The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Albia arrived two hours later, sweeping into her room, two nurses behind her, not to chastise, but to bow and scrape and give her anything she asked for. Albia had that effect on people. She was a princess, well, perhaps now that she was in her fifties, she was a queen. She was regal. She was so self-confident, so self-assured, that sometimes even John would back down in the face of a single word from his sister’s mouth. She had been his hostess before he married Cleo, and then after she ran off with Tod Gambol. She was an excellent campaigner. It was rare that a reporter would ever ask her an impertinent question.

  “Albia,” Nicola said.

  Albia Rothman leaned down, kissed Nicola’s cheek. “Poor little girl,” she said. “This is so awful. I’m so very sorry.” She ran her finger over Nicola’s cheek.

  “It was hardly your fault, Albia.”

  “That doesn’t lessen my being sorry that it happened during my birthday dinner.”

  “Thank you.”

  Albia straightened, walked to the window, and looked out toward Lake Michigan. “This is a very nice room. John didn’t even have to insist. You were brought here right after they released you from the emergency room.” She looked at Nicola, then away again. Albia was a very tactile person, and now she was running her hand over the drapes, less institutional than in most of the rooms that had drapes, but still.

  “I’ve had food poisoning before, Albia. This wasn’t like that other time.”

  A sleek eyebrow went up a good inch. “Oh? How very odd. I suppose this sort of thing can affect a person in different ways.”

  “I’m just having trouble understanding what I ate that could have caused it.”

  “I see. Do you wish to pursue it any further then?”

  Nicola wanted to pursue it all the way to the moon, if necessary, but she knew when something simply wasn’t possible. She shook her head.

  Albia pulled a chair close to Nicola’s bed and sat down. She crossed her legs, quite lovely legs, sheathed in stockings and three-inch black Chanel heels.

  “John tells me that he wants to marry you as soon as possible. He reminded me about that car that almost hit you, and now this. He wants you safe and sound, and to a man—to John—that means you’re in his house, in his bed, and he’s looking after you. When he’s there, that is.”

  And Nicola said, without hesitation, “I don’t know, Albia. I don’t think I’m ready to rush things.”

  “What is this? John is an excellent catch. He has more women chasing him—both here and in Washington—and he is charming to all of them, but it’s you he wants. And that is a miracle, to my mind.”

  “A miracle? Why?”

  “He loved Cleo so very much, loved her nearly to the point of obsession. When she ran away, I thought he would simply shut down he was so devastated. I was very worried about him, for months on end.”

  “I remember. I felt so very sorry for him, all of the staff did as well as the volunteers.” Nicola remembered how stoic he appeared whenever anyone mentioned his wife’s name, how stiff and remote he became.

  Albia said, shaking her head, her voice incredulous, “To think that Cleo actually ran off with Tod Gambol. Sure, he was something of a hunk, a lot younger than John, but for her to want him more than John, well, it still doesn’t seem possible to me.”

  “I wonder where they are,” Nicola said. “It’s been three years and still no word?”

  “No, not a thing. I’ll never forget how he met her. He was taking one of his very rare vacations, a long weekend really, and she was there at the hotel, some sort of manager, and there was the fire in his room and she came to apologize. And, well, they were married one week later. I was very surprised, as was the rest of the world. They kept it all very private.”

  “They were together for five years,” Nicola said, remembering Cleo Rothman’s voice, her incredible talent for organization and management. The staff had loved her.

  She said, “I remember wondering why John hadn’t married until he was, what? Nearly forty?”

  “That’s right. He and Cleo were married when he had just turned thirty-nine. Didn’t he tell you? Well, he fell in love with a girl in college—this was at Columbia. Her name was Melissa and they were going to get married when they graduated. Our father was against it, of course, because John’s life was planned out for him, and that included three years of law school, and a nice long wait until our father could find him the right sort of wife, you know what I mean, but John didn’t care. He wanted Melissa and he wasn’t going to wait.”

  “What happened?”

  “She died in an auto accident at the end of her senior year. John was distraught, didn’t recover for quite a number of years. Actually, I don’t think he recovered until he met Cleo. But look, Nicola, it’s only been three years, and he wants to marry you. That is a miracle. He is very much in love with you, don’t you think?”

  “So much tragedy,” Nicola said, aware that she wanted to cry, that her throat hurt so badly she didn’t think she could speak another word. She was so hungry she wanted to gnaw her own elbow. She wanted to get out of there, she wanted to go home and curl up in her own bed. And she didn’t want anyone at all to come into her condo and see her naked in the bathroom.

  “I’m so tired, Albia. I believe they’re going to release me soon.”

  Albia rose. “Yes, I’ve taken care of it. If you’d like to dress now, I’ll take you right home.”

  “Thank you. I would like that very much. But, Albia, I want to go to my own place. I’m just not ready to move in with John.”

  NINETEEN

  BEAR LAKE, CALIFORNIA

  Dane had volunteered to drive the two hours up to Bear Lake to see what they could find out about Weldon DeLoach from the staff and, they hoped, from his elderly father. “Hey, maybe,” Flynn had said, “old Weldon will be hiding in one of the rest home’s closets.”

  Dane pulled onto the freeway, then turned to Nick. “I forgot to tell you. Flynn got a search warrant and went over to Weldon’s house. Unfortunately they didn’t find anything to either implicate DeLoach or give a clue as to his whereabouts. And just before we left, Delion checked in with Lieutenant Purcell. They haven’t caught up with Stuckey yet, so we have no gun. There wasn’t anything in Milton McGuffey’s apartment either that gives us a clue to the man who called Stuckey. But it’s early days yet.”

  She nodded, stared down a moment at her clasped hands. She had a jagged fingernail and began worrying it. “I wanted to tell you that I was really sorry I couldn’t be with you at the cemetery. I wanted to say good-bye to Father Michael Joseph, too, but they rushed me off so fast I didn’t have a chance to speak to you about it.”

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t come, too. At least the media didn’t catch up with you. But you can bet some enterprising souls are trying their best to put this all together. Something will leak soon from the studios, if it hasn’t already. Then it’s going to be really rough, with you at the epicenter.”

  She looked, quite simply, terrified.

  Dane, impatient, said, “Look, Nick, you know this is an international story. For God’s sake, you’re the eyewitness to my brother’s murder.”

  “Not really. I haven’t been any help at all.”

  “We’ll see. Now, the media thing. It’s going to happen. You really need to reconsider telling me what’s going on with you.”

  “No, I don’t.” She still hadn’t come to a decision about what to do. She knew she couldn’t be a homeless person forever; it wasn’t any sort of solution at all, but what she would do, she just didn’t know yet. “You made a deal. Keep your questions to yourself.”

  He shrugged, and she knew he was irritated, probably more than irritated. He changed lanes to avoid being stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler. He looked over at her, his expression serious. “I’m sorry, but the shit will hit the fan. It’s coming. Okay, no more questions, but when you’re ready to tell me, just let me know.”

  She said nothing, just stared at the das
hboard.

  “I want to thank you, Nick, for the way you’ve stuck with me over the last days. It’s—it’s been difficult, and you really helped me.”

  She nodded. “It’s hard to believe that so little time has passed. It’s been very hard for you.”

  “Yes.” He was silent, to keep control. Damnation, it was so hard. He said, “It’s been difficult for you as well.”

  She said, surprising him, “I remember when my father died—it was in a hunting accident—some idiot took him for a deer up in northern Michigan. Death like that, so sudden, so unexpected, you just can’t figure out how to deal with it.”

  “Yes,” Dane said, eyes on the road in front of him. “I know. How old were you when your dad died?”

  “Nearly twenty-two. It was really bad because my mom had died just two years before. Sure, I had lots of friends, but it’s just not the same thing.”

  He said slowly, “I never really thought of you as a friend.”

  She felt a punch of hurt at his words. “I would have thought that we’ve been through enough to be friends, haven’t we?”

  “You misunderstand me,” Dane said. “No, I didn’t think of you as a friend precisely, I thought of you as someone who was there for me, who understood, someone important.”

  She was silent for a moment, but to Dane it seemed an aeon had passed before she said, “Maybe I agree with you.”

  Dane smiled as he slowed for a car coming onto the freeway. “Hey, you got any relatives at all?”

  “Yes, two younger brothers, both Air Force pilots. They’re in Europe. All these questions. Are you trying to trip me up? Is this one of your famous FBI strategies to make a perp spill her guts?”

  “Nah. If I wanted to interrogate you, I’d be so subtle, so consummately skilled that you wouldn’t even be aware of what I was doing.”

  “I’ve also got two uncles who drill for oil in Alaska.”

  “I’m sorry about your folks.”

  “Thank you. I think they were both surprised when I ended up with a Ph.—Well, that’s not important.”

  Yeah, right, he thought. “What do you think of Savich and Sherlock?”

  “Sherlock showed me a photo of Sean. He’s adorable.”

  “Sean is nearly a year old now, running all over the place, jabbering a language that Savich claims is an advanced code used in rocket science. I’m Uncle Dane, only it doesn’t come out that way.”

  “They’ve been here less than twenty-four hours—it’s like I’ve known them for much, much longer. Sort of like you, only not exactly.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “How long have you been an FBI agent?”

  “Six years now. I came out of law school, went to a big firm, and hated it. I knew what I wanted to do.”

  “A lawyer. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “You mean I don’t look slimy?”

  “Close enough.” A lawyer, that was all she needed. Both a lawyer and an FBI agent. She’d nearly spilled the beans about her Ph.D. It looked like he didn’t even need to exert himself particularly to get information out of her.

  Nick didn’t tell him anything more about herself, eventually just looked out her window at the passing vegetation that was getting greener as they gained altitude.

  They finally arrived at Bear Lake. Set amid groves of pine trees, up a beautiful long sloping lawn that stretched up about fifty yards from Bear Lake, was a lovely old two-story building of weathered wood, each room featuring glass doors and a small terrace that gave onto the lake. There were several piers that went some fifty feet out into the calm blue water, where half a dozen canoes and several powerboats were tied up. Lovely white-painted chairs and benches were scattered over the manicured lawn. But it was winter, and even though it was in the high fifties today, no one was outside to appreciate it.

  They left their rented cherry-red Pontiac Grand Am in a small parking lot set amid a grouping of pine trees and walked on a flagstone path to the discreet entrance. Nick looked up at the crystal-clear sky, at the cumulus clouds that were sweeping lazily overhead. She turned a moment to look at Bear Lake glistening beneath a noonday sun, snow glinting on the peaks in the distance. There was only a light spray of snow around Bear Lake.

  Nick stood still a moment, staring out toward the lake. It was as still as a postcard. She said, “I think this is a beautiful place, but somehow, I don’t know why, I just don’t like it.”

  She turned, sped up, and entered the double glass doors, which led into a large lobby. In the center was a large wooden counter with offices behind it.

  Behind the counter stood a stout woman with curly black hair and a very pretty smile. The name on her tag read Velvet Weaver. With the thin black mustache over her upper lip, she didn’t look much like a Velvet.

  Dane introduced both himself and Nick, showed her his FBI shield.

  “Oh dear, I hope there’s nothing wrong.”

  “This is just routine, Ms. Weaver,” Dane said easily. “Just a couple of questions we hope you can help us with. Could you please tell us about one of your patient’s sons, a Mr. Weldon DeLoach?”

  Velvet nodded. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. Yes, a lovely man, Mr. DeLoach, a wonderful son. You know, he’s this big TV writer in Hollywood and so it’s only the best for his father.”

  “Is Mr. Weldon DeLoach here right now? Visiting with his father?”

  “Oh no, Agent Carver, Weldon hasn’t been here for a week, at least not that I know of. Of course, he could have visited when I wasn’t on duty. I’ll ask around for you. I was wondering just the other day when he was coming to see his father again. Not that Captain DeLoach knows when his son is here, poor man. Dementia, you know, for about the last six years now. Is something wrong with Weldon?”

  Dane shook his head. “Nothing at all. As I said, this is just routine, Ms. Weaver. Now, I understand that Captain DeLoach is a retired police officer?”

  “Yes, he was the captain of this small-town police department in the central valley for nearly forty years.”

  “Do you remember the name of the town?” Dane asked.

  “Dadeville. It’s a good-sized town now. Not all that far from Bakersfield. Poor man, but he’s eighty-seven years old and human parts break down. It’s sad, but Captain DeLoach doesn’t seem to be in any particular distress about it. It’s usually that way. What you can’t remember doesn’t hurt you.”

  “He’s that old?” Nick said.

  “Yes. Weldon was his only child, born when Captain DeLoach was already well into his forties. Captain DeLoach, when he remembers, tells everyone that it was his third marriage, and his wife was much younger.

  “She died, I believe, in some sort of accident when Weldon was only four years old. Captain DeLoach never remarried. He raised Weldon. And he’s a very good son; he’s paid for his father to be here for nearly ten years now. Never complains about any of the extras, always comes to visit.”

  Ms. Weaver paused, looked a bit worried. “May I ask you why you’re here, Agent Carver? I know you said it was just routine, but still—would you like to speak to our manager, Mr. Latterley? He isn’t here right now, but I could have him call you.”

  “That’s not necessary, but thank you, Ms. Weaver. We’ll speak to Mr. Latterley later. We’re really here to see Captain DeLoach. Will that be a problem, Ms. Weaver?”

  “Not at all, but let me warn you not to expect much. Captain DeLoach normally just sits about, looking out at the lake and the mountains. It’s very peaceful here, very soothing for the soul. I know he enjoys watching people water-ski. Of course, now that it’s winter, there’s not much of that.”

  Nick said, “What does Weldon look like, Ms. Weaver?”

  “A lovely man, is Weldon. Let’s see, I suppose he’d have to be in his early forties. He’s fair-skinned, light hair, although, you know, he’s always really tanned, told me once that he was real proud of that tan. And he’s very creative. Always has ideas for the old folks here, thin
gs to keep them involved, to keep their brains going.”

  “Yes, I see,” Nick said, and looked over at Dane. How could Weldon DeLoach possibly be the man she’d seen in the church? But then, why had the man used aliases that were so like Weldon’s name?

  Dane walked down the long, wide, very pleasant corridor. Landscapes lined both sides of the white walls. He wondered about Weldon DeLoach. How was he involved in all this? Did someone hate him so much as to implicate him so directly in the murders?

  Nick said quietly so Ms. Weaver wouldn’t hear, not looking at him but at the soft watercolor landscapes, “How can Weldon be the monster? Can he be that good with disguises?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Here’s Captain DeLoach’s room,” Ms. Weaver said, and raised her hand to knock. They heard a groan from inside. Dane didn’t hesitate, he was through the door in under a second.

  TWENTY

  The old man was on the floor beside his overturned wheelchair, moaning softly, a small rivulet of dried blood on his face that had dripped off his chin and onto the floor.

  Dane turned to Nick, but she was already gone, probably with Velvet Weaver, to the nurses’ station to get help.

  “Captain DeLoach,” Dane said, leaning close, “can you hear me, sir? Can you tell me what happened?”

  The old man opened his eyes. He didn’t look like he was in pain, just dazed.

  “Can you hear me, sir? See me?”

  “Yes, I can see you. Who are you?”

  “I’m Special Agent Dane Carver, FBI.”

  Slowly, very slowly, the old man lifted his trembling, deeply veined hand, and he saluted.

  Dane was charmed. He saluted him back. Then he gently wrapped his hand around the old man’s and slowly lowered it. “You fell out of your chair?”

  “Oh no, Special Agent,” he said in a voice that sounded otherworldly it was so whispery thin. “He was here again and I told him I wouldn’t keep quiet anymore, and he hit me.”