The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “She said she wanted to wait until his father died—that’s Carter Blaine Abbott—which he did finally, four months ago.”

  “The Carter Blaine Abbott?” Sheriff Hollyfield said, his jaw dropping. “That’s right, I forgot Senator Abbott was his son.”

  Savich said slowly, never looking away from Rachael’s face, “The old man was a legend. Word was he had ropes of power around the throats of many world leaders, both in business and in government. I think the president heaved a sigh of relief when the old robber baron finally died.”

  Sherlock nodded. “I read he ruled his family like he ruled his empire—you got out of line, he crushed you.”

  “He didn’t crush Jimmy—my father.”

  “No, he didn’t, did he? I wonder why?”

  “Jimmy said his father actually came to believe his eldest son would make a fine president, but only if dear old dad—Carter Blaine Abbott—was still alive to tell him how to run things. Jimmy said that was the only time he could remember his father ever changing his mind about anything.”

  “Damn, Rachael,” Jack said, “my hair’s standing on end. You’re really related to these people? Their blood runs in your veins?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Rachael said.

  Sherlock said, “You said your mother wanted to wait to tell you until after the old man died. Why?”

  “She told me she hated to admit it, but she was still afraid of the old bastard. She said that even though she knew intellectually all that was left of him was a moldering carcass, she would swear she could still sense him—a malevolence that gave her nightmares.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Savich said.

  Rachael stared at the big tough federal agent who looked like he ate nails for breakfast. All his attention was focused on her, and it was formidable. Then he leaned over, patted her hand. “Stop worrying. Everything will be all right.” It broke her. She leaned against the wall, looked at each of them in turn, pausing a moment longer on Jack’s face. He looked too pale, she thought. She said, “Needless to say, my mom was afraid of Carter Blaine Abbott. When he found out his eldest son—his ticket to immortality—was dating my mother, a small-town girl with no pedigree, no money, a backwoods hick, in his mind, he wasn’t happy. He was big into bloodlines.”

  “What was your father doing here anyway?” Sherlock asked.

  “My mom told me the local mill owner’s son was one of Jimmy’s good friends. That’s when there was a mill here. Mr. Abbott swooped into town and took them both off to vacation in Spain. As you would expect, the mill owner’s family didn’t object to that.”

  Jack nodded. “All right. So your mom was pregnant. She never told your father?”

  “No, she didn’t tell anyone. Well, she had to tell Uncle Gillette, her brother. By this time, her folks, my grandparents, were both dead. She told me she was bitter, for a very long time, bitter and very angry. And scared. She was shocked when she got a letter from Carter Blaine Abbott some five months later, telling her he’d heard she was pregnant and there was no way he was going to let her blame it on his son, no way he was going to let her drag his family into it. If he ever heard a word out of her, if she ever tried to contact his son, he’d see that both she and her brat were taken care of. What did he mean by that?” Rachael shrugged. “Mom was sure he meant he would kill her and her baby. He enclosed a check for five thousand dollars.” Rachael added, “Mom tore the check up, gave birth to me, and, as it turned out, I didn’t look like either of them until I was a teenager. By the time I was eighteen, though, I was the spitting image of Senator John James Abbott, although no one ever seemed to notice the resemblance. I guess you wouldn’t, if you didn’t know the history. But I think that until two months after old man Abbott died, she was still afraid of him.

  “So Jimmy never knew about me until I showed up on his office doorstep at the Capitol, a couple of weeks after my mom finally told me about him.

  “I’ll tell you, at first I didn’t want to go. I guess I was angry at him, too, even though Mom swore he never knew about me. I remember way back when I was maybe five or so, I asked her about my father, if he died, if he ran out on us. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but I saw her crying in her room, and so I never brought it up again.

  “She convinced me to give him a chance. She didn’t know, she said, what kind of reception I was going to get from him, but wasn’t it worth a try?

  “I agreed with her. It was time I met the man who sired me. I didn’t have a clue where he lived and neither did she, so like I said, I went to his Senate office. He was coming back from lunch with his aide, Greg Nichols. He saw me standing there, staring at him. He did a classic double take, then he broke into this huge grin, called out my mom’s name, Angela. He didn’t wait for an answer, just rushed me into his office, past all his staff, past people waiting to see him.

  “I can still see that smile of his, it was radiant. He grabbed my hands and began dancing me around his office. Then he hugged me until I thought my ribs would crack.” Her voice shook and she ducked her head down. “He never voiced a single doubt that I was his daughter. Believe me, I never expected anything like that even though the resemblance between us is strong. It . . . it was wonderful.”

  Jack asked after a moment, “Senator Abbott has other kids, doesn’t he?”

  “Yep, I got two instant half sisters. Jimmy and his wife divorced about ten years ago. His ex-wife lives in Vail, Colorado, and both his daughters are married. I got the impression there wasn’t much love lost between Jimmy and Jacqueline—that’s his ex-wife. He never remarried, never wanted to, he told me. He said he sees his daughters twice a year, usually skiing somewhere, and spends Thanksgiving with his brother, Quincy, his sister, Laurel, and her husband, Stefanos Kostas, and their two boys at Kostas’s house—ha, it’s really a mansion—outside Hailstone, Maryland. There’s a gatehouse, extensive grounds all enclosed behind a high stone wall, and a night guard. Jimmy said Thanksgiving is always very cordial but really pretty sad.

  “I told him all about Slipper Hollow and Uncle Gillette and how we’d all lived there together, except for his stint in the first Gulf War, until I was twelve and we moved to Richmond.

  “Jimmy had never heard of the hollow. I guess my mom had been too embarrassed to tell him, thought Slipper Hollow was too hick for the likes of his fancy rich self. He’d always known, he told me, that she lived in or around Parlow, but she’d never offered to take him to her house.

  “He wanted to know everything about Angela—my mom. But he didn’t want to call her, didn’t want to disrupt her life. I agreed with that. My stepfather’s a great guy, but having a wealthy senator suddenly stick his nose in wouldn’t be pleasant for him. And my mom realized this, of course, and told me she was fine seeing us reunite without her involved. Jimmy would have enjoyed Ben, my half brother, but there was never the chance.”

  Sherlock said, “So you think the people who tried to kill you are Quincy Abbott and Laurel Abbott Kostas?”

  “That’s right. I wouldn’t be surprised if Laurel’s husband Stefanos was involved, too.”

  Jack said, “Your father died in a car accident three weeks ago, right?”

  “Yes,” Rachael said, “he did.”

  Jack said, “Wasn’t there drinking involved?”

  Rachael’s voice turned hard. “That’s what everyone believes. The police said he’d been drinking and driving, alone, and he lost control of his car, but I know that isn’t true. There’s no way it was an accident.

  “He was murdered. I knew that immediately. I remember standing in the huge foyer after all the police, the federal investigators, and the people from the state department left, and I thought about how I’d never really believed in evil, in something cold to the soul. I knew they’d killed Jimmy—there was no doubt about it in my mind. But I didn’t have any proof, and that’s why I ran after they tried to drown me, why I didn’t go to the police. I guess after Jimmy died so violently, I was in shock, as well. I wa
s trying to figure things out, but I didn’t have time.”

  “So you’re saying that Laurel Kostas and Quincy Abbott killed your father and are now trying to kill you,” said Sheriff Hollyfield. “Truth is, Rachael, I’d want to get your head examined for a tale like that, but hey, look what’s happened right here in Parlow. I’d have to agree, that sounds pretty evil. I’ll bet you everyone in this room has close-up and personal experience with evil.”

  No one disagreed.

  Sherlock said, “Dillon and I met your father at a charity benefit at the Bentley Gallery in Georgetown not too long ago. You weren’t there. Neither of us even knew about you.”

  “I don’t remem—Wait, yes, it was a last-minute deal. One of Jimmy’s lady friends took me to New York to shop because he was throwing a party for me; he was going to introduce me to everyone, including handsome young men who would trample each other trying to get to me.” She smiled, shrugged. “There was never any party. He was dead the next week.”

  Sherlock said, “Did you know your father was a friend of Dillon’s boss, Jimmy Maitland? He was one of the pallbearers at his funeral. Mr. Maitland always called him John, as I recall, never Jimmy. Given they’re both Jimmys, I suppose Mr. Maitland didn’t want to deal with the name confusion.”

  “I didn’t know that. I mean, I stood in a receiving line with all the other Abbotts, including my two half sisters, to greet all the people who came to his funeral. I don’t remember a Mr. Maitland. But that day was such a blur.”

  “After his funeral,” Savich said, “you simply dropped out of sight. The funeral was nearly three weeks ago. Why would they leave you alone for three weeks, then try to kill you? Why not kill you right away, in another accident? How do you explain that, Rachael?”

  “Well, in truth, there wasn’t time for me to be on the radar. Jimmy and I only had about six weeks together before his death.” She paused, head down. Jack saw her twisting her fingers in her lap. Then she raised her face and said, voice composed, “They didn’t have a chance to kill me because I left Washington the day after Jimmy’s funeral. I just knew I’d be next. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, not even my mom. I got back to Jimmy’s house last Tuesday. Well, now it’s my house, since Jimmy left it to me. It only took them three days to act.”

  “Where did you go?” Jack asked.

  “To Sicily, to a little town on the coast, not yet discovered by tourists. I hunkered down, I guess you’d say. I had a lot of thinking to do, but I knew I had to come back to Washington, I had to deal with his estate and his family—and his murder—and so I came back nearly two weeks to the day after his funeral. I wasn’t even back a week before they threw me into the lake.”

  Sherlock said, “Let’s back up a bit. You think your father was murdered, but his death was ruled an accident. But there was a thorough investigation, everyone was convinced. Do you have any proof otherwise?”

  “Not hands-on proof, no.”

  “Tell us what you have,” Jack said.

  “Okay. Two days after I came back, Jimmy’s lawyer, Brady Cullifer, called. He was rather upset with me since I’d taken off without telling him and he hadn’t known where to find me. There was Jimmy’s new will, you see. Jimmy left me his house and split the rest of his estate among his three daughters. Mr. Cullifer told me he’d already notified Laurel Kostas and Quincy Abbott about what was in Jimmy’s will, told them Jimmy hadn’t left them anything. Oh yes, I forgot—Jimmy adopted me. It came through only days before his death, so I was legally his, surely a record, Mr. Cullifer told me.”

  Sherlock said, “Was your father’s divorce messy?”

  “You’re thinking his ex-wife could have killed him? I don’t think so. I met Jacqueline and their two daughters, my half sisters, Elaine and Carla, and their husbands at his funeral. They were all very kind to me, very civilized. Jacqueline was very distant, as if she were bored with all of it. His daughters were in shock, quiet, withdrawn, but it seemed to me they were thrilled to leave Washington, which they did the very next morning, and I left three hours after they did.

  “I returned from Italy last Tuesday night. Friday night I drank a bit of the red wine that was evidently drugged. When I came back to the house later that night, the wine was gone.”

  Jack said, “Do you you think the lawyer, Brady Cullifer, was part of it too?”

  “I thought he was for maybe ten seconds. But it just didn’t make any sense. He’d been with Jimmy for years and years. He had no reason to hurt me. Laurel and Quincy put the drugged wine there, I know it.”

  Savich said, “Okay, let’s get to the root. You were telling us why you believe your father’s sister and brother murdered him. Keep going, Rachael. Convince us.”

  “It’s a long story, and it’s not my story. Since it isn’t about me, that’s why I didn’t say anything right after his death.” She looked miserable. “I don’t know, I just . . .”

  “Too late for that,” Jack said. “Come on, Rachael, spill it all. This is about your father, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “And a major disagreement with his siblings?”

  She nodded again.

  “You call your father Jimmy,” Sherlock said, backing off a bit.

  “Yes. I wasn’t comfortable yet calling him Dad. Look, the rest of it, I simply don’t know if . . .”

  “Anything you tell us doesn’t go out of this room,” Jack said. “Everyone agrees?”

  She looked at each of them as they nodded.

  Still, it was difficult. To even think about what had happened was hard, but to speak about it, openly, she didn’t know if she could. But, finally, she knew she had no choice. “All right, I have to trust someone, and you guys seem like my best bet. But it’s got to remain a secret. You’ve agreed, right?”

  They all nodded, Jack’s head to the side, frowning at her. “What’s the big secret, Rachael? Senator Abbott was a spy or something?”

  “No, no, but . . . all right. If I can’t trust you folks, then I might as well hang it up.”

  FOURTEEN

  I told you that Jimmy overwhelmed me with his welcome, his generosity to me. He was open, he was loving, he wanted to hear every detail of every year of my life.” She smiled at that. “But I began to notice that he would fall silent at odd moments, that he seemed disturbed and despondent about something. When I pressed him on it, he finally told me what he’d done. I believe he wanted to tell me, that I was like this miracle, and if he told me maybe he’d at least partly make up for this bad thing he’d done. And he was so desperately alone, so desperately afraid.

  “About a year and a half ago, Jimmy was driving through Delancey Park on his way home. It was late, sunset, he’d had a couple of martinis with colleagues. He was talking on his cell, not really paying much attention. A little girl on a bicycle came pedaling in front of his car. He hit her, killed her. He panicked and drove away, called his senior aide, Greg Nichols, who came to him immediately.

  “His aide—you need to understand about him. Greg is maybe in his late thirties. He’s very smart—intuitive, I guess you’d say—and driven. His ambition was to see Jimmy in the White House. Jimmy trusted him, admired his brain, his drive, his commitment. Greg convinced Jimmy to keep it quiet, that if it got out he’d killed a child—accident or not—his career, his life, his family, would be ruined, he could even go to jail, convicted of vehicular homicide and leaving the scene of an accident.

  “I’m not trying to excuse what he did, but Greg is the king of persuasion; he could convince the Pope to convert to Islam. Fact was, Greg himself would also be ruined if Jimmy confessed to killing the little girl. He’d be done in Washington, that’s for sure, and so he worked very hard to convince Jimmy that the best thing, the smartest thing, the only logical thing, was to keep his mouth shut and simply leave the little girl right where she was. Bottom line, Jimmy told me, he wanted to be convinced, and so he was. And yes, he knew very well that Greg was being self-serving, but who cared? He was too
concerned about his own future.

  “He told me how hard he tried to excuse himself—you know, if the girl’s parents had been with her, as they should have been, it wouldn’t have happened. What kind of parents let their kid ride alone in a public park anyway? There were predators in public parks, were her parents idiots? But he said no matter how hard he tried to make excuses for himself, it never worked.

  “He spoke of the personal consequences—unrelenting guilt, recurring nightmares of his hitting the little girl, over and over, he said, how he found himself disengaged more and more from Capitol Hill, from his colleagues, his family, his staff, that even therapy hadn’t helped. He’d lived with this for so long, it seemed like forever, it was eating him up inside. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He told me he was thinking about going to the police, telling them what he’d done, announcing it to the world. He wanted to know what I thought.

  “I saw what a wreck he was, how what he’d done was debilitating him, but now that I had found him, I didn’t want to lose him, to have him plunge himself into a scandal. But I could see what it was doing to him, and so I said he should do what he believed was right, that no matter what he did, I was behind him one hundred percent, and I would always be at his side. Let the world do its worst, I told him, I wasn’t going anywhere. But it was up to him. His decision, his life.”

  Rachael paused for a moment, her eyes unfocused. She swallowed, said, “I can see so clearly that twisted smile he gave me. He said the shrink he’d been seeing had never spoken about confessing what he’d done; the shrink had only spoken of forgiving himself for an unfortunate mistake. Unfortunate mistake, he repeated, the little girl was nothing more than an unfortunate mistake.”

  Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up. “A shrink?”

  “Yes, he went to a psychiatrist for maybe six months. Jimmy told me Greg hadn’t believed it smart to see a local psychiatrist—too much chance for it to get out since there were probably three news sharks hanging around every doctor’s office to see if any of the great and famous paid them a visit.”