"The someone who killed him was afraid Caskie would talk, that's why," Sherlock said.
Savich turned to scan the Royal house, the early morning light bathing it in a soft pink glow. If it weren't for all the cops standing around, it would look idyllic.
After agreeing to some sleep before meeting at the police station, Bowie held open the passenger side door and waited silently for Erin to slide in. She didn't want to, but finally, she did. She buckled her seat belt and looked over at him. He was staring straight ahead.
"After all that's happened, you should be over your snit by now, Bowie."
"Oh, no," he said as he drove the Taurus away from the Royal house. He gave her a quick look, his face hard. "I really can't believe you, Erin. You break the law, betray all of us who trusted you, and to top it off, you put my daughter in danger."
She didn't look at him. "I've already apologized ad nauseam. What else do you want from me? And I didn't put Georgie in danger."
His hands tightened around the steering wheel. In that moment, she realized what was really wrong-he was scared.
She laid her hand over his. "Thank you for staying at my apartment. I feel completely safe now because of you."
He still didn't look at her. "I don't want my daughter in any danger."
She grinned at him, lightly smacked his arm. "I don't believe I've told you I think you're the best cop I've ever met."
The breath whooshed out of him, even as he was shaking his head. "Yeah, sure, isn't that the truth. Another dead body right under my nose. Yeah, there's no doubt, I'm the greatest."
"Stop beating yourself up, it really pisses me off. I'm sorry, Bowie. Please, believe me. Just please don't be angry with me any longer. I can't stand it. And really, having you sleeping at my apartment, it means a lot to me."
He was stone silent for two blocks, then he said in an emotionless voice, "My wife, Bethany, drove into a bridge abutment. They told me she died instantly. She was drunk. Another driver saw the whole thing. He said her car was weaving in and out of her lane, and she just kept accelerating as she neared the bridge. He said she was doing at least seventy when she drove into the abutment. She was an alcoholic. This happened right after Georgie's third birthday."
Erin remembered her brief marriage, remembered how she'd felt lower than a slug since she'd been lied to, her heart stomped. But this? She couldn't begin to imagine such a thing. "I'm very sorry."
"It happened four years ago. All of it's faded now, for which I'm profoundly grateful. Georgie missed her mother for a little while, but then her nanny Glynn came. It was Glynn who told Georgie I loved her mother so much that I'd never marry again." He looked over at her, his dark eyes shadowed. "Glynn called me. She's feeling better every day. She wants to know when I need her back."
Erin said, "No time soon."
44
STONE BRIDGE POLICE STATION
Late Friday morning
Four hours of sleep did wonders for the brain, Bowie decided as he sat down at the conference table in the police station. He felt alert and focused. Erin didn't look bad either, what with a couple of aspirin on board to keep the throbbing down in her back. She'd refused Vicodin, said she wanted to be able to face the two Schiffer Hartwin directors with a clear head. He knew no one was going to like the fact Erin was here-this was an official meeting, after all-but she'd looked at him and said simply, "I've got to come, Bowie. Surely you see I've got to come."
He'd said nothing more, simply touched his fingers to her cheek, then nodded. Where'd she get all this grit, this bravery, in the face of all the bad stuff raining down on her? She'd even managed to keep Georgie in the dark, hard to do at any time, but she had, laughing with her, helping her dress, brushing her hair and French braiding it, something he did well himself. At least he'd put out the Grape-Nuts and made toast, with apricot jam, Georgie's favorite. They'd taken Georgie to school together, hugging her, telling her to have a nice day, and bless her heart, she'd been oblivious to her early morning car ride to a murder scene. They'd come back to Erin's apartment, Georgie never stirring.
It was eleven o'clock Friday morning before the four of them congregated in the conference room to await the arrival of Adler Dieffendorf and Werner Gerlach. Sherlock looked over at Dillon, wondering how he could look so well rested when he'd slept for only an hour after they'd gotten back to their B&B room with its Psycho posters. She'd awakened to hear his beautiful baritone in the shower, recounting the story of a cowboy named Ben who'd lost his horse to a bordello madam.
Bowie's cell played a very nice rendition of "Silver Bells." Bowie felt around in his pants pockets, then his jacket pockets, frowned, tried to track the sound as the song segued into the chorus.
Erin said, "It's under your briefcase."
He pulled it out, stared down at the ID screen, and looked harried. He looked like he was going to ignore it, then realized he couldn't. They heard him say before he turned away, "Dad? Listen, I've got to get back to you. I'm pretty tied up here-"
His dad? Erin watched Bowie's face as he listened. At first he looked utterly blank, then he started shaking his head back and forth, back and forth. Finally, he said, "This is incredible. I'll get there when I can, Dad."
He flipped off his cell, dropped it in the small tray that held pens in the middle of the table, blankly watched it settle in among the three Sharpies, and finally looked at them like he'd been kicked in the head.
Erin was at his side in an instant, her hand on his arm. "What's wrong, Bowie?"
"That was my dad. Alex Valenti-the vice president-he's in the hospital, just went into surgery. Dad doesn't know if he's going to make it."
Erin said, "What? The vice president? As in the United States? What happened? Why is your dad calling you?"
"I've known the Valentis since I was born. No blood relation, but he and my dad have been best friends from grade school. He's been 'Uncle Alex' forever. His son and daughter, they're like my cousins."
Savich said, "None of us has been listening to the news. What happened?"
They heard a shout and ran from Chief Amos's conference room to join the half-dozen cops on their feet in the bullpen, staring at a small TV screen. One of them turned up the volume.
A newscaster stood twenty yards or so from a black Mercedes sedan. The camera zoomed in to show the entire front of the car smashed against a huge oak tree, the impact so powerful the car had accordioned. He held a microphone to his mouth even as he turned his head toward the mangled car.-Vice President Valenti was driving to his daughter's house in Jessup, Maryland, some eighteen miles north of where I'm standing, to attend a birthday party for his six-year-old granddaughter, Patty. The police aren't yet certain how this happened, only that it appears the vice president lost control of his car and hit a tree head-on. The EMTs left with the vice president minutes ago.
They switched to footage of an ambulance driving away, siren wailing. The camera panned back to the crushed car once again, then broke to a woman newscaster standing in front of Washington Memorial Hospital. She said, in a subdued voice that just barely managed to contain her excitement, A hospital spokesman has announced that Vice President Valenti is in surgery. There has been no word from his doctors as to the extent of his injuries. His family and friends have been gathering inside to hold a vigil. President and Mrs. Holley, we are told, will remain at the White House, awaiting word. No one in the family has been available for comment. Wait! Here is Senator Carl Blevins from Florida. Senator Blevins, can you tell us anything about the vice president's accident, or his condition?
They watched the elderly senator pause to allow the newswoman to stride up to him, and looked into the camera. All I know is there's been a terrible accident. I'm joining his family, all of us will be praying for Vice President Valenti's full recovery. And he walked toward the hospital without looking back. Senator, sources
are telling us this wasn't necessarily an accident. Do you know what happened? Do you think he will die?
The cops cheered when the Secret Service barred the hospital doors to keep the newswoman and the cameras out.
The coverage returned to the newsroom where four talking heads were already gathered, looking sad and shocked, but not sad enough to keep them all from talking. It only took them a minute to speculate about who President Holley would pick as his vice president if Alex Valenti died.
Bowie stood there shaking his head, looking shell-shocked, unable to take it in. He took a cup of water from Savich as they went back into the conference room, stood silent as he drank it down. "I can't believe this is happening. Georgie and I were visiting my folks in Chevy Chase two weekends ago and we had dinner with Uncle Alex and Aunt Elyssa. His son and daughter, and their spouses and their four kids, all of us were there. One of the kids wanted me to tell them an FBI story and so I told them about a bank robber we caught in L.A. a couple of years ago who was using some stolen bills to light his stove. When he was questioned about this at his arraignment, he told the judge they were only twenties.
"Uncle Alex really liked that story, laughed his head off. Listen, this is a guy who takes care of himself. Sure, who wouldn't be stressed, with the job he has, but I was surprised how upbeat he was, joking about how he'd nearly made an eagle on hole fifteen, just a bad roll that made it end up a bogie." He looked around at them, not really seeing them. "No, this can't be right. The thing is, Uncle Alex is an excellent driver. He's always loved cars, used to be his own mechanic until he became vice president and didn't have the time. He taught his kids how to drive, pounded safety into them. He even kidded my dad that he should teach me how to drive since my dad had had three fender benders in that many years. No, this just can't be right."
Savich's cell pounded out Michael Jackson's "Thriller." He frowned when he saw who was calling, turned and walked out of the conference room into the police station hallway, empty except for a single teenage boy who was sitting on a wooden bench scratching his head, his mother standing over him, her arms crossed over her chest, looking pissed.
"Savich. What's up, sir?"
Five minutes later, Savich returned. "That was Mr. Maitland." He paused a moment, frowning down at his thumbnail. "Vice President Valenti is still alive. He's been in surgery for about two hours now. The doctors have told the family that besides several broken bones, he has critical internal injuries. I'm sorry, Bowie,
Mr. Maitland said they've stopped the bleeding, and he might make it, but it doesn't look good. Everyone agrees it's a miracle he survived the crash at all.
"He was doing at least eighty miles an hour, maybe faster, before his car hit the tree head-on. He was driving on a two-lane country road, no cars in front of him and no cars behind him except for the Secret Service. There were no skid marks, no sign at all that he ever tried to turn or swerve to avoid the collision. Mr. Maitland said it's as if he aimed the car right at the oak. The tree was some eight feet off the road on fairly level ground.
"The vice president had been in a meeting with his staff, left them to drive to the birthday party in Jessup." He looked at Sherlock. "Turns out he and Senator David Hoffman are longtime friends, and both are car freaks. The vice president had arranged to borrow Senator Hoffman's new high-end Mercedes Brabus, the E V12 Biturbo, to drive to Jessup to his granddaughter's birthday party. He wanted to see if all the hoopla was true, that's what Senator Hoffman told Mr. Maitland. Senator Hoffman said his last words to Vice President Valenti were 'Don't wreck my baby.'"
Erin said into the silence, "I'll bet the vice president was on a back road because he wanted to play. It was early in the morning, no one would be out driving around, so he could let her rip."
Savich nodded. "Mr. Maitland said Valenti's Secret Service agents were maybe twenty yards behind the Mercedes, trying to keep up. The agents say they heard a metallic popping sound, and a crash. They came around a bend in the road and saw the Mercedes smashed against the oak tree, smoke billowing out of it. They got the vice president out of the car real fast because they were afraid it would catch fire and explode.
"That wasn't reported and probably won't be unless questions are raised about why the Secret Service was so far behind while the vice president was nearly getting himself killed."
Bowie said, "Did they see anything else, like another car nearby? Anything suspicious?"
Savich said, "No. The car is being taken apart and examined thoroughly. Mr. Maitland said it's a hell of a mess. He wants me back in Washington as soon as possible."
Bowie said, "Georgie and I will go down, hopefully this weekend, but that's for personal reasons. Why you?"
Savich said, "Thing is, since Senator Hoffman is involved, Mr. Maitland believes I should come back. There's what you'd call a problem here, and I'm already involved in it."
Erin forgot about her throbbing back and stared hard at Savich. She said slowly, thinking her way, "Dillon, are you saying that case of arsenic poison at the restaurant in Washington is related to the vice president's accident?"
Sherlock said without fuss, always a smooth liar, one of the skills Savich most admired in her, "Not a clue, but Dillon has to go check it out since Senator Hoffman's already asked for him personally once. Bowie, we're really sorry about Vice President Valenti. It will be all right that Dillon's in Washington for a couple of days. I'll keep digging here."
Bowie's cell phone started up "Silver Bells" again. He looked wildly around for his cell. Erin dug into the tray and handed it to him.
When he punched off, he said, "That was Agent Kesselring. He's on his way. The two directors from Schiffer Hartwin aren't far behind him." He shook his head. "I almost forgot about them. Savich, Sherlock, you guys with me on this?"
"Oh, yes," Sherlock said. Savich smiled and nodded.
Bowie turned at the light knock on the conference room door, then watched Andreas Kesselring stride in.
45
Andreas Kesselring, looking polished as usual in a gorgeous pale gray suit, a pristine white shirt, and a subdued skinny-striped gray and black tie, stood a moment in the doorway of the conference room until all their attention was on him. He said to Bowie, his voice low to show the depths of his displeasure, "Why did you not call me? I had to find out about Mr. Royal's murder from three waitresses talking to each other when they brought my breakfast in the hotel dining room."
Three waitresses brought him his breakfast? Sherlock thought it was odd that he lowered his voice when he was truly angry. He sounded so finely controlled, though his anger was so hot it nearly glowed. "I called Agent Painter, the FBI agent you assigned to me, but he was unavailable. His cell phone didn't appear to be turned on."
Sherlock gave Kesselring her sunny smile. "Good morning, Agent Kesselring. To be perfectly honest here-and that is always my motto-no one thought about it. So much has happened in such a short time, you see, and since all of us were about to fall over from exhaustion, we had to get just a bit of sleep, not that much for any of us, only a couple of hours. But you are here now." She looked down at her watch. "I hope the directors will arrive soon."
Kesselring said, "They will be here any moment. I was told their driver is escorting them, but they decided not to bring Mr. Bender and Mr. Toms. They are hoping for a more personal conversation, perhaps for some rapport and understanding with you.
"Both Herr Doktor Dieffendorf and Herr Gerlach are very upset about Mr. Royal's murder. We are all anxious to learn the details, since none of you chose to call me."
Kesselring strode to the conference room table and slapped both palms down right in front of Bowie. "I request that you tell me right now what has happened. The directors are reasonable men, but they fully expect me, an agent of the BND sent here to help, to know something useful. If I am to contribute to this case, I cannot be purposefully kept in the dark. I
do not intend to fail in my assignment here. My career in the BND is very important to me."
Bowie put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He smiled up at Kesselring.
"Well?"
"I'm thinking," Bowie said.
Kesselring cursed-at least Sherlock thought he was cursing since it was in German. Then he threw his hands up. "On top of that, I heard your vice president crashed his Mercedes into a tree and will probably die. Everything is falling apart, and here you are, Agent Richards, sitting here, thinking!"
Bowie said, "Okay, thinking time is over. Here's what happened." He told Kesselring about the alarm being turned off at the Royal house, about how Mrs. Royal had awakened, heard the single shot that killed her husband. He left out Savich and Sherlock's part and a bit more as well. No reason for Kesselring to know every little single detail. ". . . Since Mr. Royal's murder is all part of this case, the FBI will be in charge, not the local police department."
"This is very distressing," Kesselring said after a moment of silence. He turned to Erin. He didn't look happy. "Why are you here?"
"Surely you remember that someone blew up my Hummer yesterday, Agent Kesselring. The FBI wants to keep an eye on me."
The door opened and Dr. Adler Dieffendorf marched in, looking for all the world like a king on the hunt for his throne. He said without preamble, "Agent Kesselring, are these the FBI agents who are supposed to capture poor Helmut's murderer and explain Caskie Royal's death?"
"Yes," Kesselring said in an emotionless voice, "they are."
46
The great man paid Kesselring no more attention and immediately strode forward, his hand extended. "Ladies, gentlemen, I am Adler Dieffendorf, managing director of Schiffer Hartwin Pharmaceutical. This is my director of sales and marketing, Werner Gerlach."
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 121
