Enigma

by Catherine Coulter

  A back booth cleared and Bowler was fast off his barstool to claim it. Ruth walked to the end of the bar to get a better view of him. She ordered a Belgian blond ale and looked toward him now and then. Ruth was good at surveillance; she was patient and she didn’t miss much. She watched him tapping his fingertips on the table as more time passed, occasionally sipping his martini, and rarely looking away from the front door.

  Ruth punched in Ollie’s number. “Still no sign of the person he’s supposed to meet. Bowler’s getting antsy, starting to look angry. I don’t need backup yet, and yes, I’m being careful, he won’t see me. I’ll check back in in fifteen minutes.”

  Ruth took another sip of her beer. She heard a male voice close to her right ear. “Hi, my name’s John Murphy. I’m a local, not a tourist. Can I buy you another Belgian blond?”

  Ruth looked no-nonsense in her black pants and white shirt, her Glock hidden beneath her black jacket. No cleavage, no lipstick. He deserved a smile. She turned on her stool and gave him one. “Hi, John. You look like a nice guy, but alas, I’m married and waiting for my husband.” She waggled her wedding ring at him.

  Murphy gave her a salute and a mournful smile. “Then you’ll never know why you should drop the old man.” He turned away.

  She appreciated an optimist. Ruth thought of her husband, Dix, and smiled again. She pretended to take another sip of her ale and looked again at Bowler. Ten minutes later, she was on the point of checking in with Ollie when Bowler stood suddenly, threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and wove his way through the packed restaurant toward the front door. She watched him punch a number in his cell, listen, then punch off. No doubt in her mind now, Bowler was angry. He’d been stood up. He’d never know how much of a bummer that was for both of them.

  She slipped out after him, jaywalked behind him toward the public garage. She peeled off to go to her car, then changed her mind and followed Bowler into the garage. There was no attendant, only ticket machines. It was dark and hot, the air sluggish, a few people coming and going. She kept her distance, stayed to the far side of the garage, followed him to level two, to his Lexus. An older couple was walking twenty feet ahead of Bowler. She heard someone whistling, a scrap of conversation.

  The lights went out in the garage.

  13

  WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  Four people were hovering over Kara Moody when Sherlock walked into her room, Dr. Hamshaw, who’d delivered Alex, Philly Adams, and two Metro detectives. One of the detectives was asking Kara a question, but she only shook her head back and forth, hugging herself as she rocked in her chair, tears rolling down her cheeks. Sherlock introduced herself, showed her creds to everyone. Dr. Hamshaw said to her, “I gave Ms. Moody some Versed to calm her. Unfortunately she’s more sensitive to the drug than most and it’s nearly blanked her out. She’ll be doing better in a few minutes.” She leaned down and took Kara’s pulse, checked her pupils.

  Sherlock studied Kara’s blank face, the streak of tears she couldn’t seem to control. Her dark hair was hooked behind her ears, hanging loose to her shoulders. Her eyes were blue, not unlike Sherlock’s, but darker, turbulent, her lashes absurdly long. She was twenty-seven, a lovely young woman despite her swollen eyes. Sherlock didn’t think the injection had really deadened her pain. She asked to be left alone with Ms. Moody and waited until the four had filed out. She went down on her knees beside Kara’s chair, took a Kleenex out of her pocket, and wiped the tears from Kara’s face. She took her hand and said slowly, “Kara, I’m Agent Sherlock. Dillon Savich is my husband. You and I met briefly at the hospital yesterday.” She waited.

  Slowly, Kara turned drugged eyes to her face. “I remember you, your red hair. It’s beautiful, your hair. You and Dillon are both agents?”

  “That’s right. We work together.” She leaned close, squeezed her hand. “Versed is a wonderful drug, but too much of it and you’re floating off with Peter Pan, not tethered to the world. Do you know where you are, Kara?”

  Kara frowned at her and whispered, her voice thin, insubstantial, “I don’t see Peter Pan, but yes, this does feel a little bit like never-never land, kind of filmy and blurred. I was hoping for a peaceful green island, blue ocean all around it.”

  Kara looked away from Sherlock, toward the window.

  Sherlock said quietly, “Alex will need you soon, Kara, and that means you have to come back; you have to be ready to take care of him. He’ll need you just as I need you now.”

  Kara looked back at Sherlock, ran her tongue over her dry lips. “Imagine, you’re Dillon’s wife. I remember now, you saved so many people that day at JFK. I’ve never been a heroine.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Kara. Both Dillon and I admire you immensely. You were alone and a madman forced his way into your house, yet you were calm and focused because you knew you had to be to protect Alex. And then you went into labor.”

  Sherlock felt Kara squeeze her hand, a small movement, but she felt it, just as she heard the whispered thank-you. She felt compassion mixed with hot fury. She couldn’t imagine what she would have done if someone had stolen Sean—out of the hospital nursery where even she, a hard-nosed FBI agent, had trusted everyone to keep him safe.

  Sherlock leaned in. “Kara, it’s time to say goodbye to never-never land and bring yourself back to me. Blink your eyes, that’s it, and don’t look away from me. You have to help me find Alex. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Yes, I can do that.” Kara shook her head to clear her brain. Sherlock saw her fingers pulling on a loose thread of the afghan spread over her hospital gown.

  She told Sherlock about the nurse who’d come in to take Alex, how she’d come back carrying Alex and laid him in the bassinet. “She assured me everything was fine, he was a champ, and he even slept through the treatment and he was still sleeping. I should be patient and let him sleep, and she left.

  “I tried to be patient, but I couldn’t wait, you know? Well, maybe ten minutes and then I had to see him, had to hold him. I’d let him sleep if he wanted to. So I got out of bed and walked over to the bassinet to get him.” Her voice fell off a cliff, her breathing hitched.

  Sherlock squeezed her hand to bring her back. “The nurse, she was carrying him?”

  Kara nodded. Another tear slid down her cheek. “How could she do this? How could anyone do this?” She fell silent, twisting her hands, whispered, “I was so happy. Alex was healthy and he was mine. Even that awful thing that happened to me, that crazy man, none of it mattered. Everything was about Alex.”

  She went still, began shaking her head back and forth. Then she whispered, stumbling, as if saying the words aloud would make her believe them. “Alex wasn’t—he wasn’t there. It was a pile of blankets and towels, but Alex wasn’t there.”

  Sherlock wanted to hug her, to weep with her, but she managed to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “Stay with me, Kara. The nurse who took him, had you seen her before?”

  “I didn’t really look at her or at her name tag, but I do know I hadn’t seen her before.”

  Sherlock brought up a photo on her cell phone from the security video Savich had uploaded to the CAU. “Is this the woman?”

  Kara stiffened all over. “Yes, that’s her. How could she? She was nice; she was friendly. How could she steal my baby? Who is she? What’s her name?”

  “We’ll know soon who she is. You told Dillon she had a limp.”

  “Yes, it was slight, like she’d hurt her left foot.”

  “Kara, the FBI CARD team is in charge now. They’re experts; they specialize in finding babies stolen out of hospitals. Trust me on this: there are no better people in the world to help us find Alex.”

  Kara Moody didn’t look like she believed her.

  Sherlock wondered how much to tell her, then decided Kara deserved the truth. She looked up to see Dillon and Agent Haller in the doorway, obviously listening. For how long? Dillon rem
ained silent, nodded to her.

  Sherlock turned back to Kara. “Kara, this wasn’t some sort of baby kidnapping ring. There was a reason Alex was taken, and we believe it has something to do with John Doe, the man who forced his way into your house yesterday and is being guarded now downstairs. Did he tell you anything that could help us, anything you could understand?”

  “Wait, wait—Alex was taken because of him, that poor, crazy young man? I don’t understand.”

  “We don’t, either, yet, but we’ll figure it all out. I need you to think back, Kara. Tell me what you remember.”

  “I’ve tried to piece together what he said, but it was all so garbled, so bizarre. I do know he was afraid of someone, and at the same time he was furious. He hated this person or these people. He wasn’t there to hurt me or Alex. He believed he was saving us from something.” She looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry but there’s really nothing more. Did that help?”

  “Yes, it did. Kara, who is Alex’s father?”

  14

  Kara Moody lurched back as if slapped, then lowered her head, her dark hair curtaining her face. Sherlock pulled Kara’s hair back and hooked it behind her ear again, leaned forward, and took her shoulders in her hands. “Come back, Kara, look at me, talk to me. This is critical. Tell me about Alex’s father.”

  Kara raised her head, licked her lips again. “I’m not back in never-never land, Agent Sherlock, it’s that I don’t know who he is.”

  That was unexpected. Sherlock said, “You mean you were with more than one man at the time?”

  Kara shuddered. “No, no, nothing like that. Here’s the truth. When I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t believe it, even argued with the doctor. I had no idea how it happened. He sort of scoffed and asked me if it was an immaculate conception. But it was true; I wasn’t seeing anyone. The doctor tried to pinpoint the date I got pregnant and I remembered my friend Sylvie Vaughn’s party, at her place in Baltimore. It was a catered birthday party for her husband, Josh. When I woke up the morning after the party, I couldn’t remember how I got home. I was ashamed, thought I must have drank too much, maybe passed out. I called Sylvie to apologize, but she said she’d bet a lot of guests didn’t know how they got home. She told me not to worry, I hadn’t taken off my clothes and gotten up on a table to dance. But the thing is, I don’t remember getting drunk, only a couple glasses of wine.”

  “How many people were at the party?”

  “Thirty, maybe more. I didn’t know most of them, but Sylvie’s right, everyone was having a great time, lots of booze.”

  “Do you remember leaving your wine to go to the bathroom? To dance?”

  She raised her eyes to Sherlock’s face. “I must have, because I came to believe I was roofied.”

  Sherlock tightened her hand on Kara’s. “Yes, it sounds like you were. Back up, Kara, start at the beginning. Tell me what you remember from that night.”

  Kara closed her eyes, trying to focus. “I arrived at Sylvie’s condo, greeted a few people I knew, met a few new people, some single guys, some guys with dates or wives, all Josh’s friends. I remember wishing Josh a happy birthday. He kissed me and hugged me, and I wanted to kick him because he tried to put his tongue in my mouth. I got away from him as soon as I could. I never liked him much, and he was already getting drunk.” She stopped, looked utterly vulnerable.

  “You’re doing very well, Kara. Go on.”

  “I woke up in my own bed the next morning, and three weeks later I was told by my doctor that my nausea wasn’t from a lingering flu. I was pregnant.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “And tell them what? I’m pregnant and I think I was roofied because I don’t remember anything? No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you tell your friend Sylvie?”

  “Again, and say what exactly? Sylvie, I need to know the names of all the guys at your party because I think one of them roofied me and I’m pregnant?”

  That’s exactly what you should have done. And called the police. Nine months have passed. Would your friend Sylvie even remember who was there?

  “Kara, when you woke up the morning after, was there any sign you’d had sex?”

  “No,” Kara said slowly. “And later, when I found out I was pregnant, I wondered how it could have happened at the party, since there were no signs. Unless the man washed me when he was done.” She shuddered. “The thought of that is so creepy, so humiliating. I wanted to find him and kill him, but of course there was no way I could even identify who he was.”

  “Did you tell your friends, your family, you were pregnant?”

  “No, not at first. But then, of course, I started showing and I had to tell them. I had two close friends at the time, one of them Sylvie Vaughn. I told them the truth, that I’d been roofied. Sylvie was upset I hadn’t told her right away, said she could have checked out the men at the party, and I thought, yeah, and how would you do that? My other close friend, Brenda Love, she’s a textile artist, urged me to have an abortion, put it all behind me, and get on with my life. Like Alex didn’t mean anything.”

  “Did your friend Sylvie Vaughn also urge you to have an abortion?”

  Kara shook her head. “Sylvie’s great; she’s more of a listener and always supportive. When I told her I wanted to keep the baby, and really pushed her for her opinion, she finally said if she were standing in my shoes, she’d keep the baby, too. The baby would be mine, all mine, and this faceless donor—that’s what she called him—could go hang himself. I loved her for that.

  “As for family, only my uncle Carl and aunt Elizabeth live close by Baltimore, in Mill Creek. Let me just say they weren’t particularly supportive. They insisted I have an abortion. Even if I weren’t Catholic, Agent Sherlock, I would never have aborted the baby. I wanted him. I had a part-time job at a modern gallery in Baltimore to help support my painting, and I’m a good salesperson. I knew I could get another job easily enough, so I packed up my Honda and moved here to Washington. I got a job right away at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown and I’ve met some really nice people. And of course Dr. Janice, my next-door neighbor. She stayed with me during my labor.”

  Kara looked wrung out. Sherlock patted her hand. “Dr. Janice told me you’re an artist, a neo-impressionist she called you.”

  “That’s close enough,” Kara said, and added with an exhausted smile, “I’m all for reality if I can blur it around the edges a bit.”

  “Did she tell you Dillon’s grandmother is Sarah Elliott? She and Sarah were very good friends.”

  Kara’s mouth gaped open. “The Sarah Elliott? Really? That’s amazing. I wonder why she didn’t tell me.”

  “Maybe she believed what you were doing was more important and you didn’t need any comparisons. Dillon whittles beautiful pieces, and his sister, Lily, does the No Wrinkles Remus political cartoon in the Washington Post.”

  That small excursion had distracted Kara for maybe three minutes, but reality snapped her back. “How are you going to find Alex?”

  Sherlock took Kara Moody’s face between her hands. “We already have a good start. We may know the name of the woman who took him very soon now. I will personally speak to Sylvie Vaughn. Now, we need a sample of Alex’s DNA, so there’ll be no doubts we’ve got the right baby when we find him. Yours, too. An FBI tech will be here to collect it soon.”

  “Alex has lots of black hair, thick as mine. I brushed it yesterday with a tiny brush a nurse gave me. There’s probably some hair on the brush. Will that do?”

  “That’s perfect. I need your friend Sylvie’s information.”

  Kara gave her Sylvie Vaughn’s address, email, and cell phone. “Unless she’s moved, she’ll be there.”

  Sherlock said, “Have you called Sylvie, told her about Alex?”

  Kara shook her head. “No, I can’t. I mean, there’s nothing she could do.”

  Sherlock got Brenda Love’s information next. She stood, put her small tablet back in her pocket. “It’s time for you to
meet the CARD agents now, Kara. Special Agents Haller and Butler are here to tell you what’s been done so far and what their plans are. There’s an Amber Alert out for Alex already.” She paused a moment, leaned down. “I can’t imagine my own son, Sean, being taken. You’re being very brave, Kara, and you’re smart. Talk to them about what happened in Baltimore, what happened yesterday with John Doe. Anything could help. I will make sure you know everything that’s happening.”

  After she’d introduced Kara to CARD agents Haller and Butler, she met Dillon outside Kara’s room and walked to the elevator, no longer on lockdown.

  Sherlock said, “I wonder what the kidnappers want. Not money, but what?” She pressed the elevator button. “Whatever it is they want, you know as well as I do that it involves John Doe.”

  “And he can’t tell us,” Savich said. “I wonder if Kara’s friends can help us find out how Alex’s kidnapping is connected to him.”

  15

  PUBLIC GARAGE ON QUEEN STREET

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Ruth nearly stumbled in the sudden pitch black. She righted herself and held perfectly still, pressed against a car door. No mystery here: This was a setup, Bowler the target. She heard an older man yell, “Hey, who are you? What are you doing? If you want money—” His voice hitched and she heard him groan, but that, too, was cut off. A woman screamed, went silent. Ruth knew the older couple she’d seen walking in front of Bowler was down, maybe dead.