Enigma

by Catherine Coulter

  “Don’t you call me that, you Irish trash!”

  “See, more a vulture.” He shook his finger at Elena. “That was rude. I could have thrown you out of the helicopter after Jacobson, opened that little metal box and used it myself, cut out the middle man. But Sergei and I had a deal. So, girl, make nice so I won’t have to lock you in a closet. Hey, Sergei, since we’re partners and all, tell me what this has to do with Putin.”

  Petrov went poker stiff. “It has nothing to do with him directly, but Vladimir Putin is a fine man, a great man, exactly the man Russia needs in this time of turmoil. It is your Western press who paint him as a monster, your Western governments that try to slander him, and all those who are loyal to him.”

  “Guy can’t even put on a shirt,” Liam said.

  By the time Dr. Michaelov arrived, Liam had eaten Abram’s lentil soup and a huge hunk of black rye bread, and taken three aspirin. He was tired, but it didn’t matter, he could deal with that. He’d learned long ago in prison to keep alert, or get his throat slit.

  Dr. Michaelov was a dapper little man, older than Petrov, solidly in his fifties, like Abram. Like Petrov, he was beautifully dressed, in a pale blue pin-striped suit, tasseled Italian loafers on his small feet. Liam thought he looked like a Belfast politician whose house he’d robbed, a smug, smooth-tongued liar who tossed around promises he’d never keep. Liam had made sure he’d cost the lying bugger dearly.

  “It took you long enough to get here,” Liam called out.

  Dr. Michaelov drew himself up, looked down his nose at Liam, and ignored him.

  He gave a sharp bow to Petrov. “I was unavoidably detained, Sergei. My apologies.”

  Liam said nothing as the doctor immediately sat beside Elena and examined her, asked her questions, tested her coordination, and gave her some pills. He stood, again bowed to Petrov, and said in beautifully fluent English with only a whiff of an accent, “Ms. Orlov will be fine. I’ve given her something for the headache. But she must rest.”

  Liam called out, “Will she be well enough to travel by tomorrow morning?”

  Michaelov turned cold eyes to Liam, looked back to Petrov, his eyebrow raised. Supercilious sod.

  Petrov said, “You may answer him, Timur.”

  “Very well.” Michaelov stood stiffly, then said in a voice colder than a Moscow winter, “Ms. Orlov will be well enough by tomorrow to travel, but no more than two or three hours, then she must rest.”

  Liam gave Timur his heartbreaker smile. “Good to hear. Now come here, mate, and take care of my damned foot.”

  34

  SAVICH HOUSE

  GEORGETOWN

  TUESDAY EVENING

  Savich slipped his cell back into his shirt pocket as he sat down on the sofa opposite Jack and Cam. “That was Chief Harbinger calling back. Surgery went well. He’ll be back to work in a week. He sounded a bit woozy but managed to curse his surgeon for calling his wife.”

  Cam laughed. “All bluster. I’ll bet he was happy to see her when he woke up.”

  Jack bit into his third slice of pepperoni pizza, saw that Sherlock was eyeing the last slice in the box, and grinned at her. “All yours.”

  Sherlock snagged the last slice, waved it at Cam. “Your arm’s okay, Cam?”

  “Fine, the stitches itch a bit, nothing to worry about.” She looked over at Jack, then back at Savich. “Actually, what we were both worried about is whether you were going to dress us down or shoot us.”

  Savich waved that off. “Stuff happens, so we move on.”

  Cam said, “We heard from Haller—the Bolt—that you and Sherlock are up to your eyeballs in a baby kidnapping and the attempted murder last night of the unidentified man you took down on Sunday. Can you tell us what’s going on?”

  Sherlock said, “It’s a real puzzle, but the pieces are coming together. It shouldn’t be too long now before we know exactly what happened and why. But what’s important right now is what’s happening with Manta Ray.”

  Savich picked it up. “You guys did well identifying the helicopter as a Robinson R66. Despite the fake tail number, it’s a good lead. Lucy’s still working on it.

  “Jack, the man you shot who fell from the helicopter was in the system. His name was Arnold Jacobson, age thirty-six, in and out of prison since the age of fourteen. He started with shoplifting, moved on to car theft and breaking and entering, continued up the crime chain to enforcer for some Baltimore loan sharks. He very nearly killed a man in Baltimore and might have gotten away with it, but he had a blowup with his boss, and the boss gave him up. He served a ten-year sentence in Brockbridge Correctional Facility in Maryland, released six months ago. No early parole because he was a troublemaker, ready to stick a shiv into anyone he didn’t like. Ollie is looking into known associates, anyone who could connect him to whoever’s got Manta Ray.

  “Something else you need to know. Ruth surveilled Manta Ray’s lawyer, Duce Bowler, when he left his office yesterday afternoon. She and Ollie scared him into calling for a meet with the person who hired him to make the deal with Manta Ray. She followed him into a public garage and he was ambushed. Hard to believe, but Bowler managed to shoot his would-be assassin. At the moment he’s in the wind. We have an APB out on him. As for the assassin, his name was Russell Bauer. Like Jacobson, he was fresh out of prison, convicted for nearly killing a man in a bar fight. Like Jacobson, he served his full six-year sentence. We’re looking into Bauer’s known associates.”

  Cam was staring at him. “Good grief, Dillon, and here I thought Jack and I were in the middle of the storm. Is Ruth all right?”

  “Yes. Bauer knocked an older couple unconscious but didn’t kill them.”

  Jack said, “We should find Bowler quickly. He has no experience staying off the grid, and he’s got to be scared to death.”

  Sherlock said, “Agents are covering Mrs. Bowler and the daughter, Magda Bowler. His cell phone is off, so we can’t triangulate his location. But if he uses it to contact them, we’ll find him.”

  Jack said, “He’s got to realize we’re his best friends right now.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” Cam said, and shrugged. “Lawyers don’t have friends.”

  Savich smiled at her. “Now I’ve got some good news and more work for you and Jack. Of the people who rented those bank safe-deposit boxes, I focused on one in particular—Cortina Alvarez. Have you guys had time to read the initial interviews?”

  Cam nodded. “Alvarez—midthirties, a wealthy socialite originally from Mexico, official residence in Washington, D.C., for the last ten years. She claimed she had only jewelry in the box. She provided insurance verification of the pieces.”

  Savich nodded. “The agents who interviewed her were thorough. They also examined the Mexican public records, verified she was born in Mexico City thirty-five years ago and was orphaned at eighteen, the only beneficiary of her very wealthy parents. She immigrated to the U.S. to attend William and Mary, majored in Slavic literature, speaks three languages. She became a U.S. citizen at twenty-three. She lists no profession, and she travels a lot.”

  Jack said, “So what made you suspicious of Ms. Alvarez in particular?”

  “I had MAX repeat the check on Alvarez in the Mexican public records. Sure enough, there she was, everything looked on the up-and-up, but still, I didn’t like the feel of it. I had MAX go deeper.”

  Sherlock grinned at him and smacked his knee. “Go ahead, Dillon, get some smiles back on these two long faces.”

  “There is no Cortina Alvarez,” he said simply. “The records show her first U.S. passport issued twelve years ago, the background information on her parents, siblings, grandparents, and their addresses and birth and death dates seemingly complete and verifiable. It was so well done, it fooled the interviewers, who believed her legitimate and struck her off the list.” He paused a moment, took the last bite of his Dizzy Dan’s veggie pizza slice, wiped his hands on a napkin. “It was a near-perfect legend.”

  Cam sat forward, so excited
she almost dropped her pizza. “But why didn’t you think it was legitimate?”

  Savich shrugged. “It was too pat. I realized I’d seen work like that before by an Italian forger, known in the business as Dr. Perfetto, real name Dr. Antonio Costas, an erstwhile physician based in Milan. He’s been in the business for more than thirty years, costs a fortune, but his legends are a forgery gold standard, nearly impossible to break. But independent of the information created for the passport application, MAX couldn’t find any prior record of her anywhere.”

  Sherlock said, “We had a case a couple of years ago that traced back to Dr. Costas. So when he saw it this time, Dillon recognized his style, I guess you could call it.”

  Savich said, “Actually, in that case, it was Sherlock who picked up on something that didn’t feel right. Cortina Alvarez’s listed address is the Satterleigh Condominium complex near Rock Creek Park.”

  Cam said, “I know them. I dated a guy a couple of years ago who owned one of the condos. It’s very upscale. Since she claimed to be an heiress, I guess it makes sense Alvarez wouldn’t live in a dump.”

  Savich said, “All her taxes, insurance, and utilities are paid on time, her two-year-old Lexus is housed at the condo. There is sporadic use of credit cards, again, paid on time each month. It appears she’s spent very little time here in Washington over the past decade. Her passport destinations are primarily European.”

  “Which means,” Cam said, “she has cars available to her in these locations and drives wherever she wants. She certainly wouldn’t rent a car and leave a paper trail.”

  “Agreed,” Savich said. “Cam, you and Jack will pay Ms. Alvarez a visit tomorrow morning. I want to show her muscle. Take her to the Hoover Building, and we’ll all have a nice long talk. Here’s her passport photo, renewed two years ago.”

  Jack looked at the sharp-featured face of a woman in her thirties with olive skin, short spiky red hair, green eyes ringed in black eyeliner, and heavy near-black lipstick. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a nose ring. “Says she’s five foot six, weighs one twenty-five. She looks like a Goth throwback.” He handed the photo to Cam.

  Cam studied the photo. “Her hair is dyed or it’s a very good wig. With that olive complexion I doubt she has green eyes. Her hair is probably as dark as her eyes and eyebrows.” She looked at Savich. “Even this photo isn’t real, is it?”

  35

  “I’ve run the photo through facial recognition, no matches, which means Alvarez isn’t in the database. That is, if that photo really is Alvarez.”

  Cam picked an olive off her pizza and chewed on it. “Jack, remember Chief Harbinger’s daughter had the impression the woman with Jacobson and Manta Ray could be Hispanic?”

  “Yeah, sure, but we didn’t get any kind of look at her.”

  Sherlock said, “Okay, but why not her? It would make sense, keep it all in the family so to speak, wouldn’t it?”

  Savich said, “And that would mean her boss had her set up the safe-deposit box in her name. The question is, who are they?”

  Jack took a drink of the Funky Buddha, frowned. “You wouldn’t have a Bud, would you, Savich?”

  * * *

  An hour later, Jack walked Cam to the door. “Drive carefully. You sure your arm’s okay?”

  “Stop worrying, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, but remember, even though you don’t have a broken wing, you’re still driving with a lot of missing feathers.”

  She laughed. “I hope you enjoy Hotel Savich. I hear only the really interesting people are invited to stay here.”

  “I think it’s more to the point that they know I’m pretty much homeless here in Washington.” Jack paused, looked beyond her left shoulder. “The guy you dated at the Satterleigh condos, he was a rich guy? Who was he?”

  “Derrick Benthurst was his name. His bank nearly destroyed the world economy, but he looked me right in the eye and claimed he knew nothing about it, the lying putz. On the plus side, he had a flat stomach and a nice smile.”

  “How do you know he had a flat stomach? No, forget that. You didn’t get serious with him?”

  She laughed, couldn’t help herself, and leaned in close. “Derrick was in the process of trying to discover whether he was gay. He was.”

  He gave her a big smile. “Well, that’s enough to make a woman think twice. You’re right, what a putz.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Jack lightly touched his fingers to her blue sling. “I could ask them to let you stay, what with your missing feathers, but there’s only one guest bedroom. You’d have to sleep with me or in Sean’s room.”

  She eyed him up and down. “Well, I’ve got to say you do clean up well, Cabot, but I sort of liked that black scruff all over your face. Do you snore?”

  “Can’t say, I never stayed awake to listen to myself.”

  “Har har. I wonder about Sean. Okay, time to get our brains back to the matter at hand.”

  Jack said, “Of course you’ve already read every single one of the initial interviews with the safe-deposit box owners.”

  She gave him a fat smile. “Sure. And when you’re lying in bed alone tonight, you can review Cortina Alvarez’s interview. Sleep well, Jack. I sure hope we do something to earn our pay tomorrow.”

  He stayed on the front porch until she’d backed her white Mazda out of the driveway and disappeared down the street. He walked back into the Savich living room and saw Sean in blue Transformer pajamas, standing next to Savich, his iPad clutched to his chest. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

  “Papa says I should call you Uncle Jack.”

  “Sounds good. I already have three nephews. You can be my fourth. It’s late, why’d you leave dreamland?”

  “I dreamed a big green dragon flew so close to me he nearly burned my ears off and I woke up.” Sean yawned again.

  Savich lifted his boy into his arms. “Sean wants to challenge you to Lethal Demon Force—naturally, it’s the advanced version—but I told him he’d have to be at the top of his game to take you on, and that means a solid night of sleep.”

  Jack smiled at the little boy, his face pressed against his father’s neck, nearly asleep again. He could already see the man in the boy. Jack patted Sean’s thick black hair. “That’s right, a solid nine hours or I’ll zing you good.”

  Sean gave a little sleep snort.

  Sherlock came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “All cleaned up. Hey, I hear Astro.” She added to Jack, “Astro’s Sean’s terrier, a right frightening guard dog, that one. He rarely lets Sean out of his sight here at home. It’s late, we should all get some sleep.” Astro came tearing into the room, jumped up, and Sherlock caught him in her arms.

  Jack looked down at his boots. “Yes, of course. Ah, about the fiasco today, Savich, I—”

  “Jack, I’m sure you’ve played everything over and over in your head already. Tell me the truth—would you have done anything different?”

  “No.”

  “There you go,” Savich said. “Do me a favor and take Sean back to bed.” He handed Sean to Jack. “I’ll take Astro out, lock up and turn on security.”

  Ten minutes later, Jack was settled on his back in the middle of a very comfortable bed, reading Cortina Alvarez’s interview. When he finished, he turned off the light, stared up at the dark ceiling, and listened to the silence of the night. He saw Jacobson falling again, falling until he smashed onto the dirt road a dozen feet from where he and Cam stood. Jack doubted he’d forget that sound for a very long time.

  36

  HOOVER BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  Savich was reading Russell Bauer’s prison records when his cell belted out Kenny Chesney’s “Noise.”

  “Savich.”

  “Raven here. It appears we’ve got ourselves a full-on Metro/Federal law enforcement overlap.”

  A black eyebrow went up. “I hope we played nice. Talk to me, Ben.”

&nb
sp; “I drove over to the Satterleigh Condominium complex this morning to speak to a Cortina Alvarez. Lo and behold what should I see but two of your people driving away. I recognized Cam Wittier. Cortina Alvarez wasn’t there. She was traveling again, I was told. One of her neighbors verified your two FBI agents were asking questions about Cortina Alvarez as well. So what’s up, Savich? How are we connected? What’s the FBI’s interest in Cortina Alvarez?”

  Had the list of the six safe-deposit owners gotten out? Savich didn’t think so. “Ben, could you tell me first why you went to see Cortina Alvarez?”

  “And if I do, you’ll tell me why your nose is under my tent?”

  “Yes, as much as I can.”

  “All right, I know you won’t screw around with me.”

  “No, I won’t, but I can’t tell you all of it; things are at too sensitive a point right now.”

  He heard Ben sigh. “You remember that George Washington student who was murdered six weeks ago? Her name was Mia Prevost.”

  “Yes, I remember. She was found in her bed, half a dozen savage stab wounds, right?”

  “Yes. She was found in her apartment by a girlfriend. We searched her apartment, found fingerprints and some men’s clothes in the closet, and thought bingo.”

  “The boyfriend.”

  “You got it. But there’s more to it, lots more. I’ll have to back up. Yesterday, I got a call from the George Washington gym facility, the volleyball coach. They’d gotten around to cleaning out her locker, found some of Mia Prevost’s clothes, sneakers, cosmetics, and a small address book. There was only one name in the notebook—Cortina Alvarez and a phone number.”

  Out of left field. Savich didn’t say anything.

  Ben continued. “We hadn’t known about this particular locker because Mia Prevost used another gym—Five Points Fitness—near her apartment in Carlan Heights. We found everything we expected there, workout clothes, sneakers, hair products. It didn’t occur to me she’d have two gym lockers. Yes, I’m an idiot, kick me.”