Riptide

by Catherine Coulter

  “He’ll be gone by then.”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you think he killed her in those short minutes between when he called me and all the men got here?”

  Adam hesitated, then shook his head. “No, she’d been dead for several hours, at least.”

  “But her face, Adam, her face. It looked—fresh, even though all the blood looked dried and clotted.”

  “He did that after he called you, after he realized the phone was tapped. She was already dead, Becca.”

  “How did he kill her?”

  Adam didn’t want to say anything more about it, but he knew she wasn’t going to let it go, she couldn’t let it go. “He strangled her.”

  “Why was there dirt all over her? God, it was even on her feet, in her hair.”

  Oh, shit, he thought. He didn’t want to say it but there was no choice. “There was dirt on her because he dug her up to smash her face.” There, it was said, and he thought she was going to vomit again. She closed her eyes, her arms fell to her sides, and her head dropped forward against his chest. But she didn’t vomit, she cried, making no sound at all, just cried, her hands fists against his Kevlar vest.

  “Oh, God, Becca,” he said and squeezed her hard. “I swear I’ll get him, I swear it.”

  She said nothing for a very long time. His knees were starting to hurt when she finally whispered against his neck, “Not if I can get him first.” She shuddered, then he felt her stiffen and slowly, slowly pull back from him. She said, “He was through with her, probably planning on leaving here, and so he killed her and buried her and then decided it would be fun to play this big joke on me.”

  “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

  “He’s still here, Adam. He’s close. I can feel him. It’s like something very black and heavy crawling over my skin.”

  He said nothing.

  “But why? I just don’t understand why he picked me. Why is he doing this to me?”

  Again, Adam said nothing, but he thought, If Krimakov is really dead, then there isn’t a motive, and I don’t have the foggiest idea, either, why he picked you.

  ***

  Becca couldn’t get Linda Cartwright out of her mind. She kept picturing her, lying there, her face smashed, and no one to take care of her for hour upon hour.

  Sherlock handed her a cup of coffee, steam rising from the mug like cigarette smoke. “You only slept a couple of hours, Becca. Here, drink this.”

  “None of us slept for more than a couple of hours,” Becca said. “Where are Adam and Savich?”

  “Adam is out talking to Dave and Chuck. They just took over outside patrol. He’s going to get some other people here, some of his own people, to free up these guys.”

  “Maybe Hatch is coming.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, Becca added, “I heard Adam talking to him on the phone. Yeah, I was eavesdropping, so Adam had to tell me. He said Hatch speaks six languages, has lots of contacts, is really smart, and smokes. Adam is always trying to get him to stop smoking by threatening to fire him.”

  Sherlock laughed and lifted her mug to toast Becca’s. “I want to meet this guy. If he dares to light up a cigarette, Savich won’t threaten to fire him, he’ll take his head off.”

  “So Adam doesn’t work for Thomas?”

  “No, not now. They’ve been friends for a very long time. Adam is sort of like a son to Thomas. No, I won’t tell you any more about him.”

  Becca didn’t say anything.

  “Listen, Becca, it doesn’t matter right now. Now, my husband is concerned that the local cops won’t be able to do a thing about Linda Cartwright because they’re going in completely blind. But we agreed this is the way we’ll play it for a while. The cops have been there for a while now, Becca. They’re taking care of her. But they won’t be able to figure anything out because we’re holding back. That really sticks in everyone’s craw, probably always will.”

  “Sherlock, do you know who Krimakov is?”

  Sherlock couldn’t help it, her eyes gave her away before she could pull down the automatic blinders, and she wanted to kick herself. She shrugged. “Yes, I know. But it would have to be his ghost who killed Linda Cartwright. Evidently, Thomas got information that he was killed in an auto accident just a short time ago in Crete, where he supposedly lived. So it’s all academic. If he’s dead, then he can’t have anything to do with this.”

  “And Thomas has double-checked that this guy is really dead?”

  “I would assume so.”

  “If this Krimakov were alive, and he were behind this terror, why would he be doing it to me in particular? He’s what—Russian? What could he possibly have against me? Why would Thomas think it was him?”

  “I don’t know,” Sherlock said, lying cleanly now because she’d had time to slip her mask into place.

  “Who is Thomas, Sherlock? Please, you’ve got to tell me.”

  “Just forget him, Becca,” she said over her shoulder. “Drop it. Give it time. Now, I want some more coffee. Can I make you some toast or something?”

  “No, nothing.” Who was this Thomas person? Becca wondered. Why all the secrecy? It made no sense to her. She looked over at the single telephone. It was nearly nine o’clock on Thursday morning. Nothing from him. Maybe he was scared now, maybe he knew they were getting close, maybe he would go away. Still, she sat there staring at that damned black phone like it was a snake about to bite her.

  The last person any of them wanted to see arrived midmorning.

  “The door looks good,” Sheriff Gaffney said when Becca opened it. “What with all this mess, I didn’t think you’d worry so much about how your front door looked.”

  Becca said, “You just never know, do you, Sheriff? Would you like to come in? Is there any news about who the skeleton is?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to talk to you a moment, Ms. Powell. I believe now that the skeleton that fell out of your basement wall is Melissa Katzen.” He rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t think old Jacob was that vicious. Bashing a young girl in the face—now that just isn’t right.”

  “Sheriff,” Adam said, coming up behind Becca, “I was thinking about that. You said she was supposed to elope. Any leads on her boyfriend?”

  “Nope, nobody remembers her ever dating. Isn’t that weird? Why would she keep it secret? That doesn’t make any sense to me or to my wife, Maude. She thinks that a young girl would be really proud to show off a boyfriend.”

  “Maybe the boyfriend didn’t want her to show him off,” Becca said. “Maybe he told her to keep quiet.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. I wish I did.”

  “Rachel Ryan remembers her, said she was really nice, nothing new there. She also said that Melissa didn’t ever dress in sexy clothes. She was surprised when I told her about the Calvin Klein jeans and that skimpy pink top. She couldn’t remember Melissa ever wearing anything suggestive. Maybe you’re right, Ms. Powell. Maybe it was her boyfriend. But you know? I can just see a cute young girl waltzing over into Jacob Marley’s yard, him seeing her and getting all het up. Did he smash her?”

  Becca said, “Maybe she was off to meet her boyfriend and coming into Jacob Marley’s yard was a shortcut.”

  “Ain’t no shortcut to anywhere,” said Sheriff Gaffney. “The back of the Marley property trails off into thick woods and finally stops at the ocean.”

  “Maybe,” Sherlock said, “the jeans and top were her cute traveling clothes. Maybe she did intend to elope, maybe she decided at the last minute that she didn’t want to and this boy got mad and killed her.”

  Sheriff Gaffney said slowly, “Who are you?”

  “Oh, sorry, Sheriff,” Adam said. “Sherlock and Savich here are friends of mine. They just stopped in for a while to visit the town.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Now, that’s not a bad idea. I guess I’d have to say that for a woman you deduced that real logically, probably better than most other women.”

  Savich, wh
o heard that, wondered if Sherlock was going to take a flying leap at the sheriff’s throat.

  “Yeah,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “I’m a lot better than poor Becca here, who can barely find her way to the Food Fort without some guy explaining the poisonous plant streets to her.”

  “That was sarcasm,” Sheriff Gaffney said after a moment. “I know that was sarcasm. I’ve never believed women should have smart mouths.”

  Before Sherlock could leap on the sheriff, Adam said, “Are there DNA tests being done?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Still trying to track down her father. No luck yet. Mrs. Ella remembers an aunt, lives in Bangor now. Maybe she read about the skeleton and was the one who made the anonymous call. I’ve got to track her down.” Sheriff Gaffney sighed and patted the gun at his wide leather belt that was really cutting into his gut today. “But we can’t count on the skeleton being Melissa, even though I’ve made up my mind that it is, so we’re looking into other things as well.” Sheriff Gaffney leaned his considerable weight back on his heels. “Now, folks, the reason I’m here is to ask about these guys I’ve seen on and off around Riptide. No, don’t lie to me. I know they’re with you, Mr. Savich. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?”

  At that moment, the phone rang.

  Tinny, sharp, and too loud, and Becca dropped her coffee cup.

  “Becca didn’t get much sleep last night,” Adam said easily, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hello, fuckhead. You found my present?”

  “Why, yes, I did. Where are you now?”

  “I want to speak to Rebecca.”

  “Sorry, she’s not here. It’s just me. What do you want?”

  The phone went dead.

  “It was a salesman,” Adam said, all smooth and easy. “The jerk wanted to sell Becca some venetian blinds.” He shrugged. “What was it you wanted to know, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff had not taken his eyes off Savich. “Those guys around town. Who are they, Mr. Savich?”

  “You found me out, Sheriff,” Savich said. “Actually, my wife and I are here because we’re representing a big resort developer who is seriously interested in this section of the Maine coast. It’s true that Adam is a friend of ours and he, well, he gives us some cover. Now, the guys you’re seeing around are supposed to be very discreet, which means that you’ve got a very sharp eye, Sheriff. They’re doing all sorts of things, like talking to folk, surveying, checking out soil and other flora and fauna, seeing who owns what and how profitable the businesses are now. This is a lovely section of coastline and Riptide is a real neat little town. A resort not too far away—can you imagine what would happen to your local economy? In any case, we won’t be here for much longer, but I would ask you a favor. Could you please keep this under your hat?” Savich said immediately to Sherlock, “I told you the sheriff was too sharp not to catch on to us, honey. I told you he was real smart and he knew everything that went on in his town.”

  “Yes, Dillon,” Sherlock said, “you told me that. I’m sorry I didn’t see him as clearly as you did. Yeah, he’s pretty smart, all right.” She gave the sheriff a brilliant smile.

  “So, you want me to keep my mouth shut about this, Mr. Savich?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, all right, but if any of them cause any trouble, I’ll be back. This resort of yours—it wouldn’t go spoiling any of the natural beauty around here, would it?”

  “No way,” Savich said. “That’s the prime goal of the group I work with.”

  Becca eyed Savich after she let the sheriff out the front door, which smelled, he said on his way out, really nice and clean. “You’re something, Savich. I really believed you there for a minute. Goodness, I wanted to ask you the name of the planned resort.”

  Savich said, “The phone call gave me time to come up with a decent story.”

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” Becca said as she turned to Adam, who was still standing by the phone.

  “Yes, it was him. He wanted to speak to you but I told him you weren’t here. He always calls you Rebecca, not Becca?” At her nod, Adam said, “He was calling from a public phone booth in Rockland. Tommy the Pipe just tracked it down, so there’s nothing we can do.”

  Sherlock said slowly, studying a bruised knuckle she’d gotten when she’d clipped Tyler McBride’s jaw, “We’ve got to get him back. We’ve got to set up a meeting somehow.”

  “Next time I’ll speak to him,” Becca said. “I’ll set one up.”

  “You won’t be bait,” Adam said, his voice sharp as a knife. “No way.”

  “Look, Adam, he wants me. If you made yourself the bait, he’d just shoot you and walk away. But not so with me. He wants me up close and personal. Only me. Help me figure out a way to do this, please.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  18

  Hatch, a short, built like a young bull, sporting a large mustache, pulled off a tweed Sherlock Holmes hat to show his shaved head. For some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, Becca thought he was so impishly cute she wanted to hug him. She thought from the cocky grin on Sherlock’s face that she wanted to hug him right along with her.

  This guy was potent. He had more charm than a person deserved, she was thinking a few minutes later when Adam held out his hand and said to him, “Give me the pack of cigarettes in your right pocket, Hatch, now, or you’re fired.”

  “Yeah, sure, boss.” Hatch obligingly handed Adam a nearly full pack of Marlboros. “Just one, boss, no more, and I didn’t inhale much. All I had, just one. I don’t want to smoke anywhere near sweet Becca. I wouldn’t want to ever take a chance of hurting her lovely lungs. Now, tell me what to do to catch this creep so Becca can go back to writing speeches and smiling a lot.” Then he turned those dark-brown twinkling eyes on her and said, “Hi.”

  Becca grinned and pumped his hand. “Hi, Hatch. Listen, I’m ready. The next time he calls—I’m ready. We’re going to set a trap for him. I’m going to be the bait.”

  “Hmmm. I don’t think the boss likes that. His jaw is all knotted up.”

  Adam unknotted his jaw. “No, I don’t like it. It’s crazy. I don’t want her to take this kind of risk. Ah, shit, I can tell by the look on your face, Becca, that you’re going to do it regardless of what I think.”

  “Look, Adam,” Savich said, “if I could think of another way, I’d dive on it, but there are enough of us to keep her protected. Now, Hatch, according to Adam, you have a pretty awesome reputation to maintain. Tell us what you’ve found out.”

  Hatch took a slim black book out of his jacket pocket, licked his fingers, and ruffled some pages. “Most of this is from Thomas’s guys, who’ve been working their butts off trying to verify Krimakov’s death. Thomas got everyone working on it right away. Now, the CIA has actually spoken to the cop who was the one who poked around his body. Apollo—no shit, that’s his name—said Krimakov went over a cliff on the eastern end of Crete, near Agios Nikolaos, died instantly, one would suppose from the injuries. It could have been murder, he allowed, but nobody checked into it all that much for the simple fact that no one really cares. Nothing obvious about it, so they closed the case until our agents flew in and spread out and wanted to see and examine everything.”

  “So he’s really dead,” Becca said.

  Hatch looked up and gave them a big grin. “Nope, not necessarily. Here’s the kicker. Krimakov’s body was cremated. You see, for the longest time, our people were stonewalled by the locals, who wouldn’t allow them to view the body. It was only after the Greek government got involved that they let it out of the bag that they’d cremated him right away. Why? I don’t know, but there was a payoff, somewhere.”

  No one said a word for a very long time.

  “Cremated?” Adam repeated, disbelieving.

  “Yes, burned to ashes, poured in an urn. Thing’s still sitting on a shelf in the morgue.”

  Sherlock said, “So there is no definitive proof because there’s no body to examine.
”

  “Right,” Hatch said. “Now, while we all chew on that, let’s go back a bit. Krimakov moved to Crete in the early eighties. Just showed up and stayed. He was into bad things, but not bad enough so anyone would dig and find out exactly who and what he’d been in Russia. Actually, the impression is they never tried really hard to do any nailing. He probably paid everyone off.”

  “Damn,” Adam said. “Okay. Now we’ve got to search his house, top to bottom and under the basement. If he ever was involved in this, there will be something there.”

  “Our agents have gone over his house, didn’t find anything. No clues, no leads, no references at all to Becca. We heard that he had an apartment somewhere, but we don’t know where it is. That might take a little time. There aren’t any official records.”

  Savich said, “If he had an apartment, I’ll find it.”

  “Just you?” Adam said, an eyebrow raised.

  “Didn’t Thomas tell you I was good?”

  Adam snorted, watching Savich plug in MAX.

  Hatch said, “More will be coming about his personal activities. But as yet, there isn’t anything out of Russia. It seems that way back when, all Krimakov’s records were purged. There’s little left. Nothing of interest. The KGB probably ordered it done, then helped him go to ground, in Crete. Again, though, they’ll continue searching and probing and questioning all their counterparts in Moscow.”

  “Krimakov isn’t dead,” Adam said. And he believed it like he’d never believed anything in his life.

  Having said that, Adam sat back and closed his eyes. He was getting a headache.

  “Well, yeah, we have something else. I was the one who did all the legwork on this.” Hatch licked his fingers again and flipped over a couple more pages. “The Albany cops just found a witness not two hours ago who identified the car that ran down Dick McCallum. It’s a BMW, black, license number—at least the first three numbers—three-eight-five. A New York plate. I don’t have anything on that yet.”