The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “Then what is the problem, sir? Do you think he isn’t telling you everything your parents wish him to?” Sherlock asked.

  Pallack shrugged. “Come now, three FBI agents, and you’re actually taking this seriously? You’re considering that one can really talk to the dead?”

  Savich’s face and voice were both expressionless. “We’re not really asking about that, but about your perceptions of him.”

  “That’s an improvement over the not-so-subtle ridicule of those fatuous boneheads at the SFPD. They didn’t for a minute believe August was the honest-to-God real deal. I don’t think they had anything but contempt for him or any of his friends and colleagues. They wouldn’t have cared all that much that he was killed except that he was famous and had high-powered connections. The media spurred them on since they found the psychic angle all very sexy, and so the cops had to go through the motions.”

  Julia said, “They seemed to care enough when they had the handcuffs all ready to snap on my wrists.”

  Thomas Pallack looked at her. “They focused on you, Julia, for the simple reason that they could understand the motive you might have—a beautiful young woman married to a very successful, very rich older man. They had no grasp whatever of who and what August really was about, how he couldn’t help making some enemies among the living when he communicated with the dead. So they aimed at you. The black widow, yes, the fools could understand that because they’d seen it immortalized by Hollywood, and accepted it to be true. Ridiculous of course to anyone who knew you, knew August, knew what was vital and honest in him, but there you have it.

  “I am very sorry it has required attempts on your life to force the police to revisit August’s murder to find a tie-in. And not simply local law enforcement, even the FBI. Actually, I don’t understand how you are involved. Shouldn’t this be strictly a local matter?”

  Savich said easily, “We were asked to bring in a fresh eye, Mr. Pallack. This is what the Criminal Apprehension Unit at the FBI is designed to do. We come in only at the request of the local police.”

  Sherlock said, “We understand you asked Kathryn Golden to contact your parents, but she was unable to.”

  “She told me she got nothing but static during her attempts. Very odd, she told me, that something like that rarely happened to her.”

  “And so you sought out Soldan, or did he come to you?” Savich asked.

  “He offered his services to me, as I recall.”

  Julia said, “And yet you don’t feel complete satisfaction with Soldan, that is what you said.”

  “That’s right, Julia. Sometimes I feel we’re speaking of issues my parents and I discussed some time ago, a sense of déjà vu, if you will, as if we’re not making much progress. It’s frustrating, but there you have it.

  “Now, I have answered your questions. You will answer mine. Why are you so interested in my sessions with mediums?”

  Savich said, smooth as the dark India tea Isabel had made him for breakfast, “As a successful businessman, you would never consider information gathering a waste of time. It’s what you do, it’s what we do. Do you have any idea who killed Dr. Ransom?”

  CHAPTER 40

  Do you know,” Thomas Pallack said slowly, still fiddling with his pen, "the inspectors from the SFPD never even asked me that outright. I’ve thought about it over the months, Charlotte and I have discussed it. Would any of his colleagues kill him? Were they jealous of him because of his success, or perhaps his wealth? Yes, probably, but that is commonplace in the world—it doesn’t seem a likely motive for murder. From what I hear, many of his colleagues worshipped him.

  “I’ve come to believe it had to be one of his many clients, past or present, perhaps someone he inadvertently harmed with information he passed on to them, or someone he enraged at something he told them.”

  Cheney said, “Evidently there were a couple of dozen people Dr. Ransom was seeing at the time of his death. The SFPD concluded that none of them seemed likely. You included, sir.”

  Thomas Pallack shrugged. “Well, it certainly wasn’t you, Julia. The idea that you married August for his money is ludicrous. I mean, even if you’d wanted to, there is no way August would have been unaware of your intentions. But you know”—he cocked his head at her—“I suppose it was natural for them to wonder why you did marry him.”

  “Perhaps you can ask Soldan,” she said.

  “Perhaps I can,” he said.

  Cheney asked,"You saw Soldan Meissen last night, Mr. Pallack?”

  “Yes. Normally my visits are on Wednesdays and Saturdays. However, because of an unavoidable commitment on Wednesday, I had to see Soldan last night. I assume you already know my regular schedule.”

  Cheney nodded. “And you were left feeling dissatisfied again last evening?”

  “Agent Stone, my parents weren’t very talkative last night. I was disappointed, but this sometimes happens. They appeared to have a lot on their minds, their focus seemed scattered. They weren’t interested in discussing my problems.”

  Julia said, “What do your parents think of Charlotte?”

  That was a conversation stopper, Savich thought.

  “My wife?”

  “Yes, what do they think of her, Thomas? I’m simply interested because, like August and me, Charlotte is much younger than you. Does this disturb your parents?”

  “They have no problem at all with Charlotte. My mother thinks she’s beautiful. As a matter of fact, she is always telling me Charlotte is well-meaning, a positive influence on me.”

  Since Julia had brought up Charlotte, maybe it was time— maybe—and so Savich said, “Mr. Pallack, speaking of your wife, when did you last speak to your brother-in-law, David Caldicott?”

  To everyone’s surprise, Thomas Pallack shoved back from his desk, bounded to his feet. He was quick for his age. “What is this about, Agent Savich?”

  Surely this show of temper was over the top. Savich said easily, “It simply came to mind, sir. I gather you are aware your brother-in-law failed to show up for the symphony performance last night. His girlfriend has reported him missing.”

  Pallack sucked in lots of air, seemed to calm a bit. He sat back down. But there was deep suspicion in his eyes and in his voice. “Very well, if you must know, I spoke to David last week, I believe. He was fine, he was happy with his girlfriend, he was pleased to be playing with the Atlanta Symphony. Why is this at all to the point? So he missed a single performance? Perhaps he was ill. David isn’t missing, that’s nonsense.”

  Savich said, “Fact remains, no one’s seen him since yesterday.”

  Pallack laughed. “I admit, missing a performance is unlike him, but these things happen. Let me tell you, David probably took off for New Orleans and is at this moment jamming in some smoky hole with some of his grotty musician friends. He’s done this before, gone away for up to a week. He forgets everything. He’s not missing. This is absurd.”

  Cheney asked, “Has he ever disappeared on one of his unplanned jaunts since he joined the Atlanta symphony?”

  Pallack shrugged. “I can see this alarms you. I will ask Charlotte what she knows about this, if anything. I doubt she even knows anyone is looking for him. Of what concern is this to the FBI?”

  Savich said, “The FBI interviewed David Caldicott in connection with another case, Mr. Pallack. The agents who interviewed him felt he was holding something back, and then he up and disappeared. It seems logical that his disappearance may be related, don’t you agree?”

  “I fail to see how, Agent Savich.”

  “Bear with me, sir. Tell us, do you know Chappy Holcombe?”

  “Naturally I know Chappy Holcombe. Again, you are journeying far afield, Agent Savich. What does Chappy have to do with any of this?”

  “You have visited Maestro, Virginia? To visit Chappy?”

  “Yes, once, quite a while ago. On business. Why?”

  “Was this when your brother-in-law was studying at Stanislaus Music School?”


  “Perhaps, but I didn’t know David Caldicott until right before I married Charlotte. He came out here to meet me. So what? Listen, Agent Savich, I’ve had about enough of this.” Thomas Pallack rose slowly and leaned over, his palms flat on his desk. It was an excellent intimidation pose, Sherlock thought. “You will tell me what is behind these intrusive questions or I will call my lawyer. Trust me on this, you do not want me to call my lawyer.”

  “You have the same lawyer as Dr. Ransom, don’t you?” Cheney asked. “Zion Leftwitz?”

  “He’s one of my corporate lawyers. Simon Bellows is my civil lawyer.” He reached for his phone.

  Savich looked over at Sherlock, who appeared thoughtful, then she slowly nodded to him. “Very well, Mr. Pallack,” Savich said. “Let me bottom-line this. You are married to a woman who greatly resembles another woman who disappeared from Maestro, Virginia, over three years ago. They look so similar they could be twins. Her name is Christie Noble. She’s Chappy Holcombe’s daughter. Perhaps you met her when you saw Chappy?”

  “My Charlotte resembles this Christie? So what? Listen, I seem to recall Chappy had a daughter, but no, I never met her. You said she disappeared?”

  Sherlock said, “You are acquainted with my parents, I believe, Mr. Pallack.”

  “Yes, it is my pleasure.”

  Cheney said, “You met Christie’s husband, Chappy’s son-inlaw—Sheriff Dix Noble—when you dined at the Sherlocks last Friday night.”

  Thomas Pallack became very still, his eyes darkening to become completely opaque, with malice, Sherlock thought. She never looked away from him as he said, “I remember the dinner and I remember the sheriff. Ah, I see now, that is why he stared at my wife throughout the evening. He believed she was his wife?”

  Sherlock nodded. “Yes, but only for a moment. He realized quickly enough your wife wasn’t Christie. As Agent Savich said, she was Chappy Holcombe’s daughter. You said you never met her?”

  “That’s right. Tell me, how did this sheriff know about Charlotte?”

  “Do you remember a fundraiser you gave two, three weeks ago, Mr. Pallack?” Savich said. “One of your guests met your wife, and collapsed.”

  “Why yes, Jules Advere. I felt very badly for him. But we dealt with it. I haven’t spoken to him but I understand he’s fine now. So what?”

  “Yes, he’s feeling better. Do you remember leaning over him. Mr. Pallack, speaking to him?” Sherlock paused a moment, then said quickly, deliberately, “You said to him, your exact words, I believe—‘My wife’s name is Charlotte. Do you understand? Don’t forget it.’ Now wasn’t that a strange thing to say, Mr. Pallack? It sounds remarkably like a threat to me. Could you please tell us why that made you so angry? Why you reacted that way to a guest who’d collapsed at your feet?”

  Pallack erupted, roared to his feet, and slammed his fist on his desktop. “Dammit, you’re way out of line here. I have no recollection of anything like that occurring, none at all. Who the hell do you think you are to—” He stared hard at Sherlock. “I see now, it’s your father talking here. He told you about this and put his own unique spin on it, but—”

  Sherlock said, “Our connection is to Chappy Holcombe. Jules Advere and Chappy go back a long way, as you must know. He called Chappy from the hospital, and since Sheriff Noble is Christie Holcombe’s husband, he flew to San Francisco to check it out. It so happens that Sheriff Noble is a friend of ours, and we hooked him up with my parents. None of this comes from my father.”

  Savich said, “What Sheriff Noble found very odd was that when he told you he was from Maestro, you didn’t mention that your brother-in-law attended Stanislaus. Your wife didn’t say a word about it either. Help us make sense of this, Mr. Pallack.”

  Thomas Pallack was flushed now, his eyes hot and dangerous. A man this angry, Sherlock thought, could shove a stiletto into your heart. He said, “I wondered how Corman and Evelyn could possibly know a hick sheriff from some bumfuck place in the South—so the dinner invitation was for the benefit of the sheriff, was it?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Sherlock said. “But why didn’t you or Charlotte say anything, Mr. Pallack? It seems to me it would have been perfectly natural for your wife to jump right in when Sheriff Noble said he was from Maestro—goodness, her brother attended Stanislaus, seems she’d have remarked on what a small world it is, what a coincidence, and immediately engaged him in lively discussion.”

  “Evidently my wife didn’t care to, if indeed he did say where he was from. Listen, the fact is, this Sheriff Noble was no one important, and he meant nothing to me or to my wife. He was simply a body at the dinner table to whom one was civil, nothing more.”

  Pallack didn’t know his wife had met with Dix twice now since the dinner? Of course he might simply be pretending not to know. She said, “Mr. Pallack, after Jules Advere collapsed at your house, you had to know he would call Chappy. He was Christie’s godfather, after all. You had to know there would be follow-up.”

  “I tell you I didn’t even know who this Christie was!”

  Sherlock sat forward, pinned him, her voice very quiet. “Were you frightened, Mr. Pallack? Were you cursing the vagaries of fate? You knew something would happen, realized someone would come. Did you watch your phone, waiting for it to ring?”

  “I am frightened of nothing, Agent Sherlock, I have no reason to be. Now, I’ve been patient. I’ve cooperated, answered all your questions. I have nothing more to say. If you wish to continue with this insane inquiry, you will speak to my lawyer. I want all of you out of here now.”

  “Good day, Mr. Pallack,” Cheney said as he ushered Julia out of the office after the others. He said to Mrs. Potts, who hovered protectively outside the big man’s corner office, “We never got to see the fog burn off.”

  Her hands were on her hips and there was fire in her eyes. “No, you didn’t,” she said, “and I doubt you’ll ever be here again to witness it.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Savich was about to turn the ignition in his father-in-law’s big black BMW when Sherlock’s cell phone burst into "The Sound of Music.”

  "Sherlock here. What? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Savich turned to face her. Both Cheney and Julia sat forward in the backseat, all eyes on Sherlock.

  When she punched off her cell a few minutes later, she said, “Well, that was Ruth. She said the local news just reported the car chase and shooting through the park and on the beach, and that a psychic had warned Cheney and Julia that she’d seen it all in a vision, and this same psychic was helping the police now.”

  “But she didn’t, she’s not,” Cheney said. “I mean it wasn’t exactly like that.”

  “Get a grip, Cheney,” Julia said, “we’re talking the media here.”

  Cheney said, “Please don’t tell me the media identified the psychic.”

  Sherlock said, “Unfortunately they did. They showed Kathryn Golden’s picture.”

  “But how did they know? We didn’t tell a soul!”

  Cheney said, “You didn’t, Julia, but I told Frank Paulette all about her, about how her call early this morning had gotten us moving out of my condo. There were lots of cops around in that parking lot at the beach who, I suppose, could have overheard. Or it was a reporter who pried it out of one of the cops who thought it was all a big joke, who knows?”

  Sherlock said, “Ruth said the reporter mentioned a source at the SFPD.”

  Julia pounded Cheney’s arm. “Oh no, Cheney, he’ll go after Kathryn, you know he will.”

  Cheney quickly dialed Kathryn Golden’s phone. One, two rings, then, “Hello?”

  “Ms. Golden? This is Agent Stone. Listen to me now. The media gave out your name on the news. I want you to leave your house right now, do you understand? Pick up your car keys and go get in your car. Drive to the police station, all right? Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.”

  “Go, now! Leave your phone on. I want to be able to hear you.”

>   He heard her breathing, heard her footsteps as she ran through her house, heard her say, “Where are those damned car keys?”

  He heard her breathing hitch, then the blessed rattle of a key ring, her feet pounding loud. She said, “I’m nearly out, leaving now. Oh God!”

  He heard the front door bang open, heard her scream. There was the sound of scuffling, and a thud, then there was nothing at all, only the silence of the open line.

  “Oh God, he’s got her. But how could Makepeace have gotten to Livermore so fast?”

  Savich said, “He was hiding nearby, that’s how. But why would he choose Livermore as his base?”

  “I don’t know why, but he got her, just that fast,” said Cheney, snapping his fingers.

  Sherlock said. “Julia, call the Livermore Police Department, tell them to get over to Kathryn’s house. I’m calling Dix and Ruth, she said they both wanted in on this.”

  While Savich gunned Judge Sherlock’s BMW, he imagined Dix driving his father-in-law’s old black Chevy Blazer like a madman, Ruth giving him directions as best she could. Cheney called Captain Paulette.

  “First David Caldicott disappeared, and now Kathryn’s taken,” Sherlock said. “I surely do hate this.”

  Cheney said into his cell, “It isn’t good, Frank. I called her, told her to get out, told her to leave the phone line open. I heard him take her.”

  “Yeah, Cheney, the wife told me how the damned media bleated it all out. I’ve got some calls to make, then I’m on my way out there. Damnation, I’m going to kick some major butt about the leak. Let’s hope you’re wrong, but of course you’re not.”

  Since Savich didn’t have a siren and he didn’t want to get stopped by the Oakland cops, he kept the Beemer right at the speed limit.