Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (8 page)

D
avis grinned at her. “Not yet. Why is your kid giving me black looks? She was all smiles earlier.”

Natalie looked over at her daughter, now dancing with her uncle Milt. “She heard the gossip floating around tonight, told me in the ladies’ room I should have come with her and Day tonight, not drag you here to add to the gossip, what with your being so hot.”

“She thinks I’m hot?”

Natalie laughed. “Guys—you never change. I think she said hot, but, hmmm, maybe it was something else. I’m getting old, my hearing’s on the wane.”

“Yeah, right.”

“She thinks I bought your tux.”

“She doesn’t have a very good eye.”

“Not in this case, evidently. Your tux is obviously bespoke.”

“Yeah, my mom forced me to my dad’s tailor, told me if I ever gained weight, she’d shoot me.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. You dance well, Davis.”

“Thanks. I haven’t heard music this old in forever. What is that song? So she thinks I’m hot? Do you know I invited her to come into my house for a cool drink?”

“The song is ‘Moon River.’ It’s been popular for decades. Maybe
she thinks you’re hot because of your derring-do yesterday morning. I told her it was probably an everyday sort of deal for you, particularly the part about the Starbucks in one hand and a gun in the other. You’re perfectly right, though, ‘Moon River’ sure isn’t James Taylor.” She gave him a fat grin.

“James Taylor? You mean that balding guy who played hippie ballads back in the Stone Age?”

She lightly smacked his arm. “Don’t be snarky. He was my favorite back in the day—not quite the Stone Age. He still is. Hey, I like ‘California über Alles’ as well as the next person, but it’s sometimes nice to slow-dance. You don’t have to perform, and you can actually talk to your partner without shaking anything loose. Believe me, that’s a concern as you get older.”

Mom would really like Natalie.
“What’s up with Old Milt, your half-brother?”

She spurted out a laugh. “He’d have you measured for concrete boots if he heard you call him old. He looks good, actually, after he got his face perked up last year, and he’s very proud of that. He said he stood ready to support me in my time of need.” A small resigned sigh escaped. “He’s fully capable of Victorian sentiments like that when it comes time to ask me for help to bankroll one of his campaigns. He really hates to delve into his own coffers or hoof it out on the streets for his contributions. He hates asking for money, always has. He’s simply no good at it, and he knows it.”

“Except you, right?”

She began tapping her fingertips on his shoulder. “He hasn’t yet. I think he’s trying to assess the damage my situation will have on him. Obviously, I speak to my parents quite often, and I know Milton has been pestering them for information about me. They listen and thank him for his visits and go about their business.
Dad’s eighty-five, my mom’s nearly eighty, and both of them are still healthy and bright-eyed. Milt hates it, but they’re the ones who hold the reins, since they hold most of the assets. The truth is both of them are stronger and more competent than he is.”

She tap-tapped again on his shoulder. “Have you noticed anyone behaving not quite as they should? Anyone looking at me with burning rage in his eyes?”

“Not any rage I can see, more like rampant curiosity and speculation. No surprise there, since you’re the latest scandal inside the Beltway.”

She grinned. “I’m enjoying all the speculation about you, the looks. You’d think they’d understand why you’re with me with all that’s happened, despite what you look like.”

Davis said, “You should meet Agent Griffin Hammersmith, the newest agent in the CAU—that’s the Criminal Apprehension Unit. Women look right past me if he’s in the room. I have fielded a couple of questions about how you and I know each other. One of the ladies asked if I worked in one of the local clubs.

“Perry’s been besieged about football all night, and not just by the four-star general at the dinner table. Day Abbott doesn’t look very happy about that. I mean, they’re talking sports here, all about quarterback stats and the latest injuries, and it’s his date they’re talking to. He’s left out of it. I’d say his ego is hurting.”

Natalie paused for a moment. “Of course Perry gets all the sports questions since Brundage was a legend, as well as her father. He should be used to it. Maybe you’re right, maybe Day’s tired of her claiming the spotlight. To top it off, Day himself is a sports nut; like most guys, give him a beer and some nuts and a football game and he’s a happy camper. He followed his own father’s footsteps and attended the West Virginia School of Mines, which wasn’t a
choice his mother expected, since it isn’t much of a big-time sports school.”

Davis said, “Well, if the guy wants to get anywhere with your kid, he needs to get a grip, join in the conversation instead of looking pissed off, and start treating her like the expert she is,” and then he dipped her.

She came up laughing. “You’re not bad, Davis.”

He gave her a nice twirl, slowed again. “Do you think Perry and Madame Secretary’s son are headed toward an engagement?”

She was silent for a moment, again tapping her fingertips on his shoulder. “As I told you, she resists talking to me about Day. I can still remember the screaming matches between the two of them when he was fifteen or so and she was ten or eleven, exactly like a brother and sister. Ah, the song is winding down. Why not go ask her to dance before someone else snaps her up. I’ll go stand over there, my back to the fireplace.”

Davis asked Perry to dance, smiling at Day Abbott, who didn’t look particularly happy at his showing up. Actually, he looked like he wished he had Darth Vader’s lightsaber with him. Luckily, it was another slow number they could talk over without his worrying about stepping on the toes peeking out of her black stilettos. He was beginning to like the oldies, even though he didn’t know any of the words and recognized the music mostly from elevators.

The first thing she said was, “I saw you changing your plates with my mom’s.”

“I liked the looks of her steak better than mine.”

“Yeah, right. She’s made you a deal, hasn’t she? To keep away nosy people, right? Like the media? No, that’s all right, you don’t have to say anything, I’ll get it out of her later. I wish she hadn’t brought you. It’s adding to the gossip that you’re her lover.”

“Yeah, so what?” So Natalie hadn’t told her about the black truck after them on the way to the party. He grinned down at her, but not all that far down, maybe two inches at most. “Was your dad tall?”

She pulled back. “What? My dad? Well, about six feet, I guess. Why?”

“Without those towering stilettos, you’re what, maybe five foot two?”

“You pinhead. Stop trying to distract me.”

“I like your dress. You look pretty dishy. Isn’t that an 1890s phrase, like this music? I hardly recognized you without the leather, the helmet, and the fishtail braid. And I’m hot, right?”

“How does an FBI agent afford a tux like that? Did you borrow it? Is it your dad’s?”

Of all things, his cell belted out “I Wanna Be Sedated” by Ramones
.
People around them turned and stared. He immediately turned the cell to vibrate, checked the screen. Cindy from the FDA. He let it go to voice mail. Perry saw Cindy’s name, looked up at him, and laughed.

“One of your girlfriends?”

“Nah, my aunt.”

“Yeah, right. Why would Mom think she needed a bodyguard here, of all places? The car that tried to run her off the road—that was four thousand miles away, in England.”

Natalie hasn’t told her daughter about Buckner Park, either.

“Has something happened since then?” She stopped dead in her tracks. He saw fear flash in her eyes. “All right, what hasn’t she told me?”

He dipped her and pretended to nearly drop her, which made
her grab on to his arms, and said, still balancing her low, “You gotta ask your mom. I’m only her boy toy.”

“Pull me up.”

He did, and whirled her around in a fast twirl. “Really, Perry, ask your mom.”

“It isn’t right. She shouldn’t keep things from me. She’s only known you a day and she’s known me all my life.”

“True, but I know how to use a gun.”

“So do I, and I know where you live.”

He wondered why Natalie had kept her daughter in the dark. Probably because she didn’t want to scare her more than she was already. Perry wasn’t a kid. She was an adult. Davis made a decision. “I’m sure your mom’s told you everything that happened in England.”

“Yes, yes, she told me, and the cops didn’t believe her and the British press called her a liar. She wouldn’t let me come over.”

“Someone tried to run your mom down while she was running in Buckner Park last Saturday. It was her decision not to tell you.”

“But you just did.”

“I think it’s important you know what’s going on here. But listen, Perry, it’s critical you not tell anyone else about this, though, not even Day Abbott. I’ll speak to your mother and she’ll explain it all to you, even about what happened on the way here tonight.”

She grabbed his arm. “What happened?”

“Your mother will explain. Personally, I think the more people who know, the better. You’re right, I did make a bargain with her. I would protect her tonight and she will tell everything to my boss, Special Agent Dillon Savich. Come to her house tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. You can meet him, ask all the questions you
want. If you want to tear a strip off your mom for not telling you about the latest two attempts on her life, please do it when you’re alone. I don’t like shouting matches. They give me indigestion.”

They danced in silence, Perry stiff, her breathing choppy. Finally, the music came to a predictable end, soft and smooth, with a final trickling series of notes. She said, “I’ve heard of Agent Savich. Do you really think he can help?”

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll bet my bespoke tux on it. Don’t worry, we’ll get this all figured out.”

Natalie Black’s house
Chevy Chase, Maryland

Wednesday morning

S
avich and Sherlock kept a sharp eye out on their drive to Natalie Black’s house. They’d seen no one suspicious following them. Savich’s GPS announced they’d arrived at their destination, 2318 Ridgewood Road.

Sherlock surveyed the empty guardhouse, the high stone fence, the intercom with the camera mounted beside it aimed at the driver. “Anyone could avoid that camera, climb over the wall, no problem. There must be another camera—there, in the lower branches of that oak. Someone needs to dirty it up, it’s a dead giveaway, so nice and sparkly new. Installed this week, I’ll bet.”

Savich pressed the button, identified himself and Sherlock.

A man’s deep voice came from the speaker. “Agent Savich, please hold your ID up toward the camera.”

Savich did, and the gate swung in quickly and smoothly away from them, and the Porsche cruised through. “Lovely grounds,” Sherlock said. “I can picture a tire hanging from that low oak branch over there. Sean would really like that.”

“I can see him and Marty fighting over who can spin faster.” There was a low branch on the maple tree in their backyard, actually. Maybe it was time to hang a tire.

He pulled up the circular driveway and stopped at the front door. “Ah, here’s our questioner from the gate.”

Hooley stood in the open front door, arms crossed over his massive chest, looking them over thoroughly as they walked toward him.

He said to Savich, “I know who you are, Agent Savich. Who is she?”

Sherlock gave him her sunny smile. “I’m his keeper,” she said, and stuck out her hand. “You must be Mr. Hooley. I’m Agent Sherlock. He never goes anywhere without me. It’s in my employment contract.”

Hooley stared at her for a long moment and shook her hand. “Your hair is an even brighter red than Mrs. Black’s. Curlier, too.” He said to Savich, “You’ve got quite a rep. Is it deserved?”

Savich said, “Rep for what, exactly?”

“Not wrestling, that’s for sure,” Sherlock said. “I’ve got that gold medal.”

Hooley looked like he wanted to laugh but didn’t. “A rep as a hotshot, like when you were in the papers for bringing down those bank robbers in Georgetown. Follow me. Your boy and Mrs. Black are in the sunroom.” He paused for a moment. “I’m glad Mrs. Black consented to bringing you in. What’s going on isn’t good, and there are only three of us to watch her. Beautiful machine,” he added, nodding toward the Porsche.

Savich said, “Thanks. Davis makes four professionals protecting her, but you’re right, it’s time to figure out how to deal with
this and put a stop to it. You can thank Agent Sullivan for talking her into seeing me.”

Hooley looked unconvinced. After a long trek, he showed them into the sunroom door. “Mrs. Black. There are two agents here. This one with your hair is Agent Sherlock; she says she’s his keeper, contractually.”

Davis laughed.

Natalie stood up, looked straight at Savich, trying to get his measure? Probably. He supposed she was very good at reading people; she’d have to be. He stuck out his hand. “Davis has told us about your situation, Mrs. Black. This is Agent Sherlock.”

They shook hands. Natalie smiled at Sherlock. “Hooley’s right. You do have my hair, ah, but the shine.” She sighed. “That was a long time ago.” Out of habit, Savich and Sherlock showed her their creds as she spoke.

Davis introduced Perry, who nodded to them, watching them closely. Natalie said, “Please sit down. Davis asked me to make croissants, and so I did. Help yourselves. I understand, Agent Savich, that you prefer tea, straight—say, Earl Grey?”

Savich nodded.

Perry said, “You’re partners?”

“Partners in everything,” Davis said. “They’re married.”

Perry examined Savich, a big man with a dark complexion who looked tough to his marrow, but with a strong, very fine face, nearly black hair and eyes. The woman was tall, dressed in black pants, a crisp white shirt, black boots on her feet. She looked like a sprite or a redheaded fairy princess with blue eyes, a lovely smile, and no hard edges to her. “Married,” she repeated. “I can’t imagine how that could possibly work.”

Three minutes passed discussing this anomaly while Natalie passed them their croissants. Davis finally said, “Let’s get to it, then. I told Savich everything you said, Natalie. I’m sure he has questions.”

Savich set down his teacup and looked over at Mrs. Natalie Black, the ambassador to the United Kingdom. “First of all, I’ve had a full rundown on what happened last night. Whoever is behind this is getting desperate to take that kind of chance, knowing you had protection with you in the car. No fingerprints, so that also means our person is very careful.

“What I find interesting is how everything that happened seems perfectly coordinated, from the release of the terrorist son’s photo followed by the infamous email to the whispers about your guilt over George McCallum’s supposed suicide, as if someone was leaking them information in a well-planned smear campaign. After your near brush with death on the A2 to Canterbury, it’s even more surprising the papers insinuated you’d lied, that there’d been no attempt on your life, that you were simply trying to deflect attention away from your responsibility over George McCallum’s suicide. I don’t think it was piling on, I think that, too, was planted.

“Whoever this person is, Mrs. Black, they want to not only destroy you and ruin your reputation, it seems they want you dead. Do you agree?”

Natalie lightly tapped her knife on the white tablecloth. She nodded. “Cut it to the bare bones, yes, I agree. The problem is I have no idea who it could be.”

Savich said, “Let’s start with basics. The death of your fiancé, George McCallum.”

“George knew the email was fake so there was no reason for him to commit suicide, not that he would have killed himself even if I had kissed him off. George wasn’t like that. He gobbled up life, thought every moment of life precious, even if they held pain for him.

“You see, George was a colon cancer survivor, six years and counting. Even though the doctors believed he was clear, he told me his disease still hung over him like the sword of Damocles, always in the back of his mind, influencing every word he spoke, every action he took, even six years after the dreadful course of chemo. He said the experience had changed him, made him grateful for every single day. He was a thankful man, he considered himself a blessed man. And he felt close to his very large family, all except his son. Can you imagine a man like this killing himself? No matter what happened?”

Perry said, “I didn’t know about the cancer.”

“It was private. Only his family knew.”

Savich said, “I read the police report, Mrs. Black. The physical evidence was ambiguous. The Dover Cliffs are at least thirty feet from the road in that particular spot. The ground is flat and smooth, with plenty of time to stop if traveling within the speed limit, or to jump from the vehicle, if need be. But the tire tracks showed no evidence he’d tried to stop. The car drove straight at the cliff and went over. Now, I’m sure you discussed the possibility that he fell asleep or that he passed out from any number of medical reasons.”

“I accepted that, Agent Savich, until someone tried to kill me. Then it seems to make sense that someone might have knocked George unconscious, put his Jaguar in gear, aimed it at the cliffs
and let it go over. The autopsy would have been of no help because of his massive injuries. A bump on the head would have gone unnoticed.”

Sherlock said, “Let me stop you for a moment, Mrs. Black. The faked email to George breaking off your engagement to him. It was sent from your personal email account. That requires a user name and a password. You didn’t send that email. So who did? Who has your private information?”

“No one—at least, that’s what I thought. I changed it immediately, of course.”

“What exactly did the email say?” Davis asked.

“I went into my sent mail and there it was.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her sweater pocket and read:

Dear George: You must know after all this unpleasantness you and I cannot possibly marry. Consider who I am and where my loyalties must lie. If it’s any consolation, I never loved you, so perhaps it’s for the best. Good-bye, Natalie.

Savich said, “I suppose this person realized George might call you immediately, but by leaking the email, he was assured the damage to your own reputation would be done. Either George’s death was unexpected or this person hates you enough to have set everything in motion by killing an innocent man.”

Perry, her face white, said, “All to get you blamed for it, disgraced, and try to kill you?”

“Yes, so it would seem,” Natalie said, and wished she could hug her daughter, reassure her, but she couldn’t even reassure herself.

“Had George been in contact with his son William?” Sherlock asked.

“As I said, George was uncomfortable talking to me about Billy, so I really don’t know if there was any communication or not.”

Savich said, “And the rest of George’s family? Is it possible any of them could have found out your private email password? Any wild hairs in the group?”

“No, I doubt it. Wild hairs? No more than any other family. Besides, why would any of them write something so cruel, even if they could? Why would any of them want to kill him?

“The fact is I think George was sacrificed to get to me.” She banged her fist on the table, making the croissant on her plate jump. Tears blurred her eyes.

Sherlock was shaking her head. “I don’t think this is all about money. This is personal. Can you think of anything you’ve done that could lead to this elaborate revenge, with your death as the final prize? Is there anyone who hates you that much?”