Hemlock Bay f-6

by Catherine Coulter

  She ran to the phone, dialed 911. The phone was dead. Someone had set the fire and cut the phone lines. Or had the fire knocked out the lines? Didn’t matter, she had to get out. Flames now, in the bedroom, licking up around the edges of the rug beneath that window with its light and gauzy draperies. She raced, bowed over, to the wall and began banging on it. “Simon! Simon!”

  She heard him then, shouting back to her. “Lily, get the hell out of there, now!”

  “My door’s locked. I can’t get it open!”

  “I’m coming! Stay low to the floor.”

  But Lily couldn’t just lie down and wait to be rescued. She was too scared. She ran back to the door and banged her shoulder hard against it. The collision jarred her and left her gasping. She picked up a chair and smashed it hard into the door. The chair nearly bounced off it. The door shuddered a bit but nothing happened. The damned door wasn’t hollow. It was old-fashioned and solid wood. She heard Simon jerk his door open, heard him knocking on doors, yelling. Thank God he hadn’t been locked in like she was.

  Then he was at her door, and she quickly moved back. She heard him kick it, saw it shudder. Then he kicked it hard again, and the door slammed inward. “You okay?”

  “Yes. We’ve got to warn everyone.” She began coughing, doubled over, and he didn’t hesitate. He picked her up in his arms and carried her down the wide mahogany staircase.

  Mrs. Blade was in the lobby, and she was helping out a very old lady who was sobbing quietly.

  “It’s Mrs. Nast. She’s a permanent resident. I tried to call nine-one-one but the line’s dead, of all things. There are people on the third floor, Mr. Russo. Please get them.”

  “I’ve already called nine-one-one on my cell phone. They’re on their way.” Simon set Lily down and ran back up the stairs. He heard her hacking cough as he ran.

  He didn’t get to the top of the stairs alone. Beside him at the last minute were firemen, all garbed up and yelling for him to get back downstairs and out of the building.

  He nodded, then saw a young woman struggling with two children, coughing, trying to pull them down the corridor. The two firemen had their hands full with other guests. Simon simply grabbed all three of them up in his arms and carried them downstairs. They were all coughing by the time they got out the front door, the kids crying and the mother holding herself together, comforting them, thanking him again and again until he just put his hand over her mouth. “It’s okay. Take care of your kids.”

  They saved a lot of The Mermaid’s Tail, thank God, and all of the ten people staying there. No serious injuries, just some smoke inhalation.

  Colin Smith, the agent sent over by Clark Hoyt to maintain an overnight watch on the bed-and-breakfast, told them he’d seen two men sneaking around, followed and lost them, turned back to see the smoke billowing up, and immediately called the fire department. That was why most of The Mermaid’s Tail was still standing.

  Agent Smith left them, after making certain they were okay, to repeat his story to the fire chief and the arson investigator, who’d just arrived.

  Simon was holding Lily close to him. She was barefoot, wearing a long white flannel nightgown that came to her ankles, and her hair was straggling around her shoulders. He’d managed to scramble into jeans and a sweater and sneakers before he’d left his bedroom. He blew out, but didn’t see his breath. It was cold, probably just below fifty degrees, and the firemen were distributing coats and blankets to all the victims. Neighbors were coming out with more blankets and coffee, even some rolls to eat.

  Simon said, “You okay, Lily?”

  She only nodded. “We’re alive. That’s all that matters. The bastards. I can’t believe they set the entire place on fire. So many people could have been hurt, even killed.”

  “Your brother realized before I did that they’d probably try something. You met Agent Colin Smith. Your brother got the SAC here in Eureka to send him to watch over us.”

  She sighed and just stayed where she was. She was exhausted, doubted that any part of her would move, even if she begged. “Yeah, I realized he was a guard for us. I sure wish he’d caught them before they set the fire.”

  “He does, too. He’s really beating himself up. He was calling in his boss, Clark Hoyt, last time I saw him. Hoyt will probably be here soon. I’ll bet you he’s already called Savich.”

  “At four o’clock in the morning?”

  “Good point.”

  “It’s really cold, Simon.”

  He was sitting on a lawn chair that a neighbor had brought over. He pulled her onto his lap, wrapping the blankets around both of them. “Better?”

  She just nodded against his shoulder and whispered, “This really sucks.”

  He laughed.

  “You know, Simon, even Remus wouldn’t go so far as to do this sort of thing. Someone so desperate, so malevolent, they don’t care how many people they kill? That’s really scary.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “it is. I didn’t expect anything like this.”

  “You got mugged in New York so soon after you left Washington. These people work really fast. I’m beginning to think it’s Olaf Jorgenson behind all this, not the Frasiers, just like you said. How would the Frasiers have even known about you or where you were?”

  “I agree. But you know, the guy didn’t try to kill me, at least I don’t think he did.”

  “Probably a warning.”

  “I guess. This wasn’t a warning. This was for real. We’re in pretty deep now, Lily. I’ll bet you that Clark Hoyt isn’t going to let us out of his sight for as long as we’re in his neck of the woods.”

  “At this point I’m glad. No, Simon, don’t say it. I’m not about to leave you alone now.” She fell silent, and for a little while he thought she’d finally just given out. Then she said, “Simon, did I ever tell you that Jeff MacNelly was my biggest influence for Remus?”

  Who was Jeff MacNelly? He shook his head slowly, fascinated.

  “Oh, yes, he was. I admired him tremendously.” When she realized he didn’t have a clue, she added, “Jeff MacNelly was a very famous and talented cartoonist. He won three Pulitzer Prizes skewering politicos. But he never once said that they were evil. He died in June of 2000. I really miss him. It upsets me that I never told him how much he meant to me, and to Remus.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Lily.” He realized then that she was teetering on the edge of shock, so he pulled another blanket around her. It was too much even for her. Her life had flown out of control when she’d married Tennyson Frasier. He couldn’t imagine what she’d gone through when her daughter had been killed and she’d managed to survive months of depression. And then all this.

  Lily said, “Jeff MacNelly said that ‘when it comes to humor, there’s no substitute for reality and politicians.’ I don’t like this reality part, Simon, I really don’t.”

  “I don’t either.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Hoover Building

  Savich slowly hung up the phone, stared out his window a moment, then lowered his face to his hands.

  He heard Sherlock say, “What is it, Dillon? What’s happened?” Her competent hands were massaging his shoulders, her breath was warm on his temple.

  He slowly raised his head to look up at her. “I should have killed her, Sherlock, should have shot her cleanly in the head, just like I did Tommy Tuttle. This is all my fault-that boy’s death in Chevy Chase, and now this.”

  “She’s killed again?”

  He nodded, and she hated the despair in his eyes, the pain that radiated from him. “In Road Town, Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands.”

  “Tell me.”

  “That was Jimmy Maitland. He said the police commissioner received all our reports, alerted his local officers, waited, and then a local pharmacist was murdered, his throat cut. The place was trashed, impossible to tell what drugs were taken, but we know what was stolen-pain meds and antibiotics. They don’t have any leads, but they’re combing the isla
nd for a one-armed woman who’s not in good shape. No sign of her yet. Not even a whiff. Tortola isn’t like Saint Thomas. It’s far more primitive, less populated, more places to hide, and the bottom line is there’s just no way to get to and from the island except by boat.”

  “I’m very sorry it happened. You know she’s gotten ahold of a boat. By now she’s probably long gone from Tortola, to another island.”

  “It’s hard to believe that no one’s reported a boat stolen.”

  “It’s late,” Sherlock said. “E-mail all the other islands, then let it go for a while. Let’s go home, play with Sean, then head over to the gym. You need a really hard workout, Dillon.”

  He rose slowly. “Okay, first I’ve got to talk to all the local cops down there, make sure they know what’s happened on Tortola, tell them again how dangerous she is.” He kissed her, hugged her tightly, and said against her temple, “Go home and start playing with Sean. I’ll be there in a while. Have him gum some graham crackers for me.”

  Quantico, Virginia

  FBI Academy

  Special Agent Virginia Cosgrove cocked her head to one side and said, “Marilyn, it’s for you. A woman, says she’s with Dillon Savich’s unit at headquarters. I’ll be listening on the other line, okay?”

  Marilyn Warluski, who was folding the last of her new clothes into the suitcase provided by the FBI, nodded, a puzzled look on her face. She was staying in the Jefferson dorm with two women agents, just starting to get used to things. What did Mr. Savich want from her now? She took the phone from Agent Cosgrove and said, “Hello?”

  “Hi, sweet chops. It’s Timmy. You hot for me, baby?”

  Marilyn closed her eyes tight against the shock, against the disbelief. “Tammy,” she whispered. “Is it really you?”

  “No, it’s Timmy. Listen up, sweetie, I need to see you. I want you to fly down here, to Antigua, tomorrow; that’s when I’ll be there. I’ll be at the Reed Airport, waiting for you. Don’t disappoint me, baby, okay?”

  Marilyn looked frantically over at Virginia.

  Virginia quickly wrote on a pad of paper, then handed it to Marilyn. “Okay, I can do it, but it’ll be late.”

  “They treating you all right at that cop academy? Do you want me to come up with the Ghouls and level the place?”

  “No, no, Tammy, don’t do that. I’ll fly down late tomorrow. Are you all right?”

  “Sure. Had to get me some more medicine on Tortola. Lousy place, dry and boring, no action at all. Can’t wait to get out of here. See you tomorrow evening, baby. Bye.”

  Marilyn slowly placed the phone in its cradle. She looked blankly at Virginia Cosgrove. “How did she know where I was? I need to call Dillon Savich. Damn, it’s really late.”

  Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland called Dillon Savich to mobilize the necessary agents. He got it done in two hours and set himself up to coordinate the group leaving for Antigua.

  Maitland called in the SWAT Team at the Washington, D.C., field office because they were bringing this all down very possibly in an airport, and there could always be trouble. He told Savich, “Yeah, I threw them some meat and they agreed to come out and play. We got one team, six really good guys.”

  Vincent Arbus, point man for the team, built like a bull, bald as a Q-tip, and many times too smart for his own good, looked at Savich, then at Sherlock, who was standing at his side, and said in his rough, low voice, “Call me Vinny, guys. I have a feeling that we’re going to be getting tight before this is all over.

  “Now, how the hell did this crazy one-armed woman know that Marilyn Warluski was holed up in Jefferson dorm at Quantico? How the hell did she get her number?”

  “Well,” Savich said slowly, not looking at Sherlock, “I sort of let it be known. Actually, I set the whole thing up.”

  18

  Eureka

  Mr. Monk was gone, his office left looking as if he would be returning the next day. There were no notes, no messages, no telltale appointments listed in his date book, which sat in the middle of his desk. There was no clue at all as to where he’d gone.

  Nor was he at his big bay-windowed apartment on Oak Street. He hadn’t cleaned out his stuff, had just, apparently, taken off without a word to anyone.

  Hoyt said to Simon when he opened his hotel room door, “He’s gone. I just stood in the middle of that empty living room with its fine paintings by Jason Argot on the white walls, with its own specialized lighting, and I tell you, Russo, I wanted to kick myself. I knew we should have covered his place, but I didn’t. I’m an idiot. Kick me. There’s got to be a clue somewhere in there about where his bolt-hole is. Or maybe not, but I haven’t found a bloody thing. Really, Russo, just kick my ribs in.”

  “Nah,” Simon said as he zipped the fly on his new jeans and threaded his new belt. He waved Hoyt into his deluxe room with its king-size bed that took up nearly three-quarters of the room. Lily was right through the adjoining door. They were staying at the Warm Creek Lodge, both with an ocean view from one window and an Old Town view from the other. “I appreciate your checking him out for us first thing, since Lily and I didn’t have any clothes at all. Though I wouldn’t have minded paying the jerk a visit myself. Thank God I left my wallet in my jeans pocket last night or we’d be in really deep caca. Actually, if the credit card companies hadn’t sent me replacement credit cards after my wallet was stolen in New York, we’d still be in deep caca. We’re all outfitted now, real spiffy. Now, what about Monk’s car? Any sign of it?”

  “We’ve got an APB out on it-a Jeep Grand Cherokee, ’ninety-eight, dark green. And we’re covering the Arcata airport. We’ve sent out alerts as far down as SFO, though I don’t think he could have gotten that far.”

  “Problem is, we don’t know when he bolted. Don’t you think it would be better if you issued a tri-state airport alert?”

  “Yeah, good idea. I’m thinking he probably got scared. I doubt he has a fake ID or a passport. If he tries to take a flight, we’ll nail him.”

  Simon nodded. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Room service just sent some up with croissants.”

  Clark Hoyt looked like he would cry. He didn’t say another word until he’d downed two cups of coffee and eaten a croissant, smeared with a real butter pat and sugarless apricot jam.

  When Lily came in a few minutes later, Simon smiled at the sight. She looked even better than he’d imagined. She was wearing black stretch jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and black boots. She looked like a fairy princess who was also a cat burglar on her nights off. Clark Hoyt, when he rose to greet her, said, “Quite a change from how you looked early this morning. I like all the black.”

  Lily thanked him, poured herself a cup of coffee, and watched him eat a second croissant. He filled Lily in on what they hadn’t found so far.

  Hoyt said, “I called Savich back at Disneyland East and filled him in. He made me swear on the head of my schnauzer, Gilda, that you guys didn’t have a single singed hair on your heads. It was arson, all right, but no idea yet who the perps were or who hired them.”

  “Disneyland East?” Lily asked, an eyebrow up.

  “Yep, just another loving name for FBI Headquarters. Hey, thanks for breakfast. You guys still smell like smoke. It’s really tough to get it all out. I should know, I was overenthusiastic with my barbeque last summer and lost my eyebrows, although my face was so black you couldn’t tell. Just lay low; keep out of sight until I get some news for you, okay?”

  • It was early afternoon when Hoyt came to get them from the lodge. Mr. Monk hadn’t tried to fly out of harm’s way. Actually, he hadn’t flown anywhere. He was quite dead, head pressed against the steering wheel, three bullets through his back. The Jeep was in a sparse stand of redwood trees, and some hikers, poking around, had found him.

  Lieutenant Larry Dobbs of the Eureka Police Department knew that the situation was dicey, that it involved a whole lot more than this one body, and even that the FBI was involved. He agreed to let Clark Hoyt bring out the
two civilians, after the crime scene had been gone over.

  Simon and Lily stood looking at the Jeep. “They didn’t really try to hide him,” she said. “On the other hand, it could have been a long time before someone accidentally came upon him. God bless hikers.”

  “The medical examiner estimates he’s been dead about seven hours, give or take,” said Clark Hoyt. “He’ll know a lot more after the autopsy. Our lab guys will crawl all over that Jeep to see what’s what. Ah, here comes Lieutenant Dobbs. You’ve met, haven’t you?”

  “We’ve spoken on the phone,” Simon said and shook Dobbs’s hand. Simon saw quickly enough that the lieutenant was impressed with how Clark Hoyt deferred to him.

  “Do you think he was with someone?” Lily asked both men. “And that someone killed him and then moved his body to the driver’s side?”

  Lieutenant Dobbs said, “No. From the trajectory of the bullets, there was someone, the shooter, riding in the backseat, behind Monk. Maybe someone else riding in the passenger seat. I don’t know. Maybe Monk knew they were taking him out to kill him. But if so, why did he calmly pull over? Again, I don’t know. But the fact is he did pull off the road into the redwoods, and the guy in the backseat shot him.”

  Simon and Lily were given permission to walk over the area. They looked everywhere, but there wasn’t anything to see. The hikers had made a mess of things in their initial panic. There were five cop cars and two FBI cars adding to the chaos. There weren’t any tire tracks except the Jeep’s, which meant that the other car must have stayed parked on the paved road.

  Lieutenant Dobbs eyed Simon and Lily and said, “Agent Hoyt tells me you guys are involved in this up to your eyeballs. Let me tell you, you two have brought me more woes than I’ve had for the last ten years, beginning with that jerk who attacked you on the public bus, Mrs. Frasier. Oh, yeah, Officer Tucker just found Morrie Jones a couple of hours ago, holed up in a fleabag hotel down on Conduit Street.”

  “Keep him safe, Lieutenant,” Lily said. “He was part of this, too, as was Mr. Monk. And look what happened to him.”