Twice Dead

by Catherine Coulter

  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 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 only an attempted murder, so I guess I can let you slide 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 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 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 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 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 no one wanted to speak to me,” she said, “except Mr. Bullock. They were all content 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 he
r death, and beneath, the words She Gave Me Infinite 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.

  TWENTY-ONE

  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. “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 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.

  When they got back to Washington, Savich left immediately for the gym and worked out until he was panting for breath, his body so exhausted it was ready to rebel.

  When he walked in the front door, feeling so exhausted each step was a chore, his son was there to greet him, crawling for all he was worth right up to Savich’s feet, grabbing onto his pants leg. Savich started to reach down to pick him up when he heard Sherlock say, “No, wait a second.”

  Sean yanked hard on his father’s pants, got a good hold, braced himself, and managed to pull himself up. Then he grinned up at his father and lifted one leg, then the other.

  All the miserable unanswerable questions, all the deadening sense of failure, fell away. Savich whooped, picked up his son, and tossed him into the air, again and again, until Sean was both yelling and laughing, one and then the other.

  It was Savich who wrote Sean’s accomplishment in his baby book that evening. “An almost giant step for kid-kind.” Then “The leg lift, one at a time—he’s getting ready to walk, amazing. His grandmother says I started walking early, too.”

  In bed that night, Sherlock nuzzled her head into Savich’s neck, lightly laid her palm over his heart, and said, “Sean brings back focus, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. I was ready to fall over from working out so hard when I walked in the house, and then he crawls over to me and pulls himself up. Then he lifts each leg, testing them out, nearly ready to take off. I didn’t think I had any laughter left in me, but I guess I do.”

  “Don’t feel guilty about it. You should have seen Gabriella. She was so tickled when I got home, so proud of both herself and Sean that she couldn’t wait to show off what he could do. Those leg lifts, I haven’t read about that in any baby books. Gabriella got some video of him doing that with me. I swear she didn’t want to leave this afternoon. I expect her husband to call me and complain about what demanding employers we are.”

  Savich settled his hand on her hip, kneaded her for a moment, thinking she’d dropped weight, kissed her forehead, then turned on his back to stare up at the dark ceiling.

  “Dillon?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I waited until Sean was in bed and we were lying here, all relaxed.”

  “Waited for what, sweetheart?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ve remembered some stuff that happened in that room at the airport.”

  Hemlock Bay

  Hoyt said, “You’ll never believe this, Simon!”

  “Yeah, yeah, what, Clark?”

  “Lieutenant Dobbs, he’s got—”

  Simon heard the slight shifting in sound, perhaps a small movement in the backseat of the car, but just as he knew something was different, he felt something very hard come down over his right temple. He slumped forward on the steering wheel, his forehead striking the horn.

  It blared.

  “Simon? Simon, where are you? What happened?”

  Lily heard the horn. Their rental car? But Simon was there, surely. Then she realized something was very wrong. She was on her feet in a second, racing down those beautifully manicured paths to the visitors’ parking lot. She heard the man running behind her, just one man; she heard the deep crunching of gravel beneath his feet.

  She ran faster, veering away from the parking lot, running back into the thick stand of hemlock and spruce trees. She was fast, always had been.

  She heard the man shout, but not at her. He was shouting at his accomplice. What had happened to Simon? The horn was still blaring, but it was more distant now. And then she realized that he must have fallen on the horn. Was he dead? No, no, he couldn’t be, he just couldn’t.

  She was through the trees, out the back, and there was the damned cliff, miles and miles of it, running north and south. She had been here before, and there wasn’t any escape this way. What to do?

  She ran along the edge of the cliff, searching for a way down, and found one, some yards ahead just before the cliff curved inward, probably from sliding and erosion over the years. There was a skinny, snaking trail, and she took it without hesitation. There was nothing ahead except empty land dotted with trees and gullies. They’d get her for sure, that or shoot her down. Maybe there was something there on the beach. Anything was better than staying up here and being an easy target.

  The path was steep, and she had to slow way down. Still she tripped a couple of times, and the last time, she had to grab a bush that grew beside the trail to halt her fall. It had thorns, and she felt them score her hands and fingers.

  She vaguely heard birds calling overhead.

  She knew the men had to be nearly at the top of the trail now. They’d come after her. What was down here except more beach? There had to be someplace to hide, some cover, a cave, anything.

  Her breath was spurting out of her, broken, tight. A stitch ripped through her side. She ignored it. She had to be calm, keep herself in control.

  She kept her eyes on the winding trail. Wouldn’t it ever stop? She heard the men now, yelling from the top for her to come back up, they weren’t going to hurt her.

  She managed three more steps, then there was a shot, then an instant ricochet off a rock one foot to her right, scattering chips in all directions. A chip hit her in the leg, but it didn’t go through her jeans.

  She hunkered down as much as she could, twisting to the left, then the right, going down until at last her feet hit the hard sand on the beach. She chanced a look back up to the top and saw one of the men start down after her. The other man was aiming his gun at her. It was a handgun, not accurate enough at this distance, she hoped.

  It wasn’t. He shot at her three more times, but none of the bullets seemed to strike close to her.

  She stumbled over a gnarly piece of driftwood and went flying. She landed on her stomach, her hands in front of her face. She saw wet sand, driftwood, kelp, and even one
frantic sand crab not six inches from her nose.

  She lay there for a moment, drawing in deep breaths, feeling the stitch in her side lessen. Then she was up again. She saw the man coming down the trail, but he wasn’t being as careful as she’d been. He was a big guy, not in the best of shape. He was wearing those opaque wraparound sunglasses, so she couldn’t really make out his features. He had thick, light brown hair and a gun in his right hand. She watched him stumble, wildly clutching at the air to regain his balance, but he didn’t. He tumbled head over heels down the trail and landed hard at the bottom, not moving. His gun. His gun was her only chance. She’d seen it flying. She ran to his side in an instant. She picked up a big piece of driftwood, realized it was soggy and not heavy enough, and grabbed up a rock instead. She leaned over him and brought the rock down on his head as hard as she could. She slipped her hand inside his coat and pulled out his wallet. She shoved it into her pocket, then saw the gun some six feet back up the trail, just off to the side, lying on top of a pile of rocks.

  The man on top was yelling, firing, but she ignored him. She got the gun, turned, and ran for all she was worth down the beach.

  Washington, D.C.

  Savich felt his heart pound faster beneath his wife’s palm. He shot up, turned on the bedside lamp, then faced her. “Tell me.”

  “I remember being scared for you when I saw you go into that conference room. Then I’m sure I saw Timmy Tuttle dragging Marilyn into that security room across the hall. I ran into the room, the three other agents behind me. The room was empty. At least that’s what I thought at first.

  “I saw this bright light, Dillon. It nearly blinded me, and I swear to you, for some reason I just couldn’t move. The light was right in front of that big window, and I know I saw Timmy and Marilyn in the middle of that light.

  “I could hear the other agents yelling at each other. I realized they weren’t seeing what I was. Still I couldn’t move. I was nailed to the spot looking at that white light. Then Timmy Tuttle grabbed Marilyn tight around her neck, and ...”