Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

  Sherlock eyed her, drank the rest of her coffee. “That was very persuasive, Mia, and all right, logical. I’ll even say this for you—without more proof he’d try to get you blackballed. He’d certainly hound you, smear your name.” She sighed. “What you really want is to be bait, right?”

  “Yes, if that’s what you want to call it.”

  Sherlock took a deep breath, drummed her fingertips on the table, studied Mia Briscoe’s very serious face. “All right. We’ll see what Tommy has to say.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t act guileless, Mia, you can’t pull it off. I’ll be your bodyguard until Tommy ties up his case in Washington—he hopes to be here tomorrow. Then he can be your second skin.”

  Mia would have shot a victory fist in the air, but she wasn’t a dolt. She said, “As you’ve noticed, my apartment is on the small side. Do you mind sharing a queen-size bed with me?”

  Sherlock smiled. “Not a problem.” Then she took a deep breath, drummed her fingertips on the table, studied Mia Briscoe’s face. “You know after what could have happened to you last night, I hope Juliet will be willing to step up, show what kind of woman she is. I have an idea how she can help us and we can still keep her safe. Would you call her, then let me speak to her?”

  When Sherlock ended the call, she slowly nodded. “We’ll see.”

  36

  Mia and Sherlock

  Cheesehead Coffee Shop

  Houston Street

  Thursday morning

  A taxi dropped Mia and Sherlock off in front of Cheesehead Coffee Shop with its signature bright green-and-gold-striped awning, the only place downtown with nonfat cheddar cheese Danish, at least according to the owner, Quillie Rodgers, a longtime fan of the Green Bay Packers and a Cheesehead every Sunday during football season.

  Milo Burns was already pacing outside the coffee shop when Mia and Sherlock spilled out of the taxi. He looked from Mia to Sherlock. “Good to see you again, Agent Sherlock. Let me say again, you gave us a great interview. It’ll appear in the Sunday Life section. Millie Jones is still dancing around the newsroom. Pain in the butt. Now, what are you doing with Agent Sherlock, Briscoe? I didn’t even know you knew each other. Let’s get inside before we freeze our parts off.”

  There were only a few customers midmorning. Quillie herself showed them to a back booth and Sherlock eased Mia out of her coat. When the three of them were seated, coffee and tea ordered, Milo said, “Agent Sherlock, why are you with Briscoe here?” He gave Mia the stink eye. “She never said a word about knowing you.”

  “We’ve only just met. It’s a friends-of-a-friend deal.”

  Milo tapped his big blunt fingers on the tabletop. “All right, Briscoe, I’m here. You didn’t tell me a thing, insisted on talking here at Cheesehead’s. Since you’re with my reporter and you’re here with an FBI bigwig, I’d have to be an idiot not to figure something big is going on. That, and sorry, Briscoe, but you look like crap on a pancake.”

  Mia sighed. “Disgusting visual even if true.”

  Sherlock said, “It’s true. I did meet Mia through a friend. We’re here because Mia says she trusts you implicitly, Mr. Burns.”

  “Just Milo,” he said. He looked at Mia, said slowly, “Talk to me, Briscoe, and don’t leave anything out.” He cocked a dark eyebrow at Mia. “Implicitly?”

  “Saying it’s big doesn’t start to cover it, Milo. I asked you here to Cheesehead’s because there’s no way I could simply waltz into the newsroom with Agent Sherlock and pretend to everyone nothing’s happened. Look at me, I’m a walking bruise. Yes, Milo, I trust you, or it would be time to hang it up. I’m your reporter, and you should know what I’ve been doing. You’re expecting five thousand words from me on Harrington’s campaign for this weekend, but I’m working on something else, maybe the Guardian’s biggest exclusive since you started there.”

  Milo sat back against the cushioned booth seat, looked from Sherlock to Mia and back again. “Still waiting, Briscoe.”

  After two more cups of coffee from Roxy, a waitress who’d known Milo for years, Mia had told him everything. He asked her questions, made her backtrack, filled in more details until he was satisfied she’d spilled it all. Milo gave snorts and grunts, an occasional hmm, and a “You’ve got to be kidding me.” When she was finished, Mia felt limp.

  Milo studied Mia’s face. “I saw those photos you gave Dirk, saw the meatloaf you gave him, too, so I knew the photos were important to you. It was making me crazy not knowing what you were up to. Alex Harrington, huh?” He took another sip of coffee, tapped his blunt fingertips on the vinyl tabletop. “All right. If you’re right about Mr. Alexander Harrington and Mr. Kent Harper, Mia, if you get ironclad proof, and I mean bulletproof proof, beyond-a-reasonable-doubt proof, we’ll publish it. Otherwise, you’d be setting up the paper in the middle of a huge scandal, with an X marked on our chests for all those big-money lawyers to shoot at, and they’ll come running faster than roaches out of the woodwork. Harrington’s supporters will denounce us in any case, call you a vindictive opportunist, maybe even a jilted lover. There’s so much wealth and power involved, it’s scary. And if there’s a trial, you’ll be front and center. You as well, Agent Sherlock.” Tap, tap, tapping his fingertips, he paused, assessed. “You, Agent Sherlock, have a big rep and you’re standing with Briscoe. That’ll mean something. You think one or both of these men has already tried to kill you and yet you don’t want to face them down, tell them what you know. I can understand that. But if I let you go forward with this and something goes wrong, people will think we were both barking mad.” He fell silent, picked up his coffee spoon, and began wiping it on his napkin so hard he could see his face. Sherlock and Mia said nothing, waited. He met their eyes. “But here’s the thing—if you bring down these men, prove they’re serial rapists, prove they murdered your friend Serena, maybe find her body—it could mean a Pulitzer for you, Briscoe, and a whole mountain of new advertisers and subscriptions for the Guardian. Some butt-kissing morons might proclaim me King of All Media.” Vintage Milo, but Mia saw a twinkle in his eyes. “All right, Briscoe, knowing all the problems, the risks, the possible payoffs, do you still wish to move forward?”

  “Yes,” Mia said immediately.

  He turned to Sherlock. “How are you going to be involved in all this?”

  “I’ll be staying with Mia to keep her safe until our mutual friend, an FBI agent, gets here tomorrow.”

  Milo slid out of the booth, stared down at the two women, and rubbed his hands together. “I’m picking up the tab. Talk about a justified business expense. Tell me what I can do and I’ll do it. But that doesn’t include any killing.”

  “Thank you, Milo,” Mia said. “I promise, no killing.”

  He started to pat her shoulder, stopped, and touched his fingers to her cheek instead. “You’ve looked better, Briscoe, but I gotta say, you’ve made my day.” He shrugged into his coat, paused to speak to their waitress, Roxy, and was fast out the door, coat flapping.

  Mia was easing her arms carefully into her own coat when Sherlock’s cell sang out Shinedown’s “Monsters.” When she punched off, she smiled. “My FBI contact touched base with the NYPD detective running the investigation into your attack last night. She was allowed to look at all the CCTVs. She said the sedan that tried to hit you is a black 2020 Audi S8. The CSI team verified. They found a shard of headlight next to one of the overturned garbage cans, and yes, it was from a 2020 Audi S8.” She called up the car on her cell. “Look familiar?”

  Mia said, “Maybe, but Sherlock, to me it only looked huge and black. I was scared out of my mind.”

  Sherlock added, “If you hadn’t been scared, I’d worry about you. Neither Harrington nor Harper owns an Audi, which means there’s another person involved.”

  “Was your FBI contact able to follow the Audi on the traffic cams?”

  “Three blocks, then they lost him. They’re casting a wider net. There wasn’t much traffic at that hour last ni
ght what with the frigid weather so they’re hoping to pick him up again and see where he goes. Kelly will call me if they spot him.” She shook Mia’s hand. “We’ll get him. He’s the key. Mia, you’re going to the Guardian, right? And you’ll stay there until you take a taxi home this evening?”

  Mia nodded. “Believe me, I don’t want to do any more dances with garbage cans. I remember you said you hoped to close the case about the murdering psychopath who’s a real estate agent. You’re going to do that now?”

  Sherlock stared at her. “Your memory is formidable.” She looked down at her watch. “Yep, I’m off. After today, I’m hoping there’ll be one less psychopath on the streets. Be careful, Mia. I’ll see you later.”

  37

  Sherlock

  26 Federal Plaza

  FBI New York Field Office

  New York City

  Thursday

  Sherlock locked her eyes on Angela Storin when she walked into the conference room. She saw what she’d expected to see, a plain, proper woman of a certain age who looked faded, disapproving, ultimately forgettable. She wore a baize suit, baize low-heeled pumps, no jewelry. Her eyes were a flat light brown, hard to get a read on her with the oversized black-framed glasses. She wore her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and no makeup. Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, hoping to see a flash of nerves, a hint of some anxiety, but there was no outward sign the woman felt anything at all other than boredom. Storin looked back at her, placid and disinterested as a cow.

  Special Agent Kelly Giusti slowly rose. “Mr. Clooney, Ms. Storin, this is Special Agent Sherlock, who has kindly come up from Washington for our meeting.” Abel Clooney rose, shook her hand. “Agent.”

  Sherlock gave him her sunny smile. “Counselor.” He looked like Matlock in the old TV series, with his silver hair and his comfortable paunch, artfully minimized in a dark pin-striped thousand-dollar Hugo Boss suit. He looked pleased with himself, quite happy to be who he was, confident he’d close down whatever this latest summons of his client would bring. He was giving Sherlock an appraising look, doubtless deciding how to deal with her. Clooney knew who she was, of course, but why ask her in particular?

  Sherlock nodded to Benjamin Varno, the federal prosecutor. He was younger than Clooney, tall and fit with hair as black as sin, with only a few silver flecks at his temples. He was endowed with an evangelist’s deep voice that would resonate in the courtroom. He knew what was coming, of course, and looked hungry for blood.

  Clooney sat down again, leaned back, and tapped his Mont Blanc pen on the tabletop. He said to Sherlock, “I do not understand why you are here. There are no terrorists for you to take down.”

  Sherlock said, “Believe me, Mr. Clooney, if I never see another terrorist in my lifetime, I will consider myself blessed. It was all a case of being in a certain place at a certain time.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was asked to provide a new eye.” And she said nothing more.

  Clooney said, “New eye? Not that it matters. Agent Giusti, I agreed to this meeting because I’m hopeful we can clear up any remaining concerns you have about Ms. Storin’s involvement in this tragic incident in Brickson and finish this witch hunt. Then you can all turn your attention to finding the real murderer. We have offered plausible alternatives: a patient or one of their family members who might have blamed Dr. Madison for an injury or a loved one’s death seems the most logical. You have focused on my client for long enough, wasted valuable time. It must stop. When we’ve answered your questions, when my client and I leave today, I expect your assurance she’s been cleared of all suspicion and this harassment will stop.”

  Varno said, “That will depend on your client’s answers, Mr. Clooney. We have a lot to cover, so let’s proceed.”

  “Ms. Storin,” Sherlock said and she smiled at her. Storin started, blinked behind the glasses, and remained silent, still the continued picture of disinterest. Sherlock said, “Ms. Storin, even though I’m new to this case, they’ve told me a lot about you.”

  Say something, I want to hear your voice.

  “I’m sure they have, Agent Sherlock, and yes, I’ve heard of you as well. Some people think you’re important,” Storin added with a touch of impatience in her voice and a dismissive shrug.

  Storin’s voice was low, sort of husky, really quite lovely.

  Kelly rose. “Ms. Storin, you have stated on record that your Walther PPK was stolen two weeks prior to the three murders at the Madison house, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You further stated that your first husband, Mr. Martin Orloff, purchased the gun for you and showed you how to use it, but you rarely touched it. Is that correct?”

  “I told you he showed me how to fire the gun, so I knew how it worked. I never used it again, as I’ve told you several times already. I’ve also told you I don’t approve of guns, the reason I never wanted it in the first place.”

  “You found the gun missing and reported it stolen to the Brickson police. Is that correct?”

  Storin merely nodded and studied a fingernail.

  Clooney began tapping his Mont Blanc pen on the conference tabletop. “What is the point of going over all this again, Agent Giusti? Move along. Let’s get this done.”

  Kelly nodded. “Let me remind you, Ms. Storin, that lying to a federal agent is a felony.”

  Storin gave her a flat-eyed stare. “I have no reason to lie to anyone.”

  Sherlock saw Mr. Clooney’s hand close over Storin’s—to keep her from saying more? Probably.

  Kelly said easily, “Moving along then. Agent Sherlock visited the Madison house on Tuesday. Do you know what she noticed?”

  “Get on with it, Agent,” Clooney said. “Cut the cute drama.”

  Sherlock said, her voice matter-of-fact, “I noticed one of the kitchen chairs was pulled out from the table and faced out, toward the kitchen doorway. After you shot Mrs. Madison in the face, Ms. Storin, you sat in that chair with Mrs. Madison’s body nearly at your feet and waited for your ex-lover to return. When Dr. Madison came in he wasn’t alone, and I imagine you were surprised, but it didn’t deter you, probably didn’t even particularly concern you. You stood up from that chair and shot both men between the eyes. After you shot them, you did your best to make the murders look like a robbery, but of course no one bought that scenario for very long.” Sherlock paused a second, hardened her voice. “In short, Ms. Storin, you shot both men from at least twelve feet away, which means you’re an excellent shot.”

  Storin stared at Sherlock with her cold flat eyes, raised her chin an arrogant fraction, and said in a voice as smooth as glass, “What you’re saying is impossible. I couldn’t do that. I barely know how to fire a gun.”

  Clooney again pressed his hand on Storin’s and said, his voice dismissive, “I don’t know what you’re trying for, Agent Sherlock, with this tedious tale about the placement of a kitchen chair. It’s wild supposition, a not-very-clever spin on what might have happened.”

  Storin shook off Clooney’s hand, sat forward, and now there was anger in her voice. “I understand what you’re doing. Your superiors sent you up here to close this case however you can, so you don’t continue to blunder around like incompetent clowns. Really? Me? Firing a gun from twelve feet away? That’s longer than this table. Impossible.

  “You will listen to me now. After the FBI got involved, I was hopeful, all of Brickson was hopeful, this horrible situation would be resolved, the Madison murderer would be identified, but instead of doing your jobs and finding the murderer, you decided I was your best shot to save face, so you’ve continued to browbeat me.” Her voice dripped contempt. “So much for my prayers that there might finally be justice, that a man I cared about would be avenged.” She splayed her hands in front of her, small hands, buffed nails, no rings. “I am more than disappointed with the lot of you.”

  Clooney nodded, looked pleased. “My client could not have summed up the situation bet
ter. Now, I expect you to make clear why you asked my client to appear here today or we are going to leave.”

  It was hard not to applaud Storin’s brilliant performance, but Kelly kept her voice calm and steady. “We’ve asked you before about your frequent trips to Washington, D.C. Have you now remembered where you’ve stayed when you visited?”

  Storin shrugged, pursed her lips. “As I’ve told you before, I’ve stayed at various B&Bs around the city, to sample the different neighborhood flavors, you could say.”

  Clooney said, “Again, Agent Giusti, Ms. Storin told you this. Do you have anything more to say?”

  “And there were times you and Dr. Madison traveled to Washington, D.C., together.”

  Impatience simmered. Clooney said, “Is that supposed to be a question, Agent?”

  Kelly ignored Clooney. “Ms. Storin?”

  “As I have told you, Agent, Dr. Madison and I were adults and since he was married, we were discreet. I am very fond of Washington, and we traveled there to enjoy ourselves as often as we could.”

  Clooney said, “If you have a new point to make, Agent, spit it out or move along. My client doesn’t remember or simply doesn’t choose to discuss where they stayed. It doesn’t matter.”

  Kelly said, “You’re on the record stating you always paid cash.”

  “I prefer cash,” Storin said. “Some people do.”

  Sherlock picked it up. “Ms. Storin, it appears you neglected to inform your attorney about a lovely property in Washington, D.C., more a picturesque cottage, really, at 743 Black Street NW.”

  Sherlock saw it, a flash of fear in Storin’s flat eyes, then calculation. You never thought we’d find that cottage, did you? She waited, but Storin merely shrugged, said nothing.