The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “Mrs. Patil,” he said.

  She was on her feet and lightly running across the living room to take his hand and draw him in. “Come, come, Agent Savich, I want you to meet Nandi’s best friend, Mr. Amal Urbi, and his nephew, Mr. Krishna Shama. This is Special Agent Savich of the FBI.”

  She stood back and beamed while Mr. Shama and Savich shook hands. Savich knew Krishna Shama was forty-eight, very successful in the car-repair business, having expanded to six shops in the past four years. He had three grown children, a dead wife, and, Ben Raven had told him, lived with a twenty-three-year-old woman who worked for the State Department. He looked sharp, Savich thought, well dressed and lean, a runner, probably, and his dark eyes would do a shark proud. Officer Horne had described him well, too, like an ad for a successful businessman.

  Officer Horne was also right about Mr. Amal Urbi, Savich thought. He looked older than Mr. Patil. He wanted to tell him not to rise, but Mr. Urbi got slowly to his feet and held out his hand to grasp Savich’s. Savich noticed his belt was indeed fastened high on his chest. He was a pleasant-looking old gent, a bit desiccated, but his dark eyes were bright with intelligence. There were a total of six gray hairs sticking up at odd angles atop his head. Savich knew he was long retired, that his family’s textile fortune went back several generations. He lived in one of the luxury condos in a complex he owned in Towson Corners. He’d known the Patils for a very long time, his friendship with Mr. Patil going back to childhood.

  Both men seemed to care very much about Mr. Patil.

  Once they were all seated, Jasmine Patil said, “I was telling our very good friends that Nandi was walking this morning. Can you believe that, Amal—Nandi was actually walking around! I heard several nurses cheering him on.”

  Who knew if Amal Urbi believed it or not, but still he nodded, adjusted his belt a bit higher, and looked pleased. Mr. Shama said in a smooth, deep voice, not a trace of an accent, “He is an amazing man, Jasmine. I remember thinking that when I was only six years old.” He began tapping his fingertips on his knee. “My dear, is it possible to have some coffee?”

  Mrs. Patil gave him a joyous smile, jumped to her feet, patted his face, grabbed a bright pink cell phone off an end table, punched one button, and said, “Eruska, please bring a carafe of coffee and your delicious rasgulla to the living room.”

  She beamed at all of them, fluttered her hands to great effect, Savich thought, watching Mr. Shama eyeing her like he would a particularly well-broiled hamburger. “Rasgulla,” she said to Savich, “are spongy cheese balls dipped in sugar syrup.”

  Not five minutes later, Savich accepted a cup of coffee, took a small sip and set it back on its saucer. It was thick, rich, dark as sin, and almost as good as his. He wished he’d asked for tea. He accepted a rasgulla, took a bite, complimented the cook. Too sweet for his taste, but there was an after-zing that was pleasing. “Mrs. Patil, when is Mr. Patil expected to come home?”

  “Call me Jasmine, please, Agent Savich. Ah, the doctor tells me perhaps next Tuesday, if he continues to gain strength. But the thing is, I don’t want him here. Mr. Urbi and Mr. Shama have convinced me he might be in danger at home, because why would he be robbed twice? Whoever tried to kill him might try again. He is safer in the hospital with that lovely young man sitting right outside his door, protecting him. You must catch whoever is out to kill my husband, Agent Savich. May I call you Dillon?”

  Savich smiled at her. “How did you know my first name, ma’am?”

  He saw the ma’am rankled, but her smile didn’t slip.

  “I asked Officer Horne—Dillon.”

  He nodded, and with apologies, asked where each of them was the night Mr. Patil was shot in the back. Nowhere near the Shop ’n Go, they each said, and offered witnesses.

  Savich asked them about the first robbery attempt. Nowhere near, each said, and produced more alibis.

  Savich backed off. Mr. Shama was looking at Savich like he’d like to shoot him. As for Mr. Urbi, he was smiling toward Jasmine Patil.

  Savich said, “Gentlemen, do you know of any reason why someone would want to murder Mr. Patil?”

  None of them knew who could possibly wish to harm a single hair on Nandi Patil’s precious gray head, except, Mr. Urbi insisted, some madman who, for whatever reason, had a grudge against Nandi.

  Savich needed to get them alone, but when? There was so much going on with Kirsten—he’d talk to Ben Raven about interviewing each of them. Savich rose, nodded to each of them. “Mr. Urbi, Mr. Shama, a pleasure to meet you gentlemen.”

  “I will show you out, Dillon.”

  She gave him that look again, a look that said she understood something very private about him, as a man. Yet she appeared to adore her old husband, and he was certainly besotted with her. Savich looked back at the two men, now speaking in low voices. Mr. Urbi looked up at that moment, met his eyes, and something moved in those dark eyes, something like understanding.

  At the front door, Jasmine Patil rubbed her hand over his arm and moved closer. “It’s truly a pity for my granddaughter, Cynthia, that you are married, Dillon.”

  He nodded. “Actually, ma’am, I don’t consider it a pity at all. My wife is very special. I will speak to you again, Mrs. Patil,” he said, and left her very nice house in Fairfax, not looking back, because he knew she was standing in the open doorway, staring after him. One of these three had better answers for him, he was sure of it.

  He called Ben Raven, got his voice mail, and left him a message.

  Right now he had to focus on getting Ms. Kelly Spicer, veteran waitress at the Texas Range Bar & Grill in Baltimore, down for a field trip to the Hoover Building for an interview.

  CHAPTER 38

  Hoover Building

  Wednesday, lunch

  Kelly Spicer, longtime waitress at the Texas Range Bar & Grill in Baltimore and wife of the owner, Jonah Spicer, wasn’t a perky twenty-two-year-old. She was flamboyant and fifty with a huge smile she liked to flash at her customers whenever she claimed she was “straight off the Texas range.” It was a little fib, she told them, but God wouldn’t care, now, would She? She laughed at her joke, shaking her big Texas hair, making the silver hoops dance in her ears, and drawing your eye to the awesome cleavage on display from three open buttons on her blouse.

  Savich, Lucy, and Coop sat with her in the seventh-floor cafeteria of the Hoover Building.

  Coop was very nearly vibrating, his eyes never leaving Kelly Spicer. He noticed her cleavage, sure—he was still breathing, after all—but he was so excited about her being here he wasn’t even thinking of eating his bowl of turkey chili. He was leaning toward her, wanting to pull the words out of her mouth.

  Lucy was as excited as Coop, and barely kept from dropping the beef taco off her tray.

  Savich slid the roasted vegetables off his shish kebab as he asked Kelly what she thought of her sushi.

  Lucy couldn’t bear the idea of raw fish, and kept her head down and chowed on her taco. Coop was fiddling with a spoon, his bowl of chili still untouched as he waited for her to take two bites of her sushi. He took that as a signal to begin. “We know the Baltimore Police Department already showed you the pictures, Ms. Spicer. Are you absolutely sure the woman you saw last night is Kirsten Bolger?”

  “Absolutely, Agent McKnight. By the way, I sure do like your name, like an Irish knight charging in on his horse. Odd duck, she was, that’s what I told Gator. He’s my husband; he went to Florida way back in the day. Football, football, that’s what his life’s about. Now that it’s football season, he switches on the huge TVs and we turn into a regular sports bar.”

  Lucy said, “If he’s from Florida, then why is it the Texas Range Bar and Grill? Why not something with Florida, like the Florida Swamp?”

  “Now, aren’t you the cleverest girl?” Kelly beamed her brilliant smile on Lucy. “I like that. The thing is, when Gator bought the place it was already named and famous for the Texas Espresso we serve. And we’ve still got Ivan th
e Bull for people to ride, so we gotta stay the Texas Range. Where was I? Oh, yes, last night—it was eight on the button when she waltzed in. She was alone at first, sat in a booth with a clear view of the bar and ordered fizzy mineral water. Then a guy came in and walked over to her, sat in the same booth, and they had their heads together, talking. I still wasn’t sure, you know? But then Linda came in—she’s a hairdresser from down the street, a really nice girl. She’s a regular, in three or four nights a week, to socialize, you know? And that’s when I really noticed her, because she was looking at Linda real close. Then she smiled, said something to the guy. She got up, ready to come over, I think, but Linda had to leave, had to get gas in her mama’s car, and she was out the door. She sat back down, and the two of them talked some more. I remember they left at nine o’clock or thereabouts.”

  Coop said, “Mrs. Spicer, we brought you all the way here to Washington because of all the people who thought they’ve seen Kirsten, you were the only one who saw her in the company of a man, and described him.”

  Coop pulled out photos of Kirsten and Bruce Comafield, slid them in front of Kelly Spicer. “Are you sure these are the people you saw?” She looked down, then up at them, and beamed. “Yep, that’s them, although, truth be told, I nearly didn’t recognize her at first, since her hair was bright red, short as can be, and spiked up all over her head. But I knew she had to be Ted Bundy’s daughter after the way she looked at Linda, knew it all the way to my stiletto heels. I can’t wait to see what Gator will have to say about this. He didn’t think you guys would take me seriously. He thought it was stupid to call you, but I didn’t listen to him—a good thing, since I usually do. A smart boy, my Gator.” She stuck a thick slice of raw tuna in her mouth, her smile never dimming as she chewed.

  Lucy felt her stomach churn.

  “You gonna come up and nail these two, right?”

  “Yes,” Savich said. “Tonight.”

  “Good. Imagine if Linda had settled in for a while. I’ll betcha Ted Bundy’s daughter would have been right over, buying her a drink.”

  When Ms. Spicer finished her sushi, she got her requested tour of the crime lab, charming every tech within distance of that huge smile of hers. Savich arranged to have her driven back to Baltimore. “Remember,” he told her as he shook her hand, “you don’t know any of us if you see us, all right? It’s best if no one else in the bar knows about us, either. We’ll let you know when to expect us.”

  “Zip my lips,” Kelly said.

  “Okay,” Coop said a few minutes later in the CAU conference room. “We’re got Kirsten’s look du jour—red blazer; black jeans and black boots; short, spiky red hair. Practically an advertisement. I surely hate to say this, though. If Bruce Comafield is with her, none of us can be in the bar tonight. He’ll recognize us, and that’ll blow the deal.”

  “And that could lead to people getting hurt if they lose it,” Lucy said. “That’s our bigger problem—taking them down in a public place without anyone getting hurt.”

  Savich said, “The plan will be for you and Coop to take her down before she ever goes through the bar door. I’m thinking Sherlock will set up at the bar, nursing a beer, in case she makes it inside.”

  Lucy said, “We gotta hope for Comafield, too. What a piece of work he must be, Dillon, if he’s not as insane as she is. Did you reach Lansford?”

  “He’s still in the air, but I was able to Skype him with the help of the flight crew. He was at first disbelieving, but once I convinced him on the phone, he nearly blew. He calmed down enough to say he’d believed Bruce hardly knew Kirsten. He admitted Bruce was gone many nights, and that was occasionally inconvenient, but he was smart and efficient, and so he let him get away with it. Bruce told him he had a sick mother and had to visit her whenever possible. Cancer, he said, terminal. I didn’t bother to tell him that Bruce Comafield’s mother is alive and well in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and owns two flower shops. I gave Mr. Lansford specific dates, the nights Kirsten murdered the five women. He said he’d have their employment records checked to see if Bruce was away on those nights.

  “The rest we pretty much knew already. Bruce had been with him for four years, first as his executive assistant, and when Mr. Lansford decided to go into politics, Bruce flashed his political science degree, gave him a couple of recommendations, went right along with him. He said Bruce wasn’t all that hot as a personal assistant, but he was an excellent aide, which is why he fired him when his political future tanked. Then he remembered it was Bruce who suggested he get Kirsten a black Porsche for her birthday, and that made him even madder. I was feeling a bit sorry for him. This was a big blow, after all. Then he lit into the FBI again. He’d been royally used and betrayed by Director Mueller leaking everything to the press.”

  “Did you hang up on him?”

  “Tempted, but no. I’m convinced he had no clue about Bruce’s relationship with Kirsten. Maybe he can still help us.” Savich looked over at Lucy. She looked distracted, thinking about something else entirely, as she had at times last night. Of course, her grandfather, the ring. She’d been through a lot, and he knew she would work it out in her own way. The question was, could they count on her being all there tonight?

  “Are you sure you’re up for this trip to Baltimore with us tonight?”

  “Of course I am. I’m revved about it.”

  “Lucy, I believe you told Coop he didn’t want to be around you. What did you mean?”

  Savich imagined Lucy would take a strip off Coop when she was alone with him again. She looked past his left shoulder at Coop, fidgeted, finally said, “I, well, I told him I had stuff to do, Dillon, and I didn’t need him hovering over me.” Her chin went up, and she pushed a hank of hair back into her French braid. “I don’t need or want anyone hovering over me, not Coop, not anybody.”

  She knew she looked miserable, knew she felt even more miserable. She was a liar—Coop knew it, Dillon knew it, probably the whole unit knew it. Would she never be able to tell anyone about the ring?

  She said, “I’m fine. I can’t wait to nail Kirsten and Bruce Comafield.”

  “Lucy, would you consider letting Dr. Hicks hypnotize you again? Maybe there’s more you can find out about your grandfather that might help put this to rest.”

  She gave him a look. “Nice thought, Dillon, but I don’t think so.”

  “Not really,” Savich said. “Pretty lame, actually,” and he stood, said over his shoulder, “We’ll all meet in front of the Texas Range at six o’clock this evening, and get ourselves in place. We’ll have plenty of backup, not to worry.”

  “You going to call the Baltimore Field Office in?”

  “Not this time. We don’t want to alert them by having too many agents hanging around, looking like they’re pretending to be bored.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Raven Street, Baltimore

  The Texas Range Bar & Grill

  Wednesday night

  Over the wire, Sherlock wore a soft blue tunic with tight black jeans and black heels. She’d pulled her hair behind her ears, fastened with two gold clips. From her ears dangled gold hoops. There was no wedding ring on her finger.

  She thought the wire was a waste of time. What were the odds Kirsten would get past Dillon and even make it inside? And even if she did, the other agents in the bar had eyes on her. As usual, Dillon had insisted, wanting to cover all the bases, anticipating every possible screwup.

  She sipped the heavy dark Texas home brew, the specialty of the house called Texas Espresso, and tried to look depressed for the benefit of the four other agents she knew were watching her performance. She hadn’t wanted to miss Lucy and Coop taking Kirsten Bolger and Bruce Comafield down outside the bar, but someone had to be in here, growing mold along with the home brew, just in case.

  She hoped Ruth, Dane, Jack, and Ollie, scattered around the bar, were at least enjoying their drinks.

  Stop your whining and look depressed. She’d nodded only once to Mrs. Spicer, saw she was l
it up bright as a Christmas Santa. She was relieved Kirsten wouldn’t ever get into the bar with Mrs. Spicer; she’d take one gander and know something was up. Sherlock studied the bartender, a thin-as-a-stick young woman with a chipped front tooth, who talked nonstop while she delivered drink orders to three waitresses and never got them wrong or spilled a drop.

  She didn’t appear to know who Sherlock really was, and that was a good thing, what with Mrs. Spicer looking fit to burst into song.

  Mr. Gator Spicer hadn’t shown himself yet, and that was also a good thing, since they didn’t need a duet. They’d cautioned Mrs. Spicer to simply go about her business and not to pay any attention to Sherlock or the other FBI agents, assured her they would stop Kirsten before she ever got into the bar. She was trying, but they all knew she wouldn’t manage to be discreet.

  “You’ve never been in here before,” the bartender said when there was a lull.

  “Nope, first time.” Sherlock looked at the faded name tag over the bartender’s left breast—Trisha. Nope, Trisha didn’t have a clue, thankfully. “I was out trying to walk off my mad at my jerk of an ex-boyfriend who stole my beautiful light blue Corvette. It was mine, and it was gorgeous, sexier than Brett Favre’s butt in his Wranglers. I saw your sign and decided it was time for a beer. Or two. Wow, this Texas Espresso has hairy knuckles.”

  Trisha poured three more Texas Espressos, lightly shoved the big, thick beer glasses toward a waitress, who scooped them up onto her tray with no wasted motion. Trisha said to Sherlock, “This is a good place for beer, and that’s a bummer for a bartender who lives off tips. I can make a mean martini, and there’s not much call for martinis here. Nope, folk come here to gulp down beers by the dozen, listen to country/western music, and munch on peanuts that have enough salt in them to make you thirsty again. Later on, when they’ve had one too many, they try riding that mechanical bull—his name’s Ivan—and I’ll tell you, old Ivan’s knocked many an urban cowboy on his behind.”