The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “Yes, and apple pie.”

  Isabel nodded. “We haven’t had guests in at least a month. This’ll be fun,” and she left the dining room, humming and making lists in her head.

  Forty-five minutes later Judge Sherlock reached his chambers on the sixteenth floor of one of the ugliest gray buildings in San Francisco, the U.S. Government Federal District Court on Golden Gate Avenue. He dealt with his clerks in record time, closed his door, and booted up his computer. He had twenty-three minutes until he had to be in court. He typed in Julia Ransom’s name and began reading. After seeing that morning’s newspaper article about the attempt on her life and the involvement of a local FBI agent, he’d bet his newly crowned molar that his son-in-law knew a lot about it. Savich was likely up to his ears in it. The judge was rarely a step ahead of his son-in-law, but this time perhaps he’d dig up something before Savich did with his damned computer, MAX.

  Dix landed at SFO right on time. He pulled his single carry-on from the overhead bin and walked out of the airport into a chilly, sunny day. He’d asked a flight attendant about a hotel and had just climbed into a taxi when his cell phone played some New Orleans jazz.

  Five minutes later, the taxi was headed to Pacific Heights, where it pulled up some forty minutes later in front of a beautiful three-story Art Deco house with views of the whole bay.

  “Nice big money house,” the Russian driver said, his accent thick.

  Nice big money house indeed, Dix thought. It was like the Tara of San Francisco, only with better views.

  A cup of rich Kona coffee in his hand, Dix sat in the formal living room across from Evelyn Sherlock and looked at his watch.

  "Yes, it’s five o’clock,” Evelyn said. “Dix, dear, it occurred to me that you might not have brought a suit. Such a fast, in-and-out trip. Did you?”

  He smiled at the beautiful woman who was Sherlock’s mother and who didn’t look a thing like her. She looked soft and elegant, graceful and smooth, her blond hair in a stylish straight cut that skimmed her jawline. Where had Sherlock gotten her incredible wild red hair?

  “Actually, ma’am—”

  “Do make that Evelyn.”

  “Yes, Evelyn. And call me Dix. Well, since this Thomas Pallack is a bigwig, I had the brains to bring a decent suit so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. I don’t know if it’s up to snuff, but—”

  Evelyn patted his big hand, so like her son-in-law’s, she thought, a firm, strong hand she imagined could pull you out of the deepest mire. “I’ll ask Isabel to have a look at it. She’ll tell us if it will be appropriate. If it is, she’ll press it for you.”

  Isabel deemed Dix’s dark blue wool suit quite lovely for the occasion. His shirt, however, didn’t make the cut. He found himself buttoning one of Judge Sherlock’s handmade white shirts, slipping on simple gold cuff links, and Windsor-knotting a red and white Italian silk tie. Dix stepped back to study himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, a large airy space about the size of his dining room. Then, drawn to the window, he looked out toward the beautiful hillside town of Sausalito, and the Marin Headlands. With all the rain, Evelyn had told him, it was nearly Irish green, but that wouldn’t last. Just wait until July, and she’d sighed. His room was filled with English antiques Christie would have loved—Ruth’s tastes leaned toward the bright and colorful, the whimsical, like the ceramic rooster sitting on alert just inside her front door. He stilled, stared at himself in the mirror, not seeing anything. Could he do this? How would he face this woman who couldn’t be Christie because Christie was dead?

  But what if she is Christie?

  He realized his hands were sweating, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He couldn’t think straight because his brain was leapfrogging around too much. This woman, this Charlotte Pallack, no, she wasn’t Christie, but—What’s wrong with you, moron? Christie’s dead, long dead. Deal with it. His brain turned around again and went a different direction. Since this woman couldn’t be Christie, maybe she was some long-lost sister? Had Chappy had an affair and not known his lover was pregnant? It went around and around as it had throughout the day. If he’d had his Beretta, he’d have shot himself.

  He was terrified of what he wanted, of what he didn’t want, of what he’d find out. He admitted he was a basket case, couldn’t help it. But he had to get himself together enough to face this woman tonight and he had to be calm and rational and clear-headed. He would know, the instant he saw her, he would know, and then it would be over.

  He shook his head at himself in the mirror, brushed his dark hair. He had to get a grip, just face this: Be the ultimate cool, dude, as Rafe would say. He continued to stare at himself and slowly nodded in satisfaction. He looked sophisticated, he realized, like a guest should look, a guest polite enough and rich enough to have dinner with society snoots. He had poise, he had confidence, he was ready. He would not fall apart, no matter what happened.

  Ten minutes later in the living room, Evelyn Sherlock agreed with his assessment. She patted his sleeve. “If Charlotte isn’t your Christie, she still might try to run away with you,” she remarked, rising to straighten his tie, though it didn’t need it.

  That gave things a different perspective, Dix thought, staring down at her a moment, and marveling again how very different she was from her daughter. Then she tilted her head to the side and said, “I do love a man in French cuffs.” He’d seen Sherlock tilt her head in exactly the same way.

  “In that case,” he said, “I’d rather run away with you.”

  She sighed, her voice low and throaty, quite sexy really. “Ah, so many elegant cuff links, so little time.”

  He laughed. “Do you know I think I’ve worn French cuffs maybe three times in my life?”

  Judge Sherlock, calm and aloof, looking like an aristocrat—a lot like a younger Chappy, Dix realized—walked into the living room, kissed his wife’s cheek, told her she was gorgeous, and shook hands with Dix. He looked him up and down, examined him the way a father might a son who was bent on impressing a future boss. He nodded. “You’ll do just fine, Dix. You’ll get through this. Now, you want something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir—”

  “Call me Corman.”

  Dix nodded. “I don’t think my stomach can handle it. Thank you for the loan of the shirt and tie. And the cuff links.”

  The doorbell chimed and Dix felt his belly fall to his newly polished shoes. If he’d been holding a drink he would have dropped it. Evelyn patted his arm as she said easily, “I do believe the Pallacks are here. Dix, you will be all right. You already know everything that’s important to know, and they don’t. You’ll see immediately if she’s your Christie and then it will be over. If she is Christie, naturally, you’ll both know it.”

  Dix supposed that advice fit well, but he stopped thinking altogether when he first saw Charlotte Pallack come into the entry hall. Her smile was Christie’s smile, lighting up every corner, her teeth were straight and white, Christie’s teeth. Jules Advere was right—it was Christie, down to the pale peach nail polish he liked on her long thin fingers. He swallowed, tried to keep a hold of himself, be the polite stranger being courteous to guests, nothing more. He had to get closer to the woman whose hair was darker than Christie’s, but that didn’t mean much. She was as tall as Christie, big-boned, but thinner—no, that wasn’t important either. He had to look her in the eyes, then he’d know. They had to see each other close.

  Judge Sherlock lightly touched Dix’s sleeve, drawing him forward. “Dixon, do meet our friends, Thomas and Charlotte Pallack.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Dix stepped forward, hand outstretched, a well-bred, beautifully mannered gentleman. "Mr. Pallack, Mrs. Pallack,” he said, his voice smooth and calm as the bay was that evening beneath a half moon and a perfectly clear sky.

  He shook Thomas Pallack’s hand, then turned to his wife and took another half-step because he couldn’t stop himself. He wasn’t a foot from her. She smiled at him, gave him her hand. He nev
er looked away from her face. And she never looked away from his.

  There was no recognition in her eyes. She doesn’t know me. She isn’t Christie.

  But she was Christie’s twin, no doubt about that. He could see now why Jules Advere had fallen over from the shock of seeing her.

  Her eyes were blue-green, pale, like Christie’s, but the shape was subtly different. Her expression was warm and interested, but there wasn’t that extra flash Christie had—it didn’t matter if she was angry, happy, sad, or brimming with pleasure, a unique joy shone out of Christie’s eyes every single day he’d known her. His Christie wasn’t behind those eyes. Dix had studied a photo of his wife all the way from Richmond, reminding himself of every detail, the nuance of every feature in every mood. He saw that Charlotte Pallack’s nose was a bit thinner than Christie’s. Christie had Chappy’s nose, and this nose in front of him wasn’t it. But it was very close. If he’d seen her from six feet away he might well have fallen over in shock himself. But what if she’d lost her memory, had cosmetic surgery—no, no, that was asinine. She wasn’t Christie, she simply wasn’t.

  He felt immense sadness, felt something breaking inside him, and realized it had been an outlandishly impossible hope that this woman was his long-missing wife.

  But no, this woman was a stranger.

  “Mr. Noble? Is something wrong?”

  Her voice. Damn, it was very nearly Christie’s voice. Her fingers tightened around his. He abruptly released her hand, aware that Mr. Pallack, a man older than Chappy, pushing seventy, and on the portly side, his paunch neatly hidden in his beautifully styled suit—this woman’s husband—was eyeing him, actually staring at him, eyebrow raised, suddenly suspicious of him now because he’d held his wife’s hand too long, was too intense, wasn’t—acting normal, Dix supposed. Perhaps he was wondering if this stranger was sexually interested in his younger wife.

  Dix quickly stepped back and managed an impersonal smile.

  It’s over. It isn’t Christie.

  He said, “Forgive me for staring, Mrs. Pallack. You remind me of someone I knew very well a long time ago. Like her, you’re very beautiful.”

  That was a perfect thing to say. Thomas Pallack seemed to get his suspicion back under control. It seemed to Dix that he now preened in the face of the younger alpha male who openly admired his wife, but he couldn’t have her because she was his. As for Charlotte Pallack, she cocked her head to one side and continued to stare up at him, both surprised and pleased with the compliment. She didn’t know him, didn’t have a clue who or what he was.

  It isn’t Christie.

  Evelyn Sherlock said in a light, social voice, “This twin business—I wish I could find mine. I wonder if she’s in a loony bin or perhaps a Mother Superior in an Italian abbey. What do you think, Corman?”

  Judge Sherlock laughed, a deep, full-bodied laugh that gave Dix time to regain full control and perspective. “Please, Evelyn, not a Mother Superior, Italian or not, I couldn’t handle that. Do you think you’d make the wine at your convent?” He added with a smile to Thomas and Charlotte Pallack, “Do come into the living room. We’ll have a drink and some of Isabel’s delicious hors d’oeuvres before a dinner that will make us all loosen our belts.”

  It isn’t Christie.

  But he found himself walking behind her, studying her walk, comparing it to Christie’s. There were subtle differences, but the thing was, it wasn’t that different, almost as if she’d observed Christie, copied her—no, he had to get a grip here, he had to cut it off right now. He would go home tomorrow and finally do what he had to do to clear up his marital status. He’d go in front of a judge and actually say the word abandonment. Oh God, he didn’t know if he could bear that—no, it was time, past time. He would do what he had to do. He would stop living in limbo. It wasn’t fair to Ruth. He prayed she would be his Ruth, that he was lucky enough to have found two extraordinary women in his life. Nor was it fair to his boys. They’d all been in limbo for too long.

  Dix tried to keep his eyes off Charlotte Pallack during dinner, and succeeded for the most part. It was Charlotte, however, who was sneaking looks at him.

  He listened to Thomas Pallack speak, amused at how the man wore his wealth like a royal robe. He knew his own importance, his own power, and best of all, he knew how to hide it enough so that people didn’t resent him. He had a lot in common with Chappy, except Chappy was better at it.

  Dix accepted a glass of the excellent merlot Judge Sherlock served with dinner. He was pleased he could sip at it and not have his stomach rebel on him. He was still finding it difficult to keep his eyes off Charlotte Pallack—and both she and her husband knew it. Dix knew that if he were Thomas Pallack, he’d want to break the interloper’s face. But the fact was the older man appeared to remain fatuously pleased. Trophy wife, Dix supposed, was the unflattering term for Charlotte Pallack.

  He looked up from his plate and said,“Mrs. Pallack—”

  “Oh, since you’re a friend of the Sherlocks, do call me Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte,” he repeated, nodding, knowing a deaf man could hear that extra warmth in her voice. “I can’t place your accent. Perhaps it’s southern?”

  “Why, Mr. Noble, you’ve a very good ear. I’m from back east originally, then my folks moved to Durham. But I’ve been in California for many years now. And your accent, it’s also got a bit of the South.”

  He nodded. “I’m from a small town called Maestro, in Virginia. I’m the sheriff there. Do call me Dix.”

  “Ah, more law enforcement,” Thomas Pallack said, and flipped his napkin down beside his plate. “A federal judge and a sheriff.” Dix could see that his status had dropped markedly in Mr. Pallack’s eyes. He wanted to laugh, but only nodded. “Yes, sir. I am friends with their daughter and son-in-law. As you probably know, both Lacey and her husband Dillon Savich are FBI agents. We worked a local case together a couple of months ago in my town.” He took another small sip of the merlot and heard himself add, “Perhaps you know my father-in-law, Mr. Pallack. His name is Chapman Holcombe—everyone calls him Chappy. His main interest is banking, owns Holcombe First Independent. Well, that’s not quite accurate—to be closer to the mark, I’d have to say his major interest is making money.” And Dix smiled, a man of the world.

  Thomas Pallack nodded. “I thought the name of your town sounded familiar. Yes, Chappy and I did business some years ago, very profitably, I might add. However, I haven’t been in touch with him, haven’t seen him since that time. How’s the old curmudgeon doing these days?”

  “He’s the same as ever. His son Tony runs the banks now, but Chappy hasn’t entirely dropped the reins. I doubt he will until he passes.”

  Judge Sherlock said smoothly, “You said this man was your father-in-law, Dix? Yes, I remember now my daughter Lacey saying you were married to his daughter. I’m sorry, but I don’t know her name.”

  “My wife is dead,” Dix said, feeling raw ugly bile in his throat and at the same time admiring Judge Sherlock’s chutzpah and his acting ability. “It’s been over three years now. Her name was Christie.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” said Charlotte Pallack. “My own father died when I was young.”

  “Well, Dix,” Thomas Pallack said,“you’d best warn Chappy not to bend the law or Judge Sherlock here might send him off to one of our federal gulags.”

  “Gulags?” Dix asked, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t know we’d built any here.”

  “Our prison system,” Thomas said, sitting forward, eyes fierce, “is a disgrace. Our prisoners are in appalling, overcrowded facilities, and the prison administration system is bogged down and incompetent.”

  “I agree with that,” Judge Sherlock said.

  Thomas Pallack gunned forward. "The only solution is to release some of the inmates, a furlough system, and then reintegrate them back into society.”

  Judge Sherlock said, “Don’t you know what the recidivism rate is, Thomas? It’s higher than the state income tax
. I’d say the last thing society needs is to let robbers, murderers, drug dealers, rapists, and assorted other lowlifes back on the streets to wreak havoc.” Judge Sherlock paused a brief moment, realizing he couldn’t pound Thomas Pallack like he wanted since the man was his guest, dammit. “But you have a point. We need to overhaul the system—and build more prisons.”

  Thomas Pallack opened his mouth, saw Evelyn giving him a hostess’s gimlet eye, and closed it.“Some would agree” was all he said. Dix admired his restraint, but he wondered and questioned: Since Thomas Pallack knew Chappy, had he met Christie, seen her photo in Chappy’s library? Hadn’t he also at least heard Dix’s name? And if he had met Christie, hadn’t he noticed how alike his wife and Christie looked?

  Evelyn offered Thomas some French green beans with tiny pearl onions and blanched almonds on top.“You, Thomas, know Dix’s father-in-law. Such a small world, isn’t it?”

  Thomas Pallack said, “I remember meeting briefly with Chappy in Maestro—that’s the name, right? Then we went on to Richmond to meet with another couple of bankers. I remember asking him why he wasn’t in New York. I mean, what’s to do in a little one-horse town in western Virginia? Ah, no insult intended, Sheriff Noble.”

  Dix said easily, “I like the one-horse town very much, sir, even willingly moved my family from big exciting New York to live there.”

  But Thomas Pallack didn’t seem at all interested in that. Between a bite of the French green beans and a dinner roll, he said, “My candidate for district attorney, Corman, Galen Banbridge, is running on a hard-line law-and-order platform. It’s possible he might even be interested in more prison construction.”

  Dix grew still. He looked up at Thomas Pallack, well fed, so very certain of his place in the sun. Who and what was he? He asked, “Does your candidate believe evil should be eliminated from the world, sir?”

  “Evil?” Thomas Pallack started to laugh, had the manners to hold it back, but he had his look of contempt down cold. “Evil, did you say? Evil? Who in this day and age believes in such medieval nonsense as evil?”