Insidious

by Catherine Coulter

  “No,” Marsia said, “you’re quite right.” She stood quietly at Rob’s side, a fixed smile on her face. Rob had probably warned her that pretty much anything could come floating out of Aunt Hildi’s mouth. If anything, she looked mildly amused.

  When Venus introduced Marsia to Veronica, Veronica stepped forward, took Marsia’s hand. “I’ve read all about you, seen your sculptures at the Mianecki Gallery in Baltimore. Your work is amazing. I remember in particular a large piece named Hercules, copper and steel, I believe. I could feel the power you gave him, the bold spirit. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gay.”

  “Thank you,” Marsia said. “He spoke to me,” she added. “Call me Marsia, please.”

  Veronica gave her a beautiful smile. “Call me Veronica.”

  Veronica turned to Rob. “Rob, I remember you as a teenage boy, all swagger and fun. I also remember you were always kind to me. Welcome home.” She smiled up at him, not all that far since she was tall. Rob lightly kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Veronica.” He said against her ear, “I’ve got to say you’re as beautiful as ever. I was telling Savich and Sherlock that you were a very sweet fantasy from my misspent youth.”

  Veronica pulled back, laughed up at him. “I remember, too, how you liked to tease me, always telling me how hot I was, and that always made me perk right up.”

  Rob nodded. “I remember how close you were to Grandmother, even back before I left a decade ago. She tells me you do everything to keep her safe except sleep next to her.”

  Veronica sent a smile toward Venus. “I asked her if I could move a bed into her room but she refused. You’ve grown up well, Rob. Venus knew you would; she never doubted you, only thought you’d gotten lost along the way, that you’d find your way back. And you did.”

  Marsia turned to Savich. “Rob told me Sarah Elliott was your grandmother.” She nodded to the painting above the fireplace. “I want you to know she was a great inspiration to me. Did you inherit any of her incredible talent?”

  Sherlock said, “Dillon whittles, beautiful pieces out of rosewood, maple. Some are exhibited at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown.”

  “I should like to see them,” Marsia said. “I noticed the fine scar lines on your fingers and wondered.” She held up her own hands. Fine white scars scored her palms. “Working with metal has its dangers, as does working with a knife and wood.”

  Glynis sashayed up to Rob, past the woman at his side, took his face between her hands, and kissed him, with tongue. Rob gently set her away and lightly touched his knuckles to her smooth cheek. “Good to see you again, too, Glynis.” She tried to kiss him again, but Rob was fast and took a quick step sideways, held her hands in front of him.

  Marsia gave Glynis a friendly smile, said without rancor, “It’s a good thing I’ve got Rob nailed down because you’ve got quite a technique there.”

  Glynis nodded, chin up. “Oh, that little thing? Rob didn’t kiss me back this time, not like he did when I was seventeen,” and Glynis gave her a smile with teeth.

  Venus clapped her hands. “Let’s not forget that no one is seventeen now.” She gave Alexander a speculative look. “You’ve been unusually quiet. Are you pleased to see your brother again?”

  Alexander was still at his post against the fireplace mantel, a martini in his right hand, like he’d stepped off a page of GQ. He recognized an unspoken order when he heard it. “I’m in favor of anything that pleases you, Grandmother.” He turned to Marsia, spoke in a smooth, emotionless voice. “Your name is interesting, Ms. Gay. Are you hoping to change it to Rasmussen?”

  “My name has quite a history, Mr. Rasmussen, as I’m sure yours does as well. It’s a distinctive history, one I will tell you about if you’re interested.” She gave him a long look. “I would like all of you to know that Rob has never traded on his name. He built his construction business on his own hard work, and on the trust he’s earned. That’s how I met him, through his business.”

  Rob said, his voice easy, “I remodeled her kitchen. I did a great job because I hoped I’d be cooking Marsia dinners one day on that Wolf range I talked her into. Don’t look surprised, everyone, I like to cook. I’m good at it, too.”

  “Part of your army training?” Alexander said, sneer at full bloom. “Pork ’n’ beans in the mess hall?”

  Rob appeared to give this serious consideration. “No training as a cook directly, but I’ll say the army helped me grow up. By the way, add the right hot sauce and some onion to the pork ’n’ beans, and they’re not bad.”

  He turned back to his family, looked at each of them in turn as he had when he’d come in. “I know this is difficult for you, here I’ve turned up out of the blue, and now we’re suddenly together, thanks to Grandmother, but I’ve got to say I’m really grateful to get to see all of you again. I’ve missed you. I hope you’ll forgive me for all my young man’s stupidities. I am sorry for them.” He looked straight at his brother. “What’s important now is that we all work together to help Savich and Sherlock find out who’s trying to kill Grandmother.”

  Alexander put a bit more wattage in his sneer. “Indeed we should, little brother. The trouble is that some of us—you, for example, have a, ah, troubled past. I might add you have your fortune tied up with this family. The income from your construction business is nothing compared to Rasmussen Industries. Isn’t it true you have no access to your trust fund while Grandmother is alive or until you’re thirty-five?”

  Rob said matter-of-factly, “Yes, we all know that’s true. That has helped me to focus my life in the meantime, on what’s really important to me. Do you know what I found out? I discovered I could make it on my own. Have you ever wondered whether you could, Alexander?”

  Alexander flicked a piece of lint off his beautifully tailored sleeve. “Do you doubt I could, brother? But that is not the point. Like the rest of the family I’m worried for Grandmother. Someone is trying to kill her.” He paused a moment. “And here you are, the returned prodigal, turned up out of the blue.”

  Venus said, her voice cool, “Not so out of the blue, Alexander, we’ve been in touch for six months, and that’s hardly damning. Rob is not some new card in the deck, he’s my grandson, and I won’t have you casting around suspicions on anyone in this room. We’re here to have dinner, as a family. Let me add that civility, Alexander, is a major requirement to run a company the size of Rasmussen.”

  Isabel appeared in the doorway, as if on cue. “Ms. Venus, the Pied Piper has delivered your dinner. We are ready for you in the dining room. Mr. Paul has outdone himself.” She smiled warmly.

  No matter the provocation, both Savich and Sherlock doubted Venus would allow any more fireworks tonight. A pity.

  26

  * * *

  WITTIER HOUSE, THE COLONY

  MALIBU

  TUESDAY EVENING

  Cam marveled at her parents. They’d arranged an impromptu barbecue for as many of the detectives she’d met that day as would brave the traffic, all within a matter of hours. Some of the Calabasas sheriff’s deputies they knew as friends, and the sheriff himself, Dreyfus Murray, and his wife, Suzanne, made up the group on the back deck. Some of the neighbors they knew would remember Cam had been invited as well, to leaven the pot and cut down on complaints about all the cars clogging the street. She smiled when she heard Corrine Hill laugh at something her partner, Morley Jagger, said. She suspected they’d come out of curiosity. She saw Allard Hayes of San Dimas lean close to hear something Supervisor David Elman was saying. Whatever discomfort so mixed a group felt on arriving, it was fast gone when they were chowing down ribs and burgers with all the fixings—potato salad, baked beans, bags of chips, and Joel’s famous salsa, with enough beer to float the Queen Mary. And plenty of Heinz, courtesy of Cam’s earlier trip to Ralph’s Organics.

  Cam overheard her mom telling Hill and Jagger, “You may well ask why Cam never followed in our footsteps.”

  Her dad chimed in. “Nah, not Cam. For Christmas we wanted to get her a toy O
scar, maybe a tiara, a script to read, but she wouldn’t have it. She wanted a toy gun. That fired.”

  She heard Hill and Jagger laughing. Would that help give her a rep of a badass? She looked over to her mom, who had moved on to introduce Supervisor Elman to Dreyfus and eased back, watching the two men eye each other. Then Dreyfus laughed, told him to take a bite of his hamburger. “You’ll tell me you’ve died and gone to heaven. Best burgers north of Santa Monica. I’ve always envied Joel’s way with hamburgers cooked on a grill.”

  Lisabeth and Suzanne both laughed. “This was a great idea, Lisabeth, you and Joel pulled it off so fast,” Suzanne said. “And would you look at Cam, she’s smiling, working the room like a pro. She learned it from you.”

  Joel Wittier came up, kissed his wife’s neck. “Look at Detective Jagger hanging on to every word out of Betsy Gilman’s mouth. Who’d have thought he’s a fan? Everyone’s enjoying themselves, I’m pleased to say, and my Cammie is the recipient of all the goodwill.”

  Toward ten o’clock, when everyone was well oiled, stuffed to the gills with Suzanne Murray’s homemade strawberry ice cream, and most of the neighbors had floated off to their homes, Cam walked out to stand on the wide wooden deck, resting her elbows on the railing. Daniel joined her. She said, not looking away from the bright half-moon sparkling the water like diamonds, “When I think of home, this is what I picture in my mind.” She breathed in, pointed at the gentle waves fanning like lace onto the sand. “It’s so perfect, always there, the water, so beautiful, no matter its mood. You feel at once blessed and grateful to be alive to see it.”

  Daniel said, “I grew up in Truckee, California, deep in the Sierras. I always believed there was no more beautiful place in the world. This”—he waved his hand at the endless stretch of ocean—“still seems alien to me. But this does seem timeless, too, like the Sierras, always there at your back.” He turned to face her. He saw her clearly in the moonlight—no makeup, her hair tousled from the light breeze off the water.

  He leaned back, his elbows on the wooden railing. “Cam, your parents are amazing, pulling this cookout off in what? Under six hours? You did as much as you could today to get everybody thinking on the same page, as a task force. And this cookout might just seal the deal. We’ll see what happens. Oh yeah, when I thanked your folks, your mom kissed my cheek.”

  “Huzzah, I say.”

  “For your mom’s kiss or for the task force?”

  Cam punched his arm. “Both, of course. You weenie.”

  27

  * * *

  GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  Officer Chas Golinowski yawned, took another sip of his lukewarm coffee, checked his watch. Only five minutes had passed. It was 3:00 a.m. on the dot. He had to keep it together for another four hours until Lane Gregson relieved him. It was so quiet on this floor. He preferred the insanity of the ER, remembered the nights over the years he’d brought in people with broken bones, heart attacks, bullet wounds, you name it. He looked up and down the empty long hallway, as he did every few minutes. Nothing. He looked toward the nurses’ station twenty feet down the hall. Only two nurses were behind the desk, putting pills in those little cups when they weren’t working on the computer or answering patients’ calls. He wondered how his little girl was doing with her bad cold. He knew she was tucked in bed, her mother hovering. He wished he could be there, but he’d pulled guard duty over a guy who was about to get his butt hauled back to state prison for the rest of his miserable life. He’d heard talk about how he’d tried to kill Mrs. Venus Rasmussen herself, the stupid bozo, and that’s how he’d earned a round-the-clock crew to guard him.

  Chas’s head was swimming with boredom and the urge to sleep, so he got to his feet and walked up and down the length of the hallway several times. He looked into Vincent Willig’s room, where he stood quietly a moment, listening to Willig’s even breathing. He was deeply asleep. Chas went back to his chair, stretched, tried to get some kinks out, and sat back down against the wall. He picked up the novel he’d brought with him, decided against trying to read it. He dropped it to the floor and closed his eyes. When he looked up again, he saw a tech wheeling a cart toward him. He could never figure out why they simply didn’t let the patients sleep through the night. Wasn’t sleep the great healer? The tech was dressed in a long white lab coat, a mask and a cap over his head. He didn’t recognize him.

  “Willig’s sound asleep,” he said.

  “Good,” the tech said in a low gritty voice, probably a smoker’s voice, the fool. “I won’t have to chat with that jackass.” He jerked his head toward the open door of Willig’s room. “You know what he did, don’t you? It’s all over the hospital.”

  “Yeah. Show me your ID and you can go in and torture him.”

  The tech leaned toward him as he reached into a pocket. In the next instant Chas felt the sharp stab of a needle slid into his neck, above his collar. He opened his mouth and went for his Beretta, but his arms didn’t work. He felt an instant of terror, then nothing.

  The tech gently eased him back so he would stay upright. If anyone noticed him, they’d believe he was asleep.

  After a look toward the nurses’ station, the tech walked into Willig’s room.

  Vincent was dreaming. He was lying on one of those fancy chaises, on a beach, maybe Fiji, someplace like that, and he had so much money he couldn’t spend it all. There were drinks all around, and beautiful young native girls were hovering around him, laughing and teasing him, a kiss here and there, and he was happy, so very happy. They all wore bikinis, tiny little swatches of cloth. One girl leaned down over him, her breasts nearly in his face, whispering something.

  The dream cut off like a spigot and Vincent came awake. Something was wrong, very wrong. He felt a tremendous pain in his arm and he wanted to scream but he couldn’t move. He realized his heart was pounding out of his chest, fast, hard, and he couldn’t catch a breath, couldn’t suck in air. In that instant, Vincent knew he was dying, and he thought about his soul. His stared up at a shadowy face. “Wha—?”

  “Goodbye, Vinnie.”

  28

  * * *

  WEDNESDAY MORNING, 6:30

  Savich and Sherlock stood over Vincent Willig’s body. Detective Ben Raven, WPD, said, “It’s a hell of a thing. Whoever took Chas down was good.” Ben sighed. “I have a team standing by. I wanted you guys to see Willig before I let them in.”

  It was a hell of a thing, Sherlock thought, as she leaned down and studied Vincent Willig’s face. She felt a stab of pity, said a brief prayer. Sorry, Vincent, you shouldn’t be dead. “He looks surprised,” she said. “His eyes are open, his mouth is open, like he wants to speak.” She cocked her head to one side, a move Savich recognized. She was reconstructing what had happened. “Our killer injects a drug into Officer Golinowski’s neck, walks in, sees Vincent sound asleep, injects a lethal dose of that drug, or something else, into his IV tubing. Vincent jerked away, you can see that on his face, Dillon. Look at his eyes. I think it’s more than surprise. I’d say it was shock when he realized who was killing him. And he was feeling pain, probably couldn’t breathe. Maybe potassium chloride, and then he’s dead.”

  Ben was staring at Sherlock. “You see it that clearly?”

  She shrugged. “I do wonder if he had time to say anything.”

  Savich said, “Ben, you said a nurse found Officer Chas Golinowski slumped unconscious in his chair. Is he awake yet?”

  “He woke up by himself, but he was pretty confused. They decided not to give him any reversal agents, at least until his bloodwork’s done and they see what the killer gave him. They’re monitoring him, letting him sleep it off. The doctor spotted the needle mark on his neck, like I told you. It isn’t clear where the killer got the drugs yet. We’re checking the pharmacy, the crash carts. Maybe the killer brought them into the hospital. The nurses didn’t see anybody. I haven’t looked at the security ta
pes yet. You guys done in here? Let’s go to the security office, see what we’ve got.”

  They didn’t have much. They saw a tech of indeterminate sex wheeling an IV cart with all the expected paraphernalia, vials and tubing and syringes. The tech was covered head to toe with hospital garb, under a white lab coat.

  “No more of this tech?” Savich asked Security Chief Doug Cummings.

  “Just a backward view. Fast forward, Lonnie.”

  The security assistant fast-forwarded, hit pause. “Here he or she comes to the stairwell at the end of the hall. The camera catches his or her back. Leaves the tray and is gone. If someone is careful, they can avoid the cameras in the stairwells, and he or she did. Sorry, guys, that’s it.”

  Cummings said, “I’ve already fielded two calls from reporters. This is going to burst wide open, and very soon now. The man who attempted to kill Venus Rasmussen is himself murdered, with a police guard outside his door. You’ve got a mess on your hands.”

  An understatement, Savich thought as they walked to the ER, where Officer Chas Golinowski lay sleeping in cubicle four.

  Ben said, “I’ve alerted our media liaison. We’re going to take a big hit for this. No excuses, but the killer was good.” He sighed. “I hope Golinowski has something to say that’s helpful.”

  Officer Chas Golinowski didn’t have anything to say. He was still sleeping peacefully, snoring.

  Savich and Sherlock spoke to the nurses, the orderlies, anyone who could have possibly seen the killer. No luck. Savich called Mr. Maitland, then Venus.

  She was silent a long time, then, “Whoever it was worked very fast, Dillon. Terrifyingly fast. I only made the offer yesterday. Do you think it was a man or a woman?”

  “I’ve studied the security tape, saw a tech garbed in hospital white. It’s impossible to tell.” He paused, then added, “Venus, it doesn’t mean that it has to be one of the family. The one behind this had to know Willig was here, but that was all over the news.”