Insidious

by Catherine Coulter

  They looked down at the groaning man who was now in the fetal position. “A real tough guy,” Savich said. “You okay, Sherlock?”

  “Yes, but this dude isn’t.”

  Savich knelt down by the shooter, pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his bleeding right wrist. “I suggest you press hard to stop the bleeding.” The bleeding wasn’t that bad now, but thinking about it might focus his brain and keep him quiet. He ran his hands over the guy’s legs and belt, no more weapons.

  The shooter looked up at him, eyes glazed with pain and shock. Then he looked over at Sherlock. Savich saw rage in his dark eyes, and he wanted to kick him again. “Now both your arms will be out of service for a while. I doubt you’ll lose either of them, although you deserve to for being so stupid.”

  Sherlock said, “I’m giving Ollie a big kiss. If he hadn’t called with those crime scene photos, we wouldn’t have been here.” She went down on her knees. “We’ve got help coming. You want to tell us your name?”

  The man whispered between groans of pain, “You bitch.”

  “Well, that’s a unique name.”

  He whispered bitch again, turned his head away, and said nothing more. She imagined the pain had to be over the top. Then he whispered, his voice blurred with shock. “I can’t believe you’re FBI, I mean, driving that fancy Porsche? I watched you talk, talk, talk to the old biddy, and then I heard you rev that engine and leave.”

  They heard sirens.

  Savich leaned over him. “And then Mrs. Rasmussen stepped out of the house and into her car and you decided it was your chance. You didn’t count on her driver protecting her, did you? He nearly drove right over you. Who paid you to kill Venus Rasmussen?”

  The shooter could hardly focus, his eyes rolling in his head. “I saw you leave. You were gone.”

  Four Metro cops came running down the narrow service road toward them, guns drawn. Savich and Sherlock put their Glocks on the ground, rose, and held their creds above their heads. They shouted together, “FBI!”

  8

  * * *

  GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  MONDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

  Vincent Willig was in surgery for more than two hours to repair the shattered bones in his wrist and fix a rod in his broken left arm. He would mend, the orthopedic surgeon told them, didn’t even mind the feds talking to his patient right away, once he found out what the man had done. He gave them a salute and wished them good luck.

  Willig had no ID on him, but there was no problem identifying him, his prints had popped up in minutes. Willig, Vincent Carl, born in Brammerton, Massachusetts, thirty-four years ago. He had an impressive sheet that included armed robbery and an attempted murder charge in New York that had sent him to Attica on his twenty-first birthday for a thirteen-year term. He was something of a hard-ass in prison, but managed to keep out of trouble enough to be released only weeks before.

  Detective Ben Raven’s captain at Metro let Sherlock and Savich take the lead, even though it hadn’t been declared a federal case. Ben stood beside them as they looked through the window at Willig. Both his arms were thickly bandaged, immobilized and propped up on pillows, his IV line tethered to his chest. Before they stepped into the room, Ben said, “Mr. Willig isn’t up to making a break for it anytime soon. But the person who hired him might be concerned enough to try to kill him, so we’ll keep a guard on him while he’s here. Hope that morphine he’s on helps you guys.”

  Sherlock said, “He threw me off him and pulled a knife on me. That was humiliating, but it might help us, since I saw how much he dislikes women. I’ll rile him up in no time what with me being the bitch who shot him. It’s unlikely, but I’m hoping, like you, Ben, that the morphine takes enough of an edge off that we can get him singing Kumbaya before he realizes it.”

  The three of them surrounded the hospital bed and looked down at Willig, who was lying still as a stone, his eyes closed. His face was a bit sunburned, and Sherlock thought that was odd, until she realized he’d been in jail for a decade, had probably come out pasty-white, and headed straight for a beach or a tanning bed.

  Willig’s eyes flew open and stared up at Sherlock. His gray eyes were light as scattered smoke. Then they turned opaque and empty, and Sherlock would swear she could feel the black behind them. She knew all of them had seen eyes like that before. Willig was a seriously bad man.

  Savich leaned over his bed, said quietly, “Your surgeon says your arm will heal. Your wrist will, too, assuming you get proper physical therapy, that is. If not, you’ll be as helpless as a toothless dog.”

  Willig’s voice was low, scratchy with the effort of talking. “You. Feel safe, don’t you, since I’m all bandaged up? I’ll use my arms again, you’ll see, and come for you. I’ll kill you, kill you hard.” He looked toward Sherlock. “As for you, bitch, I’ll have even more fun killing you.”

  Sherlock said, “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Hey, nice tats. Would you look at your left wrist—the one I didn’t shoot. I like the snake wrapped around the man’s neck, quite a statement.

  “I have to wonder though, Mr. Willig, how much physical therapy you’ll get in prison. You any good with your left hand?”

  He didn’t react, only stared up at her, his eyes filled with mean. “Wait a minute. I recognize you. You’re that FBI agent who brought down that big-shot English terrorist. You think that makes you some kind of hero, don’t you?”

  She leaned close. “He was harder to take down than you, Mr. Willig. But I’d give you the nod for being more stupid. Whoever hired you to murder Venus Rasmussen didn’t know how incompetent you are. Or was it because you came that cheap?”

  Willig tried to jerk up but fell back, breathing hard, trying not to groan. “I’m not stupid. You shouldn’t have been there, you and this bozo shouldn’t have even been there.”

  She leaned in close. “Personally, I don’t think it would have mattered. Ms. Rasmussen’s driver nearly ran you down. Like I said, you’re incompetent.”

  Willig didn’t move, but his eyes were hot now, with rage at her and his own helplessness. “If I’d had you at Attica—”

  “You just proved my point. I mean, trying to murder Ms. Rasmussen in her car, in the driveway, with two FBI agents twenty feet away and a smart driver in the car who laid it on the line for her. Do you see the idiot in this picture? Now, tell me about the other idiot, the one who hired you.”

  Willig tried to curse but it was swallowed on a moan of pain.

  Savich laid his hand on Sherlock’s arm, drew her back. “Mr. Willig, we’ll see you get more morphine if you give us the name of the person who hired you to kill Ms. Rasmussen. We can also see to it you don’t go back to state prison for the rest of your life. We’ll talk to the prosecutor, get him to cut you a deal, but only if you tell us the name. Otherwise, you’re going back for the rest of your life.”

  Willig sneered, or tried to, and turned his head away from Savich.

  Sherlock elbowed Savich out of the way, leaned close again. “You’re thirty-four and you’re supposedly tough, or at least you know how to act tough. Maybe you’d last into your seventies, even in a place like Attica. You’ve already been there long enough to see the young bucks coming in. How long before you can’t keep them off you? You’ll be one of those older guys who survive as their personal slaves. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll shove a bar of soap down your throat in the shower.”

  Even though the pain had to be riding him hard, Willig didn’t react. There was no give in him at all, certainly no mercy, and he didn’t expect any in return. Sherlock was impressed despite herself—clearly Attica had taught him well. The only way to survive there was to keep your mouth shut. But this wasn’t Attica.

  Savich said, “Mr. Willig, tell us which Rasmussen hired you and we can make a deal.”

  Willig whispered, “I want a lawyer.”

  Ben stepped in. “Mr. Willig, do you really want to go away for life this
time for this idiot who hired you? And you will, there’s no chance of you getting out of this. We have the .45 Chief’s Special you stole from Mr. James Wyndham’s house in Baltimore, not three days after you were released from Attica. We have the motorcycle you parked behind those bushes two blocks away from the house and the lockbox you had strapped to the back, with your backup ammunition. We have ballistics, eyewitnesses. You’re nailed, going down for the rest of your life. Tell us who paid you and like Agent Savich said, we’ll cut you a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  Well, that was a start. Savich said, “I told you, we’ll speak to the prosecutor, maybe he could see his way to reducing your sentence to ten years.”

  “Which is much better than a life sentence,” Sherlock added.

  “I want full immunity.”

  “That’s not going to happen in this universe, and you know it,” Sherlock said. “See, there’s another example of your not thinking straight. Look, you’ve danced at this hoedown before, and you know what happens now. You either go down forever, or you make the deal with us. Last chance.”

  “I want full immunity,” he said.

  Savich said, “Save yourself, Mr. Willig. How much did Rasmussen pay you?”

  There wasn’t a flicker of knowledge in his cold, dark eyes. “I want a lawyer.”

  The Rasmussen bait hadn’t worked. Savich didn’t hold out much hope, but he took a last parting shot. “We’ll find him ourselves soon enough. He had to have paid you some of the money by now. Will we find it scattered in some bank accounts? Or will we find it all stashed under your mattress at your apartment?”

  Willig was hurting, but when he spoke again, his voice was cold and hard. “I don’t own any motorcycle. I want some morphine and I want a lawyer.”

  “Judges don’t like thugs who try to kill cops,” Sherlock said, her voice as hard as his. “And you know what else? You won’t even be able to pay your lawyer, because all that lovely money will be in our evidence locker.”

  Ben said. “Very well. Shall I call the public defender?”

  “I got money. I want my own lawyer.”

  “You mean Rasmussen’s money, don’t you?” Sherlock said. “Is Alexander Rasmussen your lawyer?”

  “Nah, he sounds stuck-up and prissy. My lawyer is Big Mort Kendrick.”

  Ben Raven knew Kendrick well. He’d made a career out of defending lowlifes like Willig for twenty years. “Fine,” he said. “Without an arm to use, you can’t call him yourself. You want me to get him on the line?”

  “Yeah, do it now.”

  Willig watched him dial up Kendrick on his cell. When Ben punched off, he said to Willig, “You heard him, said he couldn’t talk right now, but he’ll be here in an hour.” Ben laughed. “I wonder what he’ll say when he hears you tried your pitiful best to murder three people.”

  9

  * * *

  They heard Willig yelling for more morphine as they walked to the elevator. Ben asked, “Are you guys really looking at Alexander Rasmussen trying to murder his own grandmother? Or was that a ploy to get Willig talking?”

  “A ploy that didn’t work. But it’s possible.”

  Ben gave Savich an assessing look. “A shame Willig didn’t bite. You’ve got quite a mess on your hands, with the Rasmussen name such a huge deal here in Washington. It’s like our own royalty was attacked. I know you’re not surprised that my wife left me a text asking for something she could use no one else could find out quickly. She usually knows better, with all her years in the business, but that’s how excited she is. I told her not to tell her editor, since he’s a powerhouse at the Washington Post and would be after her to do whatever necessary to get a story.”

  Savich said, “Can’t blame Callie for trying, Ben. But she has to know the media’s already all over this, gunshots at the Rasmussen mansion in the middle of the afternoon. Everyone who’s tuned in on the news knows about the shooting by now. I’ve told Venus to tell her family to avoid the press entirely, or if cornered keep saying, No comment. Now if Callie can see her way to planting some information we might want someone to know, give me a call.”

  Ben said, “I will. Thank the powers above I know how to bribe her.” He grinned. “I’ll wash her hair for her in the shower. She really likes that. Always works.”

  Ten minutes later Sherlock and Savich walked out of the hospital lobby to the crowded parking lot.

  Savich leaned down, gave her a quick kiss. “I wonder if Ben scrubs her scalp. You really like that.”

  “Oh my, yes.”

  “Actually, I’ll bet Ben throws in a lot of things.” He cupped her face in his palms, arched a dark eyebrow. “Speaking of showers, you threatened Willig with a bar of soap?”

  She gave him a big grin. “Pretty cool visual, don’t you think? A pity it didn’t shake him loose.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Willig himself executed another inmate in that manner.” They were getting into the Porsche when Savich’s cell blasted out Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird. It was Dr. Amick at the forensics lab. Savich listened, thanked him and punched off. “There was arsenic in her blood. They’re still running the tests on her hair to see how long it’s been building up in her system, but I won’t be surprised if the poisoning started three weeks ago, that first time she was ill. So Venus was right.”

  Sherlock blew out a breath. “You never doubted her, and neither did I.”

  Savich said, “Some of his forensics team is still at the house. He wanted to examine Venus himself, but she insisted on her own doctor, Dr. Filbert, who cleared her after the medics left. She’s still at home.”

  “I don’t understand, Dillon,” Sherlock said as the Porsche sped up through a yellow light. “A hit man—no other way to describe Willig—comes right to Venus’s house—in broad daylight—to kill her? It doesn’t make sense to me. How do you go from administering small doses of arsenic, enough to maybe still get away with killing an old lady without drawing attention, to an open assassination attempt? At her home, putting it all over the news? Alerting the cops? Is someone getting desperate?”

  Savich nodded. “I’m thinking maybe Willig was only there to case out the place, and saw a prime chance to get it done.”

  “And he failed big-time,” Sherlock said. “Or maybe,” she continued, “someone is afraid that something that’s now covered up will come uncovered if Venus isn’t dead. And another thing. Let’s say it was Alexander, or maybe even Guthrie, since they ate with her on all three occasions. How could they, or any other Rasmussen for that matter, find someone like Willig?”

  “I don’t doubt Alexander could find a hit man hiding in a monastery.”

  “Okay, having known Alexander over the years, I’ll agree with that. Don’t forget he’s sly, manipulative, insulting—”

  “All true, plus I imagine he’s got a lot of contacts, not only in Washington, but in New York. As for the rest of the Rasmussens finding someone like Willig, you know as well as I do that the Rasmussen money could buy almost anything.”

  Sherlock said, “Also, one of Venus’s staff could have managed it. And there’s Veronica. Understandable that Venus didn’t want her around today when she met with us, but she and Veronica are close; she spends most of her time with Venus, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, for fifteen years now. They’re so close Venus might even forget to mention her as a person of interest here. We need to check Venus’s will and trusts she’s made to her staff as well as to the family, look into each of their finances. We need to see who desperately needs money—not in five years, but immediately, right this minute.

  “And there’s Rob, of course, the long-lost grandson. I don’t believe she suspects him, but every other Rasmussen finger will be pointing at him. No wonder Venus wants to protect him.”

  “What about that accountant, Zapp, who was with her that first time at the Ambassador Club?”

  “Ruth ran a check on him, couldn’t find anything. She told me he had a solid alibi for the
second and third times Venus was poisoned.”

  “You know what I think? It’s all too neat, too tidy. Everything points to either Guthrie or Alexander.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s like someone is handing us the answer on a silver platter.

  “Dillon, whoever is behind this had to know Venus would figure it out and call the cops, or us, so he was ready with Willig. Immediately.”

  Savich’s phone sang out Free Bird again. It was Alexander Rasmussen—speak of the devil—at the mansion with Venus, playing the man in charge, demanding to know what the FBI was doing to protect his grandmother, wanting to know how a shooting like that could have happened and in the middle of the day. Savich held his temper, there was no use goading Alexander, not yet. He, his father, Guthrie, his aunt, Hildi; and her daughter, Glynis, were all at the house, gathered around the matriarch, probably fussing over her, driving her a bit mad, knowing Venus. Still it was good the family had come together, good for her and good for the investigation. He wondered if they’d yet gotten to the stage of accusing one another. Savich made a date to meet them all at the house that evening and made no comment when Alexander said he was hiring private security since the FBI couldn’t seem to protect her.

  He punched off. “Alexander, playing lord of the manor. We’ll see the lot of them this evening. Let’s stop at Willig’s apartment, give it a look over. He’s not in a great neighborhood; it’s near the warehouse district.” When he turned the Porsche onto West Elmstead Street, they entered a neighborhood that hadn’t seen any federal aid in decades, if ever. It was slowly collapsing in on itself, overgrown with weeds surrounding low-rent buildings, some of the yards littered with abandoned cars. Savich stopped the Porsche in front of a building that should have been boarded up years ago. “He’s on the third floor.”

  They saw three teenagers gaping at the Porsche and a half dozen older men and women sitting on the stoops, paying them no attention at all. Savich stopped on the steps and yelled out, “Anyone touches my ride gets five years in lockup. We’re cops.” He shifted his jacket to the side and let everyone get a look at the Glock, clipped to his belt. “I really like my ride.”