Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich said, “Mrs. Clarkson, we know there had to be a trigger point, a recent one, when you realized Rebekah knew about the Big Take. She never believed it was real, at least not until after her meeting with Zoltan. I doubt your husband ever told you about the Big Take, but you found out about it regardless. From Nate Elderby.

  “The trigger point was Heather Aubrey, the private nurse you hired three months before your husband died. She told you what Rebekah knew. Heather Aubrey, like all the other private nurses you hired over the years, presented herself at your office once a week to give you reports about the status of your husband, who his visitors were, what the doctors were saying. No doubt you usually heard all the same answers from the nurses throughout the years Congressman Clarkson lay in a coma at the Mayfield Sanitarium.

  “But what a surprise when Mrs. Aubrey told you one incredibly valuable piece of information. That’s when everything began to fall into place.”

  Gemma said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Nurse Aubrey was nice enough, appeared genuinely upset when Johnny finally died. She never told me anything I didn’t already know. He was unresponsive, and Rebekah was there visiting three, four times a week, hanging all over him. There was nothing more, Agent Savich. And when he finally drew his last breath, it was a formality.”

  Savich continued, “We spoke to Mrs. Aubrey, and she repeated to us what she told you. I imagine you tried not to show your excitement, but she saw it, nevertheless, and wondered.”

  Griffin turned on his cell phone recorder. “I’m sure you’ll recognize Mrs. Aubrey’s voice.”

  54

  They listened to an older woman’s voice speaking in a soft Virginia drawl:

  My visits with Mrs. Clarkson were always short, and I understood because I knew they had to be very tedious for her after so many years with her husband in a coma. There was never much to say, only that Rebekah visited her grandfather often, always spoke with me, asked me questions. Such a kind girl, I always thought, a lovely girl. I was told by the Mayfield nursing staff that Rebekah had been coming there for years whenever she could. She’d talk to Mr. Clarkson as she stroked his hand, tell him what she was up to, and then she’d repeat one of the wild adventure stories he’d told her when she was a child.

  It was the strangest thing, Agents, but when I happened to mention that story you asked me about, the Big Take story, on my last visit to Mrs. Clarkson before he died, she got very intense, and her eyes fastened on my face. She wanted to know everything her granddaughter said, so I told her what I remembered. It was her favorite of all his stories, and she’d recited a poem he’d written for her about it, about where he’d hidden the Big Take. As I said, it seemed to me Mrs. Clarkson was going to jump out of her skin. She wanted me to tell her the poem, but I couldn’t remember it, of course, only something about it all being in his head. Mrs. Clarkson became very angry with me, and I didn’t understand why. She told me to record everything Rebekah said to Mr. Clarkson when she visited again.

  Griffin turned off the recording.

  Gemma said nothing.

  Rebekah said, “Mrs. Aubrey told us I didn’t mention the Big Take on my next four visits, and then Grandfather died and she went on to another job. I imagine you thought the money was lost to you after Grandfather had his strokes. I know he never told you where it was, otherwise why would he swear me to secrecy? And now you thought he’d told me where the Big Take was, hidden in that poem, even if I thought it was only a story.” Rebekah searched her grandmother’s face. “You couldn’t ask me about it outright. We’ve hardly been on speaking terms, and you knew I wouldn’t tell you the poem. So you hired Zoltan to try to convince me Grandfather wanted to speak with me, to trick me into telling her what I know. You’ve always believed people can speak to the dead through mediums. You thought Zoltan could convince me. But she didn’t.”

  Savich said, “You knew Nate Elderby and your husband had a great deal of cash or bonds hidden away that they’d stolen in the early nineties. They shared everything, no doubt being in something criminal as well. Money like that would draw a great deal of attention, particularly to a congressman, so they knew they had to wait. They stashed it.

  “How much was it, Mrs. Clarkson? Fifty million? A hundred million? I wondered why your husband didn’t tell you, but it’s obvious he didn’t want you to have it. The question is why.

  “I found credit card records from Mr. Nathaniel Elderby registering as a guest at the Paulson Hotel in Richmond, a private boutique hotel in business since 1989. They continue to cater to the very wealthy who demand privacy. We tracked down the retired former manager of the Paulson. He recognized both you and Nate from photos taken of you in the nineties. And everything became clear. You and Nate were lovers, and you were at that hotel more than once. I believe Nate told you about the Big Take—probably pillow talk—until he caught himself. Then he met and fell in love with Miranda. He broke it off with you and married her. She was twenty-three years old, a knockout, and she worshiped him.”

  Gemma exploded with ancient pent-up rage. “That bastard told me he wouldn’t break up John’s marriage! He told me I was old, can you believe that? He said Miranda—that child—was perfect for him.” Her voice cut off like a spigot. She seamed her lips, stared through him.

  Savich continued without pause, without acknowledging what she’d said, “And then Nate decided he had to take his share of the money and leave the country with his new wife. I imagine he did plan to meet with John that day on Dawg Creek where they fished, perhaps to pick up the money. But he never got the chance.

  “You met him there yourself. You’d have made threats, I’m sure, and then you lost it, hit him on the head and threw him overboard, and no one ever knew, not even Miranda. Did John find out about the affair? Suspect you’d killed his best friend? Is that why he decided you’d never see a penny of that money?”

  Gemma slowly rose, flattened her hands on the desktop, and gave each of them a disgusted look. “I’ve been patient with you, but I will not listen to this absurd tale you’ve spun any longer. You’ve accused me of murdering Nate, with no proof whatsoever. Memories of a hotel manager from a picture taken twenty-five years ago? Is that your proof? My lawyers would have a field day with that.”

  Rebekah said slowly, “Do you know I was ready to believe Grandfather could have killed his best friend? I bitterly regret ever considering it, even for an instant.” She paused a moment, then the words burst out of her. “What I still don’t understand is why you hated me as far back as I can remember. I am your granddaughter. I am of your flesh. Why, Grandmother?”

  Gemma’s voice was vicious, filled with bitterness. “You stupid girl! You think your father was a young man who abandoned you and your mother, and she never even identified him to you? Didn’t you ever consider that odd? You never saw him, never heard his name? You’re an idiot. There never was a young man.”

  And then, finally, it all slid into place. Rebekah said slowly, “I never even wondered why Grandfather spent so much time with me. I thought all grandfathers were like him. I knew he loved me, knew he’d give his life for me, yes, but I never once thought he wasn’t my grandfather. But he wasn’t; he was my father. What happened? Your husband had his own affair, got his lover pregnant, and he asked his daughter, a footloose twenty-two-year-old, to pretend to be my mother, to raise me? It’s amazing she agreed. I wonder what he gave her to claim his baby as her own. No wonder she asked me to call her Caitlin and not Mother.” Rebekah started laughing, gasping for breath. “She’s my older sister. It’s all so clear now. You’re right, I am an idiot.” She hiccupped. “And there you were, considered by one and all, myself included, my grandmother. That must have burned you to the ground.”

  Gemma’s hands were fists. “I had to look at you, Johnny’s little princess, the pride of his benighted life. Do you know Caitlin told me she did love you like her daughter? She hadn’t wanted to, but she began to the moment she held you in her arms. And my husband
saw to it I’d never tell anyone the truth, certainly not you, or he’d ruin me.” Gemma straightened, up went her chin. “In the end, who cares? None of it matters now. Johnny, your precious father, is dead and gone. It was I who took very good care of him all those long years when he was nothing more than a rotting vegetable. As for the rest of it, I did not kill Nate. That’s absurd.” She leaned forward, her eyes hard on their faces. “Now, I want all of you to leave. Go make your accusations to the next person on your list. If you bother me again, I will call my lawyers and let them deal with you.”

  Rebekah said in a pleasant voice, “Sit down, you vicious harridan. I have more to say to you.”

  Gemma stiffened and stared at Rebekah, her mouth agape. “What could you possibly have to say to me, you worthless brat?” But she sat down.

  Rebekah smiled. “When I refused to tell Zoltan anything, did you hire those two men to kidnap me? Did you tell them to beat me until I told them the poem? Were you going to kill me after I told it to them?”

  Gemma shook her head. “Don’t be any more of a fool than you already are. I know nothing of your attempted kidnapping. I know nothing of any of this. As for you, Rebekah, I hope I never have to see your face again.” She leaned forward, stared hard at Rebekah. “Do you know, you look more like your real mother? I wonder if you’ll ever find the slut.”

  Rebekah actually smiled. “You want to know what scares me? You’re still officially my grandmother, and I’m still officially related to you.”

  No one moved. Rebekah said, “Do you know the poem Grandfather—Father—had me memorize? I have no idea what it means, none at all. Even if you’d succeeded, even if those thugs you hired had tortured me, there was nothing I could have told them.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not. So you see, this elaborate scheme of yours was for absolutely nothing at all.”

  Savich said, “Mrs. Clarkson, feel free to call your lawyers. You’re going to need them. We have Gary Duvall in custody, the thug you hired to shoot Zoltan. He isn’t talking now, but he has very little to lose and might save himself a return to a supermax prison if he does talk. I suspect we’ll be able to tie him to you in some way. What are the odds you’d be connected to two people who shot each other if you’re not involved?”

  Gemma threw back her head and laughed. “Oh my, do take any evidence you find to a federal attorney, and he can laugh along with me. I don’t know any Gary Duvall.”

  As they rode down in the elevator, Griffin sighed. “I really thought she’d incriminate herself, but we got nothing solid. The old bat is right, we need more.”

  Savich said as they stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, “You should go home, Rebekah. Call your husband, get him home, spend some downtime with him. You two have a lot to talk about. I have to admit, your grandmother surprised me with how unconcerned she seemed about Gary Duvall. Something isn’t right.” He threw his Porsche fob in the air, caught it, and started whistling as he walked with them to the parking lot.

  As Rebekah and Griffin watched him drive out in his beautiful red Porsche, she said, “Do you know what’s grand, Griffin? That hateful old woman isn’t really my grandmother. At last everything makes sense.” She paused by Griffin’s Range Rover. “And I don’t have to feel guilty about wanting to see her in jail.”

  55

  ST. LUMIS

  POLICE STATION

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  Pippa pumped her fist. “Halfway through the alumni list at MICA, and I finally found Jason Osbourne, now a commercial artist, who graduated with Ronald and knew both him and Marsia Gay. He remembered both of them made a good-size splash, lots of talent.” She sat back in her chair and grinned like a sinner. “And he said they were an item, a couple, in the year they were there together.”

  “Nailed it. Good, Cinelli.” Wilde sat back in his chair, rubbed his eyes. “After all those phone calls to the faculty at MICA without any luck, I thought that particular well might be dry. So let’s make the assumption the girlfriend at the cabin where Major Trumbo died was Marsia Gay. Then Mrs. Trumbo lied about not knowing her and she must have had a strong reason.

  “Let me ask you—do you think Ronald was the man who knocked you out, tied you up, and took your cell? And then drove to Washington and set fire to Savich and Sherlock’s house?”

  Pippa sat back in her chair, closed her eyes. She was tired, hyped, her brain still going a mile a minute. She cocked an eye at him and said through a yawn, “Makes sense.”

  Wilde pulled out his cell and punched in a number. “Call me a dolt. Ronald hasn’t been in Baltimore, but here in St. Lumis.” He said into his cell, “Davie, do you know Ronald Pomfrey, Mrs. Trumbo’s son?”

  Davie sounded out of breath. “Well, Chief, sure I know him, a nice enough guy, I guess, all into his art, does pictures on looms, real pretty. Then maybe something happened, I don’t know what, but he left St. Lumis. You weren’t here yet, so more than three years ago.”

  “Have you seen him recently? Here, in St. Lumis?”

  A moment of silence, then, “Now you mention it, I did catch sight of him Saturday in the middle of a knot of Halloween tourists. He was all bundled up, but I could tell it was him, even with his sunglasses on. He seemed to be in a hurry, so I didn’t speak to him.”

  Wilde felt his heart pound. Gotcha. “Thanks, Davie. You get the possum yesterday?”

  “Sure did. I took him out to the marshland and let him go. He wasn’t happy, but I figured he’d have a better chance of finding a girlfriend there than in Mrs. Gilly’s she-shed.”

  When Wilde laid his cell on top of his desk, Pippa was grinning. “So that places Ronald Pomfrey right here in town on Saturday. Let’s back up. Ronald and Marsia hooked up at MICA, and they were close enough that she went with him and his family to his cabin in the Poconos. After the major’s death, she appears to have gone her own way. Why? Because of what happened at that cabin?”

  Wilde was weaving a pen through his fingers, a longtime habit. “But how does that explain why Ronald would be willing to attack you and try to burn down an FBI agent’s house for her? Is it all about money? Dillon told me she has around seventy thousand dollars in her bank account, but you know her lawyer will eat up all that. So she wouldn’t have enough money to tempt Ronald into torching Savich’s house. Why would he turn into an arsonist for her?” He paused a moment, then, “Savich is certain Marsia Gay is behind the fire?”

  “Yes, he’s positive. She as good as admitted it to him.”

  Wilde said, “Then it all has to go back to the four of them at Ronald’s cabin. We found that community hospital about forty-five minutes away. An ambulance could have gotten to Major Trumbo and taken him to the ER or pronounced him dead at the cabin, which would have meant a doctor signed off on it. And that would have meant records, Cinelli. Why aren’t there records?”

  Pippa shrugged. “Maybe when they realized he was dead, they decided not to bother, took his body elsewhere.”

  “Maybe, but I’m hearing a drum banging, Cinelli. What if Major Trumbo didn’t die of a heart attack? Remember, both Mrs. Filly and Mrs. Trumbo said he was nasty, maybe an abuser.”

  Pippa straightened in her chair. “So you’re saying Mrs. Trumbo helped him to the hereafter? We’re talking murder then, Wilde. And Marsia Gay was there to see it.”

  56

  ST. LUMIS

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT

  At ten o’clock, Pippa and Wilde huddled close in the alley across the street from Major Trumbo’s B&B. Pippa whispered, “I’ve been texting with Dillon. He says Warden Putney at the D.C. Jail has refused Marsia any visitors or outgoing mail. Of course, he can’t prevent her from speaking to her lawyer, but the guards are keeping a close watch now. So far no attempt to pass a communication. I doubt the lawyer’s the conduit; he’d be putting his license and his own freedom at risk.”

  Wilde said, “Then she had to be using another prisoner, which could come back to bite her.”

&nb
sp; “Dillon also says Veronica Lake is still alive, but there’s not much hope she’ll make it. Veronica is the only direct witness against Marsia Gay, and if she dies, they might have to cut Marsia loose, or fail to convict her. That would be a nightmare for Dillon, after Sherlock and Sean nearly died in the fire. So we have to nail this down, Wilde. We have to.”

  “Did Savich run the thumbprint we collected at the abandoned grocery store?”

  “Yes, he did, but the thumbprint isn’t in the database. However, that won’t keep us from matching it to Ronald Pomfrey, if it’s his. But we have to find him first. Since a couple of agents at the Baltimore Field Office said he hasn’t shown up at his apartment, and he was here on Saturday, according to Davie, Savich agrees our staking out Mrs. Trumbo is our best shot at getting our hands on him.”

  Wilde stretched. “Either he’ll come tonight or she’ll go to him, wherever he is. And that, Cinelli, is why we’re out here in the cold. And if I’m wrong, we’ll be back here tomorrow night.”

  Pippa leaned closer. “Trouble is, if neither mother nor son moves tonight, we’ll freeze to death. My feet are cold and I’m even wearing those hiking socks you lent me. My toes aren’t toasty at all, so I guess you cheaped out, Wilde.”

  “Hey, watch your language. Those socks are Walmart’s best.”

  The minutes ticked by slow as syrup in the snow.

  Wilde said matter-of-factly, “My gut says he’s staying here. He knows St. Lumis. Even with you here, he’s safe enough since you didn’t see him clearly when he attacked you, even if he happened to bump into you, you wouldn’t recognize him. He doesn’t know we suspect him of anything yet.

  “And remember, Marsia Gay has been contacting him. Look, Pippa, even if he doesn’t come tonight, he will come eventually. He and his mother have to meet, talk over how to deal with what’s happening, how to deal with Marsia.”

  They saw a figure wrapped up in a dark full-length winter coat and high boots, a watch cap pulled down tight to cover most of his face. He looked furtively around the B&B and walked in through the kitchen door.