Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  “A great party, as usual.”

  Mrs. Sleeman said, “I couldn’t make it this year, I was part of the kid patrol.” She turned to her husband. “You weren’t tipsy when you came home, Field. How come?”

  Mr. Sleeman said, “Business last night. Had to keep my wits about me.”

  His wife rolled her eyes. Joyce Sleeman looked like his housekeeper standing next to him. Today, he was dressed in a dark gray pinstriped suit with a pale gray shirt and dark blue tie. He had a headful of iron-gray hair, beautifully styled. Fact was, unlike his wife, he looked rich. Had he been at church sitting through the homily, or buying more real estate? And what was his business last night? Pippa’s dad had always been cautious of Mr. Sleeman but only shook his head when Pippa asked him why that was.

  “You don’t look any the worse for wear, Ms. Cinelli. Did you enjoy the party?”

  “Yes, along with a couple hundred other people. I saw you speaking with Chief Wilde.”

  He shrugged. “There’s always something coming up that requires my attention. Let’s go into the living room.”

  Mrs. Sleeman said, “Yes, I’ll bring some tea.”

  Pippa spent an hour with Field and Joyce Sleeman while their grandson napped on a gorgeous blue brocade sofa. “You don’t have to keep your voice down, Ms. Cinelli. Christopher sleeps like the no-longer-walking dead. Would you like sugar in your tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Pippa wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but she dutifully tapped her cup to theirs in a welcome-home toast.

  Pippa complimented them on the new conservatory they said they’d built five years ago, and they asked her what she did for a living. She said she was a lawyer. Conversation stayed social, and Pippa couldn’t see a way to segue smoothly into anything helpful, like gruesome puzzles. At least they were friendly, the grandson was a great sleeper, and the tea, without sugar, wasn’t bad.

  Everything changed when Freddie Sleeman came into the living room, wearing, of all things, ski clothes. So this was Freddie, twenty-four, who’d studied interior design, and was on the hunt for Chief Wilde. “I’m off!”

  She saw Pippa and stopped cold. “What are you collecting for? Or are you a religious cult member selling newly discovered books of the Bible?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” Pippa said, smiling. “It’s a short chapter, said to be hidden in northern Africa, and it’s all about giving women the vote before the change of the millennium.”

  This brought a laugh from both Mr. and Mrs. Sleeman, but not from Freddie. Mrs. Sleeman said quickly, “Pippa grew up in St. Lumis. She’s back for a short visit.”

  Freddie said, “You’re so much older than I am, it’s no wonder I don’t remember you.”

  A nice sharp jab. Why the animosity?

  Before Pippa could answer, Freddie shot her a look. “I heard Wilde was laughing with a new woman at the party last night. I also heard she was making a fool of herself, flirting with him like mad. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Pippa cocked her head. “Not me. I think it was Cleopatra. Why weren’t you there to save him?”

  Mrs. Sleeman gave her daughter a warning look, then shrugged. “Who cares? Forget about Chief Wilde, Freddie. He’s too old for you in any case.”

  Freddie shot Pippa another look and glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I’m meeting Kenny and Gretchen in Peterbrough.”

  “Where’s the snow?” Mr. Sleeman asked his daughter.

  “It’s a party,” Freddie said, nothing more. She left and gave the front door a good closing snap. Mr. Sleeman rose, shook Pippa’s hand, and excused himself. Pippa couldn’t very well ask him to stay and talk about, say, making puzzles. She looked at Joyce Sleeman and saw a guileless face with rich humor in her dark eyes. She glanced down at her own watch. Time to get back to the puzzle shop and speak to Mrs. Filly before it closed.

  Before she could leave, Mason Sleeman and his wife arrived to pick up their kids. After introductions, Mason walked to the sofa and ever so lightly touched his kid’s arm. The boy rose straight up and gave him a lazy smile. “I’m all well now, Dad. Can we go out to dinner? Maybe pizza?”

  “You’re a heathen,” his grandmother said.

  Pippa arrived at Maude’s shop twenty minutes later to see a Closed sign in the front window. She’d closed early. What rotten luck. Well, it was Sunday. It would be all right. Pippa would see her tomorrow, early, before many customers came in. She could ask for her help in making a puzzle, see how it was done. Maybe she’d even show Maude the photos of the puzzle someone had sent to Dillon, see what kind of reaction she got. She’d have time to make out a list of questions for her.

  When she reached the B&B, the lights were fully on, making the lovely old Victorian glow in the late-afternoon sunlight. She walked in to see everyone already gathered in the living room, waiting for the promised roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. Soft music she didn’t recognize was playing on an old-fashioned turntable. She didn’t bother to change, just joined in with the others and accepted a German beer, Major Trumbo’s favorite, Mrs. Trumbo told the group.

  Later, still full from the amazing dinner, Pippa sat in the middle of her honeymoon bed on the third floor and emailed Dillon a summary and photos of the Leveler’s Inn Halloween shindig and the people she’d met today, primarily Mrs. Filly and her girlhood friend June.

  Savich called her. “Sounds like tourist Cinelli is doing fine and making headway. I checked out Sleeman. He’s a big deal in commercial real estate, as you told me, Pippa, with a reputation for not always being on the up-and-up. Nothing to tie him to the FBI or to me specifically, or to the puzzle yet, but I’ll have MAX do a deeper check on him. Let me know everything you find out from Mrs. Filly about her puzzles tomorrow. MAX will do a search on Mrs. Filly’s relatives and her background and give us more information about Major Trumbo.”

  “Dillon, you really believe we’ll get the third red box tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I’m betting we’ll see Major Trumbo hanging out of the hotel window.” Savich paused a moment. “Be careful, Pippa. We have no idea yet what we’re dealing with, but this isn’t some bizarre joke.”

  She spent the next half hour reading about the people she’d met that day. She was surprised when she discovered Mrs. Joyce Sleeman spent a good deal of her time in Annapolis at a halfway house for mentally disturbed patients newly out of psychiatric prison. She actually owned and operated Felber House, Felber being Mrs. Sleeman’s maiden name. Interesting. Pippa read all about the halfway house, but she couldn’t find a specific reason why Mrs. Joyce Sleeman had opened it. Maybe a disturbed uncle in the family whose life hadn’t ended well? Someone closer?

  When she finally fell asleep in the big circular bed, she dreamed everyone in St. Lumis had found out who she was. She was walking down Great Heron Street, and people were shouting she shouldn’t be there, she had lied to them, shame on her. And Mrs. Sleeman was telling her in a gentle voice to come stay at Felber House because that’s where she belonged.

  20

  MONDAY MORNING

  NOVEMBER 2

  Her late breakfast of scrambled eggs was a bit on the runny side for Pippa’s taste, a surprise after the perfect scrambled eggs on Sunday. She left the B&B before Maude’s puzzle shop was set to open at noon, per a sign in the window. She was anxious and wanted to explore more of St. Lumis, but still be first at the door to speak to Maude Filly. She had to see Maude again since this would be her last day in St. Lumis before the third red box was due to arrive at the CAU. The puzzle would be complete, and St. Lumis would be quickly identified. The sender would know that, of course, and know to expect the FBI here soon. She would lose any advantage she had of no one knowing who she was.

  She strolled west this morning, away from the tourists still left in town, greeting the few locals she saw with smiles and hellos. She ended up on the less gentrified edge of town, where she remembered a small industrial district. She saw three buildings pressed together. They looked like long-abandoned ancien
t mercantile supply stores.

  There was an antique sign hanging at half-mast over the doorway of the nearest building: HOWZELL’S MARBLE TABLES. The front door was gone, so she walked in. She saw broken windows, rusted, partly dismantled machinery, mildewed boxes, and rat carcasses strewn on the floor. She remembered the once-thriving manufacturer had closed its doors long before her family had moved. Why had the building been left in ruin? She did a quick walk-through, winding around the broken old machines scattered across the large space like giant iron ghosts from a former time.

  She’d been about to skip looking at the other two buildings when she checked her iWatch and saw she still had time before the puzzle shop opened. She walked out to the second building, which looked ready to collapse in on itself, maybe even more derelict than the first, its wood-planked door barely held up by rusted old nails. She stepped inside and nearly choked on the musty, stale air. There was no sign left to announce what the business had been, but much of the space was divided by rows of ancient metal shelves, a good eight feet high. She saw three cobwebbed jars lined up on one shelf. She wasn’t about to look inside them. A store of some kind, groceries and assorted dry goods probably. She took a cursory look around for anything that shouldn’t be there. What had she expected to find here anyway? She sneezed. Time to head into town. She’d gone out far enough. There was no reason to visit the third building.

  She’d turned back toward the battered door when she heard a groan and stopped dead in her tracks. She stood perfectly still, cocked her head. Another moan, this one not as loud, but it sounded like someone in pain. She thought the moans were coming from behind one of the long metal shelves at the far end of the building. She waited but heard nothing. She started walking toward the sound, adjusting her eyes to the deepening gloom, and made her way down a narrow aisle with the huge empty shelves boxing her in. She paused, called out, “Anyone there?”

  Another moan. She suddenly felt spooked. Something wasn’t right. She pulled her Glock from her belt clip, racked the slide, and walked forward, careful not to step on the scattered debris—cans, shards of paper, cracked and shattered bottles. She paused, listened, but heard nothing more.

  “Where are you?”

  She heard a gasping whisper, “I’m here. Back here. Help me.” A man? A woman? She couldn’t tell. She rounded the last cobwebbed shelf, stopped, and looked into a dim corner, empty, as far as she could tell.

  “Talk to me, I can’t see you.”

  She didn’t hear him coming. His blow was fast and hard to the back of her head. She was down.

  21

  HOOVER BUILDING

  CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT

  MONDAY MORNING

  When Savich opened the door to the interview room at precisely 9:00 a.m., the stage would be set. Ollie and Ruth had appeared at Zoltan’s door and threatened to arrest her if she didn’t accompany them to the Hoover Building right away. Savich knew Ollie’s hard voice would work on Zoltan to good effect, and Ruth had doubtless given Zoltan her patented dead-eye stare. The two of them stood against the wall, arms crossed, flat-eyed, mouths seamed, looking ready to break out the brass knuckles.

  Savich met Zoltan’s eyes when he entered, saw they were filled with anger and a flash of fear. Her fingers were beating a furious tattoo on the tabletop. She jumped to her feet, slapped her palms on the table. “Why did you have these FBI agents come to my house and order me to go with them? Why did you bring me here? I have done nothing wrong, yet those two rottweilers”—she pointed to Ruth and Ollie, who didn’t blink, and if anything looked even more threatening—“treated me like a criminal. Did you honestly think these two thugs were necessary? Did you think I would try to run? You could have simply called, asked to speak to me again. Of course I would have seen you.”

  “Thank you for coming, Zoltan,” Savich said in his calm FBI voice. He paused a moment as he walked over to sit across from her at the interview table. He waved his hand. “Do sit down.”

  Slowly, she sat back down, her eyes not leaving his face. She was wearing little makeup, and her dark hair was clipped at the back of her neck. She’d covered her dark green wool dress with a formal black blazer that gave her the look of a consummate businesswoman. He said nothing more as he watched her get hold of herself, watched her expression segue from outrage to calm seriousness, with a dash of bewilderment, an innocent woman unfairly attacked. It was well done. He appreciated her obvious talent.

  She said, her voice as cold as an ice floe, “What do you want from me, Agent Savich? I have told you everything I know. Should I call my lawyer? Have her roast you for harassing me?”

  Savich said, “You are not under arrest, Zoltan, as I’m sure my agents told you. However, a lawyer is your right, naturally.” He sat forward, bulleted out, “You’ve lied to me from the beginning. That’s very unwise of you, given it’s a federal crime. Are you ready to tell me the truth now?”

  He saw fear spark in her eyes again. Excellent. She leaned forward, her hands clasped in front of her, and her voice throbbed with sincerity. “I have told you the truth, and it remains the truth, Agent Savich. I am a medium, nothing more, nothing less. I only contacted Rebekah because her grandfather begged me to.”

  Savich said quietly, “I am worried for you, Zoltan. I’m very glad you’re still alive. You have to realize what you know is a threat to those in this scheme with you. You failed in your assigned role and now you’re of no further use to them. You’re a liability. You may wish to believe you’re protecting yourself and your career by continuing your lies, but unless you’re completely honest with me now, and tell me who’s responsible for the attack on Rebekah Manvers, I doubt you’ll be alive for much longer.”

  Zoltan rose straight out of her chair again. “Wha—what did you say?”

  He fanned his hands. “Listen, you’re not stupid, Zoltan. Your assignment was to get Rebekah Manvers to tell you where her grandfather hid the money. Yes, I’m assuming it was money he stole all those years ago. Your partners were sure Rebekah knew, and they wanted you to get her to tell you—that is, tell her grandfather—with no one the wiser, not even Rebekah.”

  “That’s not true!”

  Savich continued without pause, “You were to find out where the Big Take was hidden. But she told you flat-out she wanted nothing to do with the money. You failed, though you tried to get her to come back again, tried to convince her that her grandfather was really there, desperate to see her again. You’re excellent at reading people, Zoltan, and you believed her when she told you she didn’t want anything more to do with you. And that’s what you had to tell your partners.”

  “No, no, that’s not why I wanted Rebekah back. There were other reasons—”

  Savich continued over her, “When you told them they were out of luck, your partners set the kidnapping in motion. I’ve got to say, it was all done in an amazingly short time. So it was always the fallback plan, wasn’t it? Or did you even know that would happen if you failed?”

  She stared at him, mute, shaking her head back and forth.

  “Face it, Zoltan. You failed to deliver. And look what happened.”

  She remained silent. Savich rose, splayed his palms on the table, leaned in close, and kept pushing. “Now that everything has gone sideways, there’s no way they can get to Rebekah. She’s guarded twenty-four/seven.” He straightened. “But you’re not guarded, Zoltan. You’re all on your own. They can get to you. It’s time to save yourself, time to talk to me. Tell me how this all came together. Tell me who’s really in charge. Tell me who brought you into this scheme.”

  Savich sat down, crossed his arms, and stared at her. He saw her pulse pounding hard in her throat, but she didn’t move, didn’t deny what he’d said. He watched her smooth her expression again, until she looked almost bored. He was impressed. The woman was formidable. Of course, she’d already known what he’d told her. Was she planning on getting out of Washington as soon as she could?

  He added, “It’s no
secret Rebekah’s grandmother has attended séances for years. She’s a believer in communicating with the dead. Is that why they picked you to talk to Rebekah? They thought you could convince her? My big question is how you and your partners found out the Big Take was real. Congressman Clarkson was in a coma for sixteen years until he died last month. To the best of my knowledge, he never woke up. So how did you know?” He waited a beat, then, “You know I will find out and then it will be over for you. If you’re still alive, you’ll be in prison for a very long time.

  “You have to face it, Zoltan, you’re of no more use to anyone. You’re a walking liability. I am not exaggerating, and you must know it. I fear for you.”

  Remarkably, she laughed, fanned her hands at him. He watched a sneer twist her mouth. “Agent Savich, what a remarkable tale you’ve spun. I don’t have any partners. I don’t have an agenda. Yes, I know Rebekah’s grandmother believes in speaking with the Departed. Rebekah herself told me that. I don’t care about this wretched Big Take, whatever it is, if it even exists. I will say it again. I am a medium. Rebekah’s grandfather came to me three times, anxious to speak to her. I succeeded in connecting them. There is nothing more to it than that. You have tried to frighten me, and you still refuse to believe I have done nothing wrong. I have no one to fear. You’ve dragged me in here for nothing. I want to leave.”

  Savich said, “When your partners tried to take Rebekah, they had no reason to think they would fail. Only luck put me there. But their failure to nab Rebekah has landed you squarely in their crosshairs. For your own survival, I strongly recommend you tell me who your partners are, now, before it’s too late.”

  Zoltan started tapping her fingers on the tabletop again, tap, tap, tap. She looked both amused and disdainful. She gave him another splendid sneer. “You’re concerned for my survival, Agent Savich? I’m touched. For the last time, I am a medium—I have no partners, I have nothing to do with Rebekah’s attempted kidnapping.” She snapped her fingers in his face. “Nothing. I did want another opportunity to work with Rebekah and her grandfather, try to iron out their issues, but Rebekah didn’t want to continue. A pity, but it happens.”