The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  He picked up a pen from the kitchen counter and scribbled on his grocery pad as he listened. When he punched off his cell, he said, “Savich said they traced the VIN of the burned van to the last registered owner, a woman named Claudette Minsk. She lives in Welling, Maryland—actually, just about four miles from your grandmother’s house in Chevy Chase. She was a florist, owned several shops, but her family is selling them now. She’s seventy-nine years old, and unfortunately, she’s developed Alzheimer’s.

  “The son said he sold the van and one just like it to two men he’d never seen before a couple of days ago, for cash. The vans still had his mother’s florist logo—a big bright sunflower with MINSK’S MARVELS in gold script written beneath it—so they must have painted over them.”

  “What about the dead man, Coop?”

  “Forensics got a hit on his partial fingerprints, and then matched some tattoos on his neck to the same man’s mug shots. His name was Ben Eddy Dukes; he’d been in jail for attempted murder, so why not step up to first-degree? He was thirty-seven, on parole out of Briarwood State Prison for a couple of years, and had been suspected of a spate of robberies in upscale neighborhoods in cities all over Maryland.

  “Savich is getting his photo over to Welling to confirm he was one of the men who bought the van. It sure looks like they were hired to kill you. Ben Eddy Dukes was a real badass professional. As for the other man, they’re trying to get a description of him from Minsk.”

  Lucy said, “Yeah, we knew that was the case. It will be harder to find out who hired them. It’s progress, though.”

  His eyes were fixed on her face. He reached out his palm and lightly cupped her bruised jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair down before last night. I like all the cool shades. No more bandages on your head. You almost can’t see those little butterflies covering the wound, and the bruise on your jaw looks like it might be fading. I think you look good to go, Lucy.”

  He dropped his hand, turned, and said over his shoulder, “Here’s your coffee, no cream, no sugar.” He waited until she took a sip, and asked, “How are all your sore spots doing this morning?”

  Sore spots? You voodooed them right out of me. “A little sore here and there. Better, though. Ah, the coffee’s delicious, maybe as good as Dillon’s.”

  “I worked at Starbucks when I was a teenager, got my addiction there. You’ve got to taste the mean nonfat mocha latte with just a touch of cinnamon I learned how to brew. My parents assure me it classifies as ambrosia.”

  Who cared about tasting fricking nonfat mocha latte—with cinnamon—when he was standing not five feet away from her, and she could cover that distance with a nice long jump and end up with her legs wrapped around his waist?

  He turned away to put two slices of wheat bread into the toaster. “I’m making scrambled eggs. I only use half the yolk, so your arteries won’t clog.”

  You want to eat? “That’d be good.”

  She drank some more coffee, sat down at the kitchen table where he’d already set out plates and silverware. The kitchen was large and bright, even in the dismal gray morning light.

  “You’ve got lots of gadgets. Do you use them all?”

  He said over his shoulder, “Not really. My parents are the real cooks and like to give me these things. The panini press is their latest gift. I haven’t used it yet. Maybe if we’re here at lunch, we can give it a try.”

  “Coop?”

  “Yes?” He didn’t turn away from his skillet. She smelled frying bacon.

  “Did Dillon want anything else?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “He’d like to see your grandfather’s letter. So would I, for that matter. We can stop at your grandmother’s house after breakfast, take it with us to the CAU.”

  As he spoke, Coop walked over to her, slipped his hand into her blouse, and pulled up the chain holding her ring. Lucy froze. He said quietly, “I saw you take it off last night. I remember you said you had no clue what these symbols mean. And this single word—how do you pronounce it?”

  Her heart nearly stopped when he whispered the word closely enough.

  “SEFYLL.”

  She waited to see a reaction, just as she’d waited, frozen, when Dillon had said the word, but she already knew nothing would happen when Coop said it. She was right; everything continued as it was supposed to.

  She lifted his fingers from the ring and put it back inside her shirt.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out how anyone knew I even had this.”

  He turned to face her, looking very serious. “Before I made the unforgettable decision to see if you were okay last night when I heard you moving around, I was lying awake in bed, asking myself that same question. If this ring is the reason your grandfather was killed, then someone must want it very badly. Maybe they were tipped off by somebody who knew you’d opened that box, or they could have been following you, or even have your grandmother’s house bugged.”

  “I thought of that, but I wondered if I was getting too paranoid. I think you made a fine decision last night, Coop. After all, I’m your guest, and you had to make sure I was all right.”

  He stared at her—no, at her mouth.

  She said, “All right, all right. We can go over right after breakfast. It will be interesting having a conversation knowing we might be bugged. What would you like to talk about?”

  He lifted the skillet off the stove, gave her a slow smile as he leaned back against the counter and said, “We don’t have to go right away. Come here.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Whortleberry

  Friday morning

  Ann Marie Slatter watched the gorgeous TV reporter with the streaked blond hair climb back into her van, never once teetering on her stilettos, the cameraman behind her. She was still shaking when the young guy with the bad complexion drove them away. She’d made sure her makeup was perfect and the pretty yellow tunic she wore over her leggings looked hot. And she’d made sure they used her whole name, because adding Marie made it sound more sophisticated. Her boss, Dave, had told her some magazine or cable talk show might pay for her story if she played her cards right.

  She didn’t relish going back inside her parents’ house. Her mom and dad wouldn’t stop telling her it was a miracle she was still alive, and it was past time she went back to church, because the good Lord had surely saved her yesterday, hadn’t He?

  Ann Marie jumped into her ancient Mazda SUV and peeled out of the driveway. She’d rather spend some time with Dave and the sheriff than listen to that. She hadn’t cried during the interview, didn’t want to ruin her fresh eye makeup and look bad on camera, but now she teared up and got the shakes so bad she had to pull over. There wasn’t a soul around, so she let herself cry.

  She heard a car coming behind her and looked at the rearview mirror. Great, someone would see her crying her eyes out on the side of the road.

  The car came closer—no, not a car, it was a dirty white Silverado, and Ann Marie’s heart stopped. She knew who was driving it. She’d watched that crazy woman stroll out of the diner yesterday after murdering Lou and Frank, and drive away in that Silverado.

  It was Ted Bundy’s daughter, she didn’t have a doubt. The tears froze on her face.

  Ann Marie gunned her Mazda, but she didn’t get far. It only took a second for Kirsten to pull ahead of her car and block her in.

  She threw the Mazda into reverse, but Kirsten simply pulled a gun out of her pocket and shot both the front tires. Then she strolled over to the driver’s side and tapped on the window, and tried the door. At least Ann Marie had locked all the doors. She stared at Ted Bundy’s daughter and saw her own death in the woman’s crazy eyes.

  “Hi,” Kirsten said. “I’ve got you blocked right in, baby, and now you’ve got two dead tires, so you aren’t going anywhere. Hey, you like all the attention you’re getting from surviving the massacre at Dave’s Diner? I heard a newscaster call it that—it sounds so hokey, but that’s the media for you.”

&nbs
p; Ann Marie whispered, “You—you said you hoped I’d get out of town, you said—”

  “I can’t hear you, sweetcakes, you’ve got your window up. Roll it down so I can hear you better.”

  Ann Marie shouted, “You wanted me to get out of this town—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but you see, my daddy didn’t ever do the expected thing, and I remembered that. And I really didn’t like what you’ve been saying about me on TV, calling me scary crazy and a monster. You should have been a little more grateful, don’t you think? But this isn’t about you, really; you’re not that important. This is about showing those fed bastards I can do whatever I want.

  “Come on out now, little girl; it’s time you and I did our dance.”

  “No!”

  Kirsten kept that scary smile on her face as she slowly pulled a length of wire from her back pocket. “Remember all Frank’s brains exploding out of the back of his head? That really cool red dot on his forehead—it looked so innocent until you saw all his brains splatted on the vinyl booth behind him. Hey, at least you won’t have to clean that off now. Come on, little girl, time to get this show on the road. Open the door!”

  Ann Marie scooted across the front seats, opened the passenger-side door, jumped, rolled, and came up running. She ran for all she was worth across an open field, gunshots sounding behind her.

  CHAPTER 56

  Hoover Building, CAU

  Friday afternoon

  Savich listened carefully to what Ben said, then sighed. “Mrs. Patil having an affair—I wish I could tell you I’m surprised, but I’m not really. Why can’t people behave like they’re supposed to? Why can’t they ever be what they appear to be? You’re positive about the affair?”

  Detective Ben Raven of the WPD said, “I guess I’m not surprised, either. Yes, we’re sure. Like I said, I had her followed, Savich, for want of anything better, since the case wasn’t going anywhere. Sure enough, she and Krishna Shama—remember, he’s the nephew of Mr. Patil’s lifelong best bud, Amal Urbi—met at a Holiday Inn just south of McLean. They spent two hours in room three-thirty-five. I doubt it was a prayer meeting for Mr. Patil. Then they went to a restaurant for a late lunch. Mrs. Patil came trotting home at five o’clock yesterday evening, in good time to head out to the hospital to see her husband. We checked. Mrs. Patil and Mr. Shama have visited that particular Holiday Inn a dozen times over the past several months.”

  Savich thought about this. “You know, Ben, lots of people have affairs that don’t even lead to divorce, much less attempted murder. We have no idea if this has anything to do with Mr. Patil’s shooting. Why not hold off awhile until we can get more? I sure wish I had more time to help out, but what with Kirsten Bolger wreaking havoc, I’m up to my neck in alligators.”

  Ben said, “Not a problem. I was thinking I’d wait awhile anyway, keep even closer tabs on Mrs. Patil. Now I’ll add Krishna Shama to the active surveillance list.”

  Savich punched off and stepped out of his office to see Lucy and Coop heading toward the CAU conference room. As he walked in behind them, he heard Dane Carver saying to Ruth and Ollie, “Our girl ran her feet off and managed to escape Kirsten. Sheriff Stovall said he couldn’t get over it.”

  “She what?” Lucy asked.

  Dane nodded to Coop and Savich, then turned to her and smiled. “Good to see you walking around, Lucy. You don’t look too bad. That bruise on your jaw adds color.”

  “If purple’s your thing, I’m the girl of your dreams. Now, Kirsten went back to kill Ann Marie Slatter?”

  Dane said, “She did, indeed, and Ann Marie managed to survive the encounter intact. Sheriff Stovall said Ann Marie was on the high-school track team; he remembered her as a strong middle distance runner. Well, that girl ran her heart out. Kirsten couldn’t catch her; all she could do was keep firing at her, but she missed because Ann Marie was too far away and she was juking around. She ran a couple of miles, flat out, all the way to the sheriff’s office. He and his deputies were after Kirsten right away, but of course she was long gone.”

  Coop said, “I want to meet this girl.”

  Dane said, “I do, too. Ann Marie insisted she wanted to stay in a locked cell until they caught Kirsten, told Sheriff Stovall she’d never talk to him again if he didn’t let her curl up on a jail cot.”

  Ruth said, “Smart girl.”

  Savich waved Dane to continue. “Sheriff Stovall is getting ready for more news vans to roll into town pretty soon. Ann Marie Slatter is going to be quite a celebrity now, the heroine of Whortleberry. Since the sheriff decided he couldn’t let her take up residence in one of his two cells, we’re taking Ann Marie and her mother, Libby, to one of our apartments on Mulberry Street, keep that poor kid safe until we get Kirsten. Talk about the resilience of youth—she’s thinking about getting an agent to sell her story to the movies.”

  There was some head-shaking laughter at this.

  Then Dane said, “By now Kirsten has dumped the Silverado, probably somewhere near town. Sheriff Stovall has his deputies asking everyone around town to check their vehicles, help them with finding the Silverado. Bottom line, Kirsten’s dropped her MO, and she’s killing at will, or trying to, to show us she can. She’s a danger to everyone now, including us, but particularly you, Savich. You’re the face of the people after her.”

  Savich nodded. “Thanks, Dane. Please keep us posted. We’ll all watch our backs.” Savich turned to Lucy, studied her for a moment, and seemed satisfied. He asked Coop, “Okay, let’s get to Lucy now. What have you guys got for us?”

  Coop said smoothly, “Along with the ring in the safe-deposit box, Lucy told me there was also a letter addressed to her from her grandfather. We went by Lucy’s house to get the letter, Savich, and guess what? It was gone.”

  A letter? You never told me about a letter. A sin of omission is still a lie, and I hate lies. What Savich was thinking was as clear to Lucy as if he’d spoken aloud, pointing a finger at her. How could he ever come to trust her again? When he spoke, though, his voice was smooth and calm. “So, your grandfather wrote you an explanation of the ring. That makes sense. Okay, so the letter has disappeared? Where’d you leave it, Lucy?”

  She said, “About the letter, Dillon, maybe I should have told you when you came to my house—”

  He raised a hand, cutting her off. “I know about it now. Tell us where you left it.”

  “I folded it carefully and slipped it in the back of a book on UFOs on a shelf near my grandmother’s desk two days ago. It never occurred to me it wouldn’t be safe there. I don’t think anyone had looked in there in years.”

  Savich tapped his pen on the table. “That means someone knew the letter existed, or maybe suspected it existed. They took it before the attempt on your life. If you had died, Lucy, then there would be no evidence there ever was a letter, so there would be no possible clues leading to them. Either that or the people were looking for the ring, and when they found only the letter, they assumed you had the ring with you.”

  Coop said, “We didn’t see any obvious evidence of a break-in. It occurred to us someone might have bugged the house, since they seemed to know so much.”

  “We’ll get a countersurveillance team over there to check for bugs, look more carefully for signs someone was poking around your grandmother’s study. Lucy, can you think of anyone who could have known about the letter?”

  “Maybe someone at the bank or the law office. Otherwise, I only told Coop about it yesterday. We didn’t mention it to my relatives last night.”

  Savich leaned forward now, and looked at her dead-on. “Why did you take so long to admit there was a letter, Lucy?”

  Coop took her hand, squeezed it, a simple thing, really, but it steadied her, kept one of her endless apologies from popping out of her mouth. She said frankly, “I believed I should keep the contents of the letter private, since it was about my family and the events happened so long ago. Since there wasn’t any question about who killed my grandfather, it was no one’
s business.”

  Savich nodded. “Okay, Lucy, point taken. But now it’s a different ball game. Tell us all as close as you can what the letter said.”

  She looked at each of the agents in turn, then said, “The bottom line was that my grandmother told my grandfather about the ring right after the death of my mother. He wrote about how she kept talking about the ring, about if only she’d had it with her, the ring could have saved my mother, and then she showed him the ring. He wrote that in her grief, my grandmother became obsessed with the ring and he feared for her sanity, and so he stole it. He said he couldn’t destroy it since it was my birthright, but he knew my father wouldn’t want me to have the ring, and so he was leaving it to me along with this letter to open after my father’s death. Of course, he never realized my father would die so young. He believed I’d be reading his letter when I was middle-aged. That’s about it.”

  “He called it your birthright,” Ruth said. “A birthright implies it was something incredibly special, and only for you.”

  Ollie asked, “What exactly happened to your mother, Lucy?”

  “She was struck straight on by a drunk driver. My grandparents were in the car behind her.”

  Savich said, “If your grandmother had only had the ring with her, she could have saved your mother? How could a ring stop a drunk driver from hitting your mother’s car? Did your grandfather’s letter tell you what those supposed powers were?”

  “He wrote I wouldn’t believe him if he did.”

  And then, of course, Savich asked the most important question of all. “Do you have any idea now what those powers are?”

  As far as I can tell, I see absolutely nothing at all special about the ring. Or, if there is, I can’t figure it out. Believe me, I’ve tried to find out why anyone would want this ring badly enough to want to kill me for it.