The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  But what if I get the Culovort documents to the media anonymously? I'd be safe then, wouldn't I? Dr. Kender would get to nail the bozos and we'd both walk away.

  It could be done, but it was scary. Thank God there was time to think about it. She wondered what Dr. Kender would have to say.

  Erin put the few dishes in the dishwasher, swiped down the kitchen, and got to work.

  16

  Savich was clipping his SIG to his belt when Elton John sang out "Candle in the Wind" on his cell.

  "Savich."

  "Bowie here. A guy called the field office in New Haven. I've got a lead on the woman who did the break-in at Schiffer Hartwin," and Bowie gave them an address not three blocks from the Norman Bates Inn.

  "Sherlock and I are on our way."

  Eric Tallman was a runner with insomnia who was also a sports writer and stay-at-home dad. He waved them into a small toy-strewn living room. He leaned down to scoop up a stuffed golden retriever as he waved them to the red-and-green plaid sofa. "Sorry for the mess. I haven't cleaned up after Luke yet this morning." He checked his watch. "He's taking his morning nap, but it's going to be close. Believe me, if he wakes up, conversation will cease. Sit down, sit down." He checked the baby monitor on a side table. "Since Luke came, I can't run now during the day, only at night after he's in bed. As I told Agent Richards on the phone, I was running in the woods near the Schiffer Hartwin building on Sunday night, a little after midnight. I nearly fell over a hedge because my eyes were on this woman I saw shimmying out of a small window on the side of the building, some fifteen feet up. She landed on a mess of bushes then rolled off and ran for Van Wie Park behind me."

  Bowie looked wired. "What did she look like, Mr. Tallman?"

  "She was slender, had on a dark jacket, zipped up, jeans, sneakers. I think she was wearing a black baseball cap, but she had a ponytail bouncing out the back, you know?"

  "Yes," Bowie said. "What else?"

  "I don't think she saw me, she was focused on getting out of there. She wasn't a runner, didn't have that natural runner's gait, but she was really graceful, I remember thinking that. She moved fluidly, I don't know how else to put it."

  Sherlock sat forward. "Interesting way to put it-fluidly. Could you try to describe that more to us?"

  "I don't know, really, like I said, she wasn't a practiced runner, didn't have those natural moves, but the thing is-" Tallman paused, shook his head. "Damned if I know, it's just that I know an athlete when I see one and that's what she was. She was in really good shape, you could tell. I could see she was scared but not panicked. Smooth, she looked smooth, controlled."

  Sherlock pulled a stuffed bear from behind the sofa and stroked its soft fur. Sean still had his own white rabbit, but it only had one ear now. "Did you see the color of her ponytail, Mr. Tallman?"

  Tallman thought about that. "It was thick-the tail was flopping around when she ran, I can see that clearly. The color-hmm, not black like mine, not red like yours, Agent, brown, I'd have to say. Her skin was very white in the moonlight."

  Bowie sat forward, clasping his hands between his legs. "You said her jacket was zipped up?"

  "Yeah, it looked kind of weird since it was pretty warm Sunday night." He frowned a moment. "Do you know, now that I think about it, maybe she looked a little thick through the torso, a bit on the bulky side."

  "Like she'd maybe zipped up something beneath that jacket she was wearing?" Sherlock asked.

  "Yes, perhaps."

  Bowie said, "Do you remember her size? Tall? Short?"

  "That's tough since I didn't have any perspective. I guess I'd have to say pretty tall. I didn't have my cell phone with me or I might have called the cops. When I got home, Luke was sick and it fell right out of my mind. Then Monday morning I heard about the break-in at the pharmaceutical company on the news, and that someone was murdered in the park Sunday night. That shook me, I'll tell you, I mean, I saw the woman who was the thief. My wife Linda said I had to call you guys right away."

  Savich spoke for the first time. "You're sure she was alone, Mr. Tallman? No one was there in Van Wie Park, waiting for her?"

  "No one I saw. I'm always glad I don't see anyone when I run because it's dark and it's late and someone else might not want to just wish me a good evening, you know?"

  They repeated the same questions, giving them a slightly different slant, but Eric Tallman didn't know any more.

  Bowie rose about the same time as a baby's loud cry came over the monitor. He smiled. "You've given this lots of thought, we really appreciate your calling. Have fun with Luke."

  Tallman rose to shake their hands. "This woman who broke in, do you think she also murdered that man?"

  "We'll see," Bowie said.

  Luke yelled again from the bowels of the house.

  Tallman said, "The little champ's better than an alarm clock. It's ten on the button, and Luke is ready to suck down formula, burp, and gnaw on his stuffed dog's ears."

  "What's his dog's name?" Savich asked him.

  "Maynard the Brave. He's getting so tatty I'm afraid he's going to fall apart every time I wash him."

  Savich smiled. "My little boy has a one-eared rabbit named Goober. We never found the other ear. As for the tail, we've reattached it a good dozen times."

  As they were walking to their cars, Bowie said, "Georgie's all-time favorite stuffed animal is a crocodile named Rufus, not that she pays him all that much attention anymore since she's discovered the glorious world of dolls. Do you guys know there have got to be a thousand different Barbies and all of them have cars and planes and a thousand pairs of shoes?"

  Ten minutes later, at Luther's Big Bite, they were drinking coffee, Savich tea. After Bowie took a grateful sip he said, "I'll check the photo IDs of all the female Schiffer Hartwin employees. If any of them look promising-tall, slender, brown hair-I'll show Mr. Tallman some photos. I don't think a police artist could get anything useful out of him."

  Sherlock said as she sipped her coffee, not bad for a diner, but not nearly as good as Dillon's, the prince of the coffee bean, "What struck me was a guy, who's a runner himself, saying the woman ran gracefully, fluidly, even though he said she looked scared. Interesting description."

  They thought about this.

  Bowie sipped his coffee. "Maybe she's used to moving gracefully-maybe at one time our girl was a model? Or a dancer?"

  "Possible," Savich said.

  Bowie said, "My agents in New Haven found out Blauvelt's air ticket was paid for on his personal account, not a company card. The Schiffer Hartwin travel staff told the BND, who told us they didn't even know he was coming to America. He rented a car at JFK, a dark blue Ford Taurus, license RWI 4749. Still no sign of it. As for where he was staying, no luck yet with that either, but he probably used an alias, paid cash."

  "It would have to be a motel off the highway," Savich said, "a lodging that wouldn't care who or what he was. On the other hand, maybe he was staying with his murderer."

  Bowie said, "Agents have checked the residences of all upper management Schiffer Hartwin employees, looking for the blue Taurus, speaking to neighbors. Nothing yet. Oh, yes, I meant to tell you the most important news this morning: our local police chief, Clifford Amos, has agreed to let us use his conference room for interviews, though he'd just as soon kick all our federal butts to Alaska. I asked Caskie Royal to come down at eleven."

  Sherlock saluted him with her cup. "That's good, Bowie, take him out of his comfort zone."

  Savich said, "Being close to a jail cell just might make him reevaluate his talking points." He smiled. He couldn't wait to have Royal on cop turf.

  Sherlock said, "He knows exactly what the woman copied, he's afraid of it getting out, and so he's not cooperating, murder or no murder. The file or files she copied, that's got to be the key. And there
were enough pages zipped into her jacket that she looked a bit bulky, Mr. Tallman said.

  "Whatever she took, I'll bet my sneakers it shows something Schiffer Hartwin very much wants to keep quiet. I'll bet whatever it is, it's pretty big. I wonder what she's planning on doing with the file?"

  Bowie said, "I was wondering that myself. It could be anything from extortion to espionage to someone trying to be a Good Samaritan."

  Savich said, "Question is, what does she do with the files now that Blauvelt got himself murdered right out back at about the same time? Even if she didn't have anything to do with Blauvelt's murder herself, she's got to be scared. She's got to be praying we'll find the murderer soon so she'll be free to act."

  Bowie said, "Or maybe she murdered Blauvelt, before or after she copied some files."

  Savich said slowly, "She knew what she wanted, that's for sure. She wouldn't risk breaking in on a fishing expedition. I'll bet the German bosses are very well aware of what she copied by now, but without a direct link to the murder, we don't have a chance of talking anyone into a warrant." He swished the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup, and looked thoughtful.

  Sherlock knew that look and smiled. "We've got to find her, see what's she's got before we arrest her for breaking and entering. I'm thinking once we know that, we'll know why Blauvelt was here."

  Bowie looked out the window to see an ancient pink Cadillac cruise down High Street. "I'm not so sure about that. There doesn't necessarily have to be a tie-in."

  "Maybe not," Sherlock said, "but somehow, it just feels right, like it's all part of the whole." She looked down at her watch. "Bowie, what about that German policeman? Andreas Kesselring of the German intelligence agency? Isn't he due in at JFK about now?"

  Bowie grinned. "Yep, he surely is. I sent Special Agent Dolores Cliff to pick him up. She's got quite a talent for prying information out of people. Give her an oyster and she'll come away with the pearl. By the time she gets him back here, he'll have told her the color of his underwear and what he bought his wife for her birthday."

  When they pulled into the parking lot of the Stone Bridge Police Department five minutes later, Bowie was rubbing his hands together with anticipation. "Caskie Royal's got to be scared spitless at this official invitation to cop central."

  "Particularly since that woman has material that could fry his butt as well as the collective butts of the higher-ups in Schiffer Hartwin," Sherlock said. "But you know, it's Blauvelt who's the key. It all comes back to him and why he was here."

  17

  STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT

  Tuesday morning

  Savich watched Caskie Royal come into the conference room, two Schiffer Hartwin lawyers following close on his heels. If the older man had worn a robe and sported a beard, he'd have looked like some medieval alchemist. His eyes were intense, his look resolute, ready to take on the devil himself. It had to be Bender the Elder, Savich thought. As for the younger lawyer, he was an interesting mix of apprentice and hip professional in his electric yellow tie and conservative suit. Royal looked like the successful CEO he was, in a lightweight gray suit, pristine white shirt, and sharp Italian loafers, the look both understated and expensive, sure to impress those lower on the food chain. He looked both angry and harried.

  The alchemist took a pair of aviator glasses from his breast pocket and put them on his long narrow nose, adding at least fifty IQ points to the package. Savich watched him lightly touch a white hand to Royal's shoulder, lean close to whisper something in his ear. Royal jerked, gave the lawyer a searching look, then nodded slowly.

  There was no hand-shaking, only curt nods to accompany the introductions, the barest sheen of civility. Both Harold Bender and Andrew Toms settled in, each withdrawing a yellow pad from their leather briefcases, expensive pens at the ready.

  Bowie took papers out of his own briefcase, ignoring them for a good minute. He smiled when he finally looked up at Caskie Royal and his lawyers. "We appreciate you gentlemen coming in on this fine day." He leaned forward, and the smile fell off his face. "We are, as you all know, investigating the murder Sunday night of Helmut Blauvelt, an employee of your company. We are making the reasonable assumption, for the moment, that his murder may be tied to a break-in at your office that same night. We have reason to believe that if we can find the woman who broke into your office, Mr. Royal, we might find out who killed Mr. Blauvelt, and why.

  "It seems, sir, that she intended to copy one or more of your sensitive passworded files. That means either someone in your office managed to find out your password, or you used a password that could be easily guessed. What is your password, Mr. Royal?"

  "My dog, Adler, but no one knows what my password was, not even my executive assistant."

  Bowie said patiently, "Anyone who knows what they're doing has a list of most common words or dates people use for passwords. Any dog in the household usually makes the list."

  Royal said, "Look, I'll admit that was sloppy on my part, but I've since changed the password. As I've already told you people, Ms. Alvarez and I interrupted the thief before anything on my computer was even accessed. Maybe the thief tried, but didn't have time to work through the list of passwords."

  Bender the Elder said, "The fact that Mr. Royal used a password a thief could guess means nothing. Mr. Toms personally examined Mr. Royal's computer before the hard drive was removed by the IT department. There was no attempt to access anything of value."

  Andrew Toms's electric yellow tie blasted back the sharp sunlight pouring through the conference room window, making him either a sartorial masterpiece, or color-blind, Bowie couldn't make up his mind. "That is correct," Toms said, his pen on the table. Tap, tap, tap.

  Bowie said easily, "I'm only pointing out that given the simplicity of your password, Mr. Royal, we can't assume your thief necessarily works inside your company or has everyday access to your office. I'm thinking of a possible whistleblower."

  "Whistleblower, Agent Richards?" Bender the Elder arched one of his eyebrows a good inch. "Do you have any evidence of that?"

  Bowie leaned forward. "Tell us, Mr. Royal, who do you think broke into your office Sunday night?"

  "I have given this a lot of thought, naturally," Royal said, voice dripping sincerity, "and I can think of no one at all, either working for me or outside my business. It makes little sense, as I have already told Agent Savich. And I will say it again, there was nothing all that sensitive on my desktop computer. There is far more valuable information on our servers, but that is highly restricted."

  Bowie said, "It's really past time for you to turn away from your lawyers' script and step into the light, Mr. Royal. Your computer was accessed, you know it, we know it. Now, what was in the file or files that were copied?"

  Apprentice Toms said, "Mr. Royal has told you the truth, Agent Richards. He has also told you it doesn't matter to your murder investigation."

  Toms, young though he was, was blessed with the mellifluous voice of a seasoned vicar. Maybe that was why he'd become the alchemist's apprentice. Bowie mowed right over that beautiful vibrant voice. "Surely you realize that your problems are just beginning, Mr. Royal. The thief, this woman, she's got copies of files you obviously shouldn't have had on your computer, given that they could be accessed by anyone who could type in your dog's name. I don't imagine your masters in Germany are very pleased with you, Mr. Royal, just as I have no doubt Mr. Bender here is keeping them fully informed about what's happening across the pond."

  "Agent Richards," Toms said, "Mr. Royal isn't here to be insulted. As for calling our corporate executives in Germany his 'masters,' you are merely baiting him, and, I might add, showing your jingoistic prejudices."

  Bowie never took his eyes of Royal. "Any prejudices on my part are the least of your problems. The fact is, Mr. Royal, regardless of what that woman took, no matter if it is related to Mr. Blauvelt'
s murder, your future is in this woman's hands. If these two crimes are connected, and you impede our investigation, you can be indicted for murder as an accessory after the fact."

  Royal shot a look at Bender the Elder, but kept his mouth shut. Bowie wanted to smack him.

  Bender the Elder cleared his throat. This aristocrat of lawyers had worked for Schiffer Hartwin over a decade, five years longer than Caskie Royal had been CEO. He cleared his throat again to draw all attention to him, even making Savich look up finally from MAX. He straightened his aviator glasses. "I will say this once, Agent Richards. Mr. Royal has no idea who the thief was or what the thief was after. What was on Mr. Royal's computer that night is irrelevant, and we cannot help you tie this break-in to the unfortunate murder of Mr. Blauvelt, as you persist in trying to do, with no proof whatsoever.

  "Now, Agent, is there anything else you would like to ask Mr. Royal to justify your asking him here, to the local police department?" He looked around the spare conference room with its functional table and dozen uncomfortable chairs, as if expecting a roach or two to scuttle across the floor.

  Sherlock spoke for the first time, her eyes locked on Royal's face. "Actually, we're close to locating your thief, Mr. Royal. You see, we found a witness who saw her. And once we have her, we may not need you or your company's help any longer. That would not be in your best interest, Mr. Royal.

  "I do not believe either you or Ms. Alvarez murdered Helmut Blauvelt. You don't seem to me to be murderers. But he is dead nonetheless, and he had an appointment to see you yesterday."

  "No! I told you, I didn't even know Mr. Blauvelt was in the U.S.!"

  "Mr. Royal, a waiter at Chez Pierre overheard Mr. Blauvelt speaking on his cell phone Sunday evening. He spoke of you, seeing you on Monday morning. Come now, Mr. Royal, as I said, I don't believe you killed him, so why not tell us the truth? Don't you want to help us catch Mr. Blauvelt's murderer?"