Dead to the Last Drop

by Cleo Coyle

  Mike studied their actions, trying to fathom why that yacht was raided, and not ours. “They’re not making any moves to search the other vessels, so we’re in luck. But I wish I knew what was really going on.”

  Me too, I thought. But the party isn’t here. It’s four berths away, at that other boat.

  Without waiting to consult with Mike, I slipped through the door, to the edge of the boat. Taking a deep breath, I dived over the side and into the dark water.

  Eighty

  SON of a bunny! This river is freezing!

  No surprise. It was late March, not early July. But did it have to be this cold?

  There were two ways to warm up, and since I wasn’t getting back aboard Desperate Measures until I knew what was going on, I took my own desperate measures and swam toward the chaos.

  I soon discovered I wasn’t alone in the water. A pair of U.S. Coast Guard motorboats were cruising around, so I ducked out of sight.

  Sucking in a breath, I dived under a section of the floating pier. Visibility was murky to nil, with only the dull glow of the pier’s lights to guide me. But I used the same long strokes I’d used for years at the 14th Street Y, which kept me going in a straight line toward the yacht under siege.

  As I approached, someone on the dock waved off the helicopter, and much of the noise pollution and blinding glare was alleviated. Finally, I heard harsh voices, arguing a few feet above my head.

  “You have no right to do this—” The speaker was a young woman, on the verge of tears.

  “Why were you on the Potomac this morning?” This time it was a man’s voice, deep, authoritative, and used to giving commands.

  “No reason! We were just cruising,” a frightened male voice replied. “Testing her out for the summer.”

  “You didn’t stop along the Georgetown Waterfront Park, to pick up someone onshore?”

  “What? No! I’ve never even heard of—”

  A dog snarled, then barked.

  “Hold up. Is this about that weed in the galley?” the nervous man continued. “It’s legal in DC but I forgot to dump it when we left, that’s all—”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  They didn’t raid the wrong boat, I thought with relief. And they aren’t asking about me or Mike. They’re simply following a lead on Abby . . .

  I circled around to the bow of the yacht, moving toward the lone figure on deck, telephone to her ear. I stuck close enough to the hull so Sharon Cage couldn’t see me, even if she looked down. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see her, either, and when I positioned myself below the spot where I thought she was standing, I heard only the lapping of waves.

  Finally Agent Cage spoke, her voice a defeated monotone.

  “Bottom line, she’s not here. It’s the right yacht. The satellite photos match, and the owner admits they were on the Potomac. But this may be a dead end. I’ll get back to you after a more extensive search is conducted.”

  That set off alarms. A boat-to-boat search will surely ferret us out . . .

  A heavy pair of booted feet thumped on the yacht’s wooden deck.

  “Agent Cage?” It was the harsh interrogator from the pier.

  “What is it, Karpinski?”

  “Your package was never here.”

  His tone was impatient and irritated, and not much different from the one he’d used to intimidate the victims of this misguided raid.

  “You don’t know that,” Cage replied. “There are a lot of boats moored at this marina.”

  “But this is the only vessel from this port that sailed the Potomac in the last twenty-four hours. It’s the only boat we’re legally permitted to search at this location, and the dogs found no scent. Ms. Parker was never aboard. She’s not here.”

  A pause, and the man spoke again.

  “There’s been another development. The forensic lab at Quantico has finished the rushed analysis on the blood and hair found on that scarf from Georgetown Waterfront Park. The DNA from the hair is definitely Ms. Parker’s, no doubt. And the cane we found beside it was Sergeant McGuire’s.”

  I think Agent Cage and I felt the same horror and dread at that moment, and it only got worse.

  “There’s concern about the amount of blood.”

  “It’s not that much,” Cage insisted. “One splatter on the trail. A thin stream leading along the river steps, down to the Potomac. No more than a nosebleed or a gash would cause—”

  “If she went into the water, we don’t know how much she bled out. And if she slashed her own wrist and McGuire went into the river after her—”

  “No one is talking suicide, Karpinski. Abigail has a lot to live for. She was glowing at the bridal shower her friend from college threw for her. She was happier than I’d seen her in weeks.”

  “If she was taken, let’s hope the kidnappers know first aid. As for the other theory, we’ve had divers in the river already, and we’re going to start dragging the water in the morning.”

  “Before we do that, let’s go backward,” Cage pleaded, desperation in her tone. “Let’s return to the park, the spot where her trail went cold, maybe—”

  “That’s not going to happen. You lost her, Agent Cage. Now the FBI is going to find her—or her body. And not by chasing our tails in Georgetown.”

  “You’re not going to continue this search without me.”

  “Yes, we are,” he said. “The word came down from the Oval Office. You are relieved. Go home, Agent Cage. And pray she turns up alive by morning.”

  The heavy boots stomped off. A moment later, Sharon Cage’s defeated footsteps followed.

  A few minutes later, I hauled myself back aboard Desperate Measures. I entered the cabin dripping wet, my tears mingling with the river water pooling on the carpet.

  “Clare! Where the hell did you go? I turned around and you were gone—”

  Shivering, I broke down.

  “I should have told Sharon Cage about the park, how Abby was using it to slip away from her security detail.” I gasped. “Now Cage has been relieved. Her career is over and Abby is gone. And that blood trail leading to the river . . . They think she was either kidnapped or slashed her own wrists and went into the water. And, Mike, they found Stan’s Hoover cane—”

  “Easy, Clare. You’re shaking, and your lips are blue.”

  Mike grabbed a blanket off the bed and wrapped me in it.

  “I heard them talking . . . If Abby went into the water, I know Stan would have gone in after her, tried to save her. But with his bad leg and the river’s current . . .” I shook my head, choking up. Despite the blanket around me, I couldn’t stop quaking.

  “They’re going to drag the river in the morning for their bodies. And it’s all my fault! It’s all my fault!”

  Eighty-one

  “CALM down, Clare. We’re in this together. Take a breath and tell me everything you learned . . .”

  Quinn guided my damp, shivering form to the galley and sat me down at the table. While I recounted what I’d seen and heard, he replaced the wet blanket with dry towels. Then he brewed coffee to warm up my insides, too.

  By the time I got my story out, I’d downed a hot cup of joe and I wasn’t shivering anymore. But I was still inconsolably upset.

  “Was Abby kidnapped? Did she kill herself?” I said, emotion welling up again. “I don’t know what to believe. Not anymore.”

  Quinn locked his gaze on mine. “Do you think Sharon Cage is a good cop?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Tell me what Agent Cage thinks.”

  “That Abby’s alive. That she didn’t kill herself—despite the blood they found in the park.”

  “Remember Sergeant Price from DC Metro? Remember his internal lie detector? What does your own rumbly gut tell you?”

  I closed my eyes and considered what I knew
to be true.

  “I believe Abby is a runaway bride. That she ran away to elope with Stan. I’m sure that’s why she was so happy at her bridal shower—because she knew Stan would be meeting her that night in the park.”

  “Let’s start with that assumption and ignore everything else. Abby and Stan ran away together. What then?”

  “They escaped Washington. Maybe they’re on their way to Vegas right now for a quick wedding.”

  Quinn shook his head. “Trains, planes, and automobiles are out. They’re photographing everyone who pays a toll or drives through a tunnel. And you know firsthand they’re checking boats, too.”

  “We managed to get out of DC when they were looking for us.”

  “Because I’m a law enforcement professional and knew what to avoid. We stayed off highways and toll roads. I knew all the ways they could track us, and we were driving another man’s vehicle. We also had help from Danica. I promise you, the FBI is looking at every friend and associate of Stan’s and Abby’s. If they borrowed a car, they would have been discovered. If they rented a car, a credit card would have given them away.”

  I nodded, a lump growing in my throat.

  “The White House is using every resource they have. That means every law enforcement agency on a federal, state, and local level. The TSA is looking for them at the airports, the police at train stations. The Coast Guard is watching the ports. Every security camera feed is being reviewed. And you heard Agent Cage mention satellite surveillance. That’s probably the NSA. On top of that, the First Daughter is a minor celebrity who might be recognized, and with an eye patch and a limp, Stan doesn’t exactly blend in, either . . .”

  Quinn shrugged. “There is no way Abby and Stan got out of DC.”

  Now came the tears. “Then we have nowhere to go, no lead we can follow.”

  “Every detective hits a wall at some point.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “I’ve seen veteran officers tear up in frustration over cases, especially when they become emotionally involved. Clare, I know you care a great deal about Abby and Stan, but try not to let emotion get in the way. Look at your evidence from a different angle, and do it as objectively as you can.”

  “Okay . . .” I closed my eyes again and played back those voices on the pier. “I remember Agent Cage saying she wanted to go back to Georgetown.”

  “Why?”

  “She wanted to recheck the riverside spot where the dogs lost Abby’s scent . . .”

  I thought about that idea—losing the scent.

  “If you cross water, can you throw off bloodhounds?” I asked hopefully. “There’s a rowing club in that area. Maybe they used a small boat and crossed the river that way.”

  “The bloodhounds would have picked up the scent again on the other side. And anyway . . . wouldn’t crossing the Potomac like that have been a pretty desperate plan?”

  “But Abby was desperate. She was being railroaded into a marriage, and . . .” My voice trailed off as a memory came back to me.

  “Clare, what’s wrong?”

  “Railroad . . . Railroad! Oh, my God, Mike, I know where they might have gone!”

  “I told you the trains are being watched.”

  “Not that railroad.”

  “There’s another?”

  I nodded. “A very old one . . .”

  Quinn scratched his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “That’s because you don’t know everything yet. Some of what I’m about to tell you I was asked never to divulge to anyone. But I’m going to reveal it now because you were right, Mike. Details matter . . .”

  Eighty-two

  AFTER Abby’s stunning performance, nothing returned to normal at the Village Blend, DC—which was a good thing.

  The publicity sent our walk-in coffee business through the roof. Our Jazz Space made nightly use of the blue velvet rope we’d never needed before, and our new, revised menu continued to impress customers and local food critics, which meant our prestige grew along with our popularity.

  And it got better . . .

  A few days after Abby’s performance, the First Lady sent a stunning bouquet of dark pink roses to me, expressing appreciation for “doing for Abigail what we never could . . . Our daughter is now a star, thanks to you and everyone at the Village Blend, DC.”

  In that same note, Mrs. Parker reiterated Abigail’s wish that we provide the coffee service for her Rose Garden wedding. The First Lady also requested that Chef Luther Bell and the Village Blend cater the Smithsonian’s three-hundred-guest party celebrating the opening of its Coffee in America exhibition at the Museum of American History.

  With little more than two weeks to plan and execute the request, Luther and Joy went into a paroxysm of advance preparations.

  * * *

  A week later, I was scheduled to meet Mrs. Helen Hargood Trainer, Curator of the White House.

  By this time, the curator and I had made contact by phone and traded dozens of e-mails about the White House contribution to the exhibition. But we had yet to meet face-to-face, so Helen Trainer graciously invited me to the White House to view the collection of artifacts being lent to the Smithsonian, largely based on the work we’d done together.

  The day of my scheduled visit, Madame and I were in the mansion’s kitchen, preparing to pack up Mrs. Bittmore-Black’s contribution to the show—the exquisite silver coffee service gifted to her by Jacqueline Kennedy. It was still sitting in its glass case, on the kitchen counter, when the doorbell rang.

  “I hope that’s not Helen’s people,” I said, checking my watch. “If it is, they’re two hours early!”

  Instead of a White House courier, I found a bedraggled Stan McGuire on the front porch. His usual ramrod-straight military bearing was gone, and he’d forgotten to comb his unruly brown hair.

  “I’d like to talk, Ms. Cosi. It’s about Abby.”

  Madame took charge, leading Stan to the kitchen, where she sat him down at the center island. As I poured him a cup of our Smooth Jazz blend, Madame split a fresh blueberry muffin, slathered it with Joy’s favorite high-fat, European butter, and set it in front of him.

  “Eat that right up,” she said, taming his wayward locks with a gentle touch.

  “What’s happening with Abby?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you could tell me. Gard mentioned you’re going to the White House today. Would you please talk to Abby, Ms. Cosi? I need to know if she’s okay.”

  “But you talk to her every day, don’t you?”

  “We talk. But I haven’t seen her for ten days, not since the show at the Jazz Space.” He paused. “I assume you know what happened on The Good Day Show last week?”

  The whole world knew. Millions of Americans watched Abby’s meltdown live, and the video went viral after that. Stan blamed it on the First Lady.

  “Abby’s mother made sure our band wouldn’t appear—which forced Abby to play cold, without support or backup. And what her mother did next was just sadistic . . .”

  The First Lady had gone on the show with Abby, and right before her solo performance, Mrs. Parker announced Abigail’s secret engagement and the Rose Garden wedding in June.

  “There Abby sat, on that piano bench, waiting for her cue,” Stan recounted, “and all of a sudden her mother was telling the world about the history of her relationship with her fiancé . . .”

  And that wasn’t the worst of it. While Abby managed to hide her shock over the unexpected wedding announcement, she was openly gobsmacked by what happened next.

  “Abby was going to play a solo version of ‘Fix You,’” Stan explained. “But nobody warned her she was supposed to re-create, you know, the part when she kissed me.”

  “Oh, I remember that,” Madame said. “Everyone does!”

  “Except this time Abby was supposed to lock lips with Preston Emory.”

  Ei
ghty-three

  WHEN Abby’s fiancé walked onto The Good Day Show set as a “surprise guest” and sat down beside her on the piano bench, she displayed the same disturbed reaction she’d had in our greenroom after her big performance. Only this uncomfortable scene was telecast live, to the whole world.

  Stan grimaced at the memory.

  “You could hear the director cueing her, but Abby froze,” he said bitterly. “If I had been there, I could have snapped her out of it.”

  “How?” I asked—and not skeptically.

  I marveled at how Stan had bonded with Abby musically, and I was honestly curious how he’d gotten her through her big headliner debut.

  “Abby is a true artist, Ms. Cosi. She doesn’t just bang notes on a cabinet with internal strings . . .” Stan paused and studied the ceiling. “You know how we say, ‘You don’t play your instrument. You play music.’? The reason is because the music isn’t in the instrument. That’s not where it comes from. It comes from inside the musician. Abby needs to hear the music. Only then can she play.”

  “And you help her hear it?”

  Stan nodded. “Once you’ve grounded yourself in the rudiments, the work is internal. To do it right, you have to stop criticizing yourself.”

  “So you’re saying Abby is afraid of making a mistake?”

  He leaned forward. “In jazz, there are no mistakes. There’s just you—and the music. If you can understand that and accept yourself, when you swing, you’ll sweep that audience right along with you.”

  “And you remind Abby of that?”

  “I remind Abby to love every sound she makes.”

  But that morning, in front of the TV cameras, Stanley McGuire wasn’t there to remind Abby to love every sound she made. And after too many seconds of embarrassing silence, what viewers heard was Preston Emory harshly command—

  “Just play it, Abby!”

  What she finally played was a slamming rendition of “Chopsticks,” followed by a key sweep and dead silence.