Double Take ft-11

by Catherine Coulter

  “What do you mean? You wanted him to come after you?”

  “Oh yeah. This sweet little Audi A4 has all-wheel drive. He doesn’t.”

  Julia looked back to see the Charger hit the beach hard some forty yards behind them, kicking up sand and water like a rooster tail. “He looks like he’s having a problem getting traction. No, wait, okay, he’s turning toward us. He’s coming, Cheney.”

  Cheney was grinning again. She wondered whether, if she weren’t in the car, he’d have flipped the Audi back around to face the oncoming Charger, maybe gunned the engine a couple of times in challenge, and headed straight at Makepeace like a knight in battle.

  But he couldn’t take the offense because he had to protect her. Another bullet struck, close to the back tire. In that instant Julia remembered her SIG was in her purse. Sweet Mary and Joseph, where was her purse?

  She didn’t have time to find it. Cheney gunned the Audi toward the long storm wall. She’d sat on that wall many times with her legs dangling, watching the waves and the honking seals. Now it seemed a terrifying monolith waiting to crush both of them. She saw another beach access in the concrete wall, a dozen concrete stairs climbing up. As they closed on it, the Audi never faltered, never lost its traction. It took the stairs like a bullet and sped through the opening. Julia could have licked the concrete wall on either side. She was pumped. She yelled out a shout of wild exultant terror.

  Cheney slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel at the same time. They screeched to a one-eighty. He threw the Audi into park, yelled for her to keep down, and jumped out the door hunched over, his SIG drawn.

  But she didn’t get down, no way would she hide now. She stared, fascinated, as the Charger tried to pull out of a lunatic slide and gain some traction and speed toward those stairs, spewing sand. She saw the instant Makepeace realized the Charger wouldn’t make it up the stairs. He threw the car into reverse, bumped hard and fast back down the concrete stairs and lurched back onto the beach.

  Cheney ran toward the wall, firing at him, emptying his clip. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out another clip, and fired again. The Charger’s windshield shattered, then the rear window, sending out shards of glass.

  Makepeace jumped from the Charger and crouched behind the driver’s side door, firing back short bursts. Cheney threw himself down behind the concrete wall.

  Julia eased out of the Audi, and looked over the top of her open door. Makepeace was twenty yards away. He looked as calm as a judge, his face expressionless behind his dark sunglasses.

  She spotted her purse on the floor of the backseat. She grabbed her SIG and kneeled down on the concrete, keeping the door between her and Makepeace. She saw Cheney was pinned, and she fired her gun as she waved wildly at Makepeace.

  He fired back at her in one smooth motion. She flattened herself on the concrete parking lot, her heart pounding in her ears, the sound of the bullets so close they deafened her for an instant. He continued to fire at her, emptying his clip. It gave Cheney his chance. He ran forward, nearly bent double, firing steadily. The Charger’s door window shattered, Makepeace’s arm jerked, and his pistol went flying to the sand.

  Makepeace looked toward Cheney once, back at Julia, and leaped into the Charger, gunning the engine. But the Charger couldn’t find traction in the sand. Cheney kept firing as he ran down the stairs toward the car. A bullet ricocheted off the hubcap of the left rear tire. Cheney emptied the second clip trying to hit the tires, but they were spinning madly, kicking up blinding sand, the car jerking and heaving, fishtailing again in the sand.

  He patted his pockets, but he knew he was out of bullets. Makepeace stopped trying to gun the car, and the Charger finally gained some traction. He headed back down the beach away from them.

  Cheney stood there, his gun down at his side, staring after the car. “Well, damn,” he said as Julia came up to stand beside him.

  “You shot him. I saw him jerk. Did you see him drop his gun?”

  Cheney whirled around, grabbed her arms and shook her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m okay.”

  He shook her again. “What were you doing? You shot at him, and waved! Made yourself a target! Are you nuts?”

  “Most definitely. If you hadn’t been so set on shooting him, maybe you could have shot out his tires?”

  “I tried. I got a hubcap.”

  “Yes, you did. Too bad we didn’t stop him.”

  Cheney let her go when his relief finally passed his anger. Still, he frowned back at her before he walked over to pick up Makepeace’s pistol, and stared at it. He’d seen only one like it before in his career—in a weapon collection owned by a former FBI assistant director. He ran his hand over the gun. “Would you look at this—a Skorpion VZ 61. This is a Czech-made machine pistol that hasn’t been manufactured since the seventies. I wonder where he got it, and why he’s not using a more efficient weapon. How did he get this thing into the country?” He shaded his eyes and looked down the beach. Makepeace was gone.

  The sirens were blaring so loud it hurt their ears. They walked back up the beach access steps just as half a dozen police cars piled into the parking lot. The lead car screamed to a stop not six feet from them. Two officers jumped out, using the car doors for shields and aiming their weapons over the tops of the doors.

  “Police! Drop your weapons now!”

  Cheney didn’t hesitate. He dropped his SIG and Makepeace’s pistol to the concrete. “There, no guns. Don’t shoot us! I’m raising my hands over my head, nice and slow.”

  The first officer’s gun continued to point right at Cheney’s chest. “Don’t either of you move! I said drop the gun, lady, drop it!”

  Julia dropped her SIG. “Sorry,” she yelled back.

  “Don’t move!”

  “No, we won’t,” Cheney said.

  They stood like a frozen tableau for an eternity—at least a minute—while the cops spilled out of black-and-whites and a couple of unmarkeds all around them. Cheney prayed no one would get rattled and start firing, when he heard a blessedly familiar voice. Captain Paulette yelled, “Don’t shoot them, Gibbs, they’re the good guys.” Cheney watched Frank climb out of his car, look south as he spoke on his cell—doubtless he was sending cars after Makepeace’s Charger. Frank punched off his cell, yelled out, “Hey, Cheney, my men tell me you were doing some wild-assed driving.”

  Cheney yelled back, “I may have wounded him, his gun arm, but he’s still driving, a white Charger. His car’s all shot up so you can hardly miss it.” Cheney leaned down and picked up the two pistols. “Look at this sucker, Frank.”

  Frank took the pistol. “Ain’t this something—long time no see. A terrorist’s wet dream, this pistol, way back when, particularly in Africa. It’s Czech—and surprise, surprise, the cartridge is American design.”

  “Maybe we can trace it,” Cheney said.

  “I doubt that, compadre, but we can try.”

  Cheney picked up Julia’s SIG from the ground, handed it to her. “Hey,” he said to her, “we made it.”

  “I think,” Julia said slowly, looking out over the pewter water, “that I just might let you teach me beach racing sometime.”

  He laughed.

  A patrol car skidded up. The officer yelled, “Captain, we found the car. The guy took off on foot, or maybe wired a car on the street. We ran the VIN already. The Charger was stolen out of a garage in Daly City last night. The owner sure isn’t going to be happy when he sees his ride.”

  CHAPTER 39

  CALIFORNIA STREET

  Tuesday afternoon

  Savich saw a flash of irritation on Thomas Pallack’s face as he turned from his window on the thirty-sixth floor of the Maiden-Pallack building on California Street and looked at the two men and two women who stood in his office doorway. Then he saw a look of unease, perhaps fear, but it was gone quickly. Savich recognized the formidable intelligence, the suspicion in Pallack’s eyes, and thought, Dix, if you’d come, he would h
ave called security in a heartbeat and removed us all.

  Thomas Pallack looked at each of them in turn, assessing them, Savich thought, for what sort of threat they posed to him. He stood motionless now, no expression on his face, and fingered the business card Savich had given to his assistant. When he waved to his assistant standing in the open doorway, she nodded and let herself out of the office, after a quick searching look at her boss.

  Pallack said, “The view would be splendid if the fog weren’t lying so thick over the city and the Marin Headlands, there”— he pointed—”behind the Golden Gate.”

  They all dutifully stared out the huge window. Only one of the Golden Gate Bridge’s suspension towers peaked above the fog.

  “The fog usually burns off by noon,” he continued, “but not today, unfortunately. Mrs. Potts tells me all three of you are FBI agents and for some reason I don’t understand, you, my dear Julia, have come with them.

  “Let me say both Charlotte and I are distressed at all your trouble. It has all been an immense shock to us, as well—we are very sorry.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pallack,” Julia said.

  He inclined his head to her, nodding. “Perhaps that is why you’re here with the agents? They’re protecting you from this maniac?”

  “That’s certainly true, Mr. Pallack.”

  “You used to call me Thomas.”

  “Yes, Thomas, I will.”

  He said, “I see from your card that you’re Special Agent Dillon Savich. I hope you are all here to tell me you’ve caught the people responsible for all this.”

  Savich said, “Not as yet.”

  “A pity. Do these agents have names?”

  Savich introduced Sherlock and Cheney, each of them flashing their shields. He motioned them to sit in the stiff modern chairs facing his desk.

  “Now you may tell me what I can do for you.”

  Savich said, “As part of protecting Mrs. Ransom and investigating her difficulties, Mr. Pallack, we are reviewing Dr. August Ransom’s murder. We believe the two may be related. We would appreciate any assistance you’re able to provide us.”

  Thomas Pallack gave them a slight bow of his head.

  Savich said, “We understand you were a client of Dr. Ransom’s for many years.”

  Thomas Pallack nodded, sat back in the very comfortable-looking leather chair behind his very modern desk, all glass and polished steel, and folded his hands on his belly. He’d eased considerably, Savich saw, felt back in control of his universe, and that was what Savich wanted. Pallack said, his voice expansive and smooth with confidence, “Surely you must know the SFPD interviewed me after August’s murder, along with his other clients. They would have all those records. Unfortunately I wasn’t of much help, nor were any of his other clients, as I understand. So, I don’t know how I can help you now.”

  “You are obviously a very intelligent, very successful man, Mr. Pallack. Perhaps over the intervening months you’ve recalled or wondered about some details that could assist us? How long were you with Dr. Ransom?”

  “Over ten years when he died.”

  “You were pleased with his efforts on your part?”

  “Yes, of course, or I wouldn’t have stayed with him that long. August, as you know, was able to engage my dear parents for me in dialogue, pass along to me what they were saying and feeling, their advice and counsel on business problems, for example. My father was an incredible businessman, and I value his opinions. Our sessions were deeply meaningful to me.”

  Cheney sat forward, picked it up. “Do you find Soldan Meissen as helpful as Dr. Ransom, sir?”

  Thomas Pallack turned thoughtful, perhaps a pose, Cheney didn’t know, but he watched the man carefully. Pallack fiddled with an expensive pen, tapped it against an onyx paperweight, buying himself thinking time, Cheney thought. He saw Sherlock was watching Pallack as intently as he was.

  In point of fact, Sherlock had formed a picture of Thomas Pallack in her mind in the preceding days and she realized now she wasn’t that far off, except for his eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a megalomaniac or a political ideologue, they were dark gray turbulent eyes, a brooding poet’s eyes maybe, or a killer’s eyes. She didn’t know which. She shook her head at herself. No, Thomas Pallack was an extraordinarily successful businessman, very rich, still in full control of his empire at nearly seventy, accustomed to using his power. It was possible he was nothing more than he appeared—a man with one clearly insane obsession, but many people had obsessions or fixations of some kind. He’d communicated with his murdered parents for many decades now, but he was still able to run an empire. And there was something about him that drew you, that made you want to listen to him, hear what he had to say.

  The silence stretched on for a moment. No one attempted to break it. Thomas said finally, “You asked me about Soldan Meissen, Agent Stone.” He frowned, shook his head. “I doubt this means anything, but there is a lot at stake so let me be completely honest. There is something about Soldan that sometimes shakes my confidence. I can’t tell you what, exactly, only that I am never quite as satisfied at the end of our sessions as I was with August. Soldan is quite legitimate, I know that. He has proved many times that he can contact my parents. They speak through him to me, and yes, I recognize their words and expressions, their sly wit, their endearments. Soldan isn’t a fraud, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “Then what is the problem, sir? Do you think he isn’t telling you everything your parents wish him to?” Sherlock asked.

  Pallack shrugged. “Come now, three FBI agents, and you’re actually taking this seriously? You’re considering that one can really talk to the dead?”

  Savich’s face and voice were both expressionless. “We’re not really asking about that, but about your perceptions of him.”

  “That’s an improvement over the not-so-subtle ridicule of those fatuous boneheads at the SFPD. They didn’t for a minute believe August was the honest-to-God real deal. I don’t think they had anything but contempt for him or any of his friends and colleagues. They wouldn’t have cared all that much that he was killed except that he was famous and had high-powered connections. The media spurred them on since they found the psychic angle all very sexy, and so the cops had to go through the motions.”

  Julia said, “They seemed to care enough when they had the handcuffs all ready to snap on my wrists.”

  Thomas Pallack looked at her. “They focused on you, Julia, for the simple reason that they could understand the motive you might have—a beautiful young woman married to a very successful, very rich older man. They had no grasp whatever of who and what August really was about, how he couldn’t help making some enemies among the living when he communicated with the dead. So they aimed at you. The black widow, yes, the fools could understand that because they’d seen it immortalized by Hollywood, and accepted it to be true. Ridiculous of course to anyone who knew you, knew August, knew what was vital and honest in him, but there you have it.

  “I am very sorry it has required attempts on your life to force the police to revisit August’s murder to find a tie-in. And not simply local law enforcement, even the FBI. Actually, I don’t understand how you are involved. Shouldn’t this be strictly a local matter?”

  Savich said easily, “We were asked to bring in a fresh eye, Mr. Pallack. This is what the Criminal Apprehension Unit at the FBI is designed to do. We come in only at the request of the local police.”

  Sherlock said, “We understand you asked Kathryn Golden to contact your parents, but she was unable to.”

  “She told me she got nothing but static during her attempts. Very odd, she told me, that something like that rarely happened to her.”

  “And so you sought out Soldan, or did he come to you?” Savich asked.

  “He offered his services to me, as I recall.”

  Julia said, “And yet you don’t feel complete satisfaction with Soldan, that is what you said.”

  “That’s right, Julia. Sometimes I feel
we’re speaking of issues my parents and I discussed some time ago, a sense of deja vu, if you will, as if we’re not making much progress. It’s frustrating, but there you have it.

  “Now, I have answered your questions. You will answer mine. Why are you so interested in my sessions with mediums?”

  Savich said, smooth as the dark India tea Isabel had made him for breakfast, “As a successful businessman, you would never consider information gathering a waste of time. It’s what you do, it’s what we do. Do you have any idea who killed Dr. Ransom?”

  CHAPTER 40

  Do you know,” Thomas Pallack said slowly, still fiddling with his pen, “the inspectors from the SFPD never even asked me that outright. I’ve thought about it over the months, Charlotte and I have discussed it. Would any of his colleagues kill him? Were they jealous of him because of his success, or perhaps his wealth? Yes, probably, but that is commonplace in the world—it doesn’t seem a likely motive for murder. From what I hear, many of his colleagues worshipped him.

  “I’ve come to believe it had to be one of his many clients, past or present, perhaps someone he inadvertently harmed with information he passed on to them, or someone he enraged at something he told them.”

  Cheney said, “Evidently there were a couple of dozen people Dr. Ransom was seeing at the time of his death. The SFPD concluded that none of them seemed likely. You included, sir.”

  Thomas Pallack shrugged. “Well, it certainly wasn’t you, Julia. The idea that you married August for his money is ludicrous. I mean, even if you’d wanted to, there is no way August would have been unaware of your intentions. But you know”—he cocked his head at her—”I suppose it was natural for them to wonder why you did marry him.”