Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  "Perfect." Everything except Jean-Claude. But based on past actions, Jean-Claude was liable to jet-set over to Paris for an evening with his friends.

  "Then I'll count on it."

  "Perfect." Sarah glanced at the kitchen clock. If she put the cake in now, it would be out at ten-fifteen. She slid it on the rack and shut the oven door.

  "Sarah?" There was hesitation in her uncle's voice.

  "What?"

  "I hear that Dubonet fellow may be in trouble with his superiors. He's something of a renegade. You know, doesn't follow orders, goes off on his own. If he bothers you again, it's very important that you let me know."

  "Of course." Her answer was automatic. The first taste of doubt was very bitter.

  "My sources in the FBI say he had been pulled from a big case and reassigned when he visited you so late that evening. Just keep that in mind. As you well know, just because a man is a federal agent doesn't mean you can trust him. Remember your father. They hounded him."

  "I remember." Sarah's voice sounded as empty as she felt. "I'll never forget that, Uncle Vince. You don't have to worry."

  Chapter Seven

  Daniel forced his body to relax in the backseat of the cab. He was on an adrenaline high as he tried to decide the best course of action. Cody was at home, waiting for him to arrive. But Daniel wanted a few minutes with Joshua Jenkins, retired FBI agent and the man who had been assigned to Cal Covington's case. If Sarah was involved in something from her father's past, Joshua Jenkins would know the details of it.

  He knew his boss would disapprove of any disruption of Jenkins' personal life. The word was out in the Bureau that Jenkins was an irascible old curmudgeon who was like gum on the shoe when he got started. Daniel knew he was opening a can of worms, but he didn't care. He gave the cabbie Jenkins's home address. Everyone in the Bureau knew it— they'd all driven him home at one time or another after he'd been to the Bureau to deliver some tirade about how ineffective the "new agency" had become, about how "soft" the new agents were, and about how he'd been such a dogged investigator that some men simply turned themselves in to get rid of him.

  Right.

  Daniel was so busy with his thoughts that he didn't see the quizzical look the cabbie threw at him as he moved into the flow of Washington traffic.

  It was rush hour, and the streets were dangerously clogged. Daniel half watched the blocks pass. Time ticked along, and he grew more and more nervous as the cab slowly made its way to Jenkins's house.

  "Wait for me," Daniel directed as he finally got out in front of the neat brick house with its postage-stamp yard. Flowers bloomed in profusion in window boxes. A divorced man, Jenkins had turned his considerable energies to horticulture.

  Daniel jabbed the bell once hard, and then again. He knew he was acting impatient. At last he heard the slow shuffle of someone at the door— someone who was practicing precautions. Daniel could almost feel the eye staring at him though the peephole in the front door.

  "What do you want?" Jenkins called.

  "I'm Daniel Dubonet with the FBI. I'd like to talk to you."

  "ID."

  Daniel shook his head. "I was abducted yesterday. Someone took my badge. And my gun." He pulled his jacket back to reveal the lack of a weapon. "It's about Cal Covington. The sheriff— "

  "Down in Mississippi." Jenkins's voice had attained an interested edge. "What about him?"

  "I'm working on a case where his past may prove to be significant. I need some background."

  "Did Gottard send you?"

  Daniel hesitated. If he said no, Jenkins probably wouldn't talk to him. If he said yes, it would be an outright lie and easily checked. "No. He doesn't know I'm here."

  Jenkins's laugh was more of a cackle. "You're a rogue, aren't you, Dubonet? You're working on your own." He laughed again. "I'm glad to see someone at that agency has enough backbone to use his brain. That's what they're producing now— clones. Little dark-suited agents who do everything they're told. They never think. They never put two and two together. They follow the rules."

  "Please, Mr. Jenkins. I've got a cab waiting and I desperately want to change out of this monkey suit."

  The door opened suddenly and a blue-veined hand reached out to pull Daniel into the house. "Don't stand on the street and advertise what you're about. Get in here."

  Daniel sighed and didn't bother to argue with Jenkins. He felt suddenly that his idea to visit the retired agent was flawed. The old goat would probably complain and moan for twenty minutes and tell him absolutely nothing. Then Jenkins would call up the Bureau as soon as he left and report the incident. Gottard would be furious.

  "Quit dragging your feet and get in here," Jenkins ordered. "Now sit and tell me what you want." He pointed to an old, well-worn leather chair. With a groan, he dropped into a chair across from it.

  Daniel sat on the edge of his seat. He studied Jenkins's face a moment in the lamplight. The room was dark, paneled, and filled ceiling-to-floor with bookshelves. There must have been a couple of thousand titles neatly arranged on what appeared to be fiction and nonfiction shelves, as best as Daniel could determine.

  "Well, are you going to investigate the room or talk?" Jenkins pulled off his thick glasses and cleaned them.

  Without the lenses, Jenkins's eyes looked red and runny. Daniel noticed they looked strained, too, as if he'd been up half the night reading.

  "It's about Covington. I want to know why you thought he was guilty of…"

  "Of what?" Jenkins leaned forward eagerly. "What did I think he was guilty of?"

  "There was an alleged connection with the mob. Gambling." Daniel was pulling it out of his memory. "As I recall, there was some concern that Covington was using his office as sheriff to allow illegal gambling into the Mississippi coast."

  "Right. So far." Jenkins was like a big dog teasing a smaller dog with a bone. "What else?"

  "I haven't read the file." Daniel could feel his patience slipping away. He wasn't there to be interrogated. Who did Jenkins think he was, anyway?

  "Why not? Why did you come here half prepared? That's my problem with the 'new FBI."' He spat the last words. "When I was an agent, we were prepared before we went to question a suspect."

  "Perhaps that's the difference." Daniel's voice had developed a deadly coldness.

  "What?"

  "You aren't a suspect, Mr. Jenkins. I came here to talk to you as a fellow agent."

  "I see." He cleared his throat. "I see. So, what can I help you with?"

  "Covington?" Daniel watched Jenkins's expression. He was acting like an old fool, but there was a sharp intelligence in the red-rimmed old eyes.

  "Sheriff. Hancock County. I spent better than a year on the case. Then he was killed in a robbery. No one ever proved that he stepped in front of the bullet deliberately, but that was the talk."

  "Do you believe it?"

  "Hell, yes. The man was guilty, and he knew I was going to find him out. He couldn't walk out of his house without seeing me. He couldn't take his daughter for an ice-cream cone that he didn't know I was on to him. He got the money, I'm sure of that, but he never had a chance to spend it. He was never convicted, but he never got to enjoy his ill-gotten gains."

  Satisfaction dripped from Jenkins's voice. Daniel felt a twinge of anger. What if Covington had been innocent? His life would have been a real hell. He put that aside and focused on the questions Jenkins needed to answer.

  "How much money? Why do you think there was a payoff?"

  "I got a tip." Jenkins shrugged. "It's old now, so I don't suppose I'm exposing my source to any danger."

  Daniel forced himself to lean back in the chair. Time was tick-ticking away, and he was going to have to hear the whole story, from front to back. He wondered how long the cabbie would wait— a long time, because he hadn't been paid.

  "My informer was a member of Covington's staff. He said he was positive beyond a doubt that the sheriff accepted a payoff from a prominent member of the New Orlean
s mafia. Covington was to look the other way when they established high-stakes games in some of the beachfront hotels. There were roulette wheels, craps, blackjack, the works. Mini-casinos, with a special guest list. And there were women. Prostitutes trained in New Orleans in some of the finest houses. But that was just the beginning. They were looking for a permanent home, not a floating joint."

  Daniel found it all a little hard to believe. Gambling was legal in Mississippi now. And prostitution was a crime that had never been heavily punished. The Mississippi Gulf Coast, like New Orleans, seemed more tolerant of human frailties. Jenkins was making it sound as if Cal Covington had single-handedly brought the Gulf Coast to moral corruption.

  "You don't know how it was back then," Jenkins said, reading the doubt on the younger agent's face. "The coast was hammered down. Most of the people didn't want organized crime and that violent element on the water. They had penny-ante crime, like every place else. It was a quiet community then. Decent folks who didn't care about a poker game, but they didn't want the big guys from New Orleans coming over with their gang-style killings and the entire corrupt mess. That's what I was involved in— fighting corruption."

  "And Cal Covington brought in organized crime?"

  Jenkins snorted. "You make me sound like a fool. He didn't bring them in. He just didn't slam the door hard enough." He stood with sudden vigor and paced the room. "Covington was guilty. My source said the payoff was positively delivered."

  "How much money?"

  "A suitcaseful. He never could find out how much. They knocked him out and locked him in a jail cell while they made the exchange. Then Covington pretended that he'd just arrived. You know the old story. But my man wasn't out cold. He was conscious. And he could see through a crack in the door. He saw the suitcase. He saw the money. And he saw Covington. Then he called the FBI."

  "But you could never get the cold evidence?" That point troubled Daniel. "After a year, you never got enough to convict him."

  "He never touched that damn money." Jenkins pounded a fist into the open palm of his hand. "How many men could go a year without spending a dime? He never bought his daughter a new bicycle. Never bought his wife a ring. Never bought a car. He hoarded that money, hoping I would give up. But I didn't."

  "Why didn't you?" Daniel saw a passion in the old man that was surprising. Talking about the Covington case had rejuvenated him. He acted twenty years younger. "Your source might have been lying."

  "He was telling the truth. Covington was the worst of the worst. He was a lawman, and he sold his people out for a suitcaseful of cash. I couldn't prove it, but I was determined not to let him enjoy a penny of it. And he didn't. He might have had the money, but neither he nor his widow have ever been able to spend a dime."

  "Or his daughter?"

  "Or her. She's a cook. She went to school, but it was on scholarship. Don't think I didn't keep an eye on that. I was called back here, but I never forgot them. I always remembered to look. But I'm old now. They know once I'm gone, no one else will care. That's when the money will come out. You'll see." He sank back into his chair, suddenly tired. "They'll win in the long run."

  An awkward silence touched the room. Daniel felt a pity he'd never expected for Joshua Jenkins. He'd devoted his life to a single case, and he'd lost. Time had beat him, at least in his opinion.

  "Why are you so certain Cal Covington took that money? Maybe your source was lying."

  Jenkins's head snapped up and his brown eyes blazed. "I know he wasn't lying. I know it for a fact."

  "Why?" Daniel tried to put a soft touch on the word, to make the question gentler, less aggressive. He could see that Jenkins was on edge about his unnamed friend.

  "He was a young man and he worshiped Cal Covington— until he saw him dirty. That's what made me determined to bring Covington to justice. He was a great lawman and he sold out. What Covington did, selling out like that, is the worst any lawman can do. My own father was a sheriff. In Tennessee. Last time I saw him he was in the state penitentiary with the very men he'd arrested. Dad decided that moonshining was more profitable than sheriffing. He deserved what he got."

  "I'm sorry." Daniel could see what it had cost Jenkins.

  "It was a long time ago. Why are you so interested in ancient Covington history?" Jenkins sat straight in his chair.

  "I know Covington's daughter. It was a matter of personal interest."

  Jenkins's face hardened. "Don't trust her. I was an agent for a long time, and I found that corruption is often in the blood. It runs in families. That's why I've fought it so hard. My blood was tainted. But I never gave in to it."

  Daniel was taken aback by the harshness of Jenkins's tone. The old man believed what he was saying. "I've discovered that often circumstance is the corrupting force."

  "Ha! That's what all these mumbo-jumbo psychologists would have you believe. They want to blame society for all the ills of mankind. They want us to think that somehow we're all to blame for the street gangs and the dope smugglers. Ha! It's weakness in those people. They want easy money and they don't care who they hurt to get it. And weakness is bred in the bone, young man. Don't ever forget it, or it could cost you your life."

  Daniel sat forward and eased to his feet. "Thank you for talking with me."

  "And you'd just as soon that I didn't mention this little visit with Paul Gottard, right?" Jenkins kept staring straight in front of him.

  "It wouldn't hurt if we kept this between ourselves."

  "Consider it done, then."

  "Thank you." Daniel wanted to go, but he hated to leave the old man staring into space. "I have an appointment."

  "Close the door after you. It locks itself."

  After a moment, Daniel moved to the door and let himself out. The cabbie was smoking a cigarette and staring into traffic. Daniel checked his watch. He was really late now, and he had to have a shower at Cody's.

  "Let's go," he said to the cabbie. "Twenty-two West Elm."

  "Your wish is my command," the cabbie said sarcastically, throwing the stub of his cigarette onto the manicured lawn. He got behind the wheel and revved the engine. Slowly he turned around. "You said, 22 West Elm?"

  "Right." Daniel looked up into the bore of an automatic. His gut clenched.

  "I don't think you really want to go there." The cabbie grinned.

  "What do you want?"

  "You're interfering in some unfinished business. I want you to stop."

  Daniel knew he was in big trouble. The cabbie had made no effort to conceal his identity. He was on a public street in a security guarded neighborhood with a weapon that looked as big as a cannon.

  "I don't pick my assignments."

  "There's a lot at stake here. Leave the woman alone. I don't know how to make this any clearer to you." His grin widened. "But then, maybe I do."

  Before Daniel could react, the gun swung through the air and clipped him under the jaw with so much force that his head snapped to the side and into the window frame. Daniel fought against the blackness that swept over him. He knew he was losing consciousness, and he tried to fight. Sarah. Her face was in front of him in all the vulnerability of sleep. But before he was lost to the darkness, he saw her open her eyes, and there was a cold, calculating look on her face.

  * * *

  THE HANDS OF THE CLOCK seemed to hang at ten forty-five. Sarah tested the bucking bronco birthday cake and found it cool enough to ice. The sugary sweet icing had been dyed fantastic colors of red and blue for the cowboy's clothes, and a golden dun for the bucking pony. It was going to be a great cake, but Sarah could take no satisfaction in it. She kept looking from the clock to the telephone. She didn't know Daniel Dubonet very well, but she believed he was a punctual man. Why hadn't he called?

  The telephone rang and she nearly dropped the decorating tube she was using to fill in the cowboy's bandanna. She left daubs of icing on the phone as she grabbed it. "Hello?"

  "Miss Covington?"

  "Yes."

 
; "This is a friend of Daniel Dubonet's. Could you tell us where he is?" The voice was cold and sinister.

  "I might. Who is this?" Sarah could feel her heart thumping.

  "I work with Mr. Dubonet. He's failed to show up now for almost twenty-four hours. If he's nearby, please put him on the phone." The voice was all cold reason.

  "Who is this?" Sarah demanded.

  "I'm calling in his best interest."

  "Then tell me your name. My father told me never to talk to anyone who wouldn't give a name."

  "Look, he's in serious trouble. The agency doesn't like a renegade. Put Dubonet on the phone." The voice was angry now.

  "Dream on." Sarah slammed the phone down, and when it rang again, she refused to answer it. Her hands were trembling to the point that she couldn't continue to work on the cake. It would simply be a mess. She cleaned her hands and picked up the phone book. Cody Pruett was listed, and he lived on West Elm. It wasn't that far away. She could drive over there and give Daniel his message.

  When she opened the door to leave, Familiar darted between her feet. He gave her a halfhearted meow as he trotted toward the alley and disappeared. "Well, come back when you can stay longer," she called after him. He was one strange cat, but she had other worries now.

  She climbed into her car and headed for the West Elm address of the lab tech. If Daniel wasn't there, he might have gone on to his own apartment. With all the damage, the telephone had probably been ripped out. There was a logical reason for his behavior. Just because he hadn't called didn't mean anything bad had happened.

  But even as Sarah tried to calm herself, she knew better. Something bad had happened. She could feel it, and she'd had plenty of experience in that department. The night her father was killed, she had been a young girl, but she knew before anyone told her. She knew before there was the first reason to suspect anything had gone wrong. It had just been a feeling, like something trapped inside her. Something big and anxious and determined to get out. And that was exactly what she was feeling now.