Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

by Catherine Coulter

  She walked through a swinging door into a huge back storeroom with the restrooms to the right and row after row of heavy metal racks filled with stock straight ahead. Blessed was so close he was nearly pressed against her back. He said, “She made me promise to find a wife for myself.”

  He was talking without her questioning him, but why? And then she realized he was completely alone. Blessed had no one else to talk to, no one who knew him or had any kind of tie to his life before.

  Sherlock saw a lone clerk off to her left, some ten or so feet away, a clipboard in his hand, counting cans of pork and beans. He paid no attention to them.

  “Look at that!”

  The gun jerked.

  Sherlock grabbed the corner of one of the metal storage racks and jerked it forward with all her strength.

  It teetered, sending cans and boxes tumbling off, raining down on both of them, but the huge structure didn’t fall.

  “No more of that! Walk, you bitch,” and he shoved her forward with her Glock.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You shouldn’t be in here.” The clerk with the clipboard was marching toward him, his anger giving way to fear when he saw the gun.

  Sherlock grabbed a can of okra and hurled it at Blessed. It struck him hard on the forehead at the same time he fired at her. The bullet went wide, tore through a big box of oatmeal and slammed deep into a concrete wall. The sound was deafening. She slipped around the storage rack for cover, yelling at the clerk, “Get out now!” She heard him yell again as he ran toward the swinging doors. She whirled about and peeked between boxes of soap to see Blessed. What she saw was an old woman leaning back against a storage rack, holding her head. And over her tatty gray crocheted sweater covering a lacy blouse, baggy flowered skirt, and sneakers, she was wearing a camel wool coat.

  An old man peered out of the unisex restroom. She yelled, “Get back inside and lock the door!” Blessed, still shaking his head, jerked toward the man, but the man moved fast, the door slamming loud as Blessed fired two bullets, one of them hitting the bathroom door dead center. She heard the old man yell, not in pain, thank heavens, heard the clerk yelling back in the store. She grabbed a can of creamed corn, hurled it at Blessed, smacking him in the middle of his back. Blessed stumbled and jerked about to face her, his old woman’s seamed face tight with fury.

  She was in big trouble. She grabbed another can and hurled it at him as he charged toward her and fired.

  Sherlock dropped to her knees and rolled as he fired. He missed her. She jumped to her feet, grabbed the corner of a storage rack and pulled hard. Cans and boxes hurled outward, slowly at first, then in an avalanche, striking the bare concrete floor like claps of thunder and pelting the goods on the rack opposite. Bags of candy rained down on her. She heard yells and shouts from people outside the storeroom. She gave another final jerk to the storage rack, and the huge metal rack fell over, smacked hard against the rack next to it. She heard a low rumble, then saw the next rack topple, and the next one, a domino effect. She dropped to the floor as each of the great racks unbalanced the next, and one by one the racks went over. The noise was deafening, even louder than the bullets in the closed space. She tried to scramble away, but the floor was covered with rolling cans and she couldn’t gain purchase. It hurt, slipping and sliding over the rolling cans.

  She heard Dillon’s voice above the din of shouts.

  She’d lost sight of Blessed. But she thought she heard him now, a low, feral cry, harsh breathing, and then she saw the exit door open and close and knew he was gone. Before she could call out to Dillon, she fell on her face among the still-moving sea of canned goods, and smashed her temple against a fallen metal rack.

  She shook her head to clear it. She had to get out of there or she’d be crushed. She felt hands pulling her up, felt pain from her fall, but at last she was free. Savich drew her against him and they picked their way carefully through the ruins of the storeroom and out the swinging door. A lone rolling can of pineapple struck his foot and he nearly went over, but he never let go of her. They walked right past the store manager, who stood staring helplessly through the storeroom doorway, blank-faced with shock at the devastation.

  When they were back to safety, his hands were all over her, feeling and pressing every inch of her. “Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “I’m okay. A rack got me against the temple, so I’m a bit woozy. Blessed, do you see him?”

  He stared at her. “Blessed? No, of course not. He couldn’t have gotten past me.”

  “Did you see a little old lady? Sort of bent over, walking with a cane? A camel coat? With a woman and kids?”

  He cursed. She was so surprised she stepped onto a can of tomato paste and went down. Before she landed on her back, Savich lifted her under her armpits and pulled her up. People crowded in on them, everyone talking at once. Several more cans rolled out of the storeroom and down aisle five, where they were picked up by startled customers.

  Savich said, “Is he in there somewhere?”

  “He went out the rear exit. Said he had a stolen Kia waiting.”

  They ran out of the store and around to the back door, but Blessed and his stolen car were gone.

  “He’ll switch cars, fast,” Sherlock said.

  A dozen customers had called 911, and cops were soon swarming all over the store. Before they were pulled into endless interviews, Sherlock called in the Kia and Blessed’s description herself.

  It took time to deal with the police, the manager, the customers. Too much time. It was twenty minutes before Savich could start a grid search around Metzer’s Grocers, looking for Blessed in a stolen Kia.

  Natalie Black’s house

  Thursday afternoon

  Carlos Acosta could be anywhere, even back in El Salvador.”

  Conversation died, and everyone turned to stare at Natalie. She continued. “I hope he ran because he knew you were looking for him. I hope they didn’t kill him. And all for some stupid graffiti!” She looked ineffably sad, her shoulders slumped, her head down. Then anger took over, and she smashed her hand against the back of a chair. “Who are ‘they’? Who could have coerced Carlos into writing that message, and probably destroying Perry’s motorcycle?”

  Perry said, “I can’t imagine killing the delivery boy, namely Carlos, without a reason for it.”

  “There’s always a reason,” Hooley said, “unless these people are psychopaths, then the sky’s the limit.”

  Davis said calmly, “If he’s dead, then that would mean he found out who they are. They couldn’t risk his telling the police what he knew. Who knows? Maybe Carlos decided to try some blackmail.”

  Perry jumped to her feet and started pacing the living room. Davis watched her for a moment, then said, “I spoke to Savich. He and Sherlock are up to their eyebrows with another case. Some lunatic they arrested last year tried to kill Sherlock in a grocery store, of all places, but they’re both all right. They’re looking for the bozo, and will be out for a while.”

  He shot a look toward Hooley. “It’s you and me for a while, Beef.”

  Hooley flexed his big hands and gave him a ferocious grin, nodded to Connie. “The three of us.”

  Perry dusted off her jeans. “You three and the rest of us,” she said, and patted the Kimber, still on her belt. She stopped talking because Davis was no longer paying any attention to her. He was looking down at his cell. He raised dazed and disbelieving eyes to her face.

  Natalie stood halfway up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He said, his voice outraged, “Got a text from the CAU. Your daughter reported today that Tebow’s got a girlfriend and she didn’t tell me about it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hooley said, blinking. “No, really, it’s true? Tebow fell?”

  “Tell you? She didn’t tell her own mother,” Natalie said.

  Connie Mendez called out from the living room doorway. “Mrs. Black, you have a visitor. I believe it’s the secreta
ry of state.”

  “Oh, dear, I forgot Arliss was coming. Okay, all of you, out. No, stay here. I’d like her to meet you. Then she and I will speak in my study.”

  Davis turned to see Secretary of State Arliss Abbott enter the room. She was dressed in a business suit that shouted boardroom and designer, and she was eyeing all of them, an elegant eyebrow raised. “A party, Natalie? And I wasn’t invited?”

  “Anyone who dresses as elegantly as you is always invited,” Natalie said, smiling as she walked to her. “Good afternoon, Madame Secretary.”

  Arliss Abbott smiled at her longtime friend, nodded, greeted Perry, Connie, Hooley, and Davis with great charm. No one mentioned Carlos Acosta or Tebow’s girlfriend.

  A few minutes later, the two women were alone in Natalie’s study, each with a cup of Earl Grey. They made quite a pair, Natalie thought, with Arliss dressed to kill and she herself in casual slacks, a gun clipped at her waist. Arliss looked tired—wrung out, really—and Natalie felt guilty because she knew she was primarily to blame.

  Arliss said, “It’s been too long since we really talked, Natalie. I’m sorry for that.”

  Natalie said, her voice calm, steady, “You know I understand. Now, you’re here to tell me Thorn has determined I’m to resign, aren’t you?”

  Arliss very slowly lowered her lovely Meissen cup to its saucer. “Thorn refuses to ask you to resign.”

  Natalie sat back. “I was certain that by now he would realize he didn’t have a choice but to cut me loose. You know as well as I do that in politics and in business, personal feelings count for nothing, at least not for long. He’s the president. Events are spiraling out of control, like a tidal wave gathering force and speed. Surely it would be a relief to put all this behind him—and you as well. I don’t understand his thinking.”

  Arliss sighed. “Thorn said, and I quote, ‘Natalie has never lied about anything. If she said she didn’t break it off with George McCallum, then she didn’t. If she said a car tried to force her off a road in England, then it did. Well, I’ve got to amend that. I do know of one white lie—that was to Perry when she was twelve, I think, about sex.’ He grinned that famous grin of his, unrepentant, because he told me the First Lady had lied to their own daughter about the same thing, just last year.”

  It sounded like him. She knew their friendship was bone-deep. She felt abiding gratitude to Thornton Gilbert. But she didn’t want him to suffer for this mess, her mess. “Am I hurting him, Arliss? You? The party?”

  Arliss looked her straight in the eye. “Unfortunately, yes. You know how much I hate saying this. As your friend, as someone who’s known you as long as Thorn has, as someone who’d like to support you to the death—” She shrugged. “I can’t. I’m sure if you put aside your own wishes, it would be clear to you that Thorn is not acting in his own best interest.

  “You’re underestimating the situation, Natalie, you’re not seeing how devastating the decisions you’ve made and their consequences have become. His enemies in the press use every opportunity to undermine him, and us. They’re starting to bray already about his straining our strong ties with our most important ally for the sake of a personal friend. They’re accusing him of carrying friendship too far, and why is that? They’re still stopping short of saying you and Thorn had sex in college and maybe even now are conducting an affair, but it could come. They’re hinting at a cover-up, laying out all sorts of scenarios.

  “They’ll be digging into your past, Natalie, all the way back to college. As I said, they would be delighted to find someone who claims you slept with him. Tell me the truth, did you ever have sex with Thorn?”

  Natalie was amazed. Arliss, of all people, should have known that Brundage had been the only boy she’d ever wanted, the only man she’d ever loved. But had others wondered if she’d had sex with Thorn? She’d known, of course, that he’d cared for her back then, but he and Brundage had been best friends, and nothing was ever said about it. If it had, Brundage had never told her. Thorn and Brundage had remained friends until Brundage had died. Natalie remembered how pleased she and Brundage had been when Thornton finally married in his late thirties. He picked a lovely woman, and now First Lady, who’d proved to be a huge political asset, a nice bonus, he’d once told her and Brundage. She kept her voice calm and steady. “No, Thorn and I never had sex, nor would I have ever considered it. It was a long time ago, ancient history. I’m sure Thorn got over his feelings for me very quickly.”

  “Not all that quickly, given he didn’t marry until his late thirties. But that would mean the feelings were all on his side, wouldn’t it, and not on yours?”

  Natalie nodded; her voice became brisk. “Arliss, I want the truth to come out. Really, that’s all I want.”

  “Perhaps that would happen in a perfect world, Natalie, but Scotland Yard investigated George McCallum’s death. I understand they’re looking into it again at the behest of the FBI. From what I’ve been told, there was nothing more found to change their ruling of accidental death, if a ruling made because of his family and because he was a peer of the realm, otherwise, a probable suicide.

  “They also investigated your claim that someone tried to run you off a cliff. They couldn’t find any evidence to support your claim, the first time and again when the FBI asked them to look into it again. So there’s nothing new in either case.”

  All true, Natalie thought. Natalie didn’t want to accept what she saw on her friend’s face. She said slowly, as she studied Arliss, “Do you believe me, Arliss, about all of this? Because if you told me someone was trying to kill you, I would believe you, no matter what anyone said.”

  Arliss cocked her head to one side, sending her chic bob sliding across her cheek. “Of course I believe you, Natalie. But don’t you see? What I believe simply isn’t relevant; it doesn’t matter. What matters is what the public believes. Since no one was there with you to verify what you said, since there was no evidence to back up your claims, you know the public leap toward the titillating, the scandalous.”

  Natalie saw a high, thick brick wall rising in front of Arliss’s face, and knew she would never scale it. Still she couldn’t help herself, she had to try. “Since you believe me, Arliss, I will tell you that someone tried to kill me again last week. They tried to run me over while I was jogging in Buckner Park.”

  The Meissen teacup rattled. Arliss stared at her, shaking her head. “Oh, Natalie, no, that’s horrible. But you weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “I was lucky” was all Natalie said. She didn’t want to go through it again, didn’t want to feel the same fear, the same hot rage. Did Arliss believe her?

  Arliss set her cup and saucer down on the beautiful Regency end table, once again poised and calm. “Thank heavens you’re all right. There hasn’t been anything in the press. Did you make a police report?”

  “I wasn’t about to do that again, not without proof. Only you and the FBI know, and my own staff, of course.”

  “How did you manage to get the FBI involved?”

  Natalie smiled. “It was happenstance. I believe if anyone has a chance of discovering the truth, it’ll be Agent Sullivan and Agent Savich.”

  “It’s also wise that you’ve hired bodyguards,” Arliss said. She looked at the Walther. “Though you’re carrying that pistol on your belt.” She took Natalie’s hand, squeezed it. “Natalie, what you’re doing, it’s smart, it’s what I’d do in your place. You know I’ll have to tell the president about this.”

  “Good. I want him to know.”

  Arliss leaned toward her again and lightly laid her hand on Natalie’s arm. “I am so sorry this is happening to you, but you must keep in mind that Thorn has immense responsibilities, not only to you, but to a great many other people he cares for, and of course to his office. He has to make his decisions based on political realities, not on what he thought of a twenty-year-old girl at Yale.

  “He is the president; it is not my role to dictate to him, but surely you see that you must ta
ke the decision out of his hands.”

  Arliss sat back in her chair again. She studied Natalie’s face, then said, “Do not wait for Thorn to ask for your resignation. I think you should offer me your resignation right now. It’s best for Thorn, you know it is, and best for the country, and perhaps it’s also the best for you.”

  But it’s not best for me! It’s not right, not fair!

  “Are you saying you think the attempts on my life will stop if I resign?”

  Arliss slowly rose. “I don’t know, Natalie, but listen to me. We’ve been friends since the ark landed. I remember those years we spent together at college as the best years of my life. What I’ve had to say today doesn’t change that. What we’re facing is a political imperative, and politics, as you know, is never fair. I can see you’re not ready, that you’ll have to think about this. Take a couple of days, but no longer. I will expect to hear from you on Saturday, all right? My private cell is still the same.”

  She turned and left Natalie in her study, her heels sounding sharply on the marble tiles.

  Georgetown

  Thursday, late afternoon

  Savich and Sherlock spotted the stolen Kia on a quiet residential street six blocks from Metzer’s Grocers, neatly parked between two big SUVs. Savich called it in. He was certain there’d be no fingerprints. Blessed had never been stupid.

  “Blessed is long gone,” Sherlock said. “I’ll bet when Ben Raven’s people canvass the neighborhood, they’ll find another car’s been stolen close by. I forgot to tell you, Blessed mentioned a man he called a bum. We need to check with Ben, see if they’ve found a homeless person murdered very recently either here in Washington or in Atlanta.” She mumbled something under her breath and looked like she wanted to holler.

  “What?”

  She shook her head at herself. “Blessed got my Glock. I can’t tell you how angry I am about that.”

  “The first rule is to stay alive. I’d say what you did was brilliant. Forget the Glock.”