The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  "Alma, you've got yourself a fortress here."

  "You got that right, Dillon. I was told you were coming to speak to Vice President Valenti. I'll tell you, he's barely conscious, but he wants to talk to you, insisted to his doctors when they dared to disagree. Those are two of his physicians now. These guys don't ever crack a smile, so don't worry about it."

  She introduced him to two very serious-faced older men in white coats and scrubs, turned, and quietly opened the glass door.

  The two doctors followed Savich into a private cubicle with curtained glass walls, quiet except for the sounds of the machines that kept Valenti tethered to life. There were only chairs and the bed in the room, no flowers, no cards, and enough equipment to launch a rocket, all of it beeping or whirring or humming in random rhythms.

  A man and a woman stood by the window, arms crossed over their chests until Savich came in, and they straightened, their hands going closer to their sides, and their weapons.

  Savich waited for Alma to nod her okay to the other agents. Then she patted his arm and left the small room. Savich looked hard at the two doctors who stationed themselves at the foot of the bed, giving them silent notice not to interfere, and walked to stand next to Valenti.

  Valenti looked ten years older, his handsome hawk's face waxy gray, his eyelids bruised, oxygen tubes in his nose, one of his legs in a cast. He was fastened to several IVs, including one in his neck. His breathing was slow, but not all that labored, which was a relief to Savich.

  Alex Valenti was in serious but stable condition, the media had announced with special reports and streamers running along the bottom of TV screens across the country.

  The talking heads were at a loss, with nothing much left to speculate about.

  Savich leaned down and lightly laid his palm on Valenti's forearm, above one of the IV lines. "Sir, I'm here."

  The famous green eyes opened slowly. It took Valenti a while to focus, but when he did, Savich saw awareness and the blaze of ferocious intelligence in his eyes. "Savich. Good, you came. Do you know who did this to me? Was it terrorists? Is anyone taking credit? I know it wasn't an accident."

  "No, it wasn't an accident. The car was sabotaged, but we don't think it was political or tied to terrorists. Sir, while we have the opportunity, could you please tell me about your relationship to Senator David Hoffman?"

  Valenti blinked. "David? Why?" Savich saw a flash of pain, a moment of confusion.

  One of the physicians came forward and pushed the morphine button beside Valenti. "That will help, sir. You'll feel better in a few minutes." He placed the button in Valenti's hand, and curled his fingers around it.

  They all waited, the physicians' eyes on Valenti, until he had it together again. "Okay, that's better now. All right, I'll tell you about David and what he did-he got that incredible Mercedes to rub my nose in it. He knew I'd be mad to drive it, since I'd never driven a Brabus before. He was right. All I could think was what an incredible machine, I was flying, that amazing engine purring, it was more than anything I'd known in a long time."

  "Let's get back to you and Senator Hoffman. Are you still good friends?" Savich saw Valenti had to shift mental gears, that it wasn't simply automatic. He had to work at it.

  "David and I are the best of friends. We've known each other for a thousand years, well, maybe a hundred is closer."

  "Very longtime friends," Savich said, all of which he already knew.

  "Yes, all the way back to just after we all graduated college. It was odd, really, now that I think about it. Both David and I knew-knew all the way to our bones-that we wanted to go into politics. We took different routes, though. David wanted Congress from the get-go but I preferred state government. I was reelected governor of Virginia the same year David won his first election to the Senate. He'd been a congressman for fourteen years before that."

  "And you, sir, before you were elected governor?" Of course Savich knew every single fact about Valenti, but he wanted him thinking and focused.

  "I started out local, mayor of Richmond, then moved to state government, worked up to governor. I hope I did some good, I tried. Three years ago, when I was in my third term as governor, President Holley tapped me as his running mate. I hadn't considered it, really didn't want it, but David was one of those who talked me into accepting the nomination. Of course my wife and children were great assets in the campaign, they still are."

  "During these years, your family and Hoffman's family got together a lot?"

  If the vice president wondered at the direction of these questions, he didn't let on. Savich imagined he was pleased to be able to talk and make sense.

  "Yes, of course. I knew David's wife, Nikki, ever since we both attended the same high school. Then Nikki went to Stanford on a scholarship-she was very smart and so sweet. I went to Harvard, a tradition in my family going back to my grandfather.

  "Did you ever meet Nikki, Agent Savich?"

  "Yes I did, in a way."

  "Her death wasn't a shock, but I'll tell you, it was difficult for all of us, David in particular. I'll catch myself thinking of her even now, wondering what she'd have to say about this or that.

  "Like all eighteen-year-olds, we thought we were in love, but of course when you're young, life is always nearly too serious to bear. Nikki went to Stanford and met David. At Harvard I met my wife, Elyssa. She was two years behind me, at Radcliffe. I remember it was Nikki who got us all together back then. We've been great friends ever since." Valenti tried for a smile and managed a small one. "Our families ended up living within driving distance of each other."

  "You're also close to the Richards family, I know. Bowie sends his best wishes."

  "Oh, yes, we all go back nearly to the ark. Bowie's a cracker FBI agent. We were pleased when he came back east."

  "What do you think of Senator Hoffman's sons, Aiden and Benson?"

  Valenti closed his eyes and fell silent. He whispered, sounding so tired, it worried Savich, "I don't know what to say."

  "The truth, sir."

  "I don't guess it matters, everyone knows what they are. Frankly, both Aiden and Benson are disappointments. Nikki never got over how they turned out. They resent their father's tight hold on his own money. When Nikki died three years ago, David simply let them go. I remember he told me they're adults and there was nothing more he could do."

  "Have you ever known them to be violent?"

  "Yes, actually. With women. David hushed up a couple of assaults on women they were seeing, paid them off so they wouldn't press charges. Spoiled men acting out."

  "I've spoken to both Aiden and Benson. They tell me you're an excellent driver. You've driven competitively in Europe."

  Another smile brought on a dash of pain with it. Savich watched the vice president press the button for another hit of morphine.

  "Yes, Elyssa has always hated that passion of mine because it scared her so much. Now she wants desperately to say 'I told you so,' but since I'm down and out, she can't."

  Savich said, "The two gentlemen standing at the end of your bed say you're not going to die, sir."

  "I'm pleased, at least most of the time now." Valenti fell silent a moment, studying Savich's face.

  "Tell me what happened."

  Valenti gave Savich a small nod. "I see you have no doubts at all about this. Good, because there's no other way it makes sense. I was taking a turn hard, testing the cornering a bit, when something jostled in the wheel. Then the steering failed completely. I jerked the wheel back and forth, but it didn't work. Then it all happened fast. I hit the brakes, but I was moving too fast, must have been near eighty. I saw that tree and I hit it in the same instant. Then it was lights out. I didn't understand it, but I knew it wasn't an accident, even while it was happening."

  Savich was bursting with more questions, but he realize
d Valenti was fading. He leaned close to the vice president's face and said quietly, "Rest now, sir. I will see you again, and count on it, I will find an answer for you." He nodded to the physicians and the Secret Service agents and left the room. Secret Service Agent Alma Stone was soon beside him, escorting him to the door of the ICU.

  "You're on your own from here, Dillon. Do you know we caught a media yahoo up here early this morning? No idea how he managed to slip through this far, and he refused to tell us, babbled about the freedom of the press."

  "Keep him safe, Alma."

  "You can count on that. Give my love to Sherlock and Sean."

  "If you need me for anything, Alma, I'll be down the hall speaking to Mrs. Valenti."

  51

  MILLSTONE, CONNECTICUT

  Saturday

  The Glenis Springs Country Club boasted a bitch of a course, club golfers were heard to remark fondly. Even though the clubhouse hadn't been updated since 1981, the course was buffed and polished and improved upon every year.

  Sherlock bypassed the red stone and glass clubhouse and walked down a stone path, past the pro shop, toward the first tee. In the distance she saw a half-dozen tennis courts, all of them in use. It was a beautiful day, in the mid-sixties, and she hoped Mick Haggarty was giving tennis lessons on one of the courts. Surely Jane Ann Royal would not be here with Mick, not with her husband brutally murdered in her laundry room early yesterday morning. Surprise was usually a good thing.

  She was frankly surprised she didn't find Mick Haggarty. She checked in at the pro shop and learned he had an appointment at the Royal house. Go figure that.

  She called Bowie and Erin, en route to see Dr. Kender in New Haven, and told them she was off to Jane Ann's house.

  She pulled into the driveway and parked behind two forensic vans, both FBI. Forensic teams were still working inside the house. She was just about to ask if the techs had found anything useful when her cell played "Some Enchanted Evening." She smiled because Dillon had programmed it in right before he'd returned to Washington.

  "Sherlock."

  "It's me."

  "Hi, you, what's going on down there?"

  "I'm out near Leesburg. They found Emilio Gasparini, the Foggy Bottom sous chef, dead in his car at the bottom of a ditch. The Virginia cop who found him saw the APB and called us. He says it looks like an accident, but you can bet Astro's collar it isn't."

  "I'd make that bet. One more piece of the puzzle, Dillon. Our murderer is running scared. I don't want you being a hot dog, all right? I want you to be careful, you promise?"

  "My middle name, sweetheart."

  "Which word?"

  He laughed. "No one's tried to gun me down lately. Now, tell me this, Sherlock, how could anyone have messed with Senator Hoffman's Brabus without Hoffman's driver, Morey Hughes, knowing about it?"

  "How much time would it require?"

  "I asked the guys who reassembled what's left of the device. They said someone experienced at it could install it in maybe twenty minutes of intense concentration."

  "Morey's coffee break?"

  "Could be, since Morey also does other things for the senator besides driving him and taking care of his cars, so it's not like he camps out in the garage. But he's still there most of the time. His other tasks-like delivering to FedEx, dropping off papers to another lawmaker's residence or office, getting take-out for a staff meeting-it's always different stuff, so anyone watching for a set routine would be out of luck."

  "So our murderer already had the skill to both assemble and install a pretty high-tech device, or he's bright and learned how?"

  "Or our murderer hired someone to put it together."

  "Yes, that's what I'm thinking, too. We've put out feelers for someone here in D.C. or close by who would fit the bill. Demolition background, maybe. I'm also thinking the person would simply have to watch and wait until Morey Hughes left the Hoffman house, slip into the garage and install it, hope he wasn't spotted."

  "That's a lot of risk," Sherlock said slowly. "Whoever did it would have to be really committed, or extraordinarily well paid."

  "Yeah, and that keeps bringing me back to Senator Hoffman's sons."

  "You really think they have the answer to this mess?"

  "Sounds strange, I know. I guess they could be just a distraction."

  "No, if that's your gut, I'd take it to the bank. You're trying too hard, Dillon. How many times have you read the interview transcript?"

  "Three, four times."

  "Don't read it again. In fact, try not to think about it, just let it simmer. I know you, you'll sit bolt upright in the middle of the night tonight and there it'll be, the answer, crystal clear." Sherlock could see his thoughtful expression, and smiled.

  She said, "Speaking of distractions, I'm beginning to think there are plenty of them around up here in Connecticut. I'm off to Millstone again to see if I can't find Jane Ann Royal. I'm here at her house and her Audi isn't in the garage, so I'm thinking she's with her tennis pro. I'm going to drive to Millstone, that's where Mick Haggarty lives. I want to see the two of them together. I could be wrong, I mean, Jane Ann could have friends right here in Stone Bridge, but I have this feeling. . . ." She paused, then added, "We'll see. Later I'll be hooking up with Bowie and Erin."

  "You be careful, you hear?"

  "You can count on it. I've got that enchanted evening coming up, right? And I don't mean pizza with Sean, either. How about Sunday night? Maybe we can get this all ironed out today."

  "Sounds good to me." And he laughed.

  Sherlock was grinning when she readjusted her mirror a bit, waved to the crime scene techs, and pulled out of the Royal driveway.

  She called Agent Dolores Cliff, got Mick Haggarty's address, and drove back to Millstone.

  52

  BISMARK ROAD, TWO MILES WEST OF LEESBURG, VIRGINIA

  Savich and Dane stood beside the stretcher two paramedics were preparing to shove into the back of the coroner's van. Savich unzipped the green bag.

  Emilio Gasparini looked like he was asleep, as if he could open his eyes at any minute, smile at them, and ask if they'd like one of his special omelets. But he wouldn't be opening his eyes. He'd never wake up again. Sous chef Emilio Gasparini was Cordon Bleu–trained, and only thirty-four years old. He had dark hair and an olive complexion. He was born in Florence, both his parents chefs. There'd been no infusions of money into his bank accounts, no signs of sudden affluence, like new clothes in his closet, a new car, nothing. So that meant the money was in a safe deposit box or hidden with a girlfriend. Or maybe he sent the money back to his parents in Italy. Savich still hoped they'd have some of the answers in a very short time. Dane was already on his cell, giving information to Ollie back at the Hoover Building.

  Deputy Glen Phelps was looking closely at Gasparini's face, worry lines already etched on his twenty-four-year-old forehead. "If this is an accident, I'd like to know where all the damage is." His thick southern accent was like slow, heavy syrup. "I mean, a guy drives off the road into a deep ditch, something's gonna show, right? But there's not a bruise, a cut, not one measly scratch on his face, nothing at all on him. I'll bet he was already dead when someone put him behind the wheel of the car. Not much of an attempt to make it look like an accident, or maybe the guy who did him isn't all that smart."

  "The guy's smart," Dane said, still looking down at the dead face, "I just don't think he cared. There's a deep well of arrogance in this guy, and disdain, so who cares about a chef ? Kill him, dump him, brush your hands off, and go about your business. What he's doing now is taking care of loose ends."

  Dane called out to the paramedics, "We're done here, guys. They're expecting him at Quantico." He turned back to Glen Phelps, who had his pants hiked up a little too high, Dane thought, smiling. "That's a good call, Deputy Phelps." Dane wonde
red how long Phelps had been out of the police academy. Phelps flushed a bit, then said, "Thank you, Agent Carver. Truth is, when I saw that car in the ditch I had this really bad feeling what I was going to find, and I'll tell you, I was glad I hadn't had lunch before I went down there. But look at him, there's nothing at all to see, like he just nodded off."

  Dane said as he shook Deputy Phelps's hand, "Glad you called us right away. Hey, here's my card, you think of anything more, give me a call, doesn't matter what time it is."

  Savich and Dane watched Deputy Glen Phelps take Dane's card and ease it with great care into his wallet, right behind his American Express card.

  "I've got a business card, too," Phelps said, and blushed as he handed it to Dane. "I just got them, a gift from my mom. She said you just never know when you'll need one. I guess she thought it'd impress people, show what a professional I am." He beamed at them, still blushing as the coroner's van left. "Nasty business. I sure hope you figure all this out."

  Savich said, "We will. Thanks again, Deputy Phelps. We've got some folks coming to take the car away. We'll check it over."

  "Agent Savich, would you like one of my cards too?"

  53

  MILLSTONE, CONNECTICUT

  Jane Ann Royal's Audi was parked at the curb in front of a red-brick Art Deco apartment building, vintage 1930s, set amid thick maples and oaks. It was a lovely old building, beautifully maintained, the greenery lush. Sherlock was thinking it was pretty nice digs for a young tennis pro.

  The building was five stories, only six apartments on each floor. Mick Haggarty was in 2D, an end apartment. Sherlock whistled as she walked down the corridor with its thick dark red runner and Art Deco red sconces on the walls, fanning soft light upward.

  She paused a moment outside 2D to listen. She heard voices, a man and a woman, but couldn't make out what they were saying. A pity. She knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by Mick Haggarty. He was maybe twenty-four, twenty-five at most, good-looking, no doubt about that, with a nice thin nose, tough square chin, and high cheekbones. He had dark hair, a deep tan, and startling blue eyes, darker than hers. Black Irish, Sherlock thought. He was wearing tennis whites and sneakers, which really looked good on him. All he needed was a racket in his hand and he could pose for the cover of a magazine.