The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  He said, his voice once again brisk, “Yes, Lily, I selected you because you were the most vulnerable, the most easily manipulated. Most important, you were alone. When you moved to Hemlock Bay, I had Ian approach the Frasiers. Tell them, Ian.”

  “I played matchmaker,” Ian Jorgenson said and laughed. “It was infinitely satisfying when it all came together. I bought the Frasiers—simple as that. You married Tennyson, just as we planned, and his parents told him to convince you to have your Sarah Elliott paintings moved from Chicago to the Eureka Art Museum. And there our greedy Mr. Monk quickly fell in with our plans.”

  Simon said to the old man, “You managed to have four of them forged before I got wind of it.”

  Those brilliant blue eyes swung to Simon, but he sensed that the old man couldn’t see him all that clearly. “You meddled, Mr. Russo. You were the one who brought us down. You found out through your sources, all that valuable information sold to them by an expatriate friend of mine who betrayed me, and then it was sold to you. But that is not your concern. If she had not betrayed me, then I would have all your paintings now, and you, Lily, would be dead. I am not certain that would have been best.”

  “But now you’ll never get the other four,” Lily said. “They’re out of your reach. You won’t be hanging onto those you do have very long. Surely you know that.”

  “You think not, my dear?” The old man laughed, then said, still wheezing, “Come, I have something to show you.”

  Three long corridors and five minutes later, Lily and Simon stood motionless in a climate-controlled room, staring at fourteen-foot-high walls that were covered with Sarah Elliott paintings. The collection held at least a hundred fifty paintings, maybe more.

  Simon said as he stared at the paintings, slowly taking in their magnificence, “You couldn’t have bought this many Sarah Elliott paintings legally. You must have looted the museums of the world.”

  “When necessary. Not all that difficult, most of them. Imagination and perseverance. It’s taken me years, but I am a patient man. Just look at the results.”

  “And money,” Simon said.

  “Naturally,” Ian Jorgenson said.

  “But you can’t see them,” Lily said as she turned to look at Olaf Jorgenson. “You stole them because you have some sort of obsession with my grandmother, and you can’t even see them!”

  “I could see them all very well until about five years ago. Even now, though, I can see the graceful sweeps of her brush, shadows and sprays of color, the movement in the air itself. Her gift is unparalleled. I know each one as if I had painted it myself. I know how the subjects feel, the texture of the expressions on their faces. I can touch my fingers to a sky and feel the warmth of the sun and the wind caressing my hand. I know all of them. They are old friends. I live inside them; I am a part of them and they of me. I have been collecting them for some thirty years now. Since I want all of them before I die, it was time to turn to you, Lily. If I’d only known at the beginning that you were so like my Sarah, I wouldn’t have allowed those fools to try to kill you. Because you are resourceful, you saved yourself. I am grateful for that.”

  Lily looked down at the old man sitting in his wheelchair, a beautiful hand-knitted blue blanket covering his legs. He looked like a harmless old gentleman, in his pale blue cashmere sweater over a white silk shirt with a darker blue tie. She didn’t say anything. What was there to say, after all? It was crazy, all of it. And rather sad, she supposed, if one discounted the fact that he was perfectly willing to murder people who got in his way.

  She looked at the walls filled with so many of her grandmother’s paintings. All of them perfectly hung, grouped by the period in which they were painted. She had never seen such beauty in one room before in her life. It was her grandmother’s work as she had never seen it.

  She watched Simon walk slowly around the large room, studying each of the paintings, lightly touching his fingertips to some of them until he came to one that belonged to Lily. It was The Swan Song, Lily’s own favorite. The old man lying in the bed, that beatific smile on his face, the young girl staring at him.

  Olaf said, “That was the first one of yours I had copied, my dear. It was always my favorite. I knew it was at the Chicago Institute of Art, but I couldn’t get to it. It was frustrating.”

  Simon said, “So it was the first one you stole from the Eureka Museum.”

  “Nothing so dramatic,” Ian Jorgenson said, coming forward. He laid his hand lightly on his father’s shoulder. “Mr. Monk, the curator, was quite willing to have the painting copied. He simply gave it to our artist, replacing it with a rather poor, quickly executed copy until the real copy was finished. Then they were simply switched. No one noticed, of course. You know, Mr. Russo, I had hopes for you, at least initially. You yourself own a Sarah Elliott painting. I had hoped to convince you to join me, perhaps even to sell me your painting in return for a generous price and my offer of a financially rewarding partnership in some of my business ventures.”

  Ian looked toward Simon and his eyes narrowed, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly pleasant. “My father realized you wouldn’t agree after Nikki and Alpo described your behavior on the long trip over here. You were in no way conciliatory, Mr. Russo. Actually, my father’s desire to make use of you in his organization was the only reason we bothered to bring you to Sweden. My father wanted to test you.”

  “Give me a test,” Simon said. “Let’s just see what I would say.”

  “Actually, I was going to ask you to give me your Sarah Elliott painting, The Last Rites; it is one I greatly admire. In exchange, I would offer you your life and a chance to prove your value to me.”

  “I accept your offer, if, in return, you give Lily and me our freedom.”

  “It is just as I feared,” Olaf said and sighed. He nodded to his son.

  Ian looked at his hands, strong hands, and lightly buffed his fingernails on his cashmere sleeve. He said to Simon, “I look forward to killing you, Mr. Russo. I knew you could never be brought to our side, that you could never be trusted. You have interfered mightily.”

  Simon said, “You had your chance to get The Last Rites, Mr. Jorgenson. Freedom for Lily and me, but you turned it down. Let me promise you that you will never get that painting. When I die, it goes to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  Olaf said, “I do detest making mistakes in a person’s character. It is a pity, Mr. Russo.”

  Lily said to Ian, “Is it true that you have Rembrandt’s Night Watch aboard your yacht?”

  Ian Jorgenson raised a blond brow. “My, my, Mr. Russo has many tentacles, doesn’t he? Yes, my dear, I had it gently removed from the Rijksmuseum some ten years ago. It was rather difficult, actually. It was a gift to my wife, who died later that year. She was so pleased to look at it in her last days.”

  The old man laughed, then coughed. Nikki handed him a handkerchief, and he coughed into it. Lily thought she saw blood.

  Ian said, “As my father said, the Chicago Institute of Art is a difficult place, more difficult than even I wished to deal with. In the past ten years they’ve added many security measures that make removal of art pieces very challenging. But most important, my only contact, a curator there, lost his job five years ago. It was a pity. I didn’t know what to do until you moved to that ridiculous little town on the coast of California. This Hemlock Bay.”

  Olaf said, “My son and I spent many hours coming up with the right plan for you, Lily. Ian traveled to California, to Hemlock Bay. What a quaint and clever name. It was such a simple little town, generous and friendly to newcomers, such as you and your daughter, was it not? He liked the fresh salt air, the serenity of the endless stretches of beach and forest, the magnificent redwoods, and all those clever little roads and houses blended into the landscape. Who could imagine it would be so simple to find such perfect tools? The Frasiers—greedy, ambitious people—and here they had a son who would be perfect for you.”

  “Did they murder my daughter?
”

  26

  “You think the Frasiers killed your daughter?” Ian Jorgenson repeated, his voice indifferent. He shrugged. “Not that I know of.” Lily suddenly hated him.

  Olaf said, “I know you felt sorrow over your daughter’s death. But what does it matter to you now who is responsible?”

  “Whoever struck her down deserves to die for it.”

  “Killing them won’t bring back your little girl,” Ian said, frowning at her. “We, in Sweden, actually in most of Europe, do not believe in putting people to death. It is barbaric.”

  What is wrong with this picture? Simon wondered, staring at Ian Jorgenson.

  “No,” Lily said, “it won’t bring Beth back, but it would avenge her. No one who kills in cold blood should be allowed to continue breathing the same air I breathe.”

  “You are harsh,” said Olaf Jorgenson.

  “You are not harsh, sir? You, who order people murdered?”

  Olaf Jorgenson laughed, a low, wheezy sound thick with phlegm, perhaps with blood.

  “No, I always do only what is necessary, nothing more. Vengeance is for amateurs. Now, you do not have to wonder again if the Frasiers killed your daughter. They did not. They told me that they’d been concerned because your daughter, by ill chance, had seen some e-mails on Mr. Frasier’s computer, communications that she shouldn’t have seen. They, of course, assured the child that the messages were nonsense, nothing important, nothing to even think about.”

  So that was why Beth had been moody, withdrawn, that last week. Why hadn’t her daughter come to her, told her, at least asked her about what she had seen? But she hadn’t, and then she’d been killed.

  Olaf Jorgenson continued, “I understand it was an accident, one of your American drunk drivers who was too afraid to stop and see what he’d done.”

  Lily felt tears clog her throat. She’d happily left Chicago and Jack Crane and moved to a charming coastal town. She couldn’t believe what it had brought them.

  Simon took her hand, squeezed her fingers. He knew she was feeling swamped with the memories of her loss and despair. She raised her head to look at Olaf Jorgenson and said, “What do you intend to do with us?”

  “You, my dear, I will have painted by a very talented artist whom I’ve worked well with over the years. As for Mr. Russo here, as I said, I hold no hope now of bringing him into my fold. He is much too inflexible in his moral code. It is not worth the risk. Also, he seems taken with you, and I can’t have that. Isn’t that interesting? You’ve known each other for such a short time.”

  “He just wants to be my consultant,” Lily said.

  Simon smiled.

  “He wants you in bed,” Ian said. “Or maybe you’re already lovers and that’s why he’s helping you.”

  “Don’t be crude,” Olaf said, frowning toward his son, then added, “Yes, I fear that Mr. Russo must take a nice, long boat ride with Alpo and Nikki here. We still have two lovely canals left from those built back in the early seventeenth century by our magnificent Gustav. Yes, Mr. Russo, you and my men here will visit one of the canals this very night. It’s getting cold now, not many people will be about at midnight.”

  Simon said, “I can’t say I find that an appealing way to spend the evening. What do you intend to do with the Frasiers?”

  Olaf Jorgenson said to Lily, not to Simon, “At the moment they are my honored guests. They accompanied you here since they knew they could not remain in California. Your law enforcement, and so on. They expect to receive a lot of money from me. In addition, Mr. Frasier already has very nice bank accounts in Switzerland. They are prepared to spend the rest of their lives living very nicely in the south of France, I believe they said.”

  Lily said, “After you’ve painted me, then what will happen?”

  He smiled then, showing her his very beautiful white teeth, likely false. “Yes, yes, I know I am an old man, but I do not have much longer to live. I want you with me until it is my time. I was hoping, perhaps, that you would see some advantage in marrying me.”

  “Oh, is that why I’m wearing white? To put me in the mood?”

  “You want manners,” Ian said. He was angry, she could see it as he stepped toward her only to stop when he felt his father’s hand on his forearm. Ian shook off his father’s hand and said, “She is disrespectful. She needs to see what an honor it would be to be your wife!”

  Olaf only shook his head. He even smiled again as he said to Lily, “No, my dear, you are wearing white because that is a copy of the dress I last saw your grandmother wearing in Paris. It was the day she left with Emerson Elliott. The day I believed my world had collapsed.”

  “You are good at copies, aren’t you?” Lily said. “I am not my grandmother, you foolish old man.”

  Ian struck her across the face. Simon didn’t say a word, just hurled himself at Ian Jorgenson, slamming his fist into his jaw, then whirled back and kicked him in the kidney.

  “Stop!” It was Nikki and he’d pulled a gun that was aimed at Simon.

  Simon gave him a brief bow, straightened his shirt, and walked away.

  Ian slowly raised himself to his feet, grimacing in pain. “I will go with Nikki and Alpo this evening. I will be the one to kill you.”

  “All this,” Simon said, marveling as he turned to Olaf Jorgenson, “and you raised a coward, too.”

  Lily lightly placed her hand on Simon’s arm. She was terrified.

  She said to Olaf, “Even if I found you remotely acceptable in matrimonial terms, sir, I couldn’t marry you. I’m married to Tennyson Frasier.”

  The old man was silent.

  “I don’t ever wish to marry again, at least until I’ve seriously reconsidered my criteria. I don’t think there’s any way in the world that you would ever fit them. I’m married anyway, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Still the old man was silent, thoughtfully looking at her. Then he slowly nodded. He said, “I will be back shortly.”

  “What are you going to do, Father?”

  “I do not believe in bigamy. It is immoral. I’m going to make Lily a widow. Nikki, take me to my library.” As Nikki wheeled him out of the huge room, Lily and Simon saw him pull a small, thick black book from his sweater pocket. They watched him thumb through it as he disappeared from their view.

  “He’s completely mad,” Lily whispered.

  Washington, D.C.

  Savich walked through the front door of his home, hugged his wife, kissed her, and said, “Where’s Sean?”

  “At your mom’s house—babbling, gumming everything in sight, and happy. I left your mom a two-box supply of graham crackers.”

  Savich was too tired, too depressed to smile. He raised an eyebrow in question.

  She said, without preamble, “Both the Bureau and I agree with your plan. Tammy wants you, Dillon. She’s focused on you. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that she will come here. I took Sean to your mother’s because we don’t want him in harm’s way.

  “Right before you got home, Jimmy Maitland issued a statement to the media that you were no longer the lead investigator in the manhunt for Tammy Tuttle. Aaron Briggs has replaced you as the lead. He said you were urgently needed to gather vital evidence in the Wilbur Wright case, the cult leader responsible for the heinous murders of a sheriff and two deputies in Flowers, Texas. You’re traveling to Texas on Friday to begin working with local law enforcement.”

  He hugged her close and said against her hair, “You and Mr. Maitland got it done really fast. So I’m to leave on Friday? Today is Tuesday.”

  “Yes. It gives Tammy plenty of time to get here.”

  “Yes, it does.” Savich streaked his fingers through his hair, making it stand straight up. “Have you got Gabriella safely stashed away?”

  “Actually, she’s at your mom’s house during the day. Both of them are safe. She said she doesn’t want to miss a single step that Sean takes.”

  But Sean’s parents were missing his first steps, Savich thought
. He felt brittle with rage, bowed with his failure.

  He said finally, knowing that she wouldn’t like or accept it, “She’s scary, Sherlock. I don’t want her near you, either.”

  She nodded slowly as she stepped against him, pressing her face to his neck. “I know, Dillon, but I couldn’t think of anything else. Jimmy Maitland told me you’d balk because of me and Sean, and I knew I couldn’t allow that. Now we’ve gotten both Gabriella and Sean to safety. Don’t even think you can send me away. We’re in this together, we always have been, and we’re going to get her. We have the advantage here because we control the scene. We can act and plan, we can be ready for her, not just wait to react to something she does.”

  He held her tightly. He wondered if she could smell his fear, there was such a huge well of it. Savich kissed her and hugged her until she squeaked. “We’ve got to be ready for her, Sherlock, and I’ve got some ideas about that. I’ve been thinking about this for a good while now.”

  “Like what?” she asked, pulling back, looking up at him.

  “She has the power to create illusions, to make people see what she wants them to see. Whether it’s some kind of magician’s trick or a strange ability that’s inside her sick brain, the end result is the same.”

  He let her go and began pacing. He looked at his grandmother’s painting over the fireplace, then turned and said, “You believe that she can’t fool me if I’m close enough to her. If we can get her here in the house, I’ll be close enough.”

  He came back to her, smiled down at her while he ran his fingers through her curly hair.