Paradox (An FBI Thriller Book 22)

by Catherine Coulter

  Jimmy Maitland was silent a moment. “All right, Chief Christie, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  3

  * * *

  WILLICOTT BOOK FESTIVAL

  WILLICOTT, MARYLAND

  SATURDAY, LATE MORNING

  It was warm and sunny, an altogether perfect day for a book festival. Savich gave the smiling, fresh-faced parking attendant Jimbo a ten-dollar bill and parked Sherlock’s Volvo in Lot B beside an SUV filled with a half dozen enthusiastic young women, all talking, laughing, and gathering book bags, purses, water bottles.

  Nearly-five-year-old Sean and his longtime girlfriend, Marty Perry, who was still on schedule to be one of his future wives, were so wired they bulleted out of the car, their goal to hunt down their favorite author, Remus McGurk, the creator of Captain Carr Corbin, intergalactic space marauder, and his sidekick, Orkett, a terrier with sharp teeth who filched chocolate bars.

  Sherlock met Dillon’s eyes over the roof of the car. She knew he was as worried as she was. It had been only three days since the man had broken into their house and threatened Sean. The FBI lab hadn’t found fingerprints on the Ka-Bar, not that they expected to, and had determined the knife could have been purchased from dozens of stores in the D.C. area. Every agent in the CAU was working in his spare time on trying to identify the intruder. Most of Dillon’s agents believed it was either a pedophile who’d seen Sean, or a kidnapping for ransom, knowing Savich could sell one of his grandmother’s paintings. Or, he thought now, an old enemy here for payback. Oddly, that felt like it could be right. Detective Ben Raven of Metro was working different sources, and as of today, still nothing had popped. Even though Savich had moved the security system box to behind one of his grandmother’s paintings in the dining room and put a dead bolt on the front door, it didn’t alleviate the nerve-racking low-level fear. Savich had hoped the kidnapper or pedophile, or whatever he was, might be moved to make contact, but as of this morning, there’d been no communication of any kind and no further attempts on Sean.

  Sherlock hadn’t wanted to take Sean to a public place where thousands of people would be milling about, but he’d been so excited about today, a promised treat for more than a month now, she and Dillon couldn’t say no. What was worse, Dillon wouldn’t be with her for extra eyes and protection. He had a job to do here in Willicott with a Chief Ty Christie, assigned yesterday by his boss, Jimmy Maitland.

  Sherlock said, “I figure three hours should do it. Then we’ll head to Osborn’s BBQ, to be followed by the Dali Lama ice cream shop, then, if you’re done here, we’ll take Sean to his grandmother’s for the rest of the weekend.”

  Savich nodded, knowing he’d spend more hours tonight hunkered over MAX searching for the intruder. He looked toward the rocket-fueled kids. “Sean, Marty! Hold up. Do. Not. Move.”

  Sean knew the serious voice, grabbed Marty’s hand to hold her in place, and began confiding to one of the six young women from the SUV he was going to take a zillion photos with his iPad of Remus McGurk. Didn’t they admire Orkett, Captain Carr’s terrier sidekick? Had they read his latest adventure on the planet Mumbo? Were they going to see him? Get his autograph? The women were charming and happy to pose when Sean told them he would like to practice taking their pictures before he shot his masterpiece of Mr. McGurk.

  Marty was jealous and poked Sean in the side. One perceptive young woman invited Marty to stand in front of them, made her one of their group. Sherlock saw Sean send admiring looks to the young woman and she’d bet most of his photos would be centered on her.

  After oohs and aahs over Sean’s photos, Sherlock took each child’s hand while Savich locked the Volvo and wished the girls a fun day.

  Savich told Sherlock, “If you see anything that alarms you, anyone suspicious, call me immediately.” He kissed her. “I owe you big-time.” He peeled off to meet up with Flynn Royal in front of the police chief’s office on High Ginger Street. Flynn was a sharp agent Maitland trusted and Sherlock’s major competition at the shooting range. Mr. Maitland had sent Flynn to Willicott right after the call from Chief Christie the previous day to assess the situation, gather facts, and make himself generally useful, trying not to step on the chief’s toes. In short, Flynn was here to be Maitland’s eyes and ears. As for Savich, he was here to consult, if needed, and if they found the body in the lake, to identify Sala Porto, an agent he knew personally, if he’d been the murder victim. Maitland was concerned. No one had been able to locate Sala. A photo likeness wasn’t good enough for Maitland.

  Savich wove through the crowds and finally spotted Flynn. He was called the intellectual pirate because of his black-rimmed glasses set over smart, dark eyes and his too-long black hair and lithe build. Savich could easily see him on the deck of a ship wielding a sword and laughing maniacally. Flynn was speaking with a tall, fit woman holding a Mariners baseball cap in her hands. She wasn’t wearing a uniform but black pants, low-heeled black boots, and a white shirt, her badge over her left breast pocket. He recognized Chief Christie from the candid photo Detective Harry Anson of the Seattle PD had emailed him yesterday afternoon. He’d texted Savich: Christie’s smart, a dirty fighter with serious skills, hated being a big-city cop. No gray areas for her, always either black or white, but admittedly, in Vice, there are few gray areas. She knows only one direction—forward. Her daddy’s a captain in the Washington State Patrol, so nope, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree. Oh yeah, she’s popular and a looker. Good luck, Ty’s also a frigging bulldog.

  Savich heard Christie say to Flynn as she slipped her cell back into her pocket, “That was Charlie Corsica, my chief deputy. They found the body, not where I thought it would be, but there was a lot of wind chop yesterday afternoon, stirred up the water. He’s taking the body to Dr. Staunton, our local medical examiner. Charlie said no ID, but I was in for a big surprise. He wouldn’t tell me, for which I am going to bust his chops.”

  Flynn said in his honey-soft Alabama drawl, “I don’t know Porto, but Agent Savich does. As soon as he gets here, we can go to Dr. Staunton’s office.” He paused a moment, added, “If the body is Porto’s, we’ll have him taken to Quantico for autopsy. Of course, then it’ll be a federal case.” He turned, saw Savich, and grinned. “Good to see you. Let me introduce Chief Ty Christie.”

  Savich and Ty shook hands and took each other’s measure. Ty saw a big, tough, good-looking man, maybe five years her senior, with intelligent eyes she imagined saw most everything, eyes so dark as to be nearly black. He had thick black hair, a bit on the long side. She’d bet her new LED TV he took no crap and would joyfully dive into a fight.

  Savich looked at a woman far more vibrant than the photo Harry Anson had emailed him. Tall, sharp green eyes, dark brown hair nearly to her shoulders, pulled back from her face with two clips. He really liked the stubborn chin, and a line of freckles across her nose. Harry hadn’t mentioned the freckles or how she radiated energy and focus. He was right that she was a looker. She was a frigging bulldog? Savich found himself smiling at her—impossible not to—and stuck out his hand. “Call me Dillon.”

  “I’m Ty, and no, I won’t tell you what Ty is short for. It’s too embarrassing. A pleasure, Agent Savich—Dillon.”

  She had a lovely smile that made an immediate connection to the person she was talking to. Ty said, “Glad you’re here. I understand you know Agent Sala Porto?”

  Savich nodded. “Yes, four, five years now. We’re the same age. He was on the Washington SWAT team, then transferred to the Criminal Division at the Hoover.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m hoping it isn’t Sala. He’s tough, an excellent agent, a good man.”

  “If it isn’t Sala Porto,” Ty said matter-of-factly, “then it’s no longer federal.” She eyed them both. “And you two can go about your business and enjoy the book festival.”

  4

  * * *

  Flynn said, “Certainly, Chief, although Mr. Maitland told me to offer my assistance if you asked for it. Excuse me. Hey, Sherlock,
hold up!”

  “You can shake my wife’s hand,” Savich called after him, “and that’s it, Flynn.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Flynn said over his shoulder, not looking back, his eyes on Sherlock standing next to a book stall, holding both children’s hands, no mean feat since each kid wanted to go in a different direction.

  Ty was staring at Sherlock, her curly red hair a beacon. “Sherlock? Oh my, I recognize her now, she’s the agent who brought down the terrorist at JFK, then shot that Brit terrorist at the Lincoln Monument. She’s your wife?”

  Savich felt the familiar burst of pride, then impatience because he wanted to get to the medical examiner’s office, wanted to be able to say the murdered man wasn’t Sala. He nodded. “And the little boy is our son, Sean. The little girl is one of Sean’s future wives. No, don’t ask, like your name, it’s complicated.” Savich called out, “Come on, Flynn, get away from my wife, and let’s get moving.”

  But Ty was already striding after Flynn. When Savich reached the group, he heard Flynn say, “So Savich assigned you the kids while he’s off playing with me and the chief?”

  She grinned up at him. “Bless his heart, Dillon’s going to miss all the fun.” She turned to Ty with interest, and Flynn introduced them. The kids got in on the act, and it was a good two minutes before Marty saw a photo of a favorite children’s book author and tugged on Sherlock’s hand.

  Savich said quietly to Sherlock, “They dragged the lake, found the body. We’re off to see if it’s Sala.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “If it is, I’m sorry, Dillon.”

  The crowd noise didn’t matter, Sean had Vulcan ears. “What body? Who’s Sala? What happened, Papa?”

  “Somebody’s dead? Drowned?” Marty closed in, her eyes steady on Savich’s face.

  Savich came down on his haunches, took the kids’ hands. “Agent Flynn and I need to make sure someone who died isn’t an FBI agent. You guys go have fun. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Sean said, “I’m going to ask Mr. McGurk if he wants to eat lunch with us. I want him to tell us about Orkett’s next adventure. Don’t worry, Papa, tacos and chips don’t cost very much. Marty and I will pay for his lunch. We’ve got sixteen dollars.”

  Sherlock said, “I thought we were going to Osborn’s BBQ, Sean.”

  Marty said, “I wanted to try sus-shi, but my mama said it cost a lot and the raw fish could make you die.”

  Sean’s opinion of raw fish was clear on his face. “No raw fish, Marty. All right, Mama, maybe we can afford to buy Mr. McGurk a small basket of barbecue ribs.”

  As for Sherlock, she couldn’t wait to see how McGurk handled the kids’ invite to lunch. She’d bet he had learned long ago how to let a kid down easy. She said low to Dillon, “Everything’s okay, haven’t seen anyone remotely interested in Sean. Or in me, for that matter. Well, except for Flynn,” and she gave him a fat smile.

  “He’s a horndog, keep your distance, Sherlock.” Still, Savich worried. He watched her lead both kids away and thought again about payback, that the man who’d broken in on Wednesday could be someone he’d sent to prison who was now out.

  Savich, Chief Christie, and Agent Flynn Royal headed to Dr. Staunton’s office on Wintergreen Avenue, Ty telling them that so far it appeared no one in the rental beach cottages had seen any stranger or any rowboat, either too early in the morning or too much fog to see anything.

  Ty said, “Charlie Corsica said he’s got a big surprise for me. Like I said, if I don’t like it, I’m going to belt him.”

  Ten minutes later, Savich stared down at the draped body lying on top of an examination table. Dr. Staunton pulled back the sheet. Crushed skull, facial features obliterated. There was no blood, it had all been washed away. Dark hair was flat around the ruined skull, but there was something off—the face was narrow, fine-boned, and despite the destroyed features . . . Savich said, “This isn’t Sala Porto. In fact—”

  Dr. Staunton said, “That’s right, not only isn’t this Agent Sala Porto, it isn’t a man.” She pulled back the sheet, and they looked at a woman’s body.

  So this was Charlie’s big surprise. Ty glanced back at him, standing by the exam door, looking like he’d aced the hand and won the pot. Well, he was only twenty-five. His hair was so blond it was nearly white in the sun, and his light blue eyes made him look like an angel, which he wasn’t. “Your big surprise?”

  He started to grin, but at Ty’s expression, he dropped his eyes, studied his boots. “Yeah, one of them.”

  Dr. Staunton said, “There was ID in an inner pouch on the inside of her jeans’ waistband.” She handed Ty the driver’s license. “She had two bricks tied around her waist to keep her down.”

  Ty read aloud, “Octavia Millsom Ryan. Age thirty-six, address in Washington, D.C.” She looked at the photo. “Her face, it’s hard to tell. When I called the Hoover Building, a summer intern told me Sala Porto was with his girlfriend, Octavia—no last name—and they were on vacation. You don’t forget a name that unusual.” She passed the driver’s license to Flynn.

  Flynn said, his voice emotionless, “Yes, it’s Octavia. I was a witness in one of her cases, maybe three years ago. Did you know her, Savich?”

  Savich shook his head, pulled up her info on his cell. “Octavia Ryan is a criminal defense lawyer in Washington, known as the Patroness of Lost Causes, according to this article in the Post.”

  “Looks like it’s my case after all,” Ty said. “Now I’ve got to find Special Agent Sala Porto. He’s my prime suspect.”

  Savich read further, raised his head again. “Sorry, Chief, Octavia Ryan left her private practice last year. You didn’t know, Flynn? She became a federal prosecutor six months ago.”

  5

  * * *

  Dr. Staunton said, “Ty, maybe you not running this case is for the best, given what I’ve got to show you now. Everyone, come with me to see Charlie’s second surprise for you.”

  They followed Dr. Staunton to another room, watched her unfold a tarp on an exam table. They stared down at dozens of human bones jumbled together.

  Dr. Staunton said, “Charlie and Hanger found these bones when they dragged the lake. You can see there are at least enough bones to form close to a dozen people, maybe even more. The FBI forensic anthropologists should be able to make a count.”

  Ty felt like she’d been slammed in the face. It was incredible, unbelievable. All these bones at the bottom of Lake Massey? She said blankly, “There’s a shoe and a foot inside it.”

  Dr. Staunton nodded. “Unfortunately there’s no soft tissue left. The shoe’s still got some shape, so I’d say it hasn’t been in the lake longer than, say, ten years. As for the rest of the bones, I have no idea how long they’ve been in Lake Massey, maybe fifty years. Fish clean the bones quickly, particularly largemouth bass and walleye. They’re both efficient scavengers. As you can see, there aren’t enough skulls for this number of bones. So there are more down there.”

  Ty couldn’t look away. The most heartbreaking to her were the three skeletal hands, fingers outstretched, the bones white as snow. “All these bones—they belonged to living, breathing people—” She swallowed. “Hanger needs to do a wider drag of the lake.”

  Savich said, “Chief, shall I see what the FBI can do, or can you handle another lake drag locally?”

  She only shook her head and turned to Charlie, standing by the exam room door. “Charlie, get ahold of Hanger, go out with him on another drag. This time do a wider grid. Be very thorough.”

  Charlie had his cell phone out before she’d finished talking, then he was gone.

  Flynn said, “Dr. Staunton, I know you’ve only begun, but have you noticed any obvious possible causes of death?”

  “I did examine the one skull Ty brought me. No injuries I could see. As for the rest, I haven’t had time to examine them. And besides, you know I’m no forensic anthropologist—I could easily miss something important. As I said, the FBI forensic anthropologists are the
ones to examine these bones.”

  Savich looked at Ty. “Chief?”

  “Yes, Dr. Staunton’s right. Thank you.”

  Flynn nodded. “I’ll arrange to have the bones picked up to take to Dr. Richard Thomas at Quantico. He’s one of the top forensic anthropologists in the country.”

  Ty waved her hand toward the pile of bones. “It doesn’t make sense. I haven’t gotten any reports of missing persons in the three years I’ve been here. Well, there was one, a teenager, but we found him.” She picked up a skeletal arm. “Who are you? Who are they? Why are they on the bottom of Lake Massey?”

  Savich lightly laid his hand on her arm. “They’ll do DNA tests. It will take time, but we will find out who these people were and give closure to their families.”

  Ty swallowed. “The man I saw murder Octavia Ryan, maybe he’s a serial killer, maybe she was his latest victim.”

  Flynn said, “It’s possible. If we are talking a Serial, Chief, he’s killed a lot of people over what could turn out to be a long period of time. If no one’s gone missing locally in your tenure as police chief, then he could be drawing on towns all around Willicott and simply using Lake Massey as his dump site.”

  Dump site. It sounded obscene. Ty said, “It means going back over missing persons files plus contacting all law enforcement in, what, a fifty-mile radius of Willicott, telling them the situation, asking them to go through their missing persons files as well.”

  Savich said, “What makes things hard is if we’re talking about a Serial, he could be from Pittsburgh or Boston, for all we know, but it’s a good start.”

  Ty said, “True, but I have to treat this like it’s local or semi-local until we know if these people were murdered and who exactly they were.” She drew a deep breath. “You think the forensic anthropologist will find perimortem trauma, don’t you?”