Catherine Coulter - FBI 3 The Target

by Неизвестный

  "Was anyone with you?"

  "Yes, my girlfriend, Glennis."

  "Give me her phone number."

  In another four minutes, Ramsey was on the phone speaking to Glennis Clark, a waitress at the Downtown Diner over on O Street. He spoke quietly for several minutes. Finally, he hung up. "Unless you have excellent ESP, Mr. O'Dell, and a very strong connection to Ms. Clark, it appears you're telling the truth."

  Ramsey nodded and walked with Mason Lord to the door of the opulent office. He turned and said, "Who are you hiding from, Mr. O'Dell?"

  "Mr. Shaker. He already called me. He's very angry, claims I'm responsible for Louey being in that car. Now that Louey's dead, he won't get his money back."

  "A million bucks is a spit in the ocean for the likes of Mr. Shaker. Why is he really so angry?"

  "Because he can't have Louey," Warren O'Dell said finally. "He really wanted Louey. When he realized that Louey would earn back the money and he couldn't use the debt as leverage, then he kidnapped the kid. Jesus, he'd kill me if he knew I'd told anybody."

  "He wanted Louey to perform in his casino?"

  "That too."

  20

  IT WAS AFTER nine o'clock that evening. Everyone had finally moved from the dining room into the huge living room for coffee and some of Miles's low-fat apricot tarts. Emma had begged to stay up so she could help Miles load the dishwasher. After she'd left in Miles's wake for the kitchen, Ramsey told everyone about their encounter with Warren O'Dell. When he said, "And then Mr. O'Dell said Rule Shaker really wanted Louey," Molly stared at him, disbelieving. "He's gay? This Mr. Rule Shaker wanted Louey Santera for a lover? Is that what he meant?"

  "Yeah," said Sherlock. "What's all this about?"

  Ramsey just smiled. Both Sherlock and Molly had understood it just as he had. Their incredulity was as great as his had been.

  Savich sat back in his chair and said, "I'll bet there's an unexpected punch line here. Come on, Ramsey, spit it out."

  Ramsey smiled wider, nodding to Mason as he said, "As it turns out, it was Mr. Shaker's daughter who wanted Louey. Her name is Melissa and apparently she's the apple of her daddy's eye. Anything she wants, Daddy gets for her.

  It was Louey she wanted, and so Mr. Shaker went after him."

  "And ended up killing him." Molly was tired to her bones, worried sick about Emma, and now some gangster's daughter had wanted Louey? She continued, "So her daddy rigged a craps game so Louey would lose big time? And when that didn't work, you're saying this Mr. Shaker had Emma kidnapped to make Louey fall into line? Then he sent men after the three of us? Finally he tried to blow Emma and me up and killed Louey by mistake?" Molly jumped up from her chair, nearly knocking it over. She began pacing up and down, her eyes fastened on the toes of her black Bally loafers. "No, that's as nuts as this Shaker guy being gay. What kind of monster is he? That's sick."

  Mason narrowed his eyes on his daughter, "Get a hold of yourself, Molly. Louey could have had his own daughter kidnapped so he could get his hands on my money and pay back Rule Shaker. It would further seem that finally Rule Shaker tried to kill Emma so that Louey would be frightened enough to do as he wanted him to do. It was business."

  "Mason's right," Eve said. She gracefully set down her coffee cup. "If there's something you want badly enough, then you must be prepared to do whatever is necessary to gain it."

  "Despite the costs?" Molly asked.

  "Costs are part of doing business," Mason said.

  "No," Ramsey said. "Louey didn't have a thing to do with any of it. Don't you see? There wasn't enough time to get another team in there working for a different master. Emma was kidnapped; I found her; then the two men came to the mountain cabin and tried to shoot us. Then two others probably followed us all the way here. No one knew where Emma was except the people who took her. All these acts seem connected, they're all part of the same piece of cloth."

  Mason was chewing on an unlit cigarillo. He said slowly, "Well, it's a lot simpler to think that Louey wasn't involved at all."

  "I've got a headache," Molly said, going toward the door. "It's late and I don't think I can help us anymore. I'm going to go to bed."

  "I'll come with you," Ramsey said. "Sherlock? Savich?"

  "I want to speak to MAXINE about all this just a bit longer," Dillon said from where he was sitting near the fireplace in a massive leather chair, his laptop on a small table in front of him. "She's been chewing over some information while we were talking."

  Sherlock said, "When she's finished chewing, then, doubtless, MAXINE will want to speak to me. When she's a female, she communicates better with another female. We'll be up soon."

  Mason held out his hand to Eve. "Shall we go up, my dear?"

  "Certainly, Mason," Eve said, smoothing the silk of her dress over her hip. Every man's eyes followed that move.

  Mason Lord turned at the doorway, slight bewilderment in his voice, "I have a judge and two FBI agents staying in my house. This isn't what I'm used to."

  He left without another word. Ramsey would have laughed, but he felt too much tension. He rubbed his neck. Emma would have remarked that her granddaddy had made a joke. Mason Lord knew this Rule Shaker, or at least he knew of him. What did he really think of all this? He as well as all his staff had been politely unhelpful to the police. What would Mason do?

  Savich stood and said to Ramsey, "You want to go work out? That is, if your back's up to it?"

  Sherlock said to Ramsey, "Working out is great for his stress. I usually work out with him. I used to let him throw me around, under the pretext of teaching me karate. He tromped me regularly until he found out that I was in this interesting condition, then he refused even to let me watch him. You two go; it'll be good for both of you. I'm beat. Molly, I'll head on upstairs with you."

  Molly gave Ramsey a worried look, but he just smiled, nodding at her. "I'll be up later," he said. "Tell Emma I'll be in to kiss her good night." He knew she was thinking about Emma, whose father had been blown up, and it had to be dealt with.

  "Let's do it," Ramsey said. They didn't have to leave the compound or even Mason Lord's house. Gunther took them to the downstairs of the west wing to a state-of-the-art gym, actually more like a sports facility.

  Ramsey said when they came out of the locker room, "Look at this. You think we're in the wrong line of work, Savich?"

  Savich fastened on a weight belt. "Nah, it doesn't matter. Hey, the equipment might be the best, the mats might be the thickest, the bottled water might be from France, but the end result is still sweat. Let me help you tape your back up really well before we get the kinks out. I can even make you waterproof."

  After Savich taped him, they both stretched for five minutes, then, as if of one mind, they began circling each other, poised and focused. Ramsey made the first move, a high clean kick with his right foot. Savich stepped three inches to the left, grabbed the ankle with his right hand, and pushed. Ramsey went flying to the floor, only to roll to the side and be back in position in an instant. He felt a twinge in his back, and Savich noticed.

  "You're a bit faster than Sherlock, but not much, Ramsey. I don't think your back's ready for this. Why don't we just spot each other on the equipment?"

  After thirty minutes, they ended up on their backs on the mat, their arms flung out, sweating and feeling better. After twenty laps in the swimming pool, they felt even better.

  "Not bad," Ramsey said as he hauled himself out of the pool onto the cool pale blue tile apron. "I'd forgotten how busting my butt relieves the tension. My back doesn't feel so bad either."

  "It's always worked for me."

  Ramsey gave Savich a hand out of the pool. They sat in silence, soaking in the sweet still air in the huge enclosed pool room. "This place is something," Savich said. "So much foliage, it looks like a rain forest."

  "As long as it doesn't have any boa constrictors under those palm fronds."

  "Look," Savich said quietly, nodding only slightly upward. "It's a TV cam
era. Well, what did I expect-our host to give us a welcome kiss and let us roam at will? I'll bet there are microphones as well."

  "Who cares? I'll have to ask Miles to show me the equipment," Ramsey said. "It looks like high-grade stuff from here."

  "Think he has any female security people?"

  "No," Ramsey said, "not Mason Lord. He's not what you'd call a major employer of women. I've seen him look at his wife. There's actually lust in his eyes and a sort of immense satisfaction that she's his and no one else's. I'm a bit surprised that he bothered to marry her, except that maybe he wants to get himself a son." Ramsey shook his head. "Mason probably had to marry her just to get into her pants. Eve's very smart."

  Savich said, "Safe bet, huh?"

  "As for Molly, well, she seems to deal with him pretty well. When we showed up here, I could practically taste her fear of him, the pressure to be the helpless little girl grateful for her daddy's help, but at the first insult from him, she dug in her heels."

  "You backed her up, I assume?"

  "Yeah, even though I didn't know the players then. I didn't realize then what a big deal it was for him to back down. I do now. And he did back down, Savich."

  "You'd have to be blind not to notice what he thinks of her. That's got to have been tough on her. Jesus, I hope he doesn't show his stripes too obviously in front of Sherlock. She'd take a strip off him."

  "I bet she would. Good choice, Savich. I like her. She's tough and she's smart and she seems to think you're pretty hot."

  "Ramsey, what do you really think is going on here?"

  Ramsey slowly rose. He was nearly dry. His back was beginning to hurt. He'd probably pay for the exercise, but right now, he was still glad he'd done it. He picked up a big dark gold towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. It was very soft, money soft. He shook his head, lifted an end of the towel, and wiped his face. "What's going on here?" he repeated, still drying his left ear. "I don't know, Savich, any more than you do. I'm too close. I care too much for the players. I do know one thing: To put a bomb in that Mercedes means that someone here on the premises had to have done it. No one could have gotten in here and planted that bomb without being seen. But nobody's coming right out and saying it. I wonder what Mason Lord is going to do."

  "How much do you know about Molly Santera?"

  Ramsey cocked a dark eyebrow not at the question itself, but the seriousness of Savich's voice. He said slowly, "I know she's fiercely protective of Emma. I know she's brave and tough, just like Sherlock. I know she can focus on one main thing and disregard everything else. She's also got great hair. Red like Sherlock's, but not at all the same shade. It's more like a sunset I once saw when I was on the west coast of Ireland."

  Savich didn't say anything to that. He looked away, wishing things could be different, but, of course, they weren't. He said finally, "Did you know that one summer when she was about twelve years old she supposedly let her younger brother drown?"

  Ramsey dropped the towel. He stared at Savich. He was shaking his head. "No," he said, "oh no. I can't believe that, Savich. That's not at all like her."

  "I'm sorry. Sherlock discovered it in fifteen-year-old records. I'm sorry if you think she was spying on something that wasn't her business, but Sherlock is a professional to her fingertips. She looks at everything."

  "I have no problem with Sherlock checking out my birthmark if she thinks it's relevant to this case, but I'm telling you that this thing with Molly's brother, it had to be an accident. Molly could never just watch her own flesh and blood die. No way. And that includes that son-of-a-bitch father of hers."

  Savich shrugged. "There was an investigation, of course, but the results were inconclusive. The general belief at the time was that she hated her younger brother because Daddy made it clear he was the favorite, the heir, the only one worth anything. You told me yourself that Mason doesn't have much use for his daughter. Maybe you're right, maybe that's one reason he married Eve. He wants another boy child.

  "Mason and his first wife, Alicia, were divorced when Molly was around eight years old and her brother was six," Savich continued. "She went with the mother back to her mother's home in Italy and the boy stayed with the father. Molly was visiting here one summer when this happened. When she was eighteen, she went to Vassar. She left after a year and moved in here with her father.

  "You can't just dismiss it out of hand, Ramsey. Molly Santera has a past. She may have been innocent, but you know there was a question about it. We can't afford just to ignore it."

  Ramsey said, "Are you suggesting that she'd have anything to do with Emma's kidnapping?"

  "No, I don't believe that. But how about Louey's murder. What if Louey was the target after all?"

  Ramsey said, "Listen, she divorced his worthless ass. There was no reason to kill him. Besides, she couldn't have known that he would try to escape. It was a spontaneous thing; Louey just lost it and ran."

  Savich rose to stand facing Ramsey. "What if she convinced him that her father was going to kill him? What if she told him he'd best clear out and he could take the Mercedes that Gunther had just brought it up? Isn't that possible? Just think about it, Ramsey. None of us have known any of these people for very long. Don't sweep it under the rug because you happen to admire the lady, just because you think her hair's cool."

  Ramsey felt his heart pounding against his chest. It made his back ache even more. He didn't believe it. He was a good judge of character. He'd seen Molly in crunch situations. She hadn't faltered, hadn't broken, hadn't flipped out. He said aloud, "She would have no clue how to fashion a bomb. That means she would have had to hire someone in a very short length of time. Not likely."

  "She's Mason Lord's daughter, but maybe you're right about her. You really seem to know this woman very well, even though it's only been for a short time." He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "What better person to bring someone onto the estate in secret? And how do you know she wouldn't know how to rig a bomb?"

  Ramsey just stared at him. He shook his head. Then he turned and walked away. His back was throbbing.

  21

  THE NIGHT WAS dark with thick clouds hanging low, the air heavy with coming rain and sweet with the scent of the late-spring flowers. Ramsey shifted to his side, pulling the covers with him. He'd flung the pillow on the floor some hours earlier.

  He flipped onto his back again, his left arm over his head. Then, suddenly, he was thrust into a dark room where there were blurred images, voices that overlapped one another, growing louder and louder. Suddenly the room was clear, the images sharp. He was in his courtroom, jumping over the guardrail, his black robes flying, his legs straight out, his foot kicking the semiautomatic out of a man's arms, sending it spinning across the oak floor. He heard the snap of the man's humerus, heard his howl of rage, saw the wild pain in his eyes. Then he saw terror and panic, saw him leap toward the gun even as he held his broken arm.

  He was on him again, with a back-fist punch to his ribs that sent him sprawling to the floor. The din of screaming people filled his mind. A second man whirled around to face him, the semiautomatic raised, ready, and he'd rolled, coming up to twist his hips as he parried, seizing the man's wrist so he wasn't in the line of fire. With his free hand he went after the man's throat, crushing his windpipe, watching him gag, hearing his gun slam against the spectator railing. The screams were high and loud. They went on and on, filling the courtroom, filling his mind, seeping into his brain. He saw the third man now, whirling around in a slow, very precise movement, saw the point when failure registered in his brain, saw him raise his gun and fire randomly, striking the shoulder of one of the defense team, a young man in a pristine white shirt that was instantly shredded and soaked red. The force of the bullet flung him back against three women who were cowered down in the first row of spectators. The man turned back to him, his eyes filled with panic and death. Ramsey felt the heat of a bullet as it passed an inch from his temple, and rolled, picking up the semiautomatic, aimi
ng it even as he lay on his side, and pulled the trigger. He saw the man flung hard against the wall, his blood splattering against the wainscotting. The screams wouldn't stop, just grew louder and louder.

  Ramsey jerked up in bed, breathing hard, sweat sheening his forehead, and covered his face with his hands. So much blood, as if it had rained blood, "It's all right, Ramsey."

  It was Emma. She was sitting beside him, her small fingers lightly stroking his forearm. "It's all right. It was a nightmare, a bad one, like mine sometimes. Don't worry. I won't leave you, not until you're okay again."

  "Emma," he said, surprised that he could even get the word out of his mouth. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, pulled the little girl onto his legs, and drew her close.

  "I heard you," she said against his shoulder. "I was scared for you."