Whiplash (7 page)

Dr. Franks lowered the pale green sheet.

"Now look at this." They stared down at an inflamed, five-inch scar low on his abdomen. "Helmut Blauvelt's bosses didn't even give him a chance to heal from an appendectomy before they shipped him over here. I'd say his appendix didn't come out more than five days ago."

Sherlock said, "I wonder what was so urgent that it couldn't wait another week or so?"

"There was obviously something he had to fix," Bowie said, "something he had to fix immediately. Tell them what else you have, Ella."

Dr. Franks said, "Helmut didn't die in situ, there wasn't enough blood. I found threads of wool on his skin, which means that whoever killed him stripped him, then wrapped him in a blanket and moved him."

Bowie said, "Which means the killer hauled him out and dumped him in those thick bushes in Van Wie Park, took all his clothes, his shoes, anything that identified him."

Sherlock said, "Herr Blauvelt is good-sized. I can see a strong woman bashing him, but carrying all that dead weight? Not likely. But I don't get it-why didn't the killer simply bury him deep in the woods, where he wouldn't be found, if keeping his identity a secret was so important?"

They all pondered that. Bowie said, "Maybe he didn't have the time or the opportunity. When we get him, we'll ask."

Savich said, "I wonder what the killer did with his clothes."

"I've still got agents out looking. Nothing yet."

"Any clue where he was staying?"

"Not so far. Agents are checking all the hotels, inns, and motels within a ten-mile radius. So far, nothing on Helmut Blauvelt checking in anywhere. Of course, he could have used an alias, a fake credit card. Or he could have been staying with someone, maybe the same person who killed him. And that means starting interviews with all the Schiffer Hartwin executives."

Savich said, "Yeah, it sounds reasonable he might have been staying with the big muckety-mucks here in Stone Bridge. You've spoken to the CEO, Caskie Royal?"

Bowie nodded. "Which brings up the break-in of Caskie Royal's office late last night. Some coincidence, huh? Well, it turns out Royal showed up while the thief was there. The commotion alerted the guard, and he was the one who called the cops, not Royal. I wonder if Royal would have called at all since he wasn't alone. His production manager, Carla Alvarez, was with him. To work, he told me. The guard, when I spoke to him, didn't say a word about it, stayed stone-faced. I haven't spoken yet to Alvarez, but I've seen a picture. I'd guess they were there to visit his sofa.

"Royal was insistent when I spoke to him this morning that nothing was missing, and that he has no idea who it was. He claims his arrival must have thwarted the thief from taking anything."

"I wonder who broke into his office," Sherlock said. "Was it Helmut? Did Caskie Royal figure it out and confront him? Kill him? And then he didn't have time to bury Helmut, so he just dumped him behind the building?"

"Admittedly I've met Caskie Royal only briefly, but to be honest here, I really can't see him obliterating anyone's face, much less chopping off fingers."

"Jingle Bells" played at full volume. Bowie reached into his jacket pocket, came out empty. Dr. Franks pointed to the cell phone that sat atop the cabinet across the room
.
Bowie grabbed up his cell, frowned at the name of the caller. "Excuse me, I've got to take this," he said, and walked out of the room.

Dr. Franks said, "I know, 'Jingle Bells' is four months early. The thing is, Bowie can never seem to return his cell phone to the right place, like in his pocket. When anyone hears a Christmas carol, they know it's his cell, and can point him to it." She beamed at them as if to say,
Isn't he about the cleverest person you've ever met?

Sherlock said, "I gather you work a lot with him?"

"Oh, yes, Bowie makes sure I do all the autopsies under federal jurisdiction in Connecticut."

She pulled the sheet over Mr. Helmut Blauvelt's destroyed face, then stripped off her gloves. "This is a mess. Since you two are here, I realize it isn't even a down-home mess, but a big honking international mess. If I find anything else that could help, Agents, I'll contact Bowie."

"Or us," Sherlock said, and gave her a sunny smile and each of their cards.

When they stepped into the long dim hospital hallway, Sherlock said, "She wishes he were her son. The maternal pride nearly bursts right out of her."

Savich nodded. "Before we left Washington, I spoke to another couple of agents who know Bowie. They both agreed Bowie's building himself a reputation as a real ass-kicker. When he was appointed SAC of the New Haven field office last year, there was a lot of grumbling about bringing in an outsider-an agent from L.A.-rather than promoting from within, complaints of nepotism, which could, as a matter of fact, have a grain of truth, given his family's connection to Valenti, but his record in L.A. was sterling and his record here in New Haven is, to date, quite good."

Sherlock said, "He's not happy we're here, but he's sucking it up, so that says something about him. At the same time, he looks at you like he's sizing you up for combat, Dillon."

"I might oblige him when this is over. Christmas carols," he added, shaking his head. "It seems like he thinks outside the envelope. Bottom line, it's likely he can help us."

Bowie laid his cell phone on a desktop beside him when he finished the call, then frowned, slipped it back into his jacket pocket, and waved them over. "That was Agent Ivan Izbursky from my office. He says the German agent, Andreas Kesselring, is indeed arriving tomorrow. It's confirmed." He paused, looked down at his boots, then back up at both of them. "Look, I know the brass in Washington think I'm too inexperienced to deal with this, but-"

Savich interrupted him smoothly. "What's important is we find out what happened to Helmut Blauvelt. So we put all our respective brains together and we catch ourselves a murderer. Personally, I can't wait to find out why this guy Helmut was sent over here. The three of us will figure it out, and that will tell us why he was killed. And then, Bowie, all of us have more experience."

Bowie let it drop, he had no choice. "I was thinking we could have dinner at Chez Pierre tonight, enjoy the food and speak to the staff who were there last night. I got us a reservation for nine, the earliest available. That okay with you guys?"

"When you made the reservations, did you ask who Blauvelt dined with last night?" Sherlock said. "Seems to me that person could very well be his killer."

"When I went by Chez Pierre before I met you guys, the owner, Paul Remier, was there. He showed me the reservations page for last night. There was no Helmut Blauvelt listed."

"Which means, I hope," Savich said, "that he was there with someone, and the reservation was under that someone's name."

"Nope. I spoke to the maitre d'. He told me there was a last-minute cancellation and just as he was hanging up the phone, in walked this single middle-aged gentleman. Well-dressed, spoke with a slight accent. Couldn't say if he was German or not.

"Then I got hold of the waiter. He said no one came near the guy the whole time he was there. But he also said they were really busy and he could have missed something.

"The same waiter will be at Chez Pierre tonight, so you guys can talk to him yourselves. I'm still hopeful someone there can help us. I asked all of them to think about it."

Sherlock said, "You've covered a lot of the bases, Bowie." She sighed. "Wouldn't it be nice if something in this life was easy?"

Bowie gave them a small salute, patted his jacket pocket to be sure his cell was safely inside, and started to leave. He called out over his shoulder, a big grin on his face, "I sure hope you enjoy Norman Bates Inn." There was a slight pause, and a waggle of dark eyebrows. "Most do."

They were shown to an antique-filled large corner room on the second floor of the Norman Bates Inn, with a dozen framed posters from
Psycho
on the walls. Savich said, "I need to call Senator Hoffman. He's probably wondering what's going on after last night, and I did tell him I'd get back to him soon."

Sherlock was studying the classic image of Janet Leigh being stabbed in the shower, when she heard Dillon say into his cell, "Senator, Sherlock and I are in Connecticut. We're here to look into the murder of a German national. But first, I wanted to give you an update on what happened this morning."

Sherlock listened in as Savich repeated to Hoffman what he had already told her, and watched Savich fall silent as he listened to Hoffman's utter disbelief flow over him, followed by a dozen questions.

When Senator Hoffman finally ran down, Savich said, "Yes sir, I do know how difficult this is to accept. I know it sounds like madness, but it really is Nikki. On the other hand, seeing something float outside your bedroom window most every night sounds pretty nuts too.

"Do you know what Nikki is talking about? What it is you don't understand? What is this danger you're facing?"

Savich listened to Senator Hoffman huff and deny there could be any danger-"I mean, who, Agent Savich, would want to hurt me?"-and nearly hyperventilate, then hang up.

Savich looked at Sherlock, who was smoothing a pair of black pants onto a wooden hanger, and gave her a crooked grin. "Understandably, the good senator is shaken and disbelieving, and wishes he'd never contacted us. He says he has no clue what his dead wife could be warning him about." Savich shrugged. "Nothing more to be done, I suppose, until something really bad happens or I get a chance to talk to Nikki."

"You think you will?"

"I have no idea."

When they left Norman Bates Inn, Savich patted the black Pontiac G6's roof in the inn's parking lot. "Nicer wheels this time. What do you say we pay a visit to Carla Alvarez and Caskie Royal after we visit Milo's Deli right down the street?"

SCHIFFER HARTWIN U.S. HEADQUARTERS

STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT

Late Monday afternoon

When Sherlock and Savich stepped out of the third-floor elevator into the Schiffer Hartwin executive reception area, they saw three assistants, their heads close, no doubt buzzing with speculation about the murder and break-in. The reception space was good-sized, but not particularly plush. The chairs looked comfortable enough, the magazines on the tables not too ancient. Behind a counter there was a well-equipped work station, on the wall behind it a half-dozen framed black-and-white photographs of nineteenth-century Stone Bridge.

At the sight of the two strangers, two of the three assistants slithered away. After they showed their creds to a dimpled young woman who looked both worried and excited, Sherlock was directed to the second door on the right, and Savich to the last office on the left.

Sherlock paused at a big door emblazoned in gold lettering:
C. Alvarez, Production Manager
.

An assistant sat at her work station in front of that impressive door. She was a young woman who sported blond hair in a brush cut maybe a half-inch long all over her head, and bright red lipstick. She looked, Sherlock thought, both clever and hip, like she could toss down a few straight vodkas and remain standing.

"I'm Special Agent Sherlock, FBI, Ms. Riker," she said pleasantly. "I would like to see Ms. Alvarez."

Lori Riker jumped to her feet. "Oh dear, I mean, Ms. Alvarez is in a meeting with Mr. Drexel, ah, that's Mr. Turley Drexel, he's the accounting manager, and it's their monthly meeting to go over-"

"It's all very important, I know," said Sherlock, "but given the murder last night of one of Schiffer Hartwin's German employees right in your backyard and the break-in into the CEO's office, I think I trump just about everything, don't you?"

"The dead man is German? I didn't know that. But who was he? I mean-oh goodness."

Sherlock stepped toward the big shiny door. She heard the angry voices before she even had the knob in her hand.

"No, wait, Agent Sherlock, I mean, really, let me tell them, inform them that-"

Sherlock flashed Lori Riker a sweet smile and opened the door to see a seated man and woman, their faces just inches from one another. The air was thick with acrimony, and sudden silence.

The woman straightened like a shot and moved quickly away from the man, going to stand behind her very modern glass-and-chrome desk. Every inch of it was covered-by stacks of papers, a sleek computer, printer, and two phones. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, with an athlete's body, hair dark as sin and nearly as short as her secretary's. She was wearing a navy blue suit and white blouse with a mannish blue tie, and plain dark blue pumps. Her eyes, also very dark blue, and as cold as ice, were narrowed on Sherlock's face. She should have looked severe and masculine in her getup, but, oddly, she didn't. She looked forbidding and angry. But just for an instant, Sherlock saw fear leap into her dark eyes.

Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them. "I believe you're Carla Alvarez, production manager, and you are Turley Drexel, accounting manager. Have I got that right?"

"Yes," Carla said, voice clipped. But Sherlock saw another flash of fear in her narrowed eyes before she wiped her expression clean. Her chin went up and the power player was back, full force. She asked, her voice steady as a rock, "You are a police officer? Here to question us about the murdered man in Van Wie Park?"