The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “After his nightmare last night, I’m thinking maybe he should stay with us tonight. It’s the strange-house-and-bed syndrome, no one his age does all that well with it.”

  “Did my mom tell you that after she and Graciella took Sean to the zoo, they hit the crooked block of Lombard Street? Sean was so excited he wanted her to drive it three times.”

  “Graciella told me. Your dad is taking him down to the courthouse tomorrow, introducing him to some of the clerks, interns, and judges. He even promised him he’d show him a crook or two—I think he meant a defense lawyer, but I’m not sure.”

  She smiled as she reached out to touch his face. “Are you still freaked out about what happened at Tammerlane’s?”

  “No. Sweetheart, I don’t want any of the others to know about what happened, okay?”

  “Nor should they,” Sherlock said, and yawned. “I can’t begin to imagine what Director Mueller would say if he heard you’d cell-phoned a kidnapped psychic without the cell phone.”

  Despite the strange bed and all the excitement, all three were soon asleep, Savich the last to fall.

  Toward morning he dreamed of Kathryn Golden. She was alone again, in a closet, bound to a chair, her hair hanging over her face. She seemed to be asleep. He wanted to speak to her, but somehow no words came from his mouth or into his mind. She never stirred. He came abruptly awake, his heart pounding. What had that been about? He looked at the digital clock next to the bed. It was nearly five o’clock.

  He knew there’d be no more sleep. He quietly left the bed, tucking in the covers around Sean’s neck, lightly touching Sherlock’s shoulder. She was smiling in her sleep. He looked down at the two most important people in his life and felt overwhelming gratitude.

  He pulled on his pants, picked up MAX, and headed downstairs to the Sherlock gym. He drew up short, seeing Cheney sleeping on the narrow cot, sprawled on his back, arms and legs over the sides of the bed, deeply asleep. No way was he going to wake him. He went to his father-in-law’s study, and set to work. He wanted to know more about the Pallacks’ murder in 1977 and all about the man who’d butchered them, Courtney James. He frankly didn’t think he’d find anything useful, but who knew what might pop up?

  CHAPTER 47

  SHERLOCK HOUSE

  Wednesday morning

  Savich handed Sean a piece of his freshly baked croissant, which he’d smeared with a big dollop of strawberry jam. Sean grinned up at Isabel and said, "My mama says you make the best croxants in the known world.”

  “Yes, indeed I do,” Isabel said and ruffled the little boy’s dark hair. “You look just like your daddy and that’s a fine thing. He’s so handsome one of the neighbor women said she wanted to take over my job for a while so she could get close to him, maybe steal him away from my little Lacey.”

  “Who’s little Lacey?”

  “That’s your mama, sweetie.”

  Sean shook his head. “No, Isabel, Mama’s name is Sherlock. Everybody calls her Sherlock, except me, and I call her Mama.”

  Ruth frowned as she stifled a yawn. “I didn’t even know her name was Lacey. Well, how about that, speak of the sweetie and Sean’s mama. Dix, meet Lacey.”

  Dix looked up from his cereal bowl. He looked tired, his eyes dark with shadows. “Hi, Lacey. No, that doesn’t feel right—it’s got to be Sherlock.”

  “Or Mama,” Sean said.

  Sherlock was wearing her usual FBI uniform of black pants, white blouse, short black boots, her SIG clipped to her belt. Her curly hair shone brightly in the morning sunlight flooding through the kitchen windows, thick and red as Isabel’s lipstick. Her blue eyes were as bright—a soft summer blue. She kissed Sean’s cheek, nipped her husband’s earlobe.

  Ruth said, “Hey, where are Cheney and Julia?”

  Isabel said, looking down at the fork in her hand, “Julia told me she had to talk to Cheney, so she went down to the gym. I took down a big plate of croissants and a pot of coffee a half hour ago and from the sound of it, they were having a nice full-bodied, loud, ah”—Isabel shot Sean a look—“discussion.”

  “What are they fighting about?” Sean wanted to know.

  “Well, nothing really, Sean,” Isabel said. “It’s more a discussion, like I said.”

  “A full-bodied discussion,” Ruth said.

  Isabel cleared her throat. “Maybe they’re going to work out a bit.”

  Dix smiled into his orange juice.

  Sean said, “When Mama’s mad at Papa, she jumps on him.”

  “Ah, well, yes, sometimes,” Sherlock said. She grinned at her husband and poured herself some tea from her mother’s prized Edwardian teapot.

  Sean said, “Julia told me about her little boy. She said he died.”

  “I didn’t know that,” his father said.

  “Do you think Julia and Cheney are working out with Grandpa and Grandma?”

  Isabel poured Dix and Ruth more coffee. “Could be, Sean, but first I think they wanted to be alone for a little while, you know, talk things over.”

  “The discussion,” Sean said. “But, Isabel, I don’t understand. What—”

  “Oh my, Sean, I believe some toast just popped up.” And Isabel escaped to the other side of the kitchen.

  Sean said to Dix, “Rob and Rafe told me how their mama, Christie, died a long time ago, Uncle Dix,” and he slipped his hand into his mother’s.

  Dix said, tightening all over, “Yes, she did, Sean.”

  “I don’t want my mama to die and leave me.”

  “She won’t,” Dix said. “That’s a promise from a big bad sheriff, okay?”

  Sean nodded.

  Dix rose. “That reminds me. I need to speak to my sons, see what they’re up to and hope they’re telling me the truth.”

  “Say hello for me,” Ruth called after him. She added, “Hey, Sean, I hear you’re going to go check out the courthouse with your granddad this morning.”

  Cheney and Julia appeared in the kitchen doorway. They looked well-rested, and relaxed, and Julia’s eyes were shining.

  Nothing like full-bodied discussions to jump-start a person’s day, Ruth thought.

  Cheney’s cell phone rang, and he turned away.

  When Cheney walked back into the kitchen, he took a quick look at Sean, and said, “That was Makepeace. He told me where Kathryn Golden is. He told me to come get the worthless idiot, she’s of no use to him at all. She’s at the Mariner Hotel in Palo Alto, Room 415.”

  “It’s obviously a trap,” Savich said.

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter,” Julia said. “We have to go get her. Let me get my jacket, Cheney.”

  Savich said, “Wait. Neither of you is going anywhere. You know very well that Makepeace is probably waiting there with a scoped rifle. No, you’re staying right here.” Savich went into command mode. “Ruth, Dix, you guys head down to Palo Alto. Sherlock and I will follow once I’ve made some calls and gotten as much protection as I can.”

  Ten minutes later, Dix and Ruth were on 280 South headed to Palo Alto.

  In the Sherlock home entrance hall, not a foot from the front door, Julia stood toe-to-toe with Cheney. “I’m not staying all snug and hidden in the Sherlocks’ damned gym. I’m coming with you and Sherlock and Dillon.”

  “No, you’re not, Julia. And don’t even think about comparing yourself to Sherlock. You’re a woman like she is, I’ll go along with that, but she’s a professional, and she’s trained to kick butt. It would be incredibly stupid for you to show up at that hotel. He’s after you, he wants to kill you. I’m not about to take the chance. Forget it.”

  “He’s after you too, Cheney,” Savich said mildly. “I would be if you’d stuck your nose in my business as many times as you have and beaten me. No, both of you are staying right here. Captain Paulette just pulled up. You two tell him what’s going on. I’ve got phone calls to make.”

  Cheney and Julia continued to argue. “He’s down in Palo Alto, waiting for us to show.”

  “For all yo
u know, he’s off trying to kill the mayor.”

  “Don’t be cute. Look, Julia, if I have to tie you down, I will.”

  “Or the two of you could pay a nice visit to the gym downstairs again,” Sherlock said.

  Savich said, “Listen, when we’ve gotten Kathryn Golden back, all of us need to meet at Julia’s house. We need to find August Ransom’s journals. Just be patient. Sherlock, we’re outta here.”

  A minute later, they were on the road in the judge’s black Beemer.

  Frank said to Cheney, “If they get the psychic safe and everyone’s back up here, I’ll get everything ready to go—I’m thinking a couple of undercover cops, no SWAT, that’s overkill, what with Makepeace in Palo Alto.”

  “You know the available resources better than I do,” Cheney said.

  Forty minutes later, Savich dialed Dix’s phone from the car. “You there yet?”

  “Yeah, we just drove up.”

  “Okay, you’re going to meet a Lieutenant Ramirez of the Palo Alto PD. I told him a good bit, but not all of it.”

  Dix said, “It’s obvious Ramirez has already set things up here. He’s got plainclothes cops searching around the hotel. We were talking—what if Makepeace is setting a trap in some other way?”

  A bomb, Savich thought, Dix meant a bomb. He said slowly, “Makepeace would have to have contacts to purchase explosives, if that’s what you’re thinking. It could be anything. Tell Ramirez to be very careful.”

  “All right. The doorman’s looking nervous. He knows something’s going on. Can’t anybody keep a lid on things?”

  “You know that’s impossible. You keep your eyes open, Dix.”

  Savich heard Dix speaking, and then Ruth said something to the valet.

  Dix said, “Okay, we’re walking into the lobby. There’s Ramirez, trying to look like he’s waiting for his damned luggage or something. He might as well be wearing a sign around his neck that says Hey, I’m a cop. I’ve got to go, Savich. I’ll call you as soon as we’ve got Golden.”

  Savich didn’t even bother to question himself about it. He simply thought, Kathryn, Dix Noble and Ruth Warnecki are on their way up to your room with the local Palo Alto police. You’ll be fine.

  Savich was disgusted with himself. Why had he believed for a single instant that she’d heard him?

  He pictured Makepeace jumping out of the elevator at them, mowing them down, and dialed Dix’s cell again. He couldn’t help it, he had to talk to him again. He pressed harder on the accelerator. The Beemer shot forward. They were still about a half hour away.

  Dix said, “Savich, stop your worrying. We’re being very careful, everyone is. No sign yet of Makepeace. We’re going into the room now.” Savich heard a door open.

  “We’re in the room. Kathryn Golden’s in the middle of the room, tied to a chair. She’s gagged. Let me get to her, just a second—”

  “Dix—”

  Savich heard a loud explosion.

  He frantically dialed Dix’s cell again.

  There was no answer.

  He dialed Ruth’s cell.

  He got voice mail.

  Kathryn!

  There was no answer.

  CHAPTER 48

  A frightened young voice answered on the tenth ring at the Mariner Hotel. "I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you. There’s been an explosion, someone tried to blow up the hotel. I’ve got—”

  "Don’t hang up! I’m the FBI. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Melissa Granby, sir—Agent Sir.”

  “Take a deep breath, Melissa. That’s good. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  “A couple of seconds ago this guy—he said his name was Makepeace—he called us, said a bomb was going off in the hotel in Room 415. Then there was this loud explosion, and everyone’s screaming, guests are running down the stairs, it’s crazy—”

  “Stay with me here, Melissa, slow down. You’re doing fine. Are there any police there?”

  “Police? Yes, I see a uniformed guy running toward the stairs.”

  “This is critical. Stop him. Now.”

  Bless her young heart, he heard the yells, the running, the panic in the background, then he heard her shouting above them all for the officer to stop.

  A few seconds later, a man’s impatient voice came on the line. “Who the hell is this? You better really be FBI and not some dumb-ass reporter.”

  “Yes, I’m FBI, Agent Dillon Savich. I’m in on the operation with Lieutenant Ramirez. Please go straight up to Room 415, then call my cell and tell me what’s going on.” Savich gave him the cell number. “What’s your name?”

  “Officer Clooney.”

  “Officer Clooney, please hurry.”

  There was nothing more Savich could do except speed, which he did. He felt Sherlock’s hand close around his. She said, “I’ve got our I.D. ready to shove in a cop’s face if we’re stopped.”

  Savich let the Beemer ease up to ninety. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “I was afraid of a bomb, but there wasn’t time—damnation, I should have gotten bomb squads there straight off, bomb-spotting equipment—”

  “Yeah, yeah, maybe we’d have had them in a couple of hours, which we didn’t have. Stop beating up on yourself. Concentrate on getting us there safely.”

  “You’re right. But Dix and Ruth—Kathryn Golden—”

  “Be quiet, Dillon. Dad’s Beemer needs you.”

  Savich eased the speedometer to one hundred. Thank heaven traffic was fairly light.

  Sherlock said, “So Makepeace calls in the bomb himself, even identifies himself, tells everyone the room number, and blows it right away. Why? Are you making any sense of this?”

  Savich said, “Maybe he told them the room number because he wanted people to find Kathryn right away, wanted everyone focusing on her, on the explosion, getting tied up in all the chaos. Meanwhile he’s hoping to see Cheney or Julia, betting everyone will haul butt down to Palo Alto. Or, maybe hoping we’ll leave Cheney and Julia in San Francisco.”

  Sherlock said, “Problem here, Dillon. Makepeace is down in Palo Alto setting off a bomb, he as good as asked Cheney to come on down and let him try to kill him again. Does he think we’re that stupid? Wouldn’t he be able to figure out that Julia’s safe in my folks’ house in San Francisco, with Cheney protecting her?”

  At that moment, Savich’s cell played “Born to Be Wild.” “Is that you, Officer Clooney?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s bad, Agent Savich. Here’s Sheriff Noble.”

  Thank God. “Dix, are you okay? Ruth? You got Kathryn Golden?”

  Dix stood in the midst of the rubble, swiping his hand over his eyes to clear away the dust, holding his arm. “Ruth and I are both okay, well, nearly. Kathryn Golden’s in bad shape, Savich. There’s lots of blood, and she’s unconscious. Ruth’s stanching the blood from a wound on her leg. Lieutenant Ramirez’s face is bloody, mine too. Two of his men are slightly wounded.

  “The room’s a mess, lots of smoke, lots of alarms, but maybe more noise than real damage. He probably used about half an ounce of Semtex, or some equivalent. But why not more? What I’m not getting here is why this little boom when he could have blasted the whole hotel to hell and gone, and us too? Why didn’t he?”

  “Dix, hold on a second. Was the bomb detonated after you untied Kathryn and she stood up?”

  “I’d say so, yes, wait. That’s right, it didn’t blow right away. Actually, she’d stepped away from the chair, three, four steps, then bang.”

  “So he’s close by, using binoculars to see into the room, which means he blew the charge exactly when he wanted to. He probably connected the bomb to his cell phone. Get the cops to canvass the buildings across the street, he’d have to be able to look into the room. Are the drapes open?”

  “Yeah.”

  Savich heard Dix speaking to Ramirez, heard Ramirez talking to his officers. Then Dix was back. “Okay, done. And we’ve closed what was left of the drapes.”

  Savich said, “I�
�m thinking he could be across the street, or— am I an idiot or what? You said it yourself, Dix, it doesn’t make sense. Quick, check around the hotel room—up at the ceiling line—see if there are any digicams pointed at you, or a cell phone—that’d be the easiest way.”

  Dix said, “You think he’s got two cell phones and he’s been watching the hotel room ever since he left? That would mean Makepeace doesn’t have to be across the street, Savich, he doesn’t even have to be in Palo Alto. He could be in frigging Oregon.”

  “Yeah, he could. If Makepeace blew the bomb exactly when he wanted, that would mean he didn’t want to kill Kathryn Golden or any of the hotel people or cops who found her when he sent them up to her room.”

  Dix said, “Okay, he sees us drive up and that spurs him to move. He calls the hotel and lays the bomb threat on them. Let me see if I can find— Hey, wait a second, just get away from me! No—not now—”

  There was what sounded like a scuffle, then someone fumbling with the phone. Ruth, a bit out of breath, said, “A couple of paramedics grabbed Dix to wrap a pressure bandage around his arm to stop the bleeding. Okay, I’m going to look for a camera of some kind. Hang on.” Not ten seconds later, she was back on the line. “You nailed it, Dillon. There was a cell phone fastened into the folds of the draperies, the camera aimed right at Kathryn’s chair. When I picked it up, spoke, the line was dead. But Makepeace has been watching us—or listening to us. Why would he wait for us to move away from the chair before he blew it? Why would he care if any of us was killed?”

  Savich said, “Maybe he only murders for a purpose. Maybe mass murder isn’t his style. Maybe he knows killing all of you would have brought every law enforcement agency in the world down on him.”

  Ruth said, “Or maybe he was hoping Cheney would be the one trying to free Kathryn, and he would have blasted the bomb right away. They’re carrying Kathryn Golden out right now. She’s unconscious. ”

  “Sounds like you and Dix need to get to the hospital too, see to his wounds. You promise me you’re okay, Ruth?”