Enigma

by Catherine Coulter

  Sherlock took a drink of the coffee, so strong she wondered if she’d sprout hair on her chest. It was delicious. She toasted Sylvie with her mug. “Thank you. I’m not here about your husband. I’m here about Kara Moody, one of your best friends, I believe. She moved to Washington, D.C. five months ago?”

  Sylvie sat forward. “Is Kara all right? I haven’t spoken to her in ages. We email, sure, but only short, weekly updates on what we’ve been doing. Is something wrong?”

  “Kara had her baby, Alex, on Sunday.”

  Sylvie sat forward, smiling hugely. “Good for her. I wondered why I hadn’t heard from her. Alex is healthy? Beautiful? Kara is, so I imagine he’s adorable.”

  “Yes, he is. I understand you met Kara at the gallery where she worked, that you became close friends very quickly.”

  Sylvie beamed. “And isn’t that great? Never happened to me like that before. But Kara—she was special, and I saw it right away. You know what else? She has a great sense of style, and a nice figure. I was always trying to get her on Cycling Madness, my YouTube show, to model clothes for me. I knew she’d look great in whatever I put her in, but she wouldn’t.”

  Sherlock said, “Yes, she is lovely. Do you remember why you were in that particular gallery that day, Ms. Vaughn? The day you met Kara for the first time?”

  Sylvie watched a pile of magazines slide off the arm of the sofa and land on top of some underwear. Then she smiled. “Oh, I remember now. I wanted to buy a painting for my mother.”

  “She liked a particular painting at that gallery?”

  “I don’t remember, to be honest. After I met Kara, I forgot about my mom’s painting. Can you please explain to me why you’re here and asking me these questions about Kara?”

  “Actually, Ms. Vaughn, I’m here to ask you what you know about Kara getting drugged at your house nine months ago at your husband’s birthday party.”

  Sylvie’s thin shoulders went board straight, but she didn’t say anything, only looked down into her coffee mug as if the coffee would give her an answer. Slowly she looked back up at Sherlock. “Kara didn’t tell me until she was nearly five months along that she was pregnant and what she thought had happened to her at my party.

  “I didn’t want to believe it until I remembered that some of the men there were friends of my husband’s, and I didn’t know them. So I started thinking about which of those guys drinking too much and shoveling down my excellent hors d’oeuvres would stoop that low, but, honestly? I couldn’t think of anyone. I asked Josh and he acted all macho until I punched him and told him I was serious. He said sure, most of the guys were horndogs, but none of them were into roofies. I believed him.

  “I’m pretty good about inviting couples—I like the balance—but it was my husband’s thirty-fifth birthday, and as I said, he had some of his own friends here. A couple were single, a couple divorced and on the make, if you know what I mean. There was lots of booze and dancing and general drunkenness; that’s how Josh likes his parties. We don’t have problems with the neighbors calling the cops because I always invite them, too, and they’re all couples, probably drink more than the other guests.

  “Look, there were so many people in and out, having a good time, I couldn’t keep track of everyone. Mostly I spent my time with the women, giving them free advice on what they should wear to Great-Aunt Maud’s funeral or to a college commencement for nephew Peter. It was a very long night. I remember not seeing Kara after ten o’clock, figured since she wasn’t a big drinker and she hadn’t liked any of Josh’s friends, she’d gone home.

  “When she called me the next morning to apologize, I was surprised, I really didn’t understand why. Kara rarely drank too much and so I told her not to worry about it; there were so many happy drunks weaving in and out of the house, some of them didn’t leave until the booze ran out. I asked her if she was ill, a hangover, you know? But she said no, and then she hung up.” Sylvie leaned down and picked a slinky white top off a solid dark blue rug. She frowned at it, tossed it toward a chair, where one sleeve hooked around the chair arm.

  “So now, instead of calling me and telling me about her baby, Kara sends the FBI? She doesn’t think it was my husband, does she? Sure, I saw the way he kissed her, but he was accounted for all night. I honestly don’t think he could do something that despicable, and he was so drunk I had to pour him into bed at nearly three o’clock. He demanded I sing him ‘Happy Birthday’ again. He was snoring by the end of it.”

  Sherlock and Sylvie looked up to see Agent Butler standing in the open doorway to the living room. Sherlock made the introductions, Sylvie offered coffee, which Butler refused, and told her just to toss the magazines off a rocker and take a seat.

  Sherlock said, “Ms. Vaughn can’t remember any man at her party nine months ago who acted at all suspicious. Correct, Ms. Vaughn?”

  “That’s right. I suppose you’d like me to give you a list of all the single men Josh and I can remember were here?”

  “Yes, that would be fine,” Sherlock said. “Here’s my card with all my contact information. As soon as possible, please.”

  Connie handed Sylvie her card as well. “When was the last time you contacted Kara?” They watched Vaughn toss the cards on top of a bright pink vest.

  “It’s been a week. I told Agent Sherlock we usually emailed back and forth, kept each other up-to-date. She told me her painting was coming along really fine, and she sounded very happy and excited about the baby coming. She also said she really liked her job at the Raleigh Gallery, that the owner was going to give her a show.” She paused. “Kara had her baby; his name is Alex. He’s beautiful. I don’t really understand why you’re here.”

  Sherlock rose, Connie followed suit. “Ms. Vaughn, Kara’s baby, Alex, was kidnapped yesterday from the maternity ward at Washington Memorial Hospital. I believe Kara’s being roofied at your party may have something to do with why Alex was kidnapped.”

  Sherlock saw it, a flash of fear, of knowledge, in Sylvie Vaughn’s eyes. It was gone so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  Sylvie stood, straight and thin as a post, her long arms at her sides, her hands fists. “Is that why Kara hasn’t called me? You told her I could be responsible for her baby’s kidnapping?” She was breathing hard. “None of this makes any sense to me.” She looked down at either her Fitbit or her iWatch, tough to tell. “I’d like you to leave now. I’ve got deadlines. I can’t imagine you have anything else insulting left to ask me.”

  Sherlock handed her another card. “Call me, Ms. Vaughn, if you decide to talk to us.” She paused, then added, “As Kara’s dear friend, it would seem to me you’d want to do everything you could to help us find Alex.”

  Sylvie took her card, gave Sherlock a long look, and tossed it on top of a pair of leopard-print tights. She walked on their heels to the door, closed it behind them. They heard the dead bolt snap into place.

  “Pissed her off but good,” Connie said. She gave Sherlock a sideways look. “Maybe she does know something.”

  “Yeah, she ain’t no poker player.”

  As they walked down the stone steps from the town house to Connie’s Mini Cooper across the street, Sherlock veered off, said in a loud voice, “I want to take a look at this beauty. It’s a Jaguar, maybe six years old.” Connie watched her lean in and look at the interior, keeping up a running commentary as she walked to the other side. A moment later, Sherlock rejoined her at the curb.

  “Why don’t we hang around for a while, maybe down the street a ways so she won’t see the red car. Let’s see if she goes anywhere.”

  Butler raised a brow. “I trust if she leaves she won’t see the GPS tracker you put on her car.”

  Sherlock grinned at her. “Only another cop would have noticed. It is a nice car.”

  “For a second there I wondered why you were talking so loud, but then I realized it was for her benefit.” Butler cranked up the car. “I’ll pull over down the street, but I would guess you’re not going to wa
nt to stay long. And I bet we’re not going to be interviewing Josh Vaughn today after all. You’re probably wondering what I was doing on the phone. I’ve got something to tell you you’re not going to believe.”

  23

  DANIEL BOONE NATIONAL FOREST

  TUESDAY MORNING

  The devil was jabbing his pitchfork into his heel. Manta Ray didn’t remember hurting this bad when he was shot in the side. Jacobson’s antibiotic salve hadn’t helped a bit, and the bandages made it hurt worse. Manta Ray sat on a rock between a gnarly maple tree and a mess of spiny shrubs. Jacobson and Elena stood over him.

  “Your heel hurt?”

  Not like Jacobson cared, the stupid ass. “Yeah, real bad.”

  “Let me take a look.” Elena squatted beside him, waited until he got his sock off, thinking he was whining like a little girl until she lifted his foot onto her thigh. It looked much worse than it had that morning. It was nasty now, raw and open, probably infected. Not good. Elena called to Jacobson to give her the first-aid kit.

  She dabbed on more antibiotic cream and flattened down the last three gauze bandages. He moaned a couple of times, stiffened up. She took a new white T-shirt out of his backpack, used her Ka-Bar to cut it into strips. Then she doubled two strips and stretched them like an Ace bandage around his foot and heel, tight as she could, tying it at his ankle. She gave him four aspirin, handed him his canteen. She watched him pop the aspirin, lean back against the warm rock, and close his eyes. She’d done the best she could, but she had to face it—Liam wouldn’t be hiking anywhere. And that meant she and Jacobson wouldn’t, either. She didn’t have a problem with lying around for a while, after all, they were in no hurry.

  Elena rose and looked around her. Bethel Ridge was a magnificent spot. It was a clear day and she could see miles and miles in all directions, mostly tree-covered hills and creeks winding like ribbons through the land. Farther in the distance she saw a few small white houses and horses grazing in pastures. They’d stopped under a small stand of trees for shade against the bright afternoon sun. Too bad they couldn’t stay here, but Elena knew they couldn’t. They’d have to make their way down to Clover Bottom Creek and camp in the trees until Liam’s heel dried up. They’d be protected there, no one would see them. Boredom would be the problem, and trying to keep Jacobson under control. She’d have him make a crutch for Liam, keep him busy for a little while. She’d have to call Sergei, tell him about Manta Ray’s heel being too raw for him to move much, let him know they’d have to stay put for a while rather than continuing on northward toward Interstate 64, where he’d arranged for their pickup.

  Manta Ray said, “You know what I want? I want to get back to civilization. A nice hotel, a bathtub filled with hot water instead of these pissy cold creeks, and a john with a pile of magazines, with the swimsuit issue on top. Do you think there’s a hotel in that town over there? What’s the name of that Podunk?”

  “Sandy Gap, and there’s no way we’re going anywhere near that town. We’re going to stay out of sight. That young hiker, well, that was a mistake. We don’t want a repeat of that, or worse.”

  “If you guys had bought the right size boot, this never would have happened.”

  Elena took a deep breath for patience because what she really wanted to do was slit his throat with her Ka-Bar. “They are the right size. I told you the problems you get when you don’t try on boots. You’ve never hiked, you have city-boy feet. We’re going to go back down to the creek, where there’s plenty of cover and stop there, wait for your heel to get better.” She wasn’t about to admit it had never occurred to her he could get a blister. She never would. Maybe someday she’d tell Sergei and they’d have a good laugh. “We’ll have to stretch our supplies a bit, but we have enough.”

  She thought Jacobson would speak and shook her head at him. Surprisingly, he kept his mouth shut. But not for long, she knew, no, never for very long.

  She rose, dusted off her pants. “Jacobson and I will help you, but you’re going to have to suck it up until we get back down off this ridge. We’ll give the aspirin another few minutes to kick in.”

  Manta Ray thought that was about right. He looked over at Jacobson leaning against a boulder, chewing on a twig, looking back at him like he was a loser. Manta Ray reminded himself to kill the stupid bully once they were out of this hellhole.

  He grinned up at both of them, his saviors, his guards. He might be their prisoner, but they were his ticket to freedom and money, more than he’d originally planned on. Their boss obviously badly wanted or needed that box he’d slid into his leather case along with everything else from those safe-deposit boxes. He wished now he’d opened it so he’d know exactly what kind of money to demand, but once he’d escaped to the warehouse in Alexandria, all he had time or energy for was to see the box was safe and to stay alive.

  “Elena, you said no one could be looking for us, so why move at all? Why not camp here? We got a great view. Jacobson can hike down to the creek and get us fresh water when we need it.”

  Patience, patience. Her mantra now. “You know the answer, Liam. Even though there’s a bit of tree cover up here, someone could spot us—” The sat phone rang. Elena jumped. Their ironclad rule was no communication unless it was critical. That meant something had changed, something was wrong. The two men watched her dig the phone from her backpack and walk out of sight behind a pile of boulders.

  Manta Ray said to Jacobson, “Is that your boss?” The one I’ve got by the short hairs? “I wonder what’s got Elena so concerned?”

  Jacobson shrugged, pulled out a power bar, and ate it in two bites.

  Manta Ray watched him, the pain in his heel down to a dull throb now after the rest and the aspirin. He said, “Hey, if we stay up here you need to give me one of your knives. I could take care of the next stray hiker. You got that first guy clean, though, I’ll give you that.”

  Jacobson puffed up a bit. “Yeah, my old man taught me how to do it right. The kid was still wondering what was happening when he was dead.”

  “No muss, no fuss, that’s the way to do it. I just didn’t like having to stand back and watch somebody else have all the fun. By the time anyone stumbles over him, there’ll be nothing left but bones and a wallet.”

  Jacobson shrugged. “The boss didn’t want anyone dead, but hey, there he was, staring at us, and you could see he was going to talk to the first ranger he saw. What could I do?”

  “That was good of you to leave his wallet so they’d be able to identify him.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the milk of human kindness running in my veins.”

  Elena came back, put the sat phone into her backpack. She’d heard him. “The kid wouldn’t have said anything, all you had to do was use your brain and let me do the talking.” Idiot. She’d told Sergei about the murder, though she hadn’t wanted to. Deep down, she knew he’d kill Jacobson without hesitation. She knew he wouldn’t do anything to her, not ever.

  Jacobson said, “Was that the boss? Is there a problem?”

  She ignored Jacobson, looked down at the mess of boot prints. She started to tell him to break off a branch and sweep the area, but stopped. It didn’t matter. What mattered was moving out of there right away, fast.

  She pulled out her map, found the easiest way to Clover Bottom Creek Road. When she knew exactly how to get there, she said, “Get yourself together, Liam. Wrap another couple of socks, your T-shirt, or your shirt, anything you can find around your foot to protect it. We’ve got to move. Jacobson, there’s no time to make him a crutch. You’re going to have to help him across the ridge and down to the road. It’s not going to be easy, but we don’t have a choice.”

  Jacobson took a step toward her. “Come on, talk. What’s wrong?”

  “FBI are here; they’re already in the forest. They’ll have a tracker with them, maybe one of the rangers. The boss says they found out where we entered the park; how, he didn’t know. That means they’ve probably already found our tracks, since we didn’t
take the time to hide them. We have to move. We’ve got to be down to the road in”—she looked down at her watch—“three hours and it’s not going to be easy to get down there if Liam can’t put any weight on his heel.

  “Jacobson, toss all the gear and the backpacks in that mess of shrubs over there. We won’t be needing them any longer. We’ll keep one weapons bag, the binoculars, and the sat phone. Get it together, we’re out of here in two minutes.”

  Manta Ray cocked his head to one side, said in full-blown Irish, “And just how, girl, did your boss find out the FBI are after us?”

  Elena stuck her favored Walther PPK into her waistband. “The boss hired people to keep an eye on the Feds and local law enforcement outside the forest. One of them probably got a ranger to tell him what was happening. But what he doesn’t understand, and I don’t, either, is how they knew exactly where we came in.”

  She looked over at Liam. He was wrapping his T-shirt, then his shirt around his heel. When he finished tying off the shirtsleeves, he stood, put a bit of weight on the foot, and nodded. “Not bad. All those bandages, my foot looks like a painting of an old guy with gout I saw in Dublin once.”

  Jacobson was looking at him like he’d like to kick him. He knew it was too soon to leave the forest; the manhunt outside the forest was still way too heavy.

  “Jacobson, help him. We’re out of here.”

  24

  Duke picked up a bloody alcohol wipe sticking out from under a rock. “Blood’s dry, but still fresh enough to smell. I’d say they’ve got maybe an hour on us, not more. Looks like they shoved all the bloody bandages under these rocks, didn’t bother burying them.” He studied the rest of the debris. “Manta Ray’s heel is bad, from the looks of it, and they stopped here to treat him. And someone was hungry.” He pulled a bio bag out of his pocket and put the half-dozen bloody wipes and the power bar wrapper inside, tied it off, slipped it back in his pocket.