The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw the McGruders, her grandmother’s longtime housekeeper and groundskeeper. They were both looking like devout missionaries, stout and somber, dressed in stiff, formal black, Mrs. McGruder’s plain black hat pushing down her over-permed gray hair. Lucy nodded to them, tried to smile, but she was so cold she was afraid her teeth were going to start chattering, and that would be humiliating. Particularly since she had to walk about fifteen feet up to the small auditorium stage, look out over the hundred-plus people, and give her eulogy. Eulogy, she thought, from the Greek eulogia, which meant to speak well of, she remembered her father telling her before the memorial of one of his professors at Princeton.

  At least there hadn’t been a question about where to have his memorial service. Her father was an active member of the Blue Ridge Society for his entire adult life, a well-established group of like-minded people who wanted to preserve one of the nation’s natural wonders.

  Hold it together. She was surprised when Coop slid in beside her and closed his hand over hers. His flesh was wonderfully warm. He must have felt how cold she was, because he took both her hands in his and rubbed them until at last she got the signal from the minister. She rose and walked slowly to the lectern at the center of the stage. One of her father’s bank managers and close friends had finished speaking. Mr. Lambert was a short man, which meant she had to raise the mike, and the simple act of twisting the mike upward made her brain blank out. She could see some of her friends, mostly lawyers she’d met through her roommates in college, and wasn’t that strange? They were all here for her just as they’d all been at the hospital, and they’d called her constantly, as if they were on a schedule, until she’d asked them not to call so often, to give her some time on her own. She met the eyes of Mr. Bernard Claymore, the family’s lawyer, for many years, not all that much younger than her grandmother. He was bent low, his old face weathered from spending so much of his life out-of-doors. Her father had said Bernie had all his wits and he was hard not to like even though he was a lawyer. That was good enough for Lucy, and so Mr. Claymore was dealing with her father’s estate as well. She could see tears spilling out of his eyes and trailing down his seamed face from the lectern. It nearly broke her.

  She was frozen to the spot, panic rising in her throat. She stood there, trying to center herself, and looked out again over the sea of faces, most familiar, some not. So many people, she thought, their lives intertwined with her father’s, and how were each of them feeling about his sudden unexpected death? She saw shock and sadness and blankness and imagined all these expressions were on her own face as well. She met her Uncle Alan’s dark eyes and remembered his telling her how he’d once fed her some strained peaches and she’d thrown up on him. And with that memory, Lucy realized she wasn’t cold any longer. She said fully into the mike, “Thank you for coming to honor my father’s life.

  “My mother, Claudine, died when I was very young. I remember my father trying to explain to me that she wasn’t coming home, and I remember he was crying but trying not to. I didn’t understand and kept asking for her. Dad would always say my mom was in heaven and that God didn’t want to let her go; she brought too much happiness and joy to those around her. And then he’d say, ‘Do you know, Lucy, I bet your mom is making everyone in heaven laugh their heads off. If I were God, I wouldn’t let her go, either.’

  “I think God feels the same way about Dad. All of you know how he could make you laugh, even if you were in a big funk. He could throw out one-liners so fast it was hard sometimes to keep up with him. It was impossible not to wear a perpetual smile around my father, even when I was a teenager and my world was otherwise filled with angst.

  “Another thing about my dad—I always knew he was in my corner. No one messed with me, ever, teenage boys in particular.

  “When I told him I’d changed my mind and I didn’t want to become a lawyer, that what I really wanted to do with my life was become part of the best cop shop in the world—the FBI—I’ll never forget the look on his face. Surprise, and then tears filled his eyes. I asked him what was wrong, and he smiled at me and hugged me and said it must be fate. When I asked him what he meant, he told me my mother had applied to the FBI only a few weeks before her death. Then he laughed, said he would have to readjust his long-term plans since it didn’t look like he would have a lawyer daughter to support him in his old age. In the FBI I’d do a whole lot more good than most lawyers ever do, but I wouldn’t get paid much for it.”

  Lucy paused to let the burst of laughter wash over her. It was as if the entire audience sitting in front of her had drawn a collective breath, and let in some memories of their own.

  “My dad loved his snifter of Hennessy Ellipse cognac every evening. He’d sit in his favorite chair, his head against the chair back, his eyes closed, and I’d know he was thinking about my mother. I know my mother and father are together now, and that all heaven laughs.

  “My dad was the best of fathers. I will miss him forever.”

  When she relinquished the mike to her Uncle Alan and smelled his familiar bay-rum scent when he hugged her, she realized some of her deadening pain was gone. She felt warm again.

  Alan Silverman didn’t speak until Lucy was once again seated beside Coop. Alan smiled at her as he said in his deep, booming voice, “I am a lawyer, and Josh often told me the same thing.”

  And there was more laughter.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hoover Building

  Tuesday morning

  “Please, Dillon, I can do my job. I want to work; I need to work.”

  Savich looked beyond Agent Lucy Carlyle’s pale, composed face, beyond the misery sheening the air around her, to the fierce determination in her eyes. They were a darker blue than Sherlock’s, the color of the Caribbean under a cloudy sky. She looked as neat and puttogether as she always did, her chestnut hair, many different shades after the hot sun of summer, plaited neatly in a thick French braid, and her signature small silver hoops hanging from her ears. Her skin was so pale—was it whiter than usual? Grief, he knew, could leach the color out of you. She was wearing black boots and a white blouse and a black pants suit that looked to be a size too large for her. How much weight had she lost in five days?

  He said, “What are you going to do with your dad’s house, Lucy?”

  Why did he care? “I’m going to sell it. I’ve decided to sell my condo, too.” She drew a deep breath, spit it out. “I’m going to move into my grandmother’s house.”

  This surprised him. Savich had heard about Helen Silverman Carlyle’s huge mansion in Chevy Chase, Maryland, one of those fine old houses built at about the turn of the twentieth century, a barn of a place and a bear to heat, he imagined, in the Maryland winters. She’d been quite the philanthropist, a friend, in fact, of his own very famous grandmother, Sarah Elliott.

  “Your grandmother died a while ago, didn’t she?”

  “Three years. My dad kept Mr. and Mrs. McGruder on to take care of the house and grounds after she died. They live in town, and checked in with my dad several times a month.” She swallowed, looked down at her boots, frowned because she saw some mud on the toe, then looked up at him again.

  “Why are you moving into her house, Lucy?”

  Why does he want to know all this stuff ? He can get the truth out of a stalk of asparagus, so keep it simple. “I don’t know, it’s just something that feels right.”

  A black eyebrow shot up. “It feels right to you?”

  Idiot. He can spot a lie even before it’s out of your mouth. He was simply curious, but now you’ve got him focused on it.

  She found a smile. “You’re my boss, Dillon, but I know I can keep some things private; it’s in my job description.”

  He smiled back at her. “Point taken. Are you going to need some help moving?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll take it slow and easy, move a bit at a time. Please, let me work while I’m doing it.”

  “Tell you what, why don�
��t you work the Black Beret case with Coop in the mornings and take the afternoons off to get yourself moved. It’s a big house, Lucy. Are you sure you want to rattle around in it alone?”

  “I grew up in that house. I love it.”

  He frowned.

  “What are you thinking, Dillon?”

  “What? Oh, someone walked on my grave. I had this strange feeling someone else was outside Mr. Patil’s Shop ’n Go when the cops started arriving, but that’s impossible, the cops would have seen anyone out there.

  “Now, Lucy, you promise me you’ll holler loud if you need help? With anything?”

  Savich watched her walk slowly from his office, after less resistance than he’d expected. It seemed she’d have agreed to anything just to get out of there. There was something going on with Lucy, and he’d bet some fresh grilled corn on the cob it was more than her grief for her father. No, this was something else, and it was connected, somehow, to her grandmother’s house. Too bad his gut wasn’t telling him any more than that. He’d have to keep a close eye on her.

  Savich rose and walked to his one big window. It was a cool day, with lots of sun, and there were a good dozen people already eating an early lunch in the park across the street. He felt it again, someone walking on his grave, and he let his mind float back to that night, trying to focus on something or someone who didn’t belong beyond that huge glass window at the Shop ’n Go just as the police arrived, but it was growing fainter in his mind.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was a glass half full, Lucy thought, but working a half day was better than nothing. She got out of Dillon’s office as fast as she could. He always saw too much. She cleaned up some paperwork, humming to herself to keep focused, because her brain kept splintering off to her father, laughing or smiling, or to his face slack in death, and tears would clog her throat. An hour later, on her way out, Coop called her over. “I got a call from the Cleveland PD. A bartender notified the police department last night, said our guy came in the bar about nine o’clock, looked around, then left real fast when he saw the bartender looking hard at him. He said he ran outside and looked around for the guy, but he didn’t see him. Then he called the police.”

  “So he’s aware everyone’s on the lookout for him.”

  Coop nodded.

  “Same description?”

  “He didn’t even change his black socks.”

  “Do you think he will now?”

  “He got a scare last night. I’m thinking he’s gonna have to get out of Dodge, head to another big city, maybe Philadelphia or New York, and change his routine and color scheme.

  “Hey, why don’t I buy you some lunch—there’s that new Moroccan restaurant over on Crowley. My friend at State says the couscous is pretty good.”

  She eyed him. He wasn’t acting like a conceited jerk. In fact, she didn’t ever recall his being anything but nice to her, and she realized she appreciated it. She didn’t have to jump on his busy fishing line if he threw it her way. She started to say no, and then her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember. Coop grinned. “Yep, it’s that time. You got something heavier than that wimpy jacket? It’s pretty chilly out there.”

  They stopped by Lucy’s black Range Rover in the Hoover garage, and she shrugged into her leather jacket she kept in the backseat. She paused for a moment, eyeing the jacket. “I wonder if the cleaners can get blood out of leather?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Me? Nothing. I was thinking about Dillon’s leather jacket, the one he put over the head of that woman robber at the Shop ’n Go.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to ask him. How’d you come by that Range Rover?”

  “My dad gave it to me when I graduated. He said an FBI agent couldn’t have too much muscle, car included.” Coop led her to his blue Corvette with its black-leather interior that smelled like a million bucks.

  Lucy ran her fingers over the shining hood. “This is a very sexy car.” Not that I’m surprised; a cool car would be a must to maintain your rep.

  He lightly tapped his hand on the top of the car. “I had to put the top back on two weeks ago for the winter. In the summer, though, cruising around as a convertible, she’s something else. The color is called jet stream blue.”

  “Not a girlie blue, yet not so dark it’s nearly black. It’s nice. The metallic finish gives it a kick. Jet stream blue? Neat name. Yep, very sexy, Coop.” She couldn’t help it, she smiled at him. Was she nuts?

  “That’s what my mother said. She presented her to me on my last birthday.”

  A laugh spurted out. His mother gave him this car? What kind of line was this? “Your baby is a her?” Well, why was she surprised?

  “Her name is Gloria. The day after I got her, she was sitting here in my slot, singing out her name to me.”

  “And you’re saying your mom gave Gloria to you?”

  He nodded. “She said I was getting too staid, too set in my ways, and here I was thirty-one years old, and she wanted some grandkids. When I told her she already had eight rugrats from my prolific siblings, and that I was only on the very first day of my thirty-first year, she said that wasn’t the point. When I asked her what the point was, she smacked me, told me the point was I was to go cruising around D.C., looking hot, and getting myself some action. The salesman, she assured me, said the Corvette Grand Sport was just the ticket. She’s got high hopes for Gloria.”

  Lucy eyed him. He sounded legitimate—self-deprecating, charming, really, not like the playboy of the Western world at all. She ran her hand over the hood. “Given Gloria’s cost, your mom must really want a grandkid from you.” Then she reached out and stroked his ego, to see what he’d do. “And, Coop, you already are hot. Everybody in the unit knows that.”

  He opened his mouth, stared at her, then shook his head. “You’ve been listening to people you shouldn’t, haven’t you? There’s nothing to it, just some of the guys pulling my chain. No, wait, it’s Shirley, isn’t it?”

  “Come on, don’t try to pretend you’re some sort of hopeless nerd.”

  “I know it’s Shirley. I heard her tell Ruth I had to add pages to my black book, it was so crammed. Then she was going on about Annette in the forensics lab and Glenis in personnel. They’re friends of mine, that’s all, just friends.”

  Lucy said, “Yeah, right, you’re no philanderer, you’ve just got lots and lots of ‘friends’ who happen to be female.”

  “Shirley was looking over my shoulder when I was thumbing through my address book to find a sheriff’s number in North Dakota. As for—well, both Annette and Glenis? They really are friends, nothing more.”

  Lucy laughed at him. It felt good, but it died quickly enough, and she swallowed and looked away. Her cell rang. It was one of her friends, Barb Dickens. Lucy knew if she answered it, she’d start crying at Barb’s sweet concerned voice. She let it go to voice mail.

  He said nothing more and helped her into the Corvette. Then, whistling, he walked around to the driver’s side. He thought there was a bit of color in her thin face, at least until she felt guilt about laughing. Coop hoped she liked couscous.

  CHAPTER 8

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  The Carlyle Estate on Breckenridge Road

  Tuesday

  No time for another load; it would be dark in an hour. Lucy hefted the last cardboard box she’d brought over, this one filled with shoes and workout clothes, closed the door of her Range Rover with her hip, wondering idly if she should name him—or her? She didn’t think so. Gloria? She was smiling as she walked up the elaborate flagstone pathway, lined with flowers that were fast closing down for the winter. Huge maples and oaks filled the front yard, and their colors were amazing, all oranges and reds and bright browns, happily tossing their leaves to the ground. Why hadn’t Mr. McGruder cleaned up the leaves? She’d have to ask. Odd, she couldn’t remember either of the McGruders’ first names. They’d been a constant in her life until she’d left for colleg
e. Silent, for the most part—grimlooking, really, she’d always thought. Very proper, giving her a look whenever they believed she’d smart-mouthed her father or come in later than they’d thought proper from a date or made too much noise when her friends were over.

  Lucy paused for a moment before climbing the six wide wooden steps up to the huge wraparound porch that encircled the entire house. Pots of flowers were scattered haphazardly along it, the plants beginning to lose hope now that winter was close. Hanging pots of ferns and ivy streamed down from the overhead porch beams. All this work to maintain a house that no one lives in? “Yes,” her father had said, and laughed. “You never know.” He’d been right.

  Lucy loved that you could sit out on a spring day and watch the rain come down on all the beautiful flowers surrounding the house. It was only mid-October, still time for some more warm days, she hoped.

  She realized she’d missed this house, missed the feel of it, the warmth of its memories, even though it was at least ten thousand square feet and the heating bills to keep it warm had to approach the national budget of some small countries. She’d lived here since her mom had died because, her dad told her, he’d needed help to raise her, and who better to help than her grandparents?

  She’d lived here until she’d left for college at eighteen, and that was when her father had bought his own house and left as well.

  She was twenty-seven years old, and here she was, moving back to the home of her childhood.

  The main rooms were huge, with beautiful crown moldings and coffered ceilings, filled with Low Country antiques. The large Persian carpets sported lustrous blues and reds and yellows despite their age, or maybe because of their age. Everything felt settled and old and comforting.

  All except the kitchen. It was brand-new, remodeled six years before by her grandmother, and so modern it was a shock walking into the room. There was a large island in the center, a breakfast section that could seat eight people, and enough sparkling high-tech appliances for a French restaurant. The walls and cabinets were painted a soft light yellow, the floors umber Italian tiles, and the tall ceiling was barreled, the beams a light ash.