The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  Erin wasn't feeling much of anything. It was just past dawn, so she could finally see all the people going in and out of the Royal house, beyond the glare of the huge spotlights. The coroner's van was still parked directly in front of the house, but not for much longer-two men were carrying out a large green bag that held Caskie Royal's body. He's dead, she thought-just like that-

  a living, breathing person is dead. Just like you could have been, dead and in a green bag, if you hadn't jumped out of your Hummer in time. Only a matter of seconds, close, too close- She realized she was shaking and forced herself to breathe slowly, in and out. She saw plainclothes agents examining the grounds surrounding the house, looking for footprints, she supposed, and Sherlock speaking to Bowie.

  Bowie stared over at her. She could tell from thirty feet that he wasn't happy. Of course she'd awakened when "Jingle Bells" blasted into the silence at three-forty a.m. She'd wanted to leap out of bed and see what was going on, but instead, she held herself still and listened to him search around for his cell phone. She almost shouted to him that he'd left it beneath the sports section of the newspaper. She heard nearly a full verse before he found his cell and "Jingle Bells" abruptly cut off. She heard him talking to Sherlock in a low voice, then heard him moving around, and after a few minutes, she heard the front door close quietly. She swung her legs over the side of her bed, got to her feet, and nearly fell over. She grabbed the bedpost and stood there, hunched over. She swallowed a Vicodin, and that blessed wonder drug finally got her together. She called Sherlock, and when at last she'd felt able to drive safely, she'd carried Georgie to the car, her back cussing at her all the way, and headed for the Royal house.

  Bowie stared at her, hands on hips, then trotted over. "You idiot," he said from four feet away in mid-trot. "I can't believe you even managed to get yourself out of bed at dawn and truck over here."

  "I didn't truck, I Taurused," and she waved her hand at her rental car, and tried for a smile.

  "Don't you try to jolly me out of being mad. Agent Lewis called to tell me you were on your way, and then he had the gall to tell me not to worry, said he and Tucker were right behind you and he'd keep an eye out for any bad guys. He told me not to worry about Georgie either, she was sound asleep."

  He reached out his hands to shake her, saw she really wasn't in very good shape, and backed off. To cap it off, she was shivering beneath her black leather jacket. The early morning was cold, the sky filled with gray clouds pressing down signaling rain. He pulled off his own leather jacket and laid it around her shoulders. "No, be quiet. I'll be fine. Okay, Erin, this better be good-what the devil are you doing here? Where'd you stash Georgie?"

  "Don't yell at me, you'll wake her up," and Erin nodded over her shoulder.

  Naturally, he had to look into the back seat to see his daughter lying on her side, her face against her open palm, two blankets tucked securely around her, covering her to her ears. She was dead to the world. She was a good sleeper, his kid. "I've been wondering how you knew where to come."

  She had the nerve to shrug. "No biggie. After you left, I called Sherlock and she told me what happened." She waved her hand toward the big house. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb Georgie, but I had to come, and I knew I couldn't leave her. She never woke up, Bowie, and I worried about that, after last night when she was so upset with us for yelling at each other." She paused a brief moment, tried another smile. "I don't know how you thought of it so fast, but telling her I was an idiot and you were going to make me iron her clothes for her really calmed her fast. That was well done."

  He opened his mouth to blast her again, but what came out was, "You wait, Georgie will hold you to it."

  "Yeah, she just might." Erin said, looking back toward the house. "What happened here, Bowie, it's unbelievable. Jane Ann's husband, he was alive, you interviewed him, you even knew the minute he ran away at that rest stop. And now he's just-dead, like I almost was.

  "I talked with Jane Ann Royal Wednesday with Sherlock, and she was open and smart and sophisticated. She knew what her husband was, and laughed about it, showed off her tennis instructor. All buff and young, she told us, that's how she liked them, but she loved her sons, Bowie, you could tell that right away."

  She was talking really fast now, and Bowie let her. She was scared and shocked to her heels, and she needed to get it all out.

  "I had to come, Bowie," she said again. "Sherlock only had time to tell me the basics because someone was calling her."

  She shivered in his jacket and pulled it closer. He held on to his mad like a lifeline. "Then how did you know-" He kicked the tire on one of the local officer's patrol cars. "You heard my cell and you listened, didn't you?"

  "It's not every night you jerk awake to Bing belting out 'Jingle Bells.' How could I not listen through the thin apartment walls? Actually, you didn't say all that much. I only heard there was trouble and that's why I called Sherlock."

  He looked very close to snarling. "I don't understand why it took you so long to get here. You should have been on my heels."

  "I had to take a pain med, let it kick in, and there was Georgie. I'm okay now, really. Agent Lewis and Agent Tucker are right over there, standing against their car. They stuck with me all the way here. I'm not an idiot, Bowie, I wouldn't ever put Georgie in danger. Would you stop being pissed off and tell me what happened? Look at Chief Amos, he's coming this way. He looks pretty shaken."

  Chief of Police Clifford Amos looked more than shaken, he looked like he'd been run over by a Mack truck. Two murders and a Hummer blowing up in his town in a matter of days. He'd followed Bowie out of the house, noticed him talking, of all things, to Erin Pulaski, his attempted murder victim. He was tired, and he was angry. "Here now," he called out, "what are you doing here? You're a civilian, you've gotta leave. You shouldn't even be able to walk, not after that Hummer of yours blew itself up all over one of my neighborhoods. You asking to get yourself killed?"

  Bowie saw Erin was ready to smart-mouth the chief of police, and that was something he surely didn't need at the crack of dawn. He knew the chief was scared, as well as angry; he was scared himself. He said, "Sorry about this, Chief. I should have told you. I asked her to come. She's acting as a consultant for us. She and Agent Sherlock interviewed Mrs. Royal. We need her here."

  Chief Amos wasn't happy to hear that, but he preferred standing here stripping the hide off this damned dance teacher to being back in that stomach-twisting blood-and-gore crime scene. At least Caskie Royal wasn't lying in the middle of those sheets anymore, his brains splattered on the washing machine. He felt bile rise in his throat just thinking of it. He hadn't puked when he'd seen that German guy, Helmut Blauvelt, naked, his face bludgeoned to bits, no fingers, just bloody stumps, but it was close, and he'd sure enough been off his feed for nearly a day. Now this. Seeing Caskie Royal was different because he'd known him. He was a snooty bastard, but now he was very dead, and his pretty wife was rocking back and forth on an antique chair in the living room, whimpering and crying, and nobody knew anything, including him. Why was this bloody nightmare happening in his town? The FBI had flown in here looking all smart and sharp in a black FBI helicopter and taken over, and their guy from New Haven had moved right into his police station, and what had they done? Big zero, that's what. That big guy Savich had played with his computer and the rest of them had just talked to people-talk, talk, talk, no action-and now there was another murder in his town.

  And now this dance teacher was hanging around. Who would want to kill her? Nothing about anything made any sense. He said to himself more than to anyone else, "A female shouldn't drive a muscle car like that Hummer unless she can handle it, which you couldn't, now could you?"

  Erin just looked at him. Thank God she didn't say anything. He was tired, knew he was tired, running off at the mouth like that, saying things that would get Loraine Briggs, one of his deputies, rattin
g him out to Corrine. That nearly made him shudder. It was time to apply himself, to get things straight, but he knew to his bones he didn't know how to deal with this case, didn't have a clue what to do next. He said to Agent Bowie Richards, his voice belligerent, "I suppose you're going to tell me this is your case too, aren't you?" He knew he sounded intimidating, tough as nails, like The Man in Charge. Maybe he'd sounded too intimidating and Richards would fold, which was the last thing he wanted Richards to do. He waited, saying a little prayer. What he wanted more than anything was to go home and crawl into his bed and sleep until Wheel of Fortune came on tonight and his wife made him his favorite pot roast with new potatoes. He wanted to think about all this, but from a distance.

  Bowie knew exactly what the chief wanted him to say. It wasn't Amos's fault, he knew the best shot at cleaning this mess up was to keep it with the FBI. The last thing any of them needed was Chief Amos and his people blundering around. He said, "I'm sorry, Chief Amos, sincerely sorry, but I really must insist we handle Mr. Royal's murder. There were shots fired at our own agents. I know you don't want to let it go, but you must admit it all looks connected."

  Chief Amos rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands tucked into his wide belt. "Well, I don't like it, but yeah, okay, maybe we can work together. But you gotta get this thing figured out, Agent Richards, and fast. My town's gonna shake to its foundations when it gets out that Caskie Royal was brutally murdered, and everybody's gonna start yelling-at me."

  "I understand, Chief. I really would appreciate your continued assistance. Your sending out your people to speak to all the neighbors is just what I need. If any of the neighbors saw anything, have your deputies report directly to me."

  "Yeah, well, I guess it'd be okay for you to assign jobs to my other guys as well if nothing major comes up."

  Yeah, Bowie thought, like somebody stealing clothes from Maude's Dry Cleaners or some idiot high school bad boys handing around a joint on the corner of Main and Randolph, but he said, "Thank you, Chief."

  Erin was listening with only half an ear. She recognized that Bowie was jollying Chief Amos, but she didn't care. She just couldn't get past it-Caskie Royal was dead. Who was next? Was there anyone left to murder besides her? What about Carla Alvarez?

  "Bowie?"

  He didn't turn to her, simply said over his shoulder, "Yeah?"

  "Carla Alvarez."

  He didn't miss a beat. "Chief, would you send a couple of officers over to Carla Alvarez's house, make sure she's okay? And stick with her, round the clock for a couple of days? I'm thinking it might be smart to keep a close watch on her."

  "Who? Oh, I see your point." The chief hiked up his pants and walked to a small knot of men and one woman standing next to a squad car, spoke quietly to them, then headed straight to his car, not quite at a run but close.

  Erin looked after him, but she wasn't thinking about Carla Alvarez anymore, she wasn't even thinking about people who'd tried to blow her up in her Hummer, she was thinking how nice it would be to sit down in her car and go to sleep.

  Bowie looked at her, not a dollop of sympathy in his hard eyes or in his hard voice. "You look ready to fall over. Why don't you let me drive Georgie and your own butt home and put you back into bed?"

  43

  Bowie didn't wait to see if she agreed, he turned on his heel to start for the car door. She grabbed his arm, and he turned back, more than willing to pin back her ears. What stopped him cold was the panic in her eyes. Given that someone had tried to blow her up, panic was probably appropriate. She said, her voice urgent, "Bowie, please tell me what happened here. Do you know who's doing this?"

  He was still angry with her, but he was worried about her too. "No, not yet. Mrs. Royal says there were two men. I see you already know that. Did you hear they fired on Savich and Sherlock?"

  She nearly fell backward against the Taurus, not a good idea with her back already unhappy. Dr. Kender was right. This was insanity. "They tried to kill Dillon and Sherlock? No, she didn't tell me that."

  "Don't hyperventilate. Take some slow, deep breaths. No, keep my jacket on a while longer. Listen, they're both okay, which seems odd, but there you have it. Deep, slow breaths, Erin. That's it."

  It took a few seconds but she managed to get herself under control again. "Sorry about that. It's not okay for a private investigator to lose it like that. What do you mean, it's 'odd'?"

  "Look at this straight on. Two gunmen murder Caskie Royal with one shot right through the middle of the forehead, then they hear someone coming into the house. They wait at the top of the stairs until Savich and Sherlock are walking up the stairs, admittedly they're alerted, but still, even after firing off at least a dozen rounds, neither of the two gunmen manage to land a single shot."

  Thank you, God, was all Erin could think. She looked over to see Dillon and Sherlock standing together, speaking to Agent Dolores Cliff. Erin looked back up at Bowie, saw he was staring back at her as if he was waiting for her to keel over. She lightly touched her hand to his arm. "Yes," she said, "you're right, that is bizarre. You're also freezing. Here's your jacket. I don't need it anymore." She tossed it back to him. "Doesn't sound like real professionals, does it?"

  Good, she seemed back together. He said, "It's something to think about. Savich and Sherlock found Mrs. Royal hiding in the closet in her bedroom, clutching her husband's S-and-W."

  He repeated the story Mrs. Royal had told, and added, "A good thing for her the shooters had found Caskie Royal first. She said the killers didn't come into the master bedroom-and that's another strange thing. Why didn't they?

  "We found brass all over the place, a good dozen rounds from two different weapons. A painting was shot off the wall, wall plaster rained down, and stair railings were splintered and flew everywhere. It looks like a god-awful shoot-out, but as I said, neither Savich nor Sherlock was hit, which seems a miracle. Besides the brass from Savich and Sherlock's SIGs, all the other casings were from a Glock forty and a nine-millimeter Kel-Tec, which does indeed add up to two gunmen."

  "Did Dillon and Sherlock hit anyone?"

  "They don't know. We didn't find any blood, other than in the laundry room. We also found a jumble of footprints below the big window in the laundry room, looked like a dozen people rather than just two, but maybe the CSI people will figure it out. The laundry room where we found Mr. Royal's body is at the opposite end of the corridor from Mrs. Royal's bedroom. It was a huge mess. Our thinking is he was hiding in there and when the men reached the top of the stairs, they turned left instead of right, found him, and shot him dead."

  "So if the gunmen had turned right instead, they would have found Mrs. Royal in the master bedroom. Is that luck, or what?"

  "She said the men did come to the bedroom door, but didn't come in."

  "Did Mr. Royal have a gun?"

  "Not that we could find."

  "That doesn't make sense, Bowie. Why wouldn't he have a weapon? Surely he was afraid they'd come after him, whoever they are."

  "Mrs. Royal had his gun, the S-and-W."

  "But still-"

  "Agreed," Savich said from behind Bowie. "Maybe he thought he was safe enough in the house, just get his passport and some cash-which we found on him-and he'd be on his way to South America. Maybe he didn't want to face his wife. Or maybe he planned to take the gun just before he left."

  Erin said, "On the other hand, maybe Mr. Royal had another gun and the killers took it with them after they killed him."

  Sherlock shook her head. "There were no other casings in the laundry room except the one nine-millimeter we found from the kill shot, so Mr. Royal didn't shoot back. The laundry room door was locked, so while they were kicking it in, he'd have been firing if he'd had a gun. We think he must have been trying to get out the window, but when they crashed through the door, he turned back to them, and was shot in the for
ehead."

  Bowie said, "Royal had to be very afraid making even this quick foray into his own house, yet he had no weapon at all to defend himself."

  Sherlock frowned. "Now, why didn't Mr. Royal tell his wife he was coming back?"

  "He couldn't face her, that's why," Erin said. "He was running and he wanted to run alone. He didn't want arguments or recriminations, he didn't want to take the chance that she'd call you guys."

  Savich said, "And his kids-did he know they weren't there? I'll tell you, the last place I'd go was where my kids were."

  "Where are the two boys?"

  Sherlock said, "Jane Ann sent them to her sister in Philadelphia. To give Caskie fatherhood points, he might have seen them leave, knew only Jane Ann was there, and he decided to ghost it." Sherlock turned to Erin. "You okay? I gotta say your eyes look bright, but you're hurting, aren't you?"

  "Maybe a little bit," Erin said absently, barely registering that her back was throbbing again. She said, "Seems to me Jane Ann had to know her husband was in the house, no matter how careful he was."

  "Not necessarily," Bowie said. "He obviously didn't plan on staying long."

  "What really bothers me is that the men who killed Caskie didn't seem to care about her," Sherlock said. "Wouldn't the killers be afraid her husband had confided too much to her, the reasons they were after him? She was an unknown, wasn't she? A loose thread? So why didn't they kill her too? One murder, two murders, who cares?" She shrugged. "I guess it's possible, but my gut is singing another song."

  Savich hugged her to his side. "Maybe mine is, too. Or maybe your different song is from exhaustion and being too jazzed on caffeine."

  Erin said, "But what would her husband have confided? That he'd murdered Blauvelt? If he did, then why kill him? He was going down."