Insidious

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich pictured Mr. Paul’s aesthete’s face, his mouth pinched, and a manic gleam in his black eyes. “It can’t be helped. From now on I’d like all your meals to be prepared outside the house and delivered here until we get a better handle on this. Isabel can do the ordering. Don’t eat anything except what’s delivered, all right? I don’t want anyone in the house involved with that, and that has to include Veronica. She’s not here because you haven’t spoken to her about this, correct?”

  Venus looked both miserable and angry. “No, I’ve only spoken to you. I sent her out to run some errands for me.”

  Savich said matter-of-factly, “I think we should call Isabel in now, only Isabel, no one else. I’m sure you realize, Venus, if Sherlock and I are going to be of help to you and keep you safe, we can’t keep what we’re doing a secret from your family. If the tests show any kind of poison, we’ll need to have you examined to make sure you’re all right, and then we’ll need to talk to your family, all of them.”

  “I’m sure my family will want to help, at least that is my profound wish.”

  * * *

  Venus called in Isabel and recounted the story she’d told Savich and Sherlock. Isabel was speechless at first, then furious that such a thing might be possible in the Rasmussen household. “Isabel, we’re not even certain yet of any of this, you understand,” Venus said. “And please keep this discreetly held.”

  Isabel nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “It will be all right,” Venus said, and hugged her close. “You and I have dealt with many things in our years together, we’ll manage this as well. Don’t worry.”

  Isabel pulled back to look at Venus. “Of course I’ll worry! What’s happening, it’s not right. It’s evil. But it can’t be one of the family, oh no.”

  Savich said, “Yes, it is evil, Isabel. We’re here to find out if it’s true and then we will all take care of it. Now that you know, order in Venus’s meals. And let’s begin with lunch.”

  Venus patted Isabel’s shoulder. “I’m in the mood for some nice chicken consommé, crème brûlée, and a Caesar salad from L’Etoile. Dillon and Sherlock, will you please stay for lunch?”

  “Thank you,” Sherlock said. “It will give us more time to talk while we wait for your lunch to arrive.”

  “Isabel, if you would make the order, then tell Mr. Paul we have two guests for lunch, one of them a vegetarian. Please have Mr. Paul place anything left from our dinner last evening in cartons, to be tested.”

  Isabel nodded and said to Savich and Sherlock, “Mr. Minendo at L’Etoile is very fond of Ms. Rasmussen. I will call him right now with her lunch order. He will oversee the preparation himself.” She looked from Venus back to them. “No one will touch her food.” Then she left the living room.

  Savich said, “Venus, you were telling me about the third time, last night, that you were ill, but you didn’t give me details. Let’s go over that now.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t call for help. I waited it out, then decided it was time to help myself. I looked up symptoms of poisoning on the Internet. It was easy enough to find. Arsenic can cause every one of my symptoms.” She paused a moment, looked at them. “Dillon, Sherlock, let me say how grateful I am that you believed me without hesitation. I appreciate that.”

  Savich said simply, “You are the most down-to-earth person I know, Venus, not to mention the smartest. Now, this third time, the symptoms were really bad.”

  “Yes, but I gritted my teeth and endured. Maybe I should have gone to the ER, but I decided if the media got hold of that, it wouldn’t be good for the company, or my family.”

  Sherlock said, “Venus, you’re very powerful, you’ve influenced many lives over the years. I’d say it’s impossible for you not to have made some enemies. Does anyone stick out in your mind, anyone who has personal reasons, or who might profit a great deal from your death?”

  Venus smoothed her pale veined hands over her black silk trousers, ran her tongue over her lips. “As for personal reasons, I certainly hope not. As for financial gain, I could prepare a list. In business one tries to become a resource and a partner, more valuable alive than dead. Ah, there is Ellis Vaughn, a senior accountant I had to fire three months ago. My COO showed me proof he was embezzling from us. I let him go rather than call in the police, mostly because I knew his wife and three kids, and I liked them. But there are always people like that in one’s life. His trying to get revenge doesn’t make sense to me. And how would an accountant have gotten to my food, anyway?” She swallowed, looked away. “I’ve told you, only Guthrie and Alexander were with me each time.”

  They saw tears swimming in her eyes. “It’s a horrible thing to imagine, Dillon. One of my own flesh and blood. I don’t want to believe it, even now, even with last night being so bad.”

  “Make the list, Venus. We’ll go over it later. Let’s talk about Alexander. Have you noticed anything unusual in his life lately? Some change in his mood? Anything at all?”

  “I’m sure you know Alexander can be a prick—don’t look shocked, you two. Even old ladies know how to lay something obvious out in modern language. He’s embarrassed me more than once with his sense of entitlement, acting like some kind of crown prince. I recall he was rude to you the last time we met at the art museum benefit. Implied it was somehow low class of you to spend your life dealing with criminals. Of course, he’d never say anything outright against you to my face, but I apologize for that. He’s my grandson, but—”

  Sherlock leaned forward and laid her hand over Venus’s arm. “With Alexander, there’s always a but. Has anything changed in your relationship with him, Venus?”

  Venus smiled at Sherlock. “I knew Dillon had hit the jackpot the very first time I met you. No, Alexander is still very much himself. I’d hoped all the hurly-burly competition of working in a top law firm would teach him to think a little less highly of himself. He’s always been sharp as a tack, but he’s still got a lot to learn about leadership, about how to deal with people if you want them to work hard for you. I’m finding teaching him that slow going.” She shrugged. “Anyway, though I’ve never told him outright, I assume he knows I have picked him to take over for me when I retire or pass on to the hereafter. Not either of my children—not Guthrie or Hildi. Hildi, because life is all about her painting. I had hopes for Guthrie, but after his wife died he lost interest in everything, including his life. Although Glynis is possibly the brightest of all of them, she has no interest, no ambition. I pray that will change. I think her free-spirited mother, Hildi, gave her too little structure when she was growing up. And of course she grew up without a father.

  “So my successor is Alexander. Last year I arranged a position for him as a consulting lawyer for the Smithsonian—they were pleased enough that a Rasmussen family member would be associated with them in a role like that. They provided a small office for him in the tower. He’s concerned with the provenance of their newly acquired collections, rather than simply focusing on making money, as he did with that law firm in New York. Of course, he doesn’t appreciate my pressing him into that position, but I felt it was important for him to be involved in bettering the community, in giving back. Our family has never failed to do that. I’d hoped he’d settle in after a time, but I’m afraid he’s not very happy there.”

  Savich imagined that all Alexander—never Alex—wanted was to leave Washington in his rearview to run Rasmussen Industries from a newly relocated headquarters, most likely New York. He never seemed much interested in giving back. He recalled that Alexander had been eased out of the prestigious law firm in New York—Rathstone, Grace, and Ward—in his second year. Why? Was he not up to it? Or was it malfeasance? “Venus, why was Alexander let go from Rathstone, Grace, and Ward?”

  She seamed her mouth. So there was something there, something Venus didn’t like to talk about. Savich let it go, backed off. He’d ask Alexander in interview. “What about his personal life? Is he seeing anyone?”

  �
��After he and Belinda divorced three years ago, he did go through a rough patch. I know he’s escorted high-powered women to various functions from time to time, but as to anyone special, he hasn’t said anything to me nor would I expect him to. He’s very private.”

  Savich said, “All right. Let’s talk about Guthrie.”

  “I dearly love my son. I can’t imagine he would be responsible for this. If such a thing did ever come to his mind, it would fall right back out. His life is easy and comfortable, predictable, and he dearly likes that. He’s always been rather indolent, in fact, and utterly indifferent to woes not his own, which is a pity because he has a very good brain. I think my husband and I spoiled him rotten, not intending to, of course, but it was the early years of the Vietnam War and so many young men were dying and we loved our son, wanted the best for him.

  “Like Isabel, I agree this is evil. Guthrie isn’t evil.” She shook her head, looked at them straight on. “The only worthwhile thing Guthrie ever managed to accomplish was to marry the woman who gave birth to his second son, Rob—so bright, so eager to eat life right up.”

  Savich cocked his head, surprised to hear Rob’s name. Robert Rasmussen was the black sheep of the family, wild to a fault as a teenager, arrested for joyriding, marijuana, and a couple of bar fights. He’d escaped prison only because Venus had pulled strings. “Rob? You’ve heard from him?”

  Venus was silent.

  Savich said, “It’s been what, Venus, ten years?”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Venus said. “He has nothing to do with this.” She rose slowly, not waiting for Savich to help her. They heard Isabel coming.

  “Mr. Paul is setting out Dillon and Sherlock’s lunches, Ms. Venus, and L’Etoile just delivered yours. All of you are free to come to the dining room whenever you wish.”

  “A moment,” Savich said, and took himself off to the modern kitchen, the size of two New York apartments, to speak to Mr. Paul personally. He was greeted by the smell of Spanish risotto and several classic Gaelic shrugs from Mr. Paul, who accepted his apologies with raised black eyebrows and rolling eyes. His opinion was that some malcontent in the steel business, possibly a German, had crept into the kitchen and done this foul deed. He turned up his nose when the lovely lunch from L’Etoile arrived. The chef there, he believed, was a commoner with no imagination.

  He served Savich and Sherlock his Spanish risotto, freshly baked rolls to die for, and a salad of poached pears. As Savich took a bite of the risotto, better than his own, he had to admit, he thought again of Rob. Venus had seemed to mention him by accident. Why? Was he back? Had he contacted her, asking her for money? Was Venus still protecting him? Was Rob Rasmussen a seasoned criminal now, maybe the one responsible for this? The more Savich thought about it the more he was convinced Venus was right. It was poison.

  Sherlock bit into a roll, closed her eyes at the taste. Then it was back to business. It was like she was reading his mind when she said, “Dillon once told me Rob was more than a bit wild, but he always liked him. He said Rob was a straightforward guy who never made excuses. Dillon and Rob had a fight once, you know. Dillon couldn’t remember what it was about. Since he was four years older than Rob and trained, he put him on the ground in no time, held him down. What was it he said to you, Dillon?”

  “I remember he was gushing blood from his nose. When I pulled him to his feet, he tore off a sleeve and pressed it hard against his face. Then he started laughing and said no matter I’d bloodied his nose I was still a wuss and he guessed he owed me a beer.”

  Venus smiled but didn’t say anything. What was happening? He’d hoped that story would open a spigot, but it hadn’t.

  Savich went with his instincts. “Venus, you know I always liked Rob, but I couldn’t ever figure out how to help him, how to make him see that occasionally doing something other than shooting himself in the foot could be a smarter choice. Then he was simply gone, into the army. Ten years I haven’t heard his name spoken. Until today. You sounded pleased when you mentioned him. Have you seen him?”

  “I’d rather not talk about him now, Dillon. I’d like to keep Rob out of this—this mess. I didn’t mean for his name to slip out. I’m old, it happens.”

  As they were preparing to leave a half hour later, after a dessert of orange sorbet, Savich pulled Venus gently against him. “I know you’re sure it’s poison. I know you’re scared and you’re angry and you feel betrayed. But we don’t know about any of it yet. Don’t jump ahead and make yourself crazy. We’ll be speaking with our forensics lab this afternoon, and I’ll call you. Do think about that list, Venus, do it now. And don’t forget, do not eat or drink anything given to you in this house. If you’ve been poisoned, you specifically have been targeted, no one else.”

  Venus pulled away. “It’s very difficult. Thank you, Dillon, Sherlock, for coming.” She walked with them to the door. “I’ll get the list to you as soon as I’m able. Now, though, I have to get to a board meeting at the office. Life must go on.”

  Sherlock said, “Be careful, Venus. Tell your driver, MacPherson, to be extra careful, all right? Have him escort you in and out of the building. And don’t worry, we’ll figure this all out.”

  “Yes, of course you will. I feel better now that you know. MacPherson will love playing my protector. He’s been complaining he has too little to do. This should keep him occupied.”

  7

  * * *

  Sherlock laid her hand over Savich’s as he was firing up the Porsche’s magnificent engine. “I’m so glad we came, Dillon. How do you want to handle looking into Rob? There’s got to be something new happening between him and Venus, some reason she still seems to be protecting him.”

  “Which might be a mistake. First thing I’m going to do is find him, call him in for an interview.” He’d pulled away from the curb when Carrie Underwood sang out Two Black Cadillacs. It was Ollie with additional crime scene photos of the murders in Bar Harbor, Maine, he wanted Savich to look at right away. He pulled the Porsche over again as he went over them with Ollie. He’d just slipped his cell phone back into his pocket when three fast shots rang out from behind them. From the Rasmussen mansion.

  He slammed the Porsche into reverse and skidded to a stop in front of the house. He and Sherlock were out in a flash and headed for the garage on the far side of the house, Glocks drawn. They heard a fourth shot.

  They saw MacPherson in the Bentley first, saw him floor the car straight back toward a man who was standing next to the garage, a gun raised, aimed toward him. The man leaped out of the Bentley’s path and fired twice more at MacPherson. MacPherson, no fool, was scrunched down low in the driver’s seat. The man had shot out the back window of the Bentley and now the driver’s window shattered. Where was Venus? Had he hit her?

  “FBI! Drop the gun, now!” The shooter jerked around to face them, fired two wild shots, then jumped through the ornamental gate that led to the gardens in the rear of the house, and out the service entrance to the alley.

  “Sherlock, stop him from getting to the service road. I’ll follow him.” He stopped a moment next to the Bentley. “MacPherson, are you all right? Is Venus all right?”

  “Yes, we’re both okay. Mrs. Rasmussen is down on the floor in the back.”

  Venus popped up, shouted, “Dillon, go get him!”

  “Stay with her. Call 911.” Savich jumped the garden gate and ran down the winding path bordered by cascading jasmine and trellised roses, past a beautiful Italian fountain and several stone benches. He stopped near the service gate and listened, heard the man still running, in the alley now. Had Sherlock made it around to the service road? He yelled, “Drop your weapon! FBI!”

  The shooter didn’t drop his gun, he whirled around and fired twice, wildly, then ran, bending over. Savich raised his Glock and fired back at him. He heard the sound of garbage cans flying, and a curse. He crouched low as he went through the open gate, heard two bullets hit the garden wall behind him, two feet above his head.
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br />   Savich fired again toward the garbage cans. He heard a loud ping, then silence. He looked around the gate, but saw no one, not the shooter, not Sherlock. He couldn’t fire again, couldn’t take the chance of hitting her.

  He stepped out into the service alley, heard Sherlock yell, “Stop right there, it’s over! You try to shoot again and I’ll blow off both your ears.”

  He saw the shooter now, crouched behind the garbage cans, looking back toward Sherlock, and he moved forward, his Glock center mass on the shooter. “You heard her, drop your weapon!” His voice brought the shooter’s attention back toward him, but the shooter rolled and came up, running, his gun raised, and fired off two shots at Sherlock. Savich’s heart was beating madly as he ran toward them. He heard another gunshot and his heart stopped. When he came around the alley into the service road, he saw Sherlock standing over the shooter, rocking back and forth on his knees, moaning, holding his right wrist, Sherlock standing over him. His gun—it looked like a .45 Chief’s Special—lay on the ground beside him. Sherlock kicked the gun away, looked up and grinned at Savich. He slipped his Glock back into his waist holster as Sherlock planted a knee in the middle of the shooter’s back, pulled out her handcuffs, jerked back his left wrist and snapped a cuff on. She hesitated. She couldn’t very well handcuff his other hand, not with his wrist shot up. “All right, stay down—” The shooter grabbed her knees, threw her off, rolled and pulled a knife out of his jacket with his left hand. He was panting with pain, and fury, jabbing the knife at her as she jumped to her feet, her Glock aimed at him. He cursed, and took off down the service road.

  “Not smart, you moron!” she yelled after him. “Don’t make me shoot you again.”

  She started after him, but Savich ran past her. He was on the man fast. He stopped, reared back on his left leg, and kicked out at the shooter’s left arm. He heard the bone break above the elbow, watched the knife go flying. The shooter screamed and fell to his knees, both his arms at his sides, his right wrist gushing blood, the handcuff dangling off his left.