Author: Catherine Coulter
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/catherine-coulter/page,8,140024-power_play_an_fbi_thriller.html
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?”
Natalie was thoughtful for a moment. “How many of us can even conceive of a hatred that deep pointed at us? That we ourselves could have brought on? Honestly, there isn’t anyone I can point to. The Foreign Service has its share of political backstabbing, jealousies and resentments over appointments, awards someone else wanted, but what field doesn’t? Is someone after my job? Well, sure, hundreds of people might want to be the ambassador to the United Kingdom. But enough for”—she waved her hands—“for all this?” She looked at her daughter. “Perry, do you resent me for not joining you on the sidelines with your father at football games?”
Perry said, “The only thing I resent is you chose not to tell me about Buckner Park until I
found out about it from Davis last night. And about that black truck.”
Perry took her mother’s hand. “Mom, I’m scared. That black truck last night? It’s too much. He’s here, close by, waiting. I wish you’d trusted me, told me everything. No, I know, you were trying to protect me, but no more, all right?”
Natalie slowly nodded.
Sherlock studied Natalie Black. She liked her poise, her intelligence. She was keeping herself together and focused, despite all the misery that was being visited on her. Sherlock thought she was one of the good ones. She had a strong notion if Natalie Black had been carrying a gun as Sherlock had yesterday, that black sedan would be a wreck now, like the Kawasaki. Sherlock rather hoped she could be like Natalie Black one day. Odd how they both had red hair.
Perry said, “About George’s death. Maybe it was someone after him, an enemy.”
Natalie said, “I can’t think of anyone who would want him dead. Certainly not the McCallums. They’re a large family, and their many homes and Lockenby Manor are expensive to keep up. George wasn’t rich, very few of the old families are nowadays, and now there’ll be George’s death taxes to pay. If I had married George, some of my own money would have been available to them, and they knew that. But if George died first, they also knew the money would stay with me.”
Savich said slowly, “Let’s place it back at you. Tell us about your own family.”
“There’s only my half-brother, Milton, and his family,” Natalie said. “And, of course, my parents.”
Perry said, “Uncle Milt was the crown prince until Mom was born. He always resented her. He was at the party last night. He’s not staying with you, is he?”
Natalie said, “No, he very much prefers The Willard. Milton showed up Monday without bothering to let me know he was coming. He claimed he wanted to share my burden, but I know him too well to confide in him. He went on about how worried he, his wife, and our parents are, patted my back and looked sorrowful, you get the picture. I didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t read about, not then or at the party last night.
“Perry’s right, he never liked me. Actually, as far as I can tell, he’s never been happy. He’s always wanted more than he has, spent more than he has. He’s weak, dependent on our father and his stepmother financially. I’ve always thought him harmless. He swims well in state political waters, but now he wants to try for Congress, and he needs money to do that. It’s a level Milton couldn’t manage, I’m afraid.” She paused. “He doesn’t have the guts for those sharks. I’d say that would pertain both to politics and to killing his half-sister.”
Savich poured more tea from the Georgian silver pot. “Milt’s married? Kids?”
“Yes. He went through his wife’s trust fund before the end of his second campaign for state office. He’s always got his hat in his hands to our parents.
“He’s got a son, Allan, who’s an MBA, stolid and unimaginative—like his father, really—but unlike his father, he does have a backbone. He’s thirty-five, married, a couple of kids.”
Davis was wiping croissant crumbs off his fingers. “Natalie, if you died, what would Milt get?”
“Nothing. Perry gets everything.”
Sherlock said, “If Perry were to die, would he get something?”
That was a conversation stopper.
Perry said, “What a fun thought. I don’t have a will. If I were to die tomorrow, I suppose Mom would get my money, what there is of it. If she were dead, I suppose it would go to my grandparents, who, believe me, don’t need it. But if Uncle Milton was willing to kill someone for money, why wouldn’t he go after my grandparents? They’re swimming in it, and he’d inherit half of it if they died, wouldn’t he, Mom?” She paused. “That’s a gruesome thought.”
Natalie cleared her throat. “My mother told me their will gives Milton a set amount, a goodly amount, don’t get me wrong, but the bulk of their estate comes to me.”
This was a kicker. Savich said, “Why? He’s their son, the first born.”
“I believe,” Natalie said, “that he’s disappointed them too often and they want the estate preserved for the family.”
Perry said, “Mom is being too nice. My grandparents don’t want their estate flushed down the political rat hole.”
Savich sat back and drank his tea. When he and Sherlock left, he knew what he was going to set MAX to do.
Washington Post offices
Wednesday afternoon
Bennett John Bennett looked at Perry over the top of his glasses. “Lolita tells me you’re a mess, what with all this talk surrounding your mother. Care to explain this to me?”
Note to self: punch out Lolita. She didn’t want to punch Bennett out because he was sincerely unaware of the world outside of sports. What had bigmouthed Lolita told him? “I’m not a mess. I don’t know where Lolita gets her information. Nothing to worry about, Boss.”
“Whatever that means—all right, here’s the deal: I’m only asking because I can’t have you distracted by all your mother’s troubles.”
“You don’t have to worry about anything like that. I’ve got two different brain compartments. The football compartment has a locked-door policy.”
“Look, Perry, maybe Lolita’s right. I read your blog this morning and I gotta tell you, you wrote way too many lines praising John Clayton. Three words, not three sentences. I’m hoping you did it because Clayton shot off firecrackers to you on ESPN about the Tebow scoop, your setting everything straight. A little tit for tat is always a good thing, but if you did it because you’re off your game, well, I can’t have you twisted up. You’ve got to keep on top of your story. I don’t want to get beat out by those two big scoopers Shefter and Mortensen. You know they’re working this around the clock, trying to find another angle on what you wrote or found something you got wrong.”
Had she praised Clayton because he’d credited her? Well, yeah, probably so. He’d commented on her acumen. What a fine word that was. Had she really given Clayton three whole sentences? She hadn’t realized—not good. “I promise, sir. No more than three glowing words about any competitors, even if they tell me I’m the greatest sportswriter born in the last century.”
Bennett grunted. “I heard it really pissed Walt off when Clayton blew your horn. I thought you’d appreciate knowing that. You got anything else on the burner besides what’s in your blog? Something new, another perspective? Some doomsayer predicting Toronto will lose all its upcoming games with a QB who should really be playing tight end?”
“I’m exchanging texts with an Argonaut assistant coach who tells me they’re going to find the perfect coach for Tebow, train him up and watch him fly. In short, nothing but enthusiasm about him. However, as everyone knows, this is all still only talk, since they haven’t signed him yet. It’s all so obvious I didn’t bother to mention it in my post.”
“Even though you’ve gotten a gazillion tweets? Everyone wants more, obvious or not. Dig deeper, Perry, question everyone. And fast. You’ve got the markers, call ’em in.
“Oh, by the way, you’re going to get an offer from ESPN, maybe a sideline job on the Sunday-night game, maybe a part-time anchor. Heard that at the sports bar from a reliable source.”
Perry shook her head. “TV? You know I’m not interested, not in this lifetime. Can you imagine suffering all that crap female sports announcers have to go through to get camera-ready? And then they get to spend all their time on the sidelines no matter what kind of weather? No, thank you. I’d probably also be as wooden as a chair leg as an anchor and get booed off the set.
“Listen, sir, about my mother. Things are all tangled up, that’s true, but I’ll keep it away from my job.”
“I know, in your other compartment.” Then Bennett asked, sounding as if the words were being pulled forcibly out of his mouth, “Do you need time off to take care of this?”
“No, sir, don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“Stay fine or I might have Alonzo write your byline for a week or two.�
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Perry actually paled. “Would you put up his Einstein photo under the byline?”
Bennett laughed. “You know the score with the fans, Perry, it’s always what have you done for me lately? Now get out of here and think fresh and new and exciting thoughts.”
She gave him a salute, turned on her heel, and walked back toward her cubicle, considering running through her Rolodex for anyone she could bribe, threaten, or cajole.
Alonzo called out as she passed his desk, “Hey, Perry, you need to see the graffiti in the men’s room. At first I thought it was a joke, from some sicko like Walt, but it’s not funny. You need to see it.”
Graffiti about her in the men’s room? Here at the Post? That would be pretty outrageous, even from Walt, though he’d already threatened to steal her Harley and run off to Mexico with it. But Walt worked for ESPN, and he couldn’t walk through this huge room without sirens going off, without people bringing out fire extinguishers. So, no, it couldn’t be Walt. At the dead-serious look on Alonzo’s face, she turned and walked straight into the men’s room. Only one guy there, Potwin from the crime desk, and thank heaven he was through with his business and washing his hands. Good to see a guy washing his hands. She ignored him and looked at the block letters written in red Magic Marker above one of the urinals:
YOU’RE NEXT, PERRY. BUTT OUT.
What kind of graffiti was that? The threat was obvious, no mystery there, but back off of what, exactly? The Tebow story? That was silly, no one would get his nose out of joint that much, and besides, the feel of it wasn’t like a beer tossed in her face or a threat to pull her tonsils out through her ear. No, this was scary; it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Was it about her mom? But why a freaking message left for her in the men’s room about her mom?