The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “That sounds logical.”

  Savich said, “Let’s visit the congresswoman first, see what she’s got in the way of an alibi—not that it matters since she hired a thug to do the deed. I’ll have Ollie check with the Atlanta detective who worked her dead husband’s case, see if they had any leads. Maybe we can get a line on that thug she hired—in Savannah, was it?”

  “That’s what Dr. MacLean said.” She cocked her head to the side as Dillon ended his cooldown. “Do you believe she really had her trucker husband murdered so he wouldn’t stop her run for Congress?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Sherlock chewed on that for a moment. “Maybe so. Still, I’m betting on Pierre Barbeau. Lots of wormy stuff going on there.”

  “We’ll find out. How’s your French?”

  Laughter spurted out of her, from wherever it was hiding. “You’ve never complained before.”

  He grinned as he wiped his face with a towel. “You made me forget why I was asking.”

  Sherlock popped her knuckles. “You ready to come with me to the slam room?”

  “Is that its new name?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m going to make sure you’ll relate to it shortly.” She swatted at him with her towel as she walked past him.

  Because he saw blood in her eyes and wasn’t a fool, Savich allowed himself to be pummeled and thrown, and generally smacked around. The kick pad he’d held for her fared no better. He thought, at the end, it was worth it because Sherlock was laughing as she counted the number of times she’d thrown him. Violence, he thought, as he showered, appeared to calm the woman down and restore her perspective. He’d even called a halt several times during his royal butt-kicking to stretch and rub his muscles, and give her a chance to hoot and dance.

  They stopped off at Dizzy Dan’s for pizzas, one vegetarian for Savich and Sean, the other a pepperoni for the carnivore.

  They ordered in two more when Savich’s sister Lily and her husband, Simon, walked in right behind them. A short visit, they said, but neither Savich nor Sherlock believed them once they made a beeline for Sean, a new computer game in hand.

  Lily was four months pregnant now, just beginning to show. “Practice is everything,” she told Sean every time he challenged her to another game of Treasures of the Ninja.

  They were finally asleep at midnight. Elvis sang in Savich’s ear just as he was revving his race car at the Indy 500. He was instantly awake. “Savich here. Oh, no. Yes, I understand. Yes, I’m sorry, too.” He clicked off. Sherlock was propped up on her elbow. “Who was that? What happened?”

  “That was the hospital. Perky’s dead. The surgeon said she came through surgery fine. She was in and out of recovery in an hour, still doing fine, and back in her room. No need for the ICU. When the nurse went to check on her maybe an hour later, she was simply dead.” He slammed his fist against his night table. “I was going to assign an agent to guard her beginning tomorrow. I’m an idiot.”

  “It sounds like she died from a surgical complication.”

  “We’ll know tomorrow, after the autopsy. But what if it wasn’t from unexpected complications?”

  Savich cursed, something he so rarely did he sounded faintly ridiculous. Then he got up, pulled on sweatpants, and said over his shoulder as he walked out of the bedroom, “I’m going to see if I can’t come up with a plan to get things moving.” He was talking more to himself now than to her. “Yeah, and MAX can maybe do something with all those initials and numbers in Perky’s address book.”

  Sherlock didn’t sleep again until he came back to bed. She didn’t speak, simply curled up against him, her palm over his heart, and felt the strong, steady beat. She felt him begin to relax, and it simply all came out of her mouth. “You could have died. I was so scared this afternoon when she tried to kill you, Dillon, so scared I couldn’t help you. I wanted to kill you.”

  He kissed her hair, her ear. “Don’t you think it scared me spitless when she fired at you? And she looked at me the instant before she turned to you.”

  “I love you, Dillon. I loved you even when I kicked you into the wall mirror in the slam room.”

  “I won’t forget,” he said, and kissed her eyebrow. “We’ll deal with this in the morning, Sherlock. Go to sleep.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C.

  Thursday morning

  Jack and Rachael were nearing the Hart Senate Office Building on Constitution Avenue for their nine o’clock appointment with Greg Nichols in his new position with the senior senator from Oregon, Jessie Jankel, when Ollie called. “Turn on your radio, Jack, you’ll want to hear this. It’s Savich holding an FBI press conference.”

  Jack said to Rachael as he flicked on his turn signal, “I bet he’s speaking this morning because he has an agenda,” and he turned up the volume on the radio. “He’s got to address all the crap that went down yesterday at the Barnes & Noble, but then, it’s his show.”

  Savich had an agenda. He stood at Jimmy Maitland’s elbow, looking out over the sea of media faces from newspaper, radio, and TV, most of them familiar to him, seated in their folded chairs, the TV people well-groomed, sharp, camera ready, the newspaper reporters looking on the seedy side in jeans, more like real people. He glanced over at Sherlock, gave her a smile and a nod. When Mr. Maitland introduced him, he stepped up to the mike, and looked out at the avid, hungry faces, ready to hurl their endless questions at him, eager for a sound bite or two.

  “I suppose most of you have heard about the disturbance at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Georgetown yesterday afternoon.”

  There was a wave of laughter since every reporter in the room had swarmed over Georgetown, interviewing everyone within ten blocks of the Barnes & Noble. Steve Olson, the manager, had closed the store and stood out on the sidewalk to take their questions. It had been a special report weaving in and out of regular programming throughout the evening, some of the speculation rivaling the truth, which was strange enough.

  Savich said, “The woman we arrested in the Barnes & Noble died at Washington Memorial Hospital at around midnight. An autopsy is scheduled for this morning.”

  “Agent Savich, why an autopsy? Didn’t she die of bullet wounds?”

  “Did you shoot her yourself ?”

  Savich said, “So far, our preliminary information is that her wounds weren’t fatal. Did she die from surgical complications? We’ll know today.”

  “But she’s still dead. Hey, wait a minute. You think she was murdered?”

  “How many times did you shoot her?”

  “What did she do? Who was she?”

  “Why did she run into the bookstore?”

  “What’s her name?”

  Savich finally held up his hand.

  The room fell silent. “Her name was Pearl Elaine Compton. She was an established assassin, a very good one, according to our information, also a very long-lived one, given she was forty-one years old at the time of her death.

  “She had three cohorts. One is dead, one is in the hospital, and the third is still at large. I’ll say it again—we’ll know the cause of her death today.

  “As you might have heard, there was a lot of alarm and panic, all understandable, until one of the agents brought her down right after a teenage girl she was using as a shield was smart enough to bite Compton’s forearm and escape.

  “It took two shots to bring the suspect down, shoulder and arm. She stayed down and we evacuated her to the hospital.

  “No one else was hurt—no customers, no employees, no one in law enforcement.” He leaned even closer, cupped the mike between his hands. “The manager of the M Street Barnes & Noble is Steve Olson, a man I know personally. He was a great help at calming everyone down. He did complain to me, however, that they only now finished reshelving at least five hundred books.”

  A bit of laughter. All of them were straining to get closer.

  “What this all boils down to is that we escaped tragedy on this one. I sincerely hope my next visit t
o the bookstore will involve only a cup of tea and looking through the new best sellers. Okay, does anyone have any questions?”

  Every single hand shot in the air, voices already escalating. Savich gave them a look. He nodded to Mercer Jones, longtime crime reporter for the Washington Post. Mercer had planted a couple of stories for him over the years. Mercer said in his deep, plodding voice, “Agent Savich, why is the FBI involved in a shooting in Georgetown? Why not the Washington police? What’s really going on here? Why were you after this Pearl Compton?”

  Mercer was good, bless him; Savich had always recognized it. Mercer had given him the perfect lead-in. Savich said, “Good questions. Let me give you some critical information.” He looked at Jimmy Maitland, who nodded.

  “As you all know, Senator John James Abbott recently died in an automobile crash that was ruled accidental.” He paused. “We now believe it’s possible that Pearl Compton, the assassin who died last night, was involved in his death. We’ve reopened the case.”

  No need to mention Rachael, and Mr. Maitland had agreed. After all, this performance was to protect her. Why kill her if the FBI already knew everything she knew? The media would go haywire, dig into all of it. They’d find Rachael, but it would take a while. Whoever in Senator Abbott’s family was behind it, they had to be afraid. Fear meant mistakes. As he expected, there was a moment of stunned silence, then pandemonium.

  Milly Cranshaw, host of Night Lights on PBS, yelled out, “Agent Savich, the official ruling was that Senator Abbott had been drinking and he lost control of his car. You’re saying someone hired this woman to assassinate Senator Abbott? Who would do that? Why?”

  Savich smiled at her. Trust Milly to load up with a half-dozen questions so he could pick and choose.

  “Pearl Compton was hired to make it look like an accident?” added Thomas Black of CBS, bushy gray eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

  “What I’m saying is, we’re investigating whether Pearl Compton was involved.”

  “But who would want to kill Senator Abbott?”

  “Do you think it was a terrorist act?”

  Mercer shouted out, “But no one took credit.”

  Savich let the wave of questions flow over him. Many voices he recognized, but soon it became a cacophony, and they were beginning to argue with one another.

  Time to bring it to a stop. Savich raised his hand. The room quieted.

  “We’re investigating everyone involved in Senator Abbott’s life, both personal and professional.”

  “But what information do you have that raised doubt his death was an accident?” yelled Bert Mintz from Fox.

  “We believe Senator Abbott had not taken a single drink for at least eighteen months before his death. And for eighteen months, he had not driven a car, either. We have a good deal of information in our ongoing investigation that we are not prepared to make public at this time.” He knew what he’d just said would be his big sound bite.

  Savich turned away in the two seconds of stunned silence, something he didn’t realize was possible, then, of course, came more shouted questions.

  Slowly, he paused, turned back. He said, “I will keep you updated as our investigation continues. Thank you.”

  Savich stepped away from the podium and walked off the dais amid the cacophony of voices, Jimmy Maitland on his heels. His boss was smart. No way was Mr. Maitland going to face that rabid pack.

  Savich, Sherlock, and Maitland stood in the wing, listening to the questions being flung in their general direction. Director Mueller shut them down with his usual polite efficiency.

  Maitland said to Savich, “We’re putting the FBI’s credibility on the line here, Savich.” He plowed his fingers through his crew cut.

  “We all agreed it’s our best shot at protecting Rachael and getting to the truth.”

  Maitland nodded, then laughed. “The looks on their faces. I thought old Jerry Webber from the Post was going to fall out of his chair. That was some bombshell.”

  Maitland sighed. “It’s still really tough for me to accept that someone killed Jimmy. I never noticed he’d stopped drinking, but then I only saw him every couple of months. Rachael is completely sure about this?”

  Savich nodded.

  Maitland said, “You know the media will discover her in no time now they’re motivated. They’ll be camping out on the Abbott front yard. Like you said, the announcement should protect her from any more attempts on her life. Clean it up, Savich, clean it up fast.”

  Director Mueller repeated what Maitland had said. “Take care of it, Savich. Quickly. The president is very concerned.” He smiled at Sherlock and left, three of his staff surrounding him.

  Sherlock asked Maitland, “Did Senator Abbott tell you about his daughter, sir?”

  “Yes, he was very happy, but he didn’t tell me too much about her background. He seemed thrilled to have found her. His spirits were good.” Maitland shook his head. “But then six weeks later, he’s dead. This is a deep black snake pit, boyo. The director’s right, it needs to be settled once and for all.”

  “Soon, I hope,” Savich said. “Why don’t you come over to my house this evening, sir. You can meet Rachael Janes Abbott.”

  “Sounds good. How about Dr. MacLean? Any updates?”

  Savich smiled. “We’ve got some good leads there. In fact, if you’ll excuse us, sir, we need to follow up on something.” Savich, holding Sherlock’s hand, walked off, leaving Maitland to stare after him and shake his head. He was struck by a sharp memory of Savich’s dad, Buck Savich, the wild cowboy who caught more bad guys than he had in his time. He remembered being in a bar in Dallas with Buck once when a paunchy guy in black leather came strutting in to pick a fight. He picked Buck, the fool. Maitland smiled when he thought of the guy stretched out on his back on the barroom floor, moaning.

  He looked forward to meeting Jimmy’s daughter. What did Jimmy’s ex-wife, Jacqueline, and her daughters think about Rachael?

  THIRTY-TWO

  Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  Jack shook Greg Nichols’s hand, showed him his creds, and all the while Nichols stared at Rachael, the look in his eye, to Jack’s mind, too interested. “It’s good to see you again, Rachael,” he said, and smiled, his voice too warm. When he shook her hand, he held it, his eyes on her face, on that braid.

  Now this was unexpected. And Jack didn’t like it.

  Nichols cleared his throat and gave her that too-interested look again. He was tall, solid, fit, no fat that Jack could see. His tailored dark blue suit fit him well. His light brown hair was styled by a very talented pair of hands, and his teeth were as white as his shirt. He presented himself as a no-nonsense, rugged, supremely trustworthy man and had Rachael smiling back at him. Jack knew he was thirty-seven, and he wielded a good deal of power in his own right here on Capitol Hill. He even had enough juice to have gone from one top-dog master to another in under two weeks.

  Nichols said, “I’m sorry, but as I said when you called, Agent Crowne, I have very little free time this morning. Senator Jankel has a vote before noon and I must brief him.

  “Let me say I was flabbergasted by the FBI press conference and their speculations about Senator Abbott’s tragic death. Do you . . . do they . . . really believe Senator Abbott was murdered, that his death was set up to look like an accident, and every local and federal agency was fooled?”

  So you want to play, do you? Jack said, “That’s about the size of it, yes. There’s very little doubt at this point.”

  Nichols sat down heavily behind his lovely mahogany desk, waved them both to the chairs in front. His back was to the window, naturally, with the sun flooding Jack’s and Rachael’s faces. Jack angled his chair, and Rachael did the same.

  Jack looked around. “Nice digs.”

  “Yes, these offices are among the finest. A senior senator has usually garnered enough influence over the years for a large office. As chairman of the Appropriations Committee, S
enator Jankel is a major spokesman for the party. You should see the senator’s office if this one impresses you.”

  Jack said, “Do you enjoy being the power behind the throne, Mr. Nichols?”

  An eyebrow went up. “Power, Agent Crowne? Do you know, I’ve never really thought of it that way. No, rather, I think of myself as a facilitator, a person who keeps things running smoothly, a person the senator can trust implicitly to implement his ideas, to prepare him for whatever demands come up. But I only do what he wants done. Now, enough about me. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “Mr. Nichols, you knew Senator Abbott possibly better than anyone, including his brother and sister and Rachael.”

  Nichols said, “That only makes sense since I worked closely with him for thirteen years before his death. As for Rachael, she only had weeks.” He shrugged. “His siblings . . . well, here’s honesty for you—only the Abbott name tied them together. There were never any bonds of affection, any genuine love or caring—at least that’s how it always seemed to me. The senator’s father—I met the old man exactly once. He looked at me like I was a mutt. He was an imperious old buzzard with an iron fist. He died less than five months before his eldest son. I knew he and his son rarely spoke. Senator Abbott said only that he and his father didn’t see eye to eye about his career choice. I think that was an understatement. I thought it was probably a good deal more.

  “When Rachael came into his life, not long after his father’s death, I believe Senator Abbott hoped to get closer to his siblings, for Rachael’s sake—wanted all of them to come together again as a family, but . . .” His voice hitched, his eyes blurred for a moment. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, it’s difficult . . . I’ve just begun to accept his death, but now, to hear you say it wasn’t an accident, that some crazy person actually murdered him, I . . .” He stopped, shook his head, looked down at his clasped hands on the desktop.