The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  When they stepped into the long dim hospital hallway, Sherlock said, "She wishes he were her son. The maternal pride nearly bursts right out of her."

  Savich nodded. "Before we left Washington, I spoke to another couple of agents who know Bowie. They both agreed Bowie's building himself a reputation as a real ass-kicker. When he was appointed SAC of the New Haven field office last year, there was a lot of grumbling about bringing in an outsider-an agent from L.A.-rather than promoting from within, complaints of nepotism, which could, as a matter of fact, have a grain of truth, given his family's connection to Valenti, but his record in L.A. was sterling and his record here in New Haven is, to date, quite good."

  Sherlock said, "He's not happy we're here, but he's sucking it up, so that says something about him. At the same time, he looks at you like he's sizing you up for combat, Dillon."

  "I might oblige him when this is over. Christmas carols," he added, shaking his head. "It seems like he thinks outside the envelope. Bottom line, it's likely he can help us."

  Bowie laid his cell phone on a desktop beside him when he finished the call, then frowned, slipped it back into his jacket pocket, and waved them over. "That was Agent Ivan Izbursky from my office. He says the German agent, Andreas Kesselring, is indeed arriving tomorrow. It's confirmed." He paused, looked down at his boots, then back up at both of them. "Look, I know the brass in Washington think I'm too inexperienced to deal with this, but-"

  Savich interrupted him smoothly. "What's important is we find out what happened to Helmut Blauvelt. So we put all our respective brains together and we catch ourselves a murderer. Personally, I can't wait to find out why this guy Helmut was sent over here. The three of us will figure it out, and that will tell us why he was killed. And then, Bowie, all of us have more experience."

  Bowie let it drop, he had no choice. "I was thinking we could have dinner at Chez Pierre tonight, enjoy the food and speak to the staff who were there last night. I got us a reservation for nine, the earliest available. That okay with you guys?"

  "When you made the reservations, did you ask who Blauvelt dined with last night?" Sherlock said. "Seems to me that person could very well be his killer."

  "When I went by Chez Pierre before I met you guys, the owner, Paul Remier, was there. He showed me the reservations page for last night. There was no Helmut Blauvelt listed."

  "Which means, I hope," Savich said, "that he was there with someone, and the reservation was under that someone's name."

  "Nope. I spoke to the maitre d'. He told me there was a last-minute cancellation and just as he was hanging up the phone, in walked this single middle-aged gentleman. Well-dressed, spoke with a slight accent. Couldn't say if he was German or not.

  "Then I got hold of the waiter. He said no one came near the guy the whole time he was there. But he also said they were really busy and he could have missed something.

  "The same waiter will be at Chez Pierre tonight, so you guys can talk to him yourselves. I'm still hopeful someone there can help us. I asked all of them to think about it."

  Sherlock said, "You've covered a lot of the bases, Bowie." She sighed. "Wouldn't it be nice if something in this life was easy?"

  Bowie gave them a small salute, patted his jacket pocket to be sure his cell was safely inside, and started to leave. He called out over his shoulder, a big grin on his face, "I sure hope you enjoy Norman Bates Inn." There was a slight pause, and a waggle of dark eyebrows. "Most do."

  They were shown to an antique-filled large corner room on the second floor of the Norman Bates Inn, with a dozen framed posters from Psycho on the walls. Savich said, "I need to call Senator Hoffman. He's probably wondering what's going on after last night, and I did tell him I'd get back to him soon."

  Sherlock was studying the classic image of Janet Leigh being stabbed in the shower, when she heard Dillon say into his cell, "Senator, Sherlock and I are in Connecticut. We're here to look into the murder of a German national. But first, I wanted to give you an update on what happened this morning."

  Sherlock listened in as Savich repeated to Hoffman what he had already told her, and watched Savich fall silent as he listened to Hoffman's utter disbelief flow over him, followed by a dozen questions.

  When Senator Hoffman finally ran down, Savich said, "Yes sir, I do know how difficult this is to accept. I know it sounds like madness, but it really is Nikki. On the other hand, seeing something float outside your bedroom window most every night sounds pretty nuts too.

  "Do you know what Nikki is talking about? What it is you don't understand? What is this danger you're facing?"

  Savich listened to Senator Hoffman huff and deny there could be any danger-"I mean, who, Agent Savich, would want to hurt me?"-and nearly hyperventilate, then hang up.

  Savich looked at Sherlock, who was smoothing a pair of black pants onto a wooden hanger, and gave her a crooked grin. "Understandably, the good senator is shaken and disbelieving, and wishes he'd never contacted us. He says he has no clue what his dead wife could be warning him about." Savich shrugged. "Nothing more to be done, I suppose, until something really bad happens or I get a chance to talk to Nikki."

  "You think you will?"

  "I have no idea."

  When they left Norman Bates Inn, Savich patted the black Pontiac G6's roof in the inn's parking lot. "Nicer wheels this time. What do you say we pay a visit to Carla Alvarez and Caskie Royal after we visit Milo's Deli right down the street?"

  9

  SCHIFFER HARTWIN U.S. HEADQUARTERS

  STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT

  Late Monday afternoon

  When Sherlock and Savich stepped out of the third-floor elevator into the Schiffer Hartwin executive reception area, they saw three assistants, their heads close, no doubt buzzing with speculation about the murder and break-in. The reception space was good-sized, but not particularly plush. The chairs looked comfortable enough, the magazines on the tables not too ancient. Behind a counter there was a well-equipped work station, on the wall behind it a half-dozen framed black-and-white photographs of nineteenth-century Stone Bridge.

  At the sight of the two strangers, two of the three assistants slithered away. After they showed their creds to a dimpled young woman who looked both worried and excited, Sherlock was directed to the second door on the right, and Savich to the last office on the left.

  Sherlock paused at a big door emblazoned in gold lettering: C. Alvarez, Production Manager.

  An assistant sat at her work station in front of that impressive door. She was a young woman who sported blond hair in a brush cut maybe a half-inch long all over her head, and bright red lipstick. She looked, Sherlock thought, both clever and hip, like she could toss down a few straight vodkas and remain standing.

  "I'm Special Agent Sherlock, FBI, Ms. Riker," she said pleasantly. "I would like to see Ms. Alvarez."

  Lori Riker jumped to her feet. "Oh dear, I mean, Ms. Alvarez is in a meeting with Mr. Drexel, ah, that's Mr. Turley Drexel, he's the accounting manager, and it's their monthly meeting to go over-"

  "It's all very important, I know," said Sherlock, "but given the murder last night of one of Schiffer Hartwin's German employees right in your backyard and the break-in into the CEO's office, I think I trump just about everything, don't you?"

  "The dead man is German? I didn't know that. But who was he? I mean-oh goodness."

  Sherlock stepped toward the big shiny door. She heard the angry voices before she even had the knob in her hand.

  "No, wait, Agent Sherlock, I mean, really, let me tell them, inform them that-"

  Sherlock flashed Lori Riker a sweet smile and opened the door to see a seated man and woman, their faces just inches from one another. The air was thick with acrimony, and sudden silence.

  The woman straightened like a shot and moved quickly away from the man, going to stand behind her very mode
rn glass-and-chrome desk. Every inch of it was covered-by stacks of papers, a sleek computer, printer, and two phones. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, with an athlete's body, hair dark as sin and nearly as short as her secretary's. She was wearing a navy blue suit and white blouse with a mannish blue tie, and plain dark blue pumps. Her eyes, also very dark blue, and as cold as ice, were narrowed on Sherlock's face. She should have looked severe and masculine in her getup, but, oddly, she didn't. She looked forbidding and angry. But just for an instant, Sherlock saw fear leap into her dark eyes.

  Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them. "I believe you're Carla Alvarez, production manager, and you are Turley Drexel, accounting manager. Have I got that right?"

  "Yes," Carla said, voice clipped. But Sherlock saw another flash of fear in her narrowed eyes before she wiped her expression clean. Her chin went up and the power player was back, full force. She asked, her voice steady as a rock, "You are a police officer? Here to question us about the murdered man in Van Wie Park?"

  "I'm FBI-Agent Sherlock." She handed Carla her creds, then she handed them over to Mr. Drexel, who was looking at Carla Alvarez, eyes flat and hard. He didn't even bother to glance at Sherlock's ID. Finally, he nodded to her, and remained seated, looking hard again at Alvarez, mouth tight.

  Alvarez asked, "Why is the FBI here and not the local police?"

  "The body was discovered in Van Wie Park, and that's federal land, which makes it our case."

  It was obvious neither Alvarez nor Turley had known that. Hadn't they watched the news? The murderer hadn't known it would draw in the feds either, Sherlock would wager. Sherlock decided she was going to rock and roll with this woman who was struggling to look so formidable.

  Sherlock gave them both impartial smiles. "What were you fighting about?"

  Turley Drexel was fifty-two years old, and cursed with a round baby face he'd hated for as long as he could remember. He answered her in the tone of a prim, tightly wound bureaucrat used to juggling numbers. "See here, Agent, we were simply having a business discussion, of no concern to you, I assure you, nothing at all to do with that dead man found out back. We don't even know who he is. No one's bothered to tell us. Was he a transient?"

  Sherlock said easily, "No, not a transient, Mr. Drexel. Actually, I'm very sure both of you knew him. He was an employee of Schiffer Hartwin, from their headquarters, a German national. His name was Helmut Blauvelt."

  Mr. Drexel paled, then quickly lowered his eyes to his black loafers and muttered something under his breath.

  As for Carla Alvarez, her hand went to her throat. She said slowly, "Helmut Blauvelt? No, surely that's not possible, surely-you're certain?"

  "Very certain."

  "We didn't know, I mean, sure, we've met Mr. Blauvelt, but we didn't realize-we just thought it was some stranger who was mugged and killed in the park. This is unbelievable, Agent. Mr. Blauvelt-it just doesn't seem possible."

  "He was identified very quickly." She gave them no details. She turned. "Mr. Drexel, if you would please return to your office, I would like to speak with Ms. Alvarez alone. I'll be in to speak with you soon."

  After Turley Drexel nearly ran from the office, Sherlock turned back to Carla Alvarez, studied her a moment, and said, "Men are dogs, aren't they, Ms. Alvarez?"

  "Dogs? What is that supposed to mean?"

  "I mean, Caskie Royal is married, he's got kids, and here he is sleeping with you. I wonder how many women, how many employees, he's talked onto his sofa? Surely you realize you're not the first."

  "That's insulting. If I were a man, you'd never say anything like that."

  "Depending on where I happened to be, and what I happened to find, sure I would. Ms. Alvarez, I understand you and Mr. Caskie Royal interrupted a break-in last night, in his office, and I was thinking it really strange that neither of you called the police, that the security guard did it some minutes later, with no prompting from you. Why is that?"

  "What does it matter who called the police? They were called, weren't they?"

  "Why don't you tell me why that wasn't the first thing you and Caskie did."

  Alvarez shrugged. "We were anxious to see if the thief got away with anything valuable, like confidential files or e-mails. So the guard called. I repeat, who cares?"

  "I'm thinking you guys didn't call because you were afraid the first question put to you would be why the two of you were there alone on a Sunday night."

  "We were working on the budget-we had adjustments to make, production dates to change-"

  "That doesn't sound all that urgent. So how long have you been sleeping with Mr. Royal?"

  "I am not sleeping with him!"

  "What did the thief take, Ms. Alvarez?"

  "Nothing, as far as I know. That's what Mr. Royal told me last night. He hasn't said anything different to me today."

  "How many times did you meet with Mr. Blauvelt?"

  "Only once, when he was here three, four months ago, his first visit to our office, I believe."

  "No, he's been here many times. All right, what was your meeting about during this visit several months ago?"

  Sherlock saw Alvarez's face go utterly blank, then watched her brain snap to. Alvarez said, her voice ice chips, "Not that you'd understand, but we spoke of the reasons behind some budget overruns on drugs we distribute. It's all very involved. After our discussion, he met briefly with Mr. Royal, then, so far as I know, he returned to Germany, pleased that we had resolved the situation."

  "You're lying to me, Ms. Alvarez, and I do hate that. You know as well as I do that Mr. Blauvelt wouldn't know a budget overrun from a Gesundheit."

  "I am not!"

  "Why did Mr. Blauvelt come here this time?"

  "I have no idea. I didn't even know he was coming."

  "You must know Mr. Blauvelt was Schiffer Hartwin's enforcer, their messy-problem solver. Whenever he showed up, it meant there was a screw-up that needed his brand of fixing. This always involved people, Ms. Alvarez, not production problems. Who was he here for this time? Who was the problem, Ms. Alvarez? Were you the one he came to see?"

  10

  CASKIE ROYAL'S OFFICE

  Savich studied Caskie Royal, sitting erect and confident in his executive leather chair behind his equally impressive mahogany desk, and watched him thread a Cross pen through his large blunt fingers. He knew Royal had been first string quarterback in his senior year at Florida, and he still looked fairly buff, though living well was starting to thicken his waistline. His hair was thick, dark brown with flecks of gray at the temples, the politician's You can trust me look. Savich knew about his tomcat reputation and imagined Sherlock could tell him what it was that made women look his way. His dark eyes were intelligent, but Savich saw cunning lurking in them too. At first he looked decisive, a man at the top of his game, sure of his place in the sun. But his hands were the giveaway-nervous hands, fiddling with the pen, his fingers tapping. Savich imagined he'd been instructed to make nice and to get this mess shut down cleanly. He doubted Royal could be intimidated, at least not here on his own turf. A laid-back, more conciliatory approach, then.

  Royal asked, "May I ask why the FBI is visiting me, Agent Savich? It was a break-in, probably some competitor looking for some advantage, new and exciting to them, no doubt, but nothing more. I know poor Helmut Blauvelt was found murdered in Van Wie Park, but I will tell you right now I know nothing about that." He looked down pointedly at his Rolex.

  Savich smiled to himself. "I realize you're a busy man, Mr. Royal, and we will make this as quick and painless as possible. Did your employers at Schiffer Hartwin call you from Germany?"

  "Yes, of course they did. We are all very upset by this. They want me to help you as much as possible, but as I said, I don't know how I can." Royal shrugged.

  "Helmut Blauvelt was here to see you, Mr.
Royal?"

  "No, I have no idea why Mr. Blauvelt was even here in the U.S." Royal sat forward, folded his hands in front of him. He looked serious and concerned, the picture of cooperation.

  Savich sat back in the chair, crossed his ankles, and said easily, "Mr. Blauvelt was a man to be reckoned with, Mr. Royal. He took care of people who were causing problems, as I'm sure you know. He was a fixture at Schiffer Hartwin when you first came on board five years ago as CEO. He possibly did your own background check."

  "I heard rumors, nothing more. Believe me, I didn't know what, if anything, he was here to do."

  "When was the last time Mr. Blauvelt came to see you, Mr. Royal?"

  Royal's eyes never left Savich's face. He splayed his wide palms on the desktop. Nice manicure, Savich saw.

  "I don't remember. Wait, oh, yes, it was maybe a year ago. We discussed cost overrun problems with a new drug. We resolved questions and he left."

  "Actually Blauvelt was here three and a half months ago. Why was he here then, Mr. Royal?"

  "He was? I'm sorry, Agent Savich, but I don't believe I saw him. Perhaps he was here on vacation."

  Savich merely continued to look at Royal. Clearly he was an ambitious man who enjoyed his perks, a man unlikely to let any morals or ethics impede his progress toward his goals. Surely he was bright enough to come up with a better answer than that to suit Savich. "Why don't you look it up in your appointment book, Mr. Royal. It will only take a moment."

  Caskie Royal turned his chair to the credenza behind him where his computer sat next to a photo of a pretty blond woman in a white summer dress with two boys, one standing on each side.

  "Your family, Mr. Royal?"

  "What? Oh, yes, that's my wife, Jane Ann, and my two sons, Chad and Mark."

  He raised his hands to the keyboard, then shook his head at himself. "Sorry, I forgot." He swiveled his chair toward the desk again and opened a drawer, withdrawing a datebook covered in beautiful Moroccan leather. He looked up after a moment. "Here we are. Yes, I remember now. He came over to speak to me about one of our employees. A manager at Rexol, our distribution plant in Missouri. Blauvelt was here to discuss problems with his performance. He wanted me to fire him.