The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  "Others in Schiffer Hartwin have to be involved as well, people who were responsible for the sabotage of the Spanish plant. You'll see there's no mention about the Spanish plant in the papers either.

  "Royal's plans are meticulously laid out. And that's what my client needed to take to the media to pressure Schiffer Hartwin into starting up Culovort production again."

  "Who is your client, Erin?"

  "I can't tell you, Sherlock. I want to protect him. It was so important that he have the Culovort for his father, he's in chemotherapy for colon cancer, and his oncologist told him her supply of Culovort is running out-"

  Bowie said, his voice sharp as nails, "So that gets him off ? He pressured you to be reckless. He encouraged you to break the law."

  "No, he didn't know what I was going to do. There was no pressure."

  Bowie rose slowly. "When you were in the bathroom, you got a call on your cell. I took it. The guy wouldn't give me his name, wouldn't leave a message, and believe me, I asked. It was your client, right, Erin?"

  "Yes, it was. I'll tell you what, I'll call him, tell him you guys know everything. You'll find him anyway, I know that."

  "You want to speak to him? Fine, you can do it here and now. Where's your cell?"

  "I don't want to speak to him with you hanging all over me. He's my client. I don't want him to feel threatened."

  "Give. Me. Your. Cell."

  Erin began walking backward, her eyes not leaving his face.

  "Savich, would you please hand me that leather purse of hers that's nearly big enough to cover an entire cow, and dig out her cell phone?"

  Bing Crosby sang out "Jingle Bells." Bowie felt around for his own cell phone in his pants, then his jacket, and frowned, trying to follow the sound of Crosby's perky voice.

  Erin said, "It's under those papers on the corner of the table."

  Bowie's cell phone went silent.

  Erin grabbed her purse, ran to the guest bathroom, and slammed the door. They heard the lock click into place.

  "Well, Bowie," Sherlock said, "I guess you either break the door down or let her make the call in private."

  Bowie returned to the sofa, sat down, and didn't say a word. Savich calmly began reading the Culovort papers.

  A few minutes later, Erin walked back into the living room. She said without hesitation, "Dr. Kender is a professor of archaeology at Yale University. I told him about my Hummer blowing up, and he agreed it was time to bring you guys into it. You can talk to him whenever you wish."

  She drew in a deep breath. "He wants to know if he can release the Culovort papers to the media tomorrow?"

  Sherlock said as she watched Dillon place the Culovort papers in his briefcase, "This concerns the Department of Justice, so we need to show them the papers and ask them how they think it best to proceed. We'll let you know tomorrow, Erin."

  Sherlock shot Bowie a look, but didn't say anything. She gave Savich a light punch on the arm and rose. "I think it's time Dillon and I took our leave. Why don't you guys thrash this out between you."

  They were out the front door in under a minute flat.

  When the front door closed, Bowie stood in the center of the living room, still silent as a stone. If he'd had a stone, Erin thought he'd probably have hurled it at her.

  "I'm sorry, Bowie," she said. "I really am."

  "Are you? Are you really? You must have thought you'd won the lottery when I showed up on your doorstep and asked you to watch Georgie."

  "I said yes because I wanted to help, because I'm very fond of her. All right, yes, I also wanted to learn more about the case. Really, Bowie, I'm sorry."

  "But you'd do it again."

  "I don't know. Well, yes, I probably would do it again. I wouldn't have any choice. I guess it's looking to you like I've betrayed you."

  "You think?" He walked away from her, nearly tripped over the big red beanbag, and after windmilling his arms, finally made it to the window, his back to her. She saw he was stiff, knew in that moment he was trying to keep control of himself. He said without looking at her, "I couldn't for the life of me figure out why someone would want to kill you. I mean, I figured it had to do with Blauvelt's murder, but I couldn't make my way through the maze."

  He turned quickly, steering clear of the beanbag this time. His anger had slipped its leash. "You did betray me. You've been playing us. Curse me for an idiot since I'm the one who invited you right in, encouraged everyone to speak to you openly. We told you every single thing you could possibly want to know. Sherlock even took you on an official interview with Jane Ann Royal."

  He grabbed her arms and shook her once, just a little shake to make sure he had her full attention, not to hurt her. "Dammit, Erin Pulaski, you betrayed me!"

  She felt tears coming and swallowed. "Bowie, I'm sorry, really. I didn't know what to do-"

  "Oh, yes, you did, you knew immediately what you were going to do."

  "All right, but I didn't think I had a choice. I don't know how the person who blew up my Hummer knew I was involved."

  "I'll bet whoever it was followed you to your lunch with Dr. Kender. That's who you had lunch with on Wednesday, right?"

  She nodded. "Yes, but who do you think followed me?"

  "Probably Caskie Royal."

  "Or it could have been Carla Alvarez. I overheard her and Royal speaking before they came into his office. He'd brought her into it, Bowie."

  "Something else we didn't know. It occurs to me we need to sit down and talk, right now." He sat down on the sofa, folded his arms over his chest, still royally pissed, and motioned for her to sit in front of him. He eyed her and then said, his voice sharp, "I want you to start again, at the beginning. And don't leave anything out."

  Twenty minutes later, Bowie leaned back. "Is that all of it?"

  "You asked me that three times."

  "Is it?"

  "Yes, I've told you everything."

  "I don't want you killed. I don't want my daughter in danger. There's only one way I can keep you safe now. Even though I've got two agents outside in a car across the street, I'm staying here." He nodded toward the sofa.

  "And I'm thinking when this is over, I may just have to haul your butt to jail."

  Bowie heard Georgie give a sound, a yip that sometimes came out of her dreams. No, there was no way he could hear her if she was in bed asleep. He slowly dropped his arms to his sides and turned. Georgie wasn't in bed. She was standing in the doorway, her thumb in her mouth, only half asleep, and she looked scared. She yipped again.

  41

  NORMAN BATES INN

  Thursday night

  Sherlock was gliding smoothly in a half-pipe on her skateboard, Sean behind her, laughing, when her cell phone woke her up at exactly three o'clock in the morning. "Yes?"

  "Agent Sherlock? Help me, you have to help me!"

  "Jane Ann? What's wrong? Come on, calm down. Talk to me."

  "Someone's in the house, I-I can hear them, I-"

  "Is it your husband? Is it Caskie?"

  "Caskie? No, Caskie would call out to me, he'd tell me right off he was here. No, it's a stranger, it's someone here to hurt me. Help me!"

  "Do you have a gun?"

  "What? Yes, it's in Caskie's bedside table."

  "Get it out and get yourself in a closet and close the door. I'll be right there. Don't shoot me! If it's your husband, don't shoot him either. Stay calm, Jane Ann, and get moving!"

  There was sharp intake of breath, but nothing more from Jane Ann Royal. The line went dead.

  Savich was already out of bed, pulling on his pants, Sherlock behind him, grabbing clothes.

  As they ran to the small parking lot behind the B&B, she shouted, "I'll drive, I know where she lives. Do you want to call backup?"

 
"No, not yet. Let's wait and get the lay of the land first."

  As they swerved out of the parking lot, Sherlock said, "It's my fault. I put her in danger by simply visiting her. I drew a circle on her back, and someone knows I met with her at her house. That same someone is afraid of what Jane Ann Royal told me. Or might tell me." She banged her fist against the steering wheel and took a corner too fast. "Is it Caskie there in the house? Maybe he's hiding and Jane Ann simply doesn't know it? Is he the one she heard?"

  Savich lightly touched her leg. "Cut the guilt or you'll piss me off. Now, tell me about the house, everything you can remember. I don't want to go in there blind."

  Sherlock talked nonstop, describing what she'd seen of the Royal house as she sped through the dark streets toward that lovely neighborhood with its big graceful houses and huge grounds, repeating herself, she knew, but she didn't care. "It is my fault if something happens to her," she said again. "You can't jolly me out of it."

  Savich said sharply, "Of course I can. I'm your boss, you have to follow orders. Cut that nonsense out, right now."

  She screeched into the large driveway. The house was dark, completely and utterly dark, not a single light on inside.

  The alarm system wasn't on. Sherlock was breathing fast and hard, praying for all she was worth. Savich turned the doorknob. It was open.

  He swung the door back, smoothly and silently. He went in high, Sherlock low, something they'd done often, both in and out of Quantico, their movements practiced and fast.

  Savich started to flip on a light switch then stopped cold when he heard a scratching noise off to his right.

  He slipped his penlight out of his jacket pocket. Together they moved silently toward the living room, the beam from the penlight sweeping back and forth in front of them. After six steps, they stopped, listened.

  Nothing now, only dead silence. Savich nodded. Sherlock yelled, "Jane Ann! Where are you?"

  Nothing. Then they heard a whimper, a human being's whimper, coming from up the stairs.

  They ran up the wide staircase, crouched over nearly double.

  Someone fired at them from the landing, one shot, then a fusillade from an automatic weapon. Savich slammed Sherlock down onto the stairs and came down on top of her, covering her body as best he could. Bullets riddled the plaster on the wall two feet above his head, broke it apart and splattered it on the back of his head.

  A painting fell, one sharp edge striking the stairs as it plunged down. It slammed the bottom stair and struck the tiles, sliding across the entrance hall.

  There was another shot, this one from off to the right. He reared back and fired his SIG blindly toward the shooter.

  Sherlock managed to get her arm free. When the next shot nicked the lovely mahogany stair railing, both of them fired toward the direction of the sound.

  There was a shuffling sound, not like they'd shot someone, but something else, like someone was moving fast. Yes, he was running down the hall.

  Savich was up in an instant, grabbed Sherlock's arm, and pulled her up. He fiddled with the penlight and it flickered on again, carving a narrow beam through the inky black. He whispered against her ear, "We've got to take this real slow. We'll be blind up ahead, and whoever it is could be circling back, waiting for us to come up."

  They spread out across the stairs, each to one side. Crouching, they made their way to the top.

  They stopped and listened. There were no more running footsteps. Whoever it was, was long gone.

  "Which way to the master bedroom?"

  Sherlock shook her head. "Let's go right."

  They didn't know which room was Jane Ann Royal's, which rooms were her children's.

  Sherlock nearly froze. Her two boys. What if the killer had murdered the boys? Please no, not the children.

  Savich opened each door as they came to it. The first was a small sitting room with a harp sitting next to the window. Jane Ann played the harp?

  The next was a bedroom that obviously belonged to a preadolescent boy-two posters on the wall of David Beckham, a soccer ball rolled into the corner, a pair of filthy sneakers on the floor. No occupant, thank God. She opened the closet door and nearly got buried when a pile of clothes poured out. She looked inside the clothes. There was no body. She closed her eyes and offered up a prayer.

  Sherlock thought she'd lose it when they eased open the second door, another bedroom, and there was something on or in the bed, something substantial, something that didn't move. Was it was one of the boys, dead? Sherlock ran to the bed and saw to her blessed relief that it was a tangled pile of clothes. A desk filled most of the space along the wall. No soccer theme in this room but an incredible array of computer equipment, and a big stack of comic books. She opened the closet door. There was no child, only a collection of shoes and sneakers and a couple of bats and mitts.

  "Jane Ann did send the boys away, thank God."

  "Very smart of her," Savich said. "Okay, let's get to her bedroom."

  There was another door that opened into a small office with a single closet, and Savich opened it. Copy paper, envelopes, supplies. No bodies.

  The room at the end of the hall had white double doors. They were closed. Savich didn't have a good feeling about this. He turned the doorknob, pushed lightly. The door went silently inward.

  Sherlock called, "Jane Ann? Are you in here?"

  There was dead silence.

  "Jane Ann? Everything is all right now. You can come out."

  They heard a gulping sound, then a sob. "Is that you, Agent Sherlock?"

  "Yes." Sherlock ran toward her voice. The closet door slowly opened. Savich turned on the overhead light.

  Jane Ann Royal was sitting on the floor of the closet, a thick winter coat pulled around her, and she was as pale as death. She held a gun in her hand. Her hand was shaking so badly Sherlock quickly took it from her.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I am-" She shuddered, and lowered her head to her hands and began rocking.

  Savich asked, his voice calm and low, "Where are the boys?"

  She started at the sound of the man's voice. Sherlock said, "It's all right, this is Agent Savich."

  Jane Ann Royal peered up at him through terrified eyes. "I sent them to my sister in Philadelphia, yesterday. They're safe."

  "You're all right, Jane Ann. Take a deep breath and tell us what happened."

  "It-it's hard. I've never been so scared in my life."

  "I know, but it's okay now. You've got to tell us what happened."

  Jane Ann Royal sucked in air, breathed, and managed to smooth herself out. "After I hung up with you, I got Caskie's gun out of the bedside table and I hid here in the closet, just like you told me to. I kept the door open a crack so I could see and hear if someone came into the bedroom. I heard some men, I don't know how many, but I heard them come up the stairs, real slow, like they wanted to be quiet. Then they were in the hallway and I thought they were coming to kill me." Her voice broke as she began to wheeze.

  Sherlock gently stroked her arm, and waited. Finally, Jane Ann raised her eyes to Sherlock's face. "Then I didn't hear anything, for maybe two minutes. I started to get up, but I heard someone right outside the bedroom door. I scrunched into a ball and pulled a coat over me. I held out my gun, aimed it straight at the middle of the closet door.

  "But no one came in. I heard the men talking, then I heard a single shot. It sounded far away, like it was down at the end of the hall in the laundry room. One of the men yelled, 'I got the bastard!' I didn't know what they were talking about. I was so afraid. I didn't know who'd fired or why-there was no one here but me.

  "I heard someone open the bedroom door and I thought I'd die. Someone looked in, I could hear his breathing, but he didn't come into the bedroom. I heard him say, 'Come on, let's get out
of here.' And one of them shut the bedroom door again. Then I heard shots, so many shots, then they stopped. I wanted to help you because I knew it had to be you. I had to do something! I ran to the door and opened it a crack. I saw them running down the hall away from me. I guess they went out the window at the end of the hall, where the laundry room is. There's a huge cedar tree out there and they must have climbed down. Then I heard you, but I wasn't sure it was you, I couldn't hear you clearly. I knew you were looking in all the rooms, and I was afraid they'd come back, to see if there was anyone else here and I hid in the closet again. Then you came in, Agent Sherlock, and you called to me." She raised a tear-streaked face. "I know who they killed." She put her face on her drawn-up knees and cried, huge gulping sobs. "Oh God, I know who they killed."

  Savich said quietly, "Who do you think they killed, Mrs. Royal?"

  "Caskie," she whispered through her tears, "it must be Caskie. He must have come home. He had to be hiding from me, just like you thought he would, Agent Sherlock. I think they killed my boys' father, they killed my husband."

  Savich and Sherlock found Caskie Royal's body in the huge laundry room at the end of the hall, sprawled on a pile of dirty sheets and towels, shot through the head. The large window over the dryer was open, the white curtains flowing inside, pushed by the night wind.

  There was blood everywhere.

  42

  Friday at dawn

  Bowie said, "Mrs. Royal's Smith and Wesson hasn't been fired. And none of the brass the team found were from a Smith and Wesson."

  Sherlock said, "If you'd found her hiding in the closet, seen her terror firsthand, I don't think you'd have bothered checking out her S-and-W." She looked over at Erin, who stood against the side of her rented Taurus, bent forward a bit, probably feeling the burn on her back. She'd parked as close as she could get to the front of the Royal house. She looked shell-shocked. Sherlock said, "I told her not to come, but I'm not surprised she's here." Sherlock paused a moment, saw the blood in Bowie's eyes, and added, "She's amazing. She can't be feeling all that hot."