The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich looked after the van. “I gave him Dr. Conrad’s name and number at Quantico if he wants to talk anything over.”

  Dix said to Ruth, “I think you’re right. Erin Bushnell was probably lying dead in there when you first crawled into the chamber.” Dix paused, looked over at his deputy, Lee Hickey, who’d ticketed Erin Bushnell for speeding a couple of months ago and identified her immediately. “I asked her to go out with me but she told me she was seeing someone,” Lee had said and been violently ill.

  Savich said, “The murderer probably had just placed her there, posed her to suit some insane directive in his mind, and heard you come in, Ruth. It sounds to me like you were drugged somehow, or gassed—that he somehow rendered you helpless.”

  Chappy, who’d been sitting in the Range Rover, had come over to them when the forensic people had carried the body away in its zippered green bag. He stood watching the dozen or so people moving in and out of the cave entrance. “This has to be the strangest day of my life.”

  “It sure ranks up there, all right,” Dix agreed.

  “What I don’t understand is why Ruth is alive.”

  Savich said, “If Dix hadn’t found Ruth in his woods, we would have searched the cave until there wasn’t a bat left who hadn’t had his wings stretched and examined for clues. Maybe the killer didn’t want to leave her here, knew since she was an FBI agent, there’d be a huge manhunt, centering right here at Winkel’s Cave.”

  “Hello, people, it’s me, Ruth. I’m right here. I’m alive.”

  Dix said, “And all of us are real happy about that, Ruth.”

  “You’re going to go see that twerp-ass Twister now, aren’t you?” Chappy asked.

  “Yes. We also need to find out where she lived. Sorry, Chappy, but you can’t come with us. Hey, why don’t you go finalize a buyout of the Bank of America, okay?”

  Chappy shook his head. “I know Twister, Dix, know him down to the molecules that make that shifty little pissant tick. You can’t believe a word he says. I’ll be able to tell you if he’s trying to cover up, to protect that precious school of his. I knew every one of his tricks by the time he was ten.”

  “Chappy,” Dix said, “Why don’t you tell our FBI agents how you really feel about Uncle Gordon.”

  “He’s a sly, twisted little weasel.”

  Sherlock asked, “Why on earth would your brother hide anything, sir? We’re only seeing him first because he’s the big cheese at Stanislaus, nothing more, and he can direct us to her friends and teachers.”

  Chappy opened his mouth, shut it, then gave a deep sigh. “I can’t acquire the Bank of America. I tried a couple of months ago, but they’ve got a stranglehold on all the stock options and the CEO is more shark than human—hey, that was a joke. Damn, what a day. All right, I’m going, but I want you to keep me in the loop on this. You promise, Dix?”

  Dix nodded. “I promise. Deputy Moran is going to drive you home. Ah, Chappy, don’t get on the phone to Uncle Gordon, all right?”

  THE CAMPUS OF Stanislaus School of Music was set some four miles east of Maestro, sprawled in its own private wilderness. Mountains formed a line to the north, with thick forests of oak, maple, and pine climbing their lower slopes. Closer in were low hills, little humps of land really, covered mostly with thick blackberry bushes that thinned toward the east into a wide, flat valley hidden under snow.

  In the late Monday afternoon light, the campus looked like a precious stone in a matching setting, its red brick buildings clustered around a large main quadrangle, surrounded by trees whose thick branches were weighed down with snow. All the walkways were neatly shoveled. The sounds of a Bach Brandenburg Concerto wafted out of the main auditorium, Van Cliburn Hall, named after the famed pianist, whose trust had given a large grant to the school fifteen years before. They all paused, taking in the scene and those beautiful sounds.

  “It’s nearly four o’clock,” Sherlock said. “I hope Dr. Holcombe will still be here.”

  “He should be,” Dix said. “He’s a pretty remarkable musician, a flautist and pianist. He’s run the school for the past ten years. Before that he toured, primarily in Europe, and lived in Paris for a couple of years. His daughter, Dr. Marian Gillespie, also teaches here.”

  “Is Dr. Gillespie also a musician?” Savich asked.

  Dix nodded. “She plays the viola, though Christie told me she didn’t have anywhere near her father’s talent, or his ability to deal with people or do administration. She’s something of an old hippie—you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”

  Ruth asked Dix as they walked up the wide sidewalk to Blankenship Hall, the administration building, “What does Marian’s husband do?”

  “Marian’s husband left her before we moved down here from New York so I never met him.” He added to Sherlock and Savich, “I was with the NYPD, a detective in homicide for four years. When we moved here, thanks in part to Christie’s father, I was elected sheriff of Maestro. The boys and I don’t see Marian much, maybe once every couple of months over at Tara for dinner. Rob and Rafe call it circus night.”

  “Families are such fun,” Ruth said. “So did your boys get any of this talent?”

  “Rob plays the drums in a band put together by one of his high school friends, a mixed blessing. Rafe plays a bit of piano. Whenever I mention taking lessons, though, he won’t have any of it. We’ll see.”

  Dix led them to a gorgeous walnut semicircular information desk where two women watched them approach with a good deal of curiosity. Dix nodded to them both, said, “Mavis, I’m here to see my uncle.”

  “He’s in, Sheriff Noble,” Mavis said, eyeing Savich, “although he did say he wanted to leave early today. I think Peter Pepper nabbed him.”

  Mary Parton rolled her eyes. “If he’s with Peter, I know he’ll appreciate being rescued. Ah, who are these people, Sheriff? Wait, you’re the woman the sheriff found next to his house, right?”

  Ruth smiled really big and nodded. “Yes, I’m Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”

  “Ah,” Mary said, nodding, “so you work in private security? In Richmond?”

  “Well, not really,” Ruth said, “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  “Oh goodness, oh my, how very thrilling. Does a pretty girl like you have a gun and body armor? Well, I suppose that’s top secret, isn’t it? All right then, Sheriff, you take these people right ahead.”

  Dix thanked Mavis and Mary and turned to lead them down a long carpeted hallway. “I would have thought they’d have heard all about you by now, Ruth, down to that mole behind your left knee.”

  Her eyebrow went up. “You must be thinking of the one behind my right knee.”

  They stared at walls covered with large autographed photos of famous musicians, singers, and conductors.

  “Quite a rogue’s gallery,” Ruth said. “Goodness, is this Pavarotti? In the flesh? Right here? Yep, it sure is. Would you look at that signature. Not shy, is he?”

  Sherlock said absently as she studied Luciano Pavarotti’s photo, “Looks like this photo was taken in summer, maybe fifteen years ago, right here at Stanislaus, with a bunch of excited faculty and students. Hmm. I don’t think Pavarotti has anything to be shy about. Did you know he’s considered the only living operatic lyric tenor who’s really mastered the whole of the tenor’s range?”

  Ruth said, “How do you know about his tenor’s range?”

  Savich said, “Sherlock was on her way to Juilliard to become a concert pianist once upon a time.”

  Ruth said, “I had no idea. I would love to hear you play.”

  Sherlock nodded. She seemed to draw herself up. “It was a long time ago, Ruth, but I’d love to play for you. Sorry, Dix, you were taking us to Dr. Holcombe’s office?”

  “It’s right at the end of the hall. We have to get past Helen Rafferty, his personal assistant-slash-secretary. She guards him like the Secret Service guards the president.”

  Ms. Rafferty was drumming her pencil on a neat stack of
papers in the middle of her desk, her eyes on the closed door to Dr. Holcombe’s office. Dix cleared his throat. “Helen?”

  “Sheriff Noble! You’re with all these people I don’t know. Well, er, all of you, sit down, please.”

  “Helen, could you please give us Erin Bushnell’s address?”

  “Why? I see, you don’t want to tell me. Just a moment, I have a directory of all the students right here. I hope she’s not in trouble. Not drunk and disorderly. Ah, yes, here it is.” Helen Rafferty wrote down the address and handed it to Dix.

  “Now we’d like to see Gordon.”

  “Oh dear, Dr. Holcombe is meeting with a student—but you know what, I’m sure he’s had enough of that. It’s time for Peter to hang it up for the day.” She rose to her feet and marched on three-inch heels to a lovely mahogany door and knocked loudly several times. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door, stuck her head in, and said in a loud voice, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the sheriff is here to see you, Dr. Holcombe. He said it’s very important.”

  A man’s easy, deep voice said, “Thank you, Helen. I’ll be right out.”

  Dix said over Helen’s shoulder, “I’ve got three FBI agents with me, Gordon.”

  “One moment,” Dr. Holcombe called out.

  Helen stepped out of his office and turned to face them, her hand over her heart. “Oh my, you’re FBI agents? Really? Here at Stanislaus? Oh yes, you’re that woman Dix found huddled against his front door, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ruth said.

  “Don’t worry about people staring at you, dear, you can barely make out that bandage beneath all that nice thick hair. You’re really FBI agents? All of you?”

  Sherlock said, “Would you like to see our IDs?”

  “It’s really not my place to, but I’ve never seen FBI badges before.”

  “They’re actually called shields, ma’am,” Sherlock said, “or ‘creds,’ ” and she handed over her ID.

  Helen studied it for several moments. “Oh my, isn’t this the neatest thing? Ah, could you please arrest the young man who will be coming out of Dr. Holcombe’s office very shortly?”

  “Sure,” Savich said. “Do you want us to haul him out in handcuffs, maybe rough him up a bit first?”

  “That would be a treat,” Helen said. She listened for a moment, then stepped back as a thin young man with a starkly ascetic face, a rumpled shirt, and close-cropped hair walked through the office door, his shoulders slumped. Dr. Holcombe followed him, saying, “There’s no such thing as name discrimination, Peter. You must rid yourself of this notion that if a conductor doesn’t like your name, he won’t hire you. Dix, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Peter didn’t appear at all interested, and continued in a loud voice, “Dr. Holcombe, you can’t overlook this. Two rejections. I’ve brought them to you so you can see the truth. The rejections are nice, certainly, but both of them don’t want me. Both! You know very well it’s because of my unfortunate last name. You put my two names together, and everyone busts a gut laughing, particularly conductors and those snotty folks on their boards. You have to read between the lines, but it’s there. No one wants a violinist whose name is Peter Pepper. Can you begin to imagine how many rejections I’ll get after I earn my Ph.D.?”

  Helen said in a helpful voice, “I know I’ll think you’re rich from all the money you make on soft drinks. That’s a good start, isn’t it?”

  “Enough, Helen, please,” said Dr. Holcombe, unable to suppress a small snort of laughter. “Peter, this has nothing to do with name discrimination; it has to do with their collective opinions that someone played better than you, nothing more, nothing less. I read both letters very carefully, there is no ‘between the lines.’ ”

  Ruth said, “Hey, why not change your name?”

  Peter Pepper stared over at her. “I can’t. My mother would kill me, cut me out of her will, then I couldn’t afford the tuition here.”

  “Okay then, use a different first name when you next audition, then everyone will be happy. What’s your middle name?”

  “Princeton. That’s where my mom went to college.”

  “Hmm. Okay, then, how about simply reversing the two names. You’d be Pepper Princeton. Now, that sounds extraordinary. They’ll love it.”

  Peter, aka Pepper Princeton, looked deeply thoughtful, then he began to nod slowly, never taking his eyes off Ruth. “No one’s ever admitted before that it was my name that was the problem, but of course I’ve always known. Pepper Princeton. Now that’s different, and it won’t make anybody laugh. Hello, my name is Princeton, Dr. Princeton. That has a ring to it. It sounds like someone famous. Hey, can I take you to dinner tonight?”

  Ruth patted his shoulder. “I’ve already got a date tonight, but thank you. Good luck.”

  Dr. Gordon Holcombe watched the young man walk down the corridor, shoulders squared, lively now, a snap to his step. He said to Ruth, “That was brilliant. If only I’d thought of that six months ago. But it was better coming from you. May I take you to dinner tonight?”

  Dix ushered them all into his uncle’s office.

  “Hey, what about me?” Helen Rafferty called after them. “Would someone like to take me out to dinner?”

  CHAPTER 14

  DIX HAD ALWAYS thought that Gordon’s office proclaimed the man. Sheet music littered every available surface, musical instruments leaned against three walls, and a black Steinway baby grand jutted out from the corner, lid closed, loaded down with music scores. The desk, Ruth saw with a smile, was there only as a delivery system for the computer and printer and still more sheet music. There were half a dozen chairs scattered around the room, probably so Dr. Holcombe could pick up random instruments with his students and play. There was no area to sit, only chairs and music stands. A French horn sat on one of the chairs, and others were covered with reviews from newspapers and more sheet music.

  It was a warm office, Ruth thought, reflecting what was important to the man and not the administrator of Stanislaus School of Music. She found she was smiling at Dr. Holcombe when she said, “Maybe I will have dinner with you, sir. Do you like Italian?”

  Dix frowned. “Not dinner, Ruth, it’s not possible. I told the boys I was making all of us hot dogs, baked beans, and corn bread for dinner tonight. They’re expecting you.”

  Dr. Holcombe started to say something, but Dix rolled right over him. “We need to speak with you about something serious, Gordon.”

  “Why? Is this about Chappy, Dix? What is that old peckerhead up to now? Did you know Cynthia came to see me last week, afraid Chappy was going to kick Tony out of his position at the bank? The boy should simply pick up stakes and leave here, he’d be much better for it. So has Chappy accused me or the school of something and sent you here to arrest me? You know he’s always hated me, Dix. It’s jealousy, all of it; he wants me dead or in jail, anywhere he can’t see me and be reminded that all he’s ever accomplished was making money.”

  Dix was the only one not appalled by this show of vitriol coming from the talented and sophisticated Dr. Holcombe’s very nicely sculpted mouth. Dix grinned, shook his head. “Nope, not everything’s about Chappy or his trying to make your life miserable, Gordon.”

  Dr. Holcombe leaned against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, looked from one to the other of them. “All right then, Dix, tell me what’s going on. First off, why don’t you introduce me to all these people?”

  Dix made the introductions, Dr. Holcombe’s left eyebrow rising each time the letters FBI were repeated. He shook hands with each of them, paused when he took Ruth’s hand. “I realize now that you’re the woman Dix found Friday evening, sleeping in his Range Rover, nearly dead of the cold, but how about these other two FBI agents? Are you all investigating together? How on earth can I help you?”

  “How well do you know Erin Bushnell?”

  Dr. Holcombe looked momentarily startled, then said to Dix, “Why, Erin Bushnell—very talented, plays the
violin with extraordinary verve and bombast. I’ve been working with her on her control and spontaneity, which sounds weird, doesn’t it? After all, music is learned; music is practiced. But that’s what a true artist does—he sounds like the piece of music is bursting out of him, like he’s never played it before, but for these people, here is his gift, his blessing. You should hear Erin play Bartók’s Sonata for Solo Violin. She’s absolutely brilliant. You’ll feel like you’re the first human being to ever hear it.

  “How else do I know her? She’s in her fourth year, due to graduate with her bachelor of music in May. I believe she wants to remain for her master’s. What’s going on, Dix? Has Erin done something? I know she doesn’t do drugs, maybe some marijuana, there’s some of that on campus, but never anything stronger. She likes to drive that little Miata of hers real fast, too. Oh no, she didn’t have an accident, did she?”

  Dix said, “It’s not drugs, Gordon, and it’s not a car accident. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Erin Bushnell is dead. We found her body in a chamber in Winkel’s Cave. As of yet, we don’t know the cause of her death, but it looks like she was murdered and entombed in that cavern. The exits were covered up, the murderer probably hoping she’d never be found.”

  Gordon looked ready to faint, his sharp-boned aristocratic face as white as his knuckles clutching the edge of the desk. His mouth moved, but all that came out was “No, that can’t be possible. No, Dix, not Erin. She was so very talented, you see, so fresh and young and promising. You’ve got to be mistaken. No, that can’t be right. Are you sure it’s her you found?”