Tailspin

  She said, “Whoever was trying to kill Timothy—he doesn’t have to bother now.”

  Jack said, “If he killed Arthur, he has to pay for it, Molly. He tried to kill Tim—what is it now?—four times? He’s got to pay for that, too.”

  Molly said clearly, “And what about me, Jack? I wanted to believe him, you see, he knew I wanted to believe the gun was for his protection. He gave me a way out.” She paused, and Jack could feel her grief and her awful guilt. She placed her palm over her chest. “But in my heart, I knew he was going to kill himself. I knew it. I am the one responsible for his death, not this maniac.”

  Savich walked to her and sat down beside her. He took her hands in his. “Molly, listen to me. What you know in your heart, it must stay in your heart. It would do no good to burden your family with this.”

  He rose. “You couldn’t have known, not for sure. What Timothy did, it was his own decision. You made it easier for him, that’s all.

  “When I walk out this door, Molly, the investigation into Dr. Timothy MacLean’s death is closed.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday afternoon

  Rachael walked into Jimmy’s study and stood in the middle of the room. The rich brown draperies were partially drawn, framing only a bit of afternoon sunlight. She smelled him still, the aroma of his rich Turkish cigarettes. She sank down onto the burgundy leather sofa, leaned her head back, and stared at the bookshelf behind his desk. She could see the dust beginning to gather on the bindings. Books could be dusted, she thought, but you had to live at close quarters with them to keep them fresh, keep their pages alive.

  She looked down at her watch. Nearly four o’clock. Jack would be back by six, he’d said, and she knew he hated leaving her alone, even in the middle of the hot, sunlit afternoon.

  She looked again at Jimmy’s desk, the few papers on top in neat piles, the computer screen dark and silent. She drew in a deep breath and forced herself to sit in the wonderfully comfortable high-backed burgundy leather desk chair. She straightened in the well of the desk.

  She had time. It was something that had to be done. She opened the top drawer and began sorting through papers. She made piles that had to be handled when his will went through probate, invoices to be paid, a few catalogs he’d evidently marked for order.

  She’d sorted through the papers in most of the desk when she opened the bottom drawer and found a beautiful hand-carved bubinga wood pen box. She lifted it out carefully. Sure enough, there were a good dozen pens inside, some of them gifts from foreign countries, from ambassadors he’d visited in his travels. There was a slip of paper at the bottom of the box with three pairs of numbers written on it. A safe combination.

  Rachael hadn’t even thought about a safe. She looked around but didn’t see one. If she owned a safe, she’d keep it in the room where she spent most of her time. She searched the bookshelves, looked under the carpet, and when she lifted a Durbin Monk Irish countryside painting, there it was, built into the wall. She dialed in the numbers and it opened easily.

  Inside she found an accordion file that was filled with insurance documents and a journal from the year before showing all his appointments for twelve months. Behind the last page of the journal, she found an envelope labeled “Will & Testament of John James Abbott.”

  His will. She hadn’t thought about whether he had a copy. Jimmy had told her she would inherit a third of his estate, her two sisters the other two-thirds, and this included his shares in the family business. He’d said once, she remembered now, that when he was sworn into the Senate, he turned his proxy for the voting shares over to Laurel, to distance himself from his financial interests while he was in office. She began to read.

  It couldn’t be right.

  She read it again, and yet a third time.

  She found Brady Cullifer’s number in Jimmy’s Rolodex and dialed. He’d just returned to his office from court and came on the line.

  “Brady, I just read Jimmy’s will. There’s something very wrong here.”

  An hour later, she heard a car pull into the driveway. Not Jack—not yet. It was Brady, walking swiftly up the flagstone path to the house.

  She met him at the front door.

  “Rachael, I couldn’t believe it when you called me. There must be some mistake here, there must be. I’ve brought the original will. We’ll compare them, all right? Jack isn’t back?”

  “He’ll be back soon. He’s still at that meeting at the FBI.”

  Rachael spread the will she’d found on Jimmy’s desktop. Brady lay his beside it. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said, and the two of them bent down.

  “Rachael? Where are you?”

  Rachael straightened, a smile on her face. “In here, Sherlock. Come in.” She walked over to the door to the study. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  “Jack asked me to come. What’s going on? Oh, hello, Mr. Cullifer.”

  “It’s Agent Sherlock, isn’t it?”

  Sherlock smiled at him, nodded.

  Rachael grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “I found Jimmy’s will, only it doesn’t say what it’s supposed to say. I called Brady and he brought over the original so we could compare them.”

  “A forgery, Mr. Cullifer?”

  “I don’t know, Agent Sherlock. We’ve just begun to study them.”

  All three of them leaned over the desk to compare the two wills.

  Sherlock read the first page and looked at them. “They’re different, Mr. Cullifer. We’ve got a forgery here.” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t you know it? This was all about money. Why does it always have to be about money?”

  She should have detected something in Cullifer’s steady, monotonous voice, but she didn’t until she tensed at a dark voice close to her ear. “Somedays I think the angels aren’t on our side. You’re very unexpected, Agent,” and at the moment the last word sank into her brain, he struck her hard with the butt of his gun.

  She heard Rachael yell as she fell to the floor.

  “Stefanos! What—”

  He struck Rachael, and watched dispassionately as her eyes went wide with shock, then blurred with pain, and closed, and she fell beside Sherlock. A trickle of blood snaked down her cheek.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Hoover Building

  Savich frowned, lightly tapped his fingertips on his cell phone. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked in a low voice, leaning close, momentarily blocking out the mellifluous voice of federal prosecutor Dickie Franks.

  “Sherlock isn’t answering. We have a deal. Anytime one of us calls the other, we always pick up, doesn’t matter if we’re in the shower or out running. Her phone’s on, so she should answer. This is the second time I’ve called.”

  He was ready to seize up when Faith Hill sang out “The Way You Love Me.” “Sherlock? It’s about time, where—Dr. Bentley?”

  Every eye at the conference table swiveled to look at Savich.

  When he punched off his cell, Savich said, “That was Dr. Bentley. Greg Nichols was poisoned by a massive dose of superwarfarin, a rat poison. Dr. Bentley said there was still a lot of it in his bowels, so he may have ingested it with a recent meal, maybe the cioppino they talked about. Jack and I need to head out, find out who served him his lunch yesterday.”

  The three federal prosecutors began debating alternatives again. Dickie was saying, “I was thinking it’s time we simply hauled the Abbotts’ butts down here. We can handle their lawyers.”

  Janice Arden, the veteran of the three, said, “Or we could wait to see if Savich finds proof of who poisoned Nichols.”

  Savich wasn’t listening. He was too worried. “Jack, try Rachael’s cell phone.”

  “I did. She’s not picking up.”

  “Try her landline.”

  There was no answer. Savich didn’t say a word, simply dialed his own landline.

  Again, no answer. “Sherlock said she might go over to see how Rachael was doing when I told her you and I would probably be late. I wanted
coverage even though it’s daylight. I was hoping maybe she brought Rachael back to our house.” He drummed his fingers against the conference table. “Evidently not.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Sherlock didn’t want to open her eyes. She knew if she did, she’d want to vomit, or pass out again from the god-awful pain, or both. Well done, kiddo, you let the nice lawyer pull you right in with that will business. A civilian, no, less than a civilian—a lawyer. But who had struck her? Stefanos, she thought—or Quincy—but there was Stefanos Kostas’s face in her mind. She knew somehow it had been him, she could hear the echo of his voice. She’d been hit on the head before, a long time ago, really, but the pain was familiar, like an old enemy. She recognized it instantly, and hated it. Don’t open your eyes, let it stay dark a moment longer. Don’t open your eyes.

  “Sherlock?”

  Rachael’s voice, far away—blurred, vague. She was alive, thank God. Sherlock wanted to forget she heard her, but her quiet voice came again. This time, she heard fear in it. “Sherlock. Please, wake up. Talk to me.”

  One eye opened, and Sherlock shuddered with the pain of it.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve been unconscious too long. Wake up, please wake up.”

  “Well, all right,” Sherlock whispered, and opened both eyes. Flashing pain sliced through her head, and rising bile clogged her throat. She swallowed, still wanted to vomit, and swallowed again.

  Rachael said, “I was nauseous, too, but it’s almost gone now. At least I can control it. You will, too.”

  “Rachael?” Was that her voice? That thin little thread of sound?

  “Yes, I’m right beside you. I woke up maybe five minutes ago. Are you all right?”

  Now that was a joke. “Yes, but give me another moment.”

  “We’re both tied up.”

  “Yes.” Sherlock felt the ropes digging into her wrists. They’d tied her ankles, too, but around her slacks, so there was some protection. “Brady Cullifer,” she said, “he’s a real showman—all that concern about your father’s will. He staged it like a pro, sucked me in like a raw rookie. I’m sorry, Rachael, I didn’t protect either of us.”

  “Stefanos Kostas hit you.”

  “I know. I wasn’t fast enough.”

  “I’m the lousy judge of character here. I trusted Brady completely,” Rachael said. “He seemed to like me, right from the beginning, and he’d worked for Jimmy for at least two decades. Jimmy trusted him, felt he was completely loyal.”

  She sighed. “I never believed for a second he was involved. I liked him so much, he was so comforting, so sympathetic. It’s beginning to look like every single person Jimmy introduced me to is involved in this thing. And Brady Cullifer’s in the thick of it. He sucked Jack in, too.”

  “Yes, he got all of us. I wonder where we are?”

  “I woke up briefly. Before I went under again I realized we were moving, in a car. I think we were stuffed in a trunk. This room is too dark to see much of anything, so I don’t know where we are. Has Brady brought us to his office? His house?”

  Sherlock heard voices. “Keep quiet. Play dead.”

  A door opened and light speared into the dark.

  “Looks like they’re still out,” Stefanos said, and came down on his knees. He placed two fingers against the pulses in their necks. “Strong. They’re not dead.”

  Laurel said, “All right, then. They’re alive, no bullet wounds or injuries, we can go through with what we discussed. It will be an auto accident. It is too bad, though, that we now have to deal with this damned FBI agent, as well.”

  Stefanos said, “I didn’t have a choice. But we’re good at this. We’ll stage it just like Nichols and I did with Jimmy.”

  “I’m not a murderer,” Cullifer said, his voice suddenly austere. “Stefanos struck both of them down. I helped bring them here as you asked. You can deal with them as you choose.”

  Laurel laughed. “So you draw the line at slipping barbiturates into Rachael’s wine? You didn’t think she was supposed to die? We will all deal with this, Brady, and don’t forget that. You’re certain that the real will the senator made is now in his papers?”

  “Yes, everything’s as it should be.”

  Laurel said, “Not ideal, but at least there will be no smoking gun for the FBI to discover when Rachael and the FBI agent are found dead in an automobile accident.”

  Quincy said, “I still can’t believe we’re ending up leaving Jimmy’s real will to be found there and not our own version. After all that’s happened, we’ll have nothing at all to show for this, not majority control, not even a way to prevent an audit. I still think we should leave our version of his will. Why not? I mean, everyone can be suspicious, wonder why Jimmy didn’t leave anything to his adopted daughter, but what can they do?”

  “We’ve been through this,” Brady said. “I was very particular in my wording, emphasizing it was his father’s deepest wish that all stock remain in his children’s hands. But now—”

  Laurel said impatiently, “But now having our version of the will surface would be like waving a red flag at the FBI and confessing our guilt. Look, Quincy, all the stock will go to our two nieces and Rachael’s family. Yes, it’s a damned tragedy to have to deal with people like that, but perhaps we can buy them out. It will cost us, admittedly, but at least the will the FBI will undoubtedly find won’t be our forgery. They can prove nothing about the senator. They can prove nothing about Greg Nichols. As for Rachael, we’ve been extremely fortunate. We will be harassed, but I don’t see how they’ll be able to indict us. We will salvage this mess yet. Rachael has given us a golden opportunity. We will use it. Then we can go back to our lives, the nightmare behind us.”

  It had nothing to do with my father’s confession. Sherlock was right, it was about money the whole time, money and control of the company. Unfortunately for them, I didn’t die. When I showed up with the FBI, they knew they were in deep trouble.

  Rachael managed not to move when someone toed her in the ribs. Quincy’s voice came from above her. “I can’t believe this damned girl survived. I’ll tell you, I thought it was all over when she showed up with the FBI.”

  Keep it down, dammit, keep it down. But it wouldn’t stay down, wouldn’t—Rachael sneezed.

  “Well now, look who was playing possum,” Quincy said. “You trying to be cute, too?” He kicked Sherlock hard in the side. Her breath whooshed out at the sharp blow. “Come on, Agent Sherlock, time to rise and shine, as my nanny used to say.” He drew back his foot again.

  “Leave her alone,” Rachael shouted as she struggled to sit up. “Don’t, Quincy.”

  Laurel stared down at her. “You didn’t drown. Perky showed me the nice stout ropes, the block of concrete, and yet you still managed to get free, even full of those barbiturates. Imagine Quincy’s surprise when he went to the senator’s house to make certain everything was set. Pity he didn’t have time to get to you before you drove off.”

  “I guess you and Perky screwed up, or whichever one of you was with her at Black Rock Lake. But it didn’t matter much, did it?” Rachael said. “You found me fast enough.”

  “It took a bit of research to turn up that backwoods town Parlow, but you managed to survive that, too,” Laurel said.

  It was difficult to be conciliatory—no, it was impossible. Rachael was filled to overflowing with hatred. She looked up at Laurel, her coarse hair haloed in the light. “Greg Nichols didn’t survive. You appear to be getting better at poisoning people.”

  Quincy kicked her in the ribs.

  Rachael saw Cullifer move back to stand in the doorway. Was he afraid of what he’d done?

  Laurel dropped to her knees beside Rachael, grabbed her by her long hair, wrapped it around her fist, and jerked her head up. “How did you get out of Black Rock Lake? All of us were surprised, particularly Stefanos and Perky, who were sure you were dead.”

  Why not tell her? It didn’t matter. “Stefanos and Perky didn’t tie my wrists, only wrappe
d the rope around my chest. And they didn’t bother to check me out, Laurel. I was awake, and I can hold my breath for a good long time.”

  Laurel reared back a bit, and a hank of hair fell alongside her cheek. She brushed it back, shook her head. “Bad luck, it was just bad luck.”

  “And bad luck that some of the assassins you sent after me are dead, and the others are headed straight to jail, once they get out of the hospital. I don’t think I’d want to work for you, Laurel, even with a good life insurance plan.”

  Laurel struck Rachael across the mouth. She felt her lip split, felt the blood well up and dribble down her chin.

  Laurel screamed at her, “Shut up! Now, you look at me, you miserable whelp. Damn you, you look like the senator, don’t you? How he loved that stupid braid you wear. It makes you look like a teenage hooker.” She shoved Rachael onto her back, and rose.

  Stefanos closed his hand over her shoulder. His voice softened. “Don’t let her get to you, Laurel. It’s all right. We won’t have to worry about her any longer. Her luck’s finally run out.”

  Sherlock’s cell vibrated in her jacket pocket. She tensed, but managed not to move. If there was only some way she could open her cell phone, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Was it Dillon? Had he tried before, while she was unconscious? If he did, he had to be worried.

  “You might as well drag them into the living room, Stef, get ready to go. Quincy, make sure the windows are shut and the drapes pulled.”

  Quincy asked, his voice contemptuous, “Tell me, Stefanos, when did you last use this hidden bordello of yours?”

  Stefanos said, sounding amused, “A good week now, Quincy, a good week. You know you love the decor, don’t be shy about it.”

  Being dragged about thirty feet into the living room hurt, but that was all right; it wasn’t as bad as the alternative. Rachael’s stomach ached from the blow from Quincy’s foot. She looked over at Sherlock, who lay on her back, her eyes closed, and, it seemed to Rachael, barely breathing. Then Sherlock’s eyes opened and she blinked in the bright light. They weren’t at Cullifer’s office or at his house. They were in a bungalow that indeed resembled a bordello, just as Quincy had said—Stefanos Kostas’s hideaway for his many mistresses?