I don’t. Why should I? Who is he?”

  “How about Tommy Dempsey?”

  “No, dammit. I don’t recognize either name. Why are you asking me?”

  “They’re very likely the men who tried to murder Special Agent Warnecki Saturday night.”

  “Wait, Dempsey—that name sounds familiar . . .”

  “Jack Dempsey was a famous boxer, you ignoramus.”

  “Shut up, Chappy. Why are you asking me these idiot questions? For God’s sake, Dix, get out there and do your job!”

  Savich said, his voice suddenly hard as nails, his face as hard as his voice, “Tell us where you were last night, Dr. Holcombe.”

  Gordon stopped in his tracks at that voice. He looked at Savich, turning even paler. “You want me to give you an—alibi? Me? That’s ridiculous, I—I—Very well, I’m sorry, it’s just—Okay, I understand, this is standard procedure and I did know her very well. I had dinner with my daughter, Marian Gillespie, at her house. We dined alone, I stayed until around nine o’clock, played the piano while she tried to sight-read a clarinet solo composed by George Wooten, a musician from Indiana who sent it to her yesterday. She got through it before I pulled out my fingernails. It was perfectly dreadful.”

  “Marian plays like a dream,” Chappy said. “Twister here is a snotty perfectionist. No one can do anything well enough to suit him.”

  “The music was dreadful, you fool, not Marian’s playing. Wooten believes anything dissonant means genius—you know, like those modern artists who smear anything at all on a canvas. Before you croon to me about being a perfectionist, Chappy, look how you treat Tony, who’s doing so well running your bank.”

  Sherlock cut him off. “What did you do then, Dr. Holcombe?” She pointedly ignored Chappy, looking intently at Gordon.

  “What did I do? I didn’t do anything. I went home, that’s what people usually do when they’re ready for bed. They go home. Like I said, I was depressed and angry because some maniac murdered Erin. I kept thinking of her, couldn’t get her out of my mind. It really hit me that I’d never see her again, and never hear her play again.”

  Savich’s voice sharpened even more. “Please tell us what time you got home and what you did.”

  “Okay. All right. I got home at around nine-thirty. I looked through my mail since I didn’t have time to do it before I went over to Marian’s. I watched the news on TV, drank a scotch, went up to bed. I tried not to think about Erin. I had trouble sleeping so I watched a bit more TV, but I couldn’t get Erin out of my mind. And now Helen is dead, too.”

  “Can anyone verify this, Gordon?” Dix asked.

  “No, I live alone, as you well know. The help isn’t waltzing in and out after five o’clock in the afternoon.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken by Ruth as she looked from one brother to the other. “The two of you look remarkably alike. Bear with me, but I’m new here, and I’ve never seen two brothers treat each other the way you do. Why, Chappy, are you accusing your brother of murder? Can you explain this to me?”

  Chappy laughed, clutching his hands over his belly. “Come on, Agent Ruth, look at that pompous, affected academician. Can you blame me? The pathetic liar’s never done a decent thing in his life, except play the fiddle.” He hiccupped, slapped his hand over his mouth, and hiccupped again.

  Gordon said flatly, “Please disregard that jealous baboon, Agent. After our parents died, he decided he’d be my daddy, and did he ever do a job of it, until I could get away from him. The only thing that means anything to him is money.” He jerked his head in his brother’s direction. “I plan to bury you in a casket filled with one-dollar bills, Chappy, let them keep you company.”

  “Now, make that thousand-dollar bills and you might have something, you cheap bastard,” Chappy said, kicking the toe of his loafer toward his brother.

  Ruth cleared her throat. “Yet you came here, Dr. Holcombe, when you didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Even though I’ve had to put up with this overbearing jackass all my life, the fact is, I like his coffee.” He saluted his brother with his coffee cup.

  CHAPTER 23

  MARIAN GILLESPIE DIDN’T answer the knock on her door, a young man did. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with STANISLAUS across the front.

  “Yeah? Who are you?”

  Dix smiled as he stepped forward, pushing him back into the house. “I’m Sheriff Noble. Who are you?”

  “Hey—”

  “Who are you?”

  “Sam Moraga.”

  “This is Professor Marian Gillespie’s house. What are you doing here?”

  “Marian is giving me private tutoring,” the young man said, and yawned so wide his jaw cracked.

  “In what?”

  “I play the clarinet, among other instruments. I had to come over late last night because Dr. Holcombe—he’s her father—was here and she couldn’t get rid of him before nine o’clock.”

  “You saw Dr. Holcombe leave?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. He drives this stuck-up silver Mercedes, thinks he’s better than all the peasants. Thing is, though, he’s got the talent to pull it off.”

  “Where is Dr. Gillespie?” Dix asked him.

  “She left a little while ago, said she had to e-mail this composer who sent her some clarinet music. She thought it was great. She’s at her office at school.”

  Dix continued, “You must be the only sentient human being in the area who doesn’t know. Helen Rafferty was murdered last night.”

  Sam Moraga nearly fell over. Dix grabbed his arm. “You knew her, I gather.”

  “Oh man, sure I knew Ms. Rafferty. Man, everyone is dying. I can’t believe this. She was nice, wouldn’t hurt anyone, always great with Marian’s dad—Murdered? She was like a mother to Marian, to all the students. Who killed her?”

  “We’re working on it,” Dix said. “I gather you and Dr. Gillespie are sleeping together?”

  Sam Moraga nodded absently. “Helen is dead. I can’t get my brain around that. It’s horrible. First Erin, and now Helen. What’s happening, Sheriff?”

  “Come into the living room.”

  They spoke with Sam Moraga for another thirty minutes. He was nervous about the FBI agents, stammering the answers to their questions. Sherlock thought he might be spooked about having some marijuana in the house. They left him at the kitchen table, a mug of cold coffee between his beautifully shaped hands.

  Dix and Ruth walked toward the Range Rover ahead of Savich and Sherlock, who’d slowed to confer.

  “Sam was frightened about you Feds, and he probably thought I was a joke,” Dix said. “You guys got to see me bumbling around.”

  “Dix, you realized as well as I did that Sam’s not a player in this. Whoever’s doing this is smart, and so far he’s playing us like a pro.”

  He called out to Savich and Sherlock, “Let’s go track down Dr. Gillespie.” Suddenly he smiled at Ruth. “Hey, wanna go skating when this is over? Honeyluck Pond’s been frozen for the past two weeks.”

  “Skating? Well, sure, I’d like that. I haven’t skated in years but I used to be pretty good.”

  They ran Marian Gillespie to earth in the faculty lounge on the second floor of Blankenship Hall. She was alone in the plush, dark wood-paneled room, sipping from a mug as she stood at one o
f the multipaned windows, staring at the snow-covered hills in the distance. It was easy for Ruth to see she was her father’s daughter and Chappy’s niece. She was tall, slender, dressed in a beautifully cut dark blue suit, stiletto boots on her long, narrow feet. She had thick, light hair and dark eyes, like Tony’s.

  “Marian,” Dix said to her from the doorway.

  Her head came up fast, a long hank of hair falling forward. “Dix! Oh goodness, you’re here about Helen, aren’t you? Oh God, what’s happening?” She set her mug on a table and ran to him, threw her arms around him. “I simply can’t believe it; no one would want to hurt Helen. She was almost like a mother to me, always so sweet, listened to all my troubles. She wrote me when I was at Juilliard, did you know that?”

  “Yes, Christie told me how close you two were. We need to talk, Marian.” Dix introduced the three FBI agents.

  She motioned them to join her. Once seated, Marian said, “I heard about those men trying to kill you, Agent Warnecki. Then there was poor Erin Bushnell and poor old Walt McGuffey. Now Helen. Who’s responsible, Dix? Who is killing our friends, ruining everything we’ve worked for?”

  “We’re close to finding that out, Marian, but we need your help.”

  Savich said, “We spoke with Sam Moraga at your house earlier.”

  She didn’t look embarrassed, not even much interested, only shrugged. “Well, Sam’s a talented boy who has a brilliant future, if he can keep himself focused on what’s important. We’ll see. He learns quickly, I’ll say that for him. And he’s eager.”

  No one was about to touch that morass of double entendres, and Savich wondered if she knew about her father’s affairs with students. Was she throwing this back at him?

  Sherlock said, “We’re very sorry about this, Professor Gillespie. We spoke to your father as well. He was over at Tara with Chappy.”