The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  Clearly, antitrust laws wouldn't allow them to profit directly. Was there some other way they were scratching each other's backs? Were there payoffs involved? Swiss bank accounts? Or were they so arrogant as to believe there would be no legal action if they violated the antitrust laws?

  Erin smeared more crunchy peanut butter on her English muffin as she read about Serono, a Swiss biopharmaceutical company, that had tried to bring an AIDS drug to market "by concocting a dubious medical test," U.S. Attorney General Alberto R. Gonzales had alleged. The company "put its desire to sell the drug above the interests of patients." Serono had even offered doctors an all-expenses-paid trip to France to prescribe the drug.

  Did she have to add doctors to the growing list of endlessly greedy professions?

  She laid aside the stack of printouts that documented incredibly creative bad deeds by the pharmaceutical companies. What she needed now was to act. She began to refine her list of media people to contact with the papers she'd copied off Royal's files. It was going to be tricky since she didn't want to go to jail for breaking into Caskie Royal's computer. She finally selected Paul Bradley at The Wall Street Journal and Luther Gleason of The New York Times, as both had reported on the Culovort shortage. None of the major TV stations had reported on the Culovort shortage and its consequences to colon cancer patients. When this story broke in the newspapers, though, Katie Couric, in particular, would be all over it.

  Her head snapped up when she heard a TV reporter say, "The body of a man was discovered two hours ago in Van Wie Park-"

  Van Wie Park was right behind Schiffer Hartwin's American headquarters. She grabbed her cup of tea and sat down in front of the TV. A reporter shoved his microphone into a man's face. "This is Special Agent in Charge of the New Haven field office, Bowie Richards. Special Agent, what do you know about this death? Was it murder? Why is this in the hands of the FBI and not the Stone Bridge police department? Have you identified the victim? Do you believe it connects to the break-in at the U.S. subsidiary headquarters of Schiffer Hartwin last night?"

  Agent Bowie Richards looked both pained and grateful at the reporter's shotgun approach, Erin thought, since it allowed him to pick and choose. "The FBI was called in because the victim was found in Van Wie Park, which is federal land. The FBI and the local police department will be working together to solve this brutal crime. That's all I have to say at the moment." He turned and nodded to a portly middle-aged man the reporter introduced as Police Chief Clifford Amos, who didn't seem at all happy that the victim had the bad judgment to get whacked on federal land.

  "Chief, have you identified the victim?"

  Police Chief Amos said, "The FBI wishes to withhold his identity until the family is contacted. As Special Agent Richards said, my department will be closely involved in this case."

  Yeah, sure you will, Erin thought. If she were Bowie Richards, she'd keep the local cops as far out of the loop as possible. A dead guy murdered in Caskie Royal's backyard and I was there, or maybe close by, when it happened. I could have stumbled over the body, maybe run headlong into the murderer. They'll find out I was in Caskie Royal's office, lifting documents from his computer, and they'll think I murdered him. I'll go to jail and Dr. Kender's father will have to sell his house to pay for the Eloxium and- Slow down, slow down. Was the murdered man an employee of Schiffer Hartwin? The way the world worked, she'd bet the last bite of her English muffin on it, with an extra spoonful of peanut butter smeared on top.

  Could it be possible the dead guy had nothing to do with Schiffer Hartwin? Maybe he was just an unlucky out-of-towner, here to visit his mother, who managed to get mugged and killed? That was too good to believe. And if he was connected to Schiffer Hartwin, did his death have anything to do with her being there?

  Fact was, she hadn't seen a thing, hadn't heard a thing, hadn't stumbled over a dead body, not, of course, that a single soul would believe her.

  Then it hit her hard. How could she give all the documents from Caskie Royal's computer to the media now? She'd have her butt arrested within an hour.

  Whatever she did, from this moment on, she was going to have to be very careful she wouldn't be connected to the murder.

  When the doorbell rang an hour later, Erin was just beginning to organize her notes, Royal's Project A file, and her printouts and clippings.

  As was her habit, she looked through the peephole instead of flinging open her door to avoid welcoming in a vampire or other miscreant. Good grief, hadn't she just seen that face on TV? She felt her heart fall to her toes. They'd found out about her so soon? No, impossible. She had to get a grip. "Who is it?"

  "My name's Bowie Richards. May I speak to you, Ms. Pulaski?"

  "Why?" But she knew why. They'd found a witness who'd gotten the license plate number off her Hummer, or the guard had somehow seen her on a camera she hadn't known was there and she'd been identified by Carla Alvarez, who'd recognized her from the gym or-

  "It's personal, Ms. Pulaski. It's about my daughter, Georgie."

  What? Georgia Richards-Georgie-was the daughter of an FBI agent? No, more than that-Bowie Richards was the big-cheese FBI agent in New Haven. Why hadn't anyone said anything? She felt a huge black cloud moving swiftly toward her and she wondered in that moment if her family's legendary good luck was fast heading south.

  She didn't want to, but she opened the door and stepped up to block the doorway.

  Bowie Richards looked different in person-bigger, and harder, and to her panicked eyes, the Agent of Doom embodied in a dark suit, white shirt, red and blue tie, and black wingtips. He was young to have the position of Special Agent in Charge in an FBI field office, no more than early thirties. He was olive-complexioned, his hair dark brown, his eyes light blue, with a lean, rangy runner's body.

  She didn't move from the open doorway. "You're Georgie's father?"

  He stuck out his hand and she automatically shook it. A really strong hand that could twist her small .22 around her fingers, and laugh. "Bowie Richards. Ah, do you have a few minutes, Ms. Pulaski? It seems I'm badly in need of your help."

  She couldn't let him in, he'd see all the Culovort pages, all the stuff she'd copied off the Internet about drug company scandals. All her work sheets were still spread out haphazardly on the dining room table. It wouldn't take him more than two seconds to realize he'd walked right in on a potential murder suspect. Five minutes later and all those damning pages would have been in folders and tucked away. Her good luck was indeed now traveling south at warp speed.

  Erin said, "Sorry, but I can't let you in. I just sprayed for bugs and the smell's toxic. I'm sure you can smell it from here so don't breathe deeply. I just took off my mask. Let me step out into the hallway." She closed the door behind her.

  Erin smiled at him brightly. "What about Georgie?"

  Bowie wondered what was going on here. He hadn't smelled a thing. If she'd worn a mask, where were the marks on her face? Why didn't she want to let him in? Ah, there was probably a guy in there, and she didn't want him to be seen. But why? Maybe because the guy was married?

  He leaned against the hallway wall, crossed his arms over his chest. The pose was intimidating, only he didn't realize it. Erin stood in front of him, her hands stuck in her jeans pockets, wondering what demon convinced her to work at home this morning, and prayed.

  "My daughter is always talking about you, Ms. Pulaski. She told me you walked in the first day of class and announced to all the children and their parents that your name was Erin Pulaski and you were a Polish-Irish-American. I laughed at that, and so Georgie kept repeating it, at least half a dozen more times. I believe she's repeated every word out of your mouth. I suppose I feel like I know you and so that's why I came to you. I know I can trust you."

  What? Talk about a leap. If only he had a clue.

  He said, "You know, I really didn't smell anything. Surely
it would be okay now inside your apartment."

  Not going to happen, buddy.

  When she said nothing, he plowed onward. "Well, I guess the hallway is just fine. I am Georgie's dad, not an imposter."

  "I know who you are. I recognized you from TV. You're an FBI agent."

  He nodded, then raked his fingers through his hair. "Oh, yes, I forgot how many TV guys were at the crime scene."

  "A dead guy found behind a company headquarters surely isn't an everyday occurrence in Connecticut."

  "That's for sure. It also means it's going to be very difficult for a while, which is why I'm here. Like I said, I desperately need your help, Ms. Pulaski."

  "With Georgie? Is there a problem? Can't she make her ballet class tomorrow?"

  He shook his head. "No, it's not that. Frankly, I've run out of options. I could be called away on this case at any time, and I was hoping, praying, actually, that maybe you could help me take care of her for a while when she's not in school, maybe come to my house for a few days. Georgie always talks about you being a dancer, like that's what you do for a living, and I thought-"

  At her utterly bewildered look, he said, "Ah, you're not only a ballet teacher, are you? You also have a full-time job, and you don't have the time or the inclination to take care of a little girl?"

  "That's right. Teaching ballet is a hobby for me, Agent Richards."

  "What do you do for a living, Ms. Pulaski?"

  "I'm a private investigator, Agent Richards."

  He looked at her like she'd suddenly sprouted devil's horns. She supposed he'd expected her to say anything but that. She knew what she looked like, a beanpole in jeans and a white T-shirt, boots that brought her to nearly six feet, and nearly to his eye level, her plain brown hair in a thick French braid. Long silver hoops dangled from her ears.

  "You know," she said patiently, "as in people hire me to solve difficult personal problems? Don't you know any private investigators, Agent Richards?"

  "Well, yes, one guy in New York City. I think he was beat up last month by a husband who caught him spying on him and his mistress."

  She didn't rise to that juicy bait. "Then you know we're self-employed and work long hard hours if we want to feed ourselves. Unlike you, I don't have a government job that pays me whether or not I show up. Sorry, that sounded snippy. What's wrong with Georgie's mother?"

  "She died some time ago."

  Erin had known that. Oh dear. "I'm sorry. She has a nanny, right?"

  "Yes, but Glynn's had surgery and her mother came and took her back to Boston until she's well again."

  "And you made no plans for this?"

  "I should have said it was emergency surgery. Of course I have backups, but none of them is available."

  And I'm dead in the water, she could read that conclusion plainly in his eyes. "I have no one to take care of Georgie. Actually, Glynn mentioned you, said you liked Georgie and dealt really well with her. I thought maybe, since you weren't married and Georgie really likes you that-sorry."

  And he tipped his head at her. "Forgive me for bothering you." As he turned and strode off down the hall, Erin called out, "Wait. Wait a minute, let me see what I can come up with."

  He jerked around on his booted feet, a look of hope on his hard face.

  "Wait out here a moment, let me straighten up."

  I will shoot myself later, a nice clean head shot, get myself out of my misery once and for all.

  4

  CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND

  Sunday night

  "That's got to be the weirdest thing I've ever seen," Sherlock whispered against Savich's ear.

  They stared at something filmy white floating through the trees, not quite opaque, not quite transparent-"otherworldly" was the word the senator used, Savich recalled and dismissed the thought immediately. He very strongly doubted it was anything like ectoplasm manifesting itself in the small knot of woods at the back of Senator David Hoffman's backyard in Chevy Chase, Maryland. With all the wickedness in the world, it was far more likely the senator's specter was what he'd described to them-a swatch of carefully cut feathery material about the size of a standard pillow.

  They watched the white object move slowly toward the house, pausing every few seconds, as if the person feeding out the wire it was attached to was having some difficulties. Open mind, Savich thought, since he really couldn't tell what it was.

  "It appears outside my bedroom window," the senator had told him and Sherlock that morning as they sat in front of his impressive desk in his elegant home office, his voice low, strained, as if he knew even saying this out loud would bring ridicule down on his head. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting to Sherlock's curly red hair, then beyond her to the bookcases that lined the wall. Sherlock followed his gaze. "You see something, Senator?"

  "What? Oh, no, Agent, I was just thinking I should read some of those books. Do you know they came with the house? I've never touched them." He shook his head. "This house has been my local residence for nine years now. That's not right."

  Savich said, "Senator, this thing you see dangling outside your bedroom window, what exactly does it do?"

  "It simply flitters around," the senator said. "Back and forth, then it sometimes just floats or billows a bit. The first time I woke up and saw it, I thought I was having some sort of weird hallucination, but it just kept dancing around. I got out of bed and walked to the window, I was scared, I'll admit it. Whatever it was just continued to float up in front of me, then it was gone, from one moment to the next"-he snapped his fingers- "it simply vanished. I stood there and waited for it to come back, but it didn't. I was convinced I'd dreamed it, that, or it was the consequences of too many oysters-until it happened again."

  "How many times has this thing appeared?" Sherlock asked.

  "A dozen times now, I've counted them. Actually, I've written each occurrence down in this notebook." He tossed a small brown leather notebook back into his desk drawer. "If I was going crazy, I wanted to be able to show the course of my mental deterioration." He gave a quiet laugh. "Now, I simply lie in my bed and watch the thing dance around until it disappears after ten minutes or so. I've timed it. And every single time, the thing is there one instant, gone the next."

  Savich asked, "How does it wake you up?"

  "I'll be dead to the world, then I hear this sort of huffing noise, like a person trying to suck in a breath, and it's loud enough, insistent enough, to wake me up. The draperies are open and there the thing is, dancing outside the window. I really can't give you a simpler description of how it acts."

  Sherlock said, "Can you see through it?"

  He shook his head, his eyes again on her hair. Sherlock cocked her head at him.

  "Sorry," Hoffman said. "My wife-her hair was red, not as beautiful as yours, Agent Sherlock, but it was bright and warrior fierce, even curlier than yours."

  Warrior fierce, Savich liked that.

  "Thank you, Senator," Sherlock said.

  "The thing is, I can't exactly see through it in the dark, but it isn't exactly solid either. It's sort of filmy, like one of those very fine old linen nightgowns or a thick wedding veil, and like I said, about the size of a pillowcase."

  A pillowcase certainly makes it sound earthbound. Savich said, "Senator, have you tried sleeping in another bedroom?"

  He shook his head, his deep voice austere. "It has never been in me to run and hide, Agent Savich. This is my bedroom, my house. No ridiculous manifestation or whatever it is, is going to scare me away. I will, however, admit to taking sleeping pills once. It still woke me, that huffing noise, it went on and on."

  "Have you told anyone about this manifestation?"

  "Yes, my aide, Corliss Rydle. Corlie won't say anything to anyone for the simple reason that she doesn't want the crazy squad to come cart me awa
y. That would mean temporary unemployment for everyone, including her.

  "She insisted on spending several nights, in a sleeping bag right by the window. The thing didn't show. She then took her sleeping bag outside, maybe fifteen feet from my bedroom. Again, it didn't show.

  "She talked me into hiring a private investigator to watch the house at night, telling him I was concerned about being stalked. Nothing out of the ordinary happened when he was there, either."

  "Who else besides Corliss Rydle knows?" Sherlock asked as she put a check in her small notebook beside the woman's name.

  "My two sons. I called them both over here after it had appeared about a half-dozen times. I told them about it, all very straightforward I was, because, to be honest here, I wanted to see their reactions. I remember they looked at each other like, The old man's losing it, and what the hell are we going to do? But they also insisted on camping out several nights in the backyard, but again, the thing didn't appear. I think they believe I'm teetering on the edge."

  Savich said, "Have you ever gotten a sense of why this is happening, any signs of any sort to alert you to the meaning of all this? And the huffing sound that wakes you, have you ever heard it without the manifestation appearing?"

  The senator shook his head, then paused. He raised pain-glazed eyes. "Oh, yes, I've heard that sound. When my wife was very ill, she couldn't breathe well. She made that same huffing sound. I'd sit by her bed and listen. I often counted how many times she had to make that sound in a five-minute period to stay alive. It was horrible, and this has brought it all back." He paused a moment. "The sound disappeared when she slipped into a coma and the respirator breathed for her."

  Savich continued, "Have you ever felt this thing, whatever it is, was trying to communicate with you?"

  Hoffman's dark eyes cut to Savich's face. He grew very still. Slowly, he shook his head. "I'll tell you, after the sixth or seventh time it appeared, I wasn't so freaked out. And I started talking to it. I asked it what it was doing here, asked if it wanted anything. All it ever did was move around, near the limits of my vision. I'll tell you, I felt like such a fool. I never approached it again, simply watched it from my bed."