Whiplash (36 page)

"I did like you, Jane Ann, and I believed you-the poor terrified woman hiding in her closet, waiting for the vicious killers to find her and kill her, just as they killed Caskie. You're the actor here, not poor Mick. But the killers didn't come to find you, did they? And that really bothered me. Too unprofessional.

"What decided you? That Caskie was already in the line of fire? That Schiffer Hartwin would be the natural suspects, and Caskie's murder would look like the revenge killing of a scapegoat? They're rotten enough, but they were innocent of Caskie's murder.

"It was only about two greedy people who wanted money. You're both under arrest for the murder of Caskie Royal. You have the right to remain silent-" While she read them their rights, she tried to punch in Bowie's number on her cell phone as she spoke, but she was having trouble, her fingers didn't seem to be working very well.

Jane Ann said quickly, her hands out, palms up, the supplicant, "Won't you listen to me, Agent Sherlock? Won't you let me defend myself ? Okay, I didn't tell you the truth, couldn't tell you the truth because I was afraid. Caskie pulled a gun on me, said he was going to kill me, I wasn't any use to him anymore. He laughed at me when I pleaded with him. He told me he and Carla were going to leave the country, he had no other choice, not really, since the Culovort scam had blown up in his face, and those bastard bosses of his were going to make him the fall guy. I couldn't let him kill me, I couldn't let my boys be orphans. Mick came in. He saved me. He shot Caskie in self-defense. I had to set things up like I did. I had to think of my boys."

"You need more practice on that story, Jane Ann. It doesn't make a lot of sense." Sherlock couldn't get the numbers on the cell phone to come into focus. It was probably Mick's blow to her temple that was making her uncoordinated. She shook it off and finally got the numbers in. Heard the cell phone ring, heard Bowie say, "Agent Richards here."

Jane Ann broke off and took a step forward.

"Don't move, Jane Ann, really, don't move."

Jane Ann took a step back again, and simply stood there staring at Sherlock.

"Bowie?"

Jane Ann said quite calmly to Mick, "What is taking so long?"

What?

She heard Bowie's voice on the cell phone, saying, "Who is this?"

"It's Sherlock." Nothing else came out. She fell to her knees and keeled over onto her side. Her cell phone skittered across the polished oak floor.

Where was she?

In a closet maybe. It wasn't pitch-black, which was a relief, so no, not a closet. She lay quietly on her side, getting herself back into her brain, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. She realized her wrists and ankles were bound, probably with Mick's duct tape. She gave a couple of tugs, but there wasn't any give. There was a reason men swore by duct tape.

Her brain was only half plugged in. She felt punch-drunk and so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, and why was that? Jane Ann had drugged her, of course. Jane Ann, no dummy, had realized Sherlock was playing Mick with the fainting and the low blood sugar, and she'd mashed some kind of pills into the orange juice. She'd thought she'd pulled it off, but she'd never fooled Jane Ann, not for a minute. She didn't think she was destined for Hollywood any more than Mick was. She didn't think he'd make it as an acting critic either.

At least Bowie knew she was in trouble. Her brain was woozy again. She felt the dragging sweep of drugs and tried not to go under again. She counted to ten a half-dozen times. On the fifth try, she knew she made it to ten without a single short circuit in her brain. She realized her mouth felt desert dry. She made another halfhearted attempt to pull free of the duct tape, but there was no movement at all.

Where was she? She could see in the dim light that she was in a large room. She made out clothes, lots of clothes hanging from a long pole rack. Clothes? More than street clothes-costumes, dozens of costumes, at least that's what they looked like. There were long gowns, yard upon yard of heavy material, short silk 1920s flapper dresses that her great-grandmother probably wore, even a couple of high-waisted Regency gowns that looked flowy and soft.

What was that huge round thing that looked like gold? A gong, she realized, she could just make it out now, its mallet hanging beside it. Who would have a gong? She saw two sofas, one flowery, one dark leather, a dozen chairs, some old-fashioned and frilly, others painfully modern, end tables, lamps, and three rolled rugs not far from her feet.

Was she in an attic?

No, not an attic. Everything smelled too fresh, with maybe a layer of lavender. The room was large, deep. She saw another clothes rack with men's clothes-capes, coats, lots of shoes-modern shoes, disco pointed toes, velvet shoes, boots of all sorts. Was that a ruff hanging over a hanger under that plastic garment bag? A ruff like the men wore in Queen Elizabeth's time? Didn't the women wear ruffs too? She simply couldn't get her brain around that. There were stacks of luggage, looking vintage 1920s.

Was that a guillotine set on the floor, its wicked blade pulled up, ready to whack through a neck with a pull of the rope? That made her shudder. She managed to get herself up into a sitting position. At her back was a-tree? She twisted to look at it. Yep, a fake tree that didn't look very real at all up close and personal.

A ruff ?

She knew then where she was. In the storage room of a theater, probably the Belson summer stock theater where Mick had played Petruchio in Shakespeare's
Taming of the Shrew.

They'd stashed her here until they figured out what to do with her.

She could feel her Lady Colt in its ankle holster. She was very glad they weren't pros or they'd have found it in a matter of minutes. She'd have to get free before it would be of use to her.

Sherlock saw a weapons array-guns, muskets, fake Uzis, a butcher knife, an axe, and a stiletto-all of them fastened to a board set against a wall twelve feet away from her.

She tried to stand up and promptly fell on her side. She tried several more times, but always ended up on the floor. Okay, then-she wriggled over to the weapons board. She stared up at the stiletto, leaned her back against the board and slowly pushed herself up. She felt the weapons digging in her back, but she just kept pushing, pushing, until she was standing straight up. She turned slowly, leaning heavily against the board. The stiletto was still way too high up for her to pull it off with her hands bound behind her back. She went up on her tiptoes and clamped the steel blade between her teeth. It tasted cold and metallic. Since it was a stage knife, it had to be retractable. She'd have to be careful how she used it.

She pushed her back against the board again and slowly sank down to the floor. She dropped the stiletto and twisted around until she managed to grab the handle in her hand. Her first try at poking through the duct tape made the blade retract instantly. Okay, she'd have to saw the tape, not try to punch through it. She was clumsy at first, but she kept at it, sawed away. She cut her fingers, and her hands cramped. The stiletto kept slipping but she forced herself to be patient and repositioned it, aware of the precious minutes marching inexorably forward, bringing Jane Ann and Mick back to her. She couldn't hurry because when she did, the stiletto slipped and she had to start over again.

She stopped counting the times the stiletto cut her. There was slick blood now, making the task all that more difficult
. Keep going, just keep going. Focus now, whine later.

Sherlock couldn't believe it when the duct tape suddenly split apart. She was free. She sat perfectly still for an instant, not really believing it. Forever, she thought, it had taken nearly forever, but she'd gotten the duct tape off. She stared down at her bloody hands-just like Lady Macbeth's. She drew a deep breath and shook her hands to get the feeling back, rubbed her hands on her pants. It hurt, but who cared?

She picked up the stiletto and went to work on the tape around her ankles. She cut through it in an instant. She was in business.

She stood and stamped her feet until she felt the pins and needles go away. Then she leaned up and pulled a butcher knife off its hooks. It was blunt, but nice and heavy. Best of all, it wasn't retractable. Evidently the actors had to remember not to hack anyone with it in the plays they performed. She held the butcher knife in her left hand and her Lady Colt in her right. She was good to go. She walked quickly through the shadows to the door of the storage room. It was locked, of course. Okay, now what? She had two bullets in her Lady Colt, she could shoot off the lock and-

She heard footsteps coming. Heavy footsteps. It was a man, and he was coming here.

Her heart stopped. They were back, to deal with her, probably to kill her. At least she wasn't lying on the floor, helpless. No, she wasn't helpless at all.

Sherlock eased behind the closely packed clothes racks, and waited. She heard him fiddling with the lock, and then the door was pushed inward.

Bowie shook his cell phone, as if it would give him more information. "It was Sherlock. Something's happened, I can't get her."

Erin took the cell phone from him, hit some buttons, listened. "It's still open on the other end, but no one's there. You're right, someone's got her, Bowie. Do you know where she was going?"

"I think she was going to see Jane Ann Royal, but there are loads of crime scene techs over there. I sent Kel and Joel over there to help work the house since you were with me. I know Sherlock asked them to check on the Royal telephone records. She's not there, she can't be."

"Call them, see what they say."

He took back his cell and speed-dialed Agent Kel Lewis's cell.

"This is Bowie. Have you seen Agent Sherlock? Okay, is Mrs. Royal there? I want you guys to keep an eye out. We'll see you as soon as we can. What? Okay, check out that telephone number right now and get back to me. Kel, put an APB out on Jane Ann Royal. Wait, Sherlock asked me where Millstone was. That's it, she went to Millstone. But-"

Erin grabbed his hand. "Georgie's out of school in ten minutes. We can't leave her standing there. What are we going to do?"

He thought a moment, then speed-dialed the police station. He looked over to see Erin rotating her shoulders, easing the strain. He said as the phone was ringing, "Erin, you've got to drive, that okay with your back? I've got lots more calls to make." When he connected with Agent Cliff, he asked quickly, "Dolores, do you have any idea where Agent Sherlock is?"

Bowie jumped into the passenger seat, tucked the phone under his chin, and managed to fasten his seat belt as Dolores said, "She said something about a Mick Haggarty, and I gave her his address in Millstone. Who is that, Bowie? She didn't tell me."

Bowie said, "Mick Haggarty?"

Erin nearly side-swiped a light blue Honda as she turned onto Maple Avenue. "Mick Haggarty is Jane Ann's tennis instructor, the one she told Sherlock and me she was thinking about sleeping with. Sherlock must think he knows something."

Bowie said to Dolores, "Give me Mick Haggarty's address. Okay, yeah, got it. Now, important-would you go to Winston Elementary School and pick up Georgie? Then take her back to the police station with you, keep an eye on her?"

"Sure thing, Bowie."

He asked her, "Who else is there?"

"Cody and Graham. Kesselring left maybe an hour ago. He said he had things to do and he didn't need any assistance, but he wasn't specific."

"All right. But I told Graham he was to stick close to Kesselring, not let him roam around loose."

"You could have asked me, Bowie. I've got perspective now, really. He's just another pretty face, right? He's kind of stiff, too, charming because he knows that works for him, but that's on the surface. I don't think down deep he's really that friendly."

"Where are Dieffendorf and Gerlach?"

"They're at the Schiffer Hartwin headquarters with their lawyers and two DOJ attorneys. Do you want the local cops to go to Mick Haggarty's apartment in Millstone?"

"Yes, but have them wait outside for us. Erin and I are heading there now. If Agent Sherlock calls, have her call me pronto. And run a location check on Sherlock's phone. It's in use and I want to know where it is."

Erin took the backroads to Millstone. They were more than five minutes away when Bowie's cell phone belted out "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town."

"You and those Christmas carols." Erin shook her head. "Alvin and the Chipmunks, I haven't heard them in years." She listened to the chipmunks as she watched Bowie reach into his jacket pocket, come away empty, then dive into his pants pocket and pull out the cell.

"Thanks, Dolores. We're on our way." He shook his head, then punched off his cell and turned to Erin. "The phone's in Millstone. Somewhere near Haggarty's apartment."

Erin pressed down on the accelerator.

"Agent Sherlock? Are you here? Are you all right?"

It was Andreas Kesselring's voice. In that instant everything shifted into place in Sherlock's mind. She'd tried and tried to connect the dots, but they wouldn't fit together until she heard his voice and realized they'd all been suckered by another cop.

At least she'd had the sense to ask Kel Lewis to check Jane Ann's phone records-she'd had this gut feeling, she just hadn't realized the who. Too bad it was a little late now.