He had to talk to Joanna Merriweather.
The next morning, just as Rebel was going to text his brother, he looked up to see Autumn standing in the doorway of his study.
“Good morning, Autumn. Where’s Tash?”
“He’s in the bathroom. I didn’t want him to hear this about his father. He’s only a little kid.”
Chapter Twelve
Hoover Building
Criminal Apprehension Unit
Washington, D.C.
Wednesday
FBI Special Agent Wilson Ballou’s remains were uncovered by a Weimaraner puppy digging in a sunken plot of land next to the Calmett River near Bensonville, Virginia. Two bullet holes were found in his skull, and a safe deposit key was pressed flat into the heel of his left shoe. Wrapped around the key was a small square of paper with numbers scrawled on it. Everyone thought it was a latitude—and if so, it passed through northern Virginia.
Information moved at the speed of light in the Hoover Building. Agents in the CAU, and most outside it, soon knew the whole case history of Special Agent Wilson Ballou, who’d disappeared on June 7, 1978. It was thought his wife, Cynthia Ballou, or her assumed lover murdered and buried him somewhere, but there was no physical evidence and so she’d skated. She’d later remarried, birthed three children with him, and the son by Wilson Ballou made four, all grown now, with children of their own. When Agent Roman Foxe called Cynthia Ballou, now Hendricks, after Ballou’s body was found, she repeated what she’d said many years ago—she’d told Ballou she wasdivorcing him and he’d said that was her problem because he was about to get rich. She thought he’d been involved with criminals for some time, tried to take money from them, and they’d killed him for it. No one had believed her at the time. Agent Foxe told her about the safe-deposit key they’d found in his shoe, and did she know the bank? She said she had no idea what he was talking about.
If his wife hadn’t murdered him along with a lover no one was ever able to identify, then who had killed Ballou? What bank’s safe-deposit boxes used this key? If they found the right bank, would the box hold the longitude? Would they then be able to identify the exact spot where some treasure was hidden? Uncut diamonds in a leather pouch? Maybe from Amsterdam? There was endless speculation among the agents, techs and secretaries, even Mrs. Milsom, who ran the Mexican food kiosk in the cafeteria. Savich’s boss, Mr. Maitland, bless him, assigned the case to the CAU, which brought on loud cheering, and everyone wanted to be involved. All they had to do was find the right bank that used this particular key.
Excitement remained at a peak until Shirley, the CAU secretary, pointed out that Special Agent Wilson Ballou had been killed over forty years ago and the bank where that safe deposit box resided would have required a yearly fee. And Ballou hadn’t been around to pay it, so whatever was in the safe deposit box was long gone. What they should be asking was whether, if they found the right bank, there would be records to show what had been in the safe deposit box. The chances of this happening were less than nil.
Sherlock was wondering about a connection to a diamond heist in Amsterdam that year when she felt a feather-light kick. She laid her palm against her belly and smiled. “Awake and ready to salsa, are you? Going to be a while yet before I can dance with you.” Her pants waist was soft and stretchy, her jeans history as of three weeks ago. She still wore her signaturewhite shirts, but no longer tucked in, nor was her Glock clipped to her waist. She wore a soft, lightweight shoulder holster now. She was thankful she hadn’t thrown up once so far, hadn’t felt a moment of nausea. Boy or girl, this one had decided not to torture its mother. Sean was all for a brother, but Marty, his next-door neighbor and best friend forever, wanted a girl so the two of them could gang up on Sean. Sean insisted his terrier, Astro, also wanted a boy.
Sherlock looked up to see a woman walk into the unit with security guard Mac Sommers. Mac spoke to Shirley, both unit secretary and commandant, filched a sugar cookie from the plate on her desk, and spoke briefly to the woman at his side. He waved at Sherlock and left the unit. As the woman headed toward Sherlock, every agent in the unit followed her progress. She was tall, in her early thirties, fit and trim, wearing black pants and boots, a pale gray silk shirt, and a dark gray leather biker jacket. Her blond hair was pulled back from her fine-boned face and clipped at her nape. She wore only a dash of coral lipstick. She was a knock-out, as doubtless every agent in the unit now watching her would agree. She looked strong, vibrant, very sure of herself, her stride long and purposeful. She looked somehow familiar, but Sherlock couldn’t place her. Maybe an agent from a field office? Sherlock slowly rose, cocked her head.
The woman gave her a beautiful white-toothed smile and stuck out a long-fingered hand with short buffed nails and no rings, though there was an oversized black Apple Watch on her left wrist. Sherlock automatically took that long-fingered hand, felt calluses. The woman said in a BBC voice, all clipped and self-assured, with a whiff of arrogance, “We’ve never met, but you may have seen photos of me. After all the hullabaloo at St. Paul’s? Last year?”
Sherlock studied her face, said slowly as she rose, “Yes, I recognize you. You’re Lady Elizabeth Palmer. I’m Agent Sherlock.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “You look somehow different from the photos I saw last year.”Somehowwas an understatement. The photos Sherlock had seen of Lady Elizabeth Palmer after her near-death experience at St. Paul’s showed a shell-shocked, white-faced woman, her face frozen, her dark blue eyes blank, her tangled blond hair falling into her face. And no wonder. Sherlock remembered thinking she looked somehow tragic, coming to grips with the knowledge that her lover, Samir Basara, had planned for her to die.
Elizabeth was scared to her toes, but she wasn’t about to show it. She looked Special Agent Sherlock dead in the eye and gave a low musical laugh. “I hope I look different. That—that was an awful time. I’ve tried very hard in the past three months to leave my former spineless self behind.” She stopped, eyed Sherlock. “You’re glowing, like my friend Mary Ann Eiserly was when she was carrying Cici.”
Sherlock laughed. “Yes, I’m pregnant. Usually people hesitate to congratulate someone in case she’s not pregnant at all. How embarrassing that would be. Come, let’s sit down. Tell me why you came to see me.”
Elizabeth sat in the comfortable chair beside Sherlock’s desk, crossed her legs. She said simply, “I’m sure the story didn’t travel here across the pond, but three months ago I was attacked three times in London over the course of a couple of days. I managed to survive with only a knife wound, but my parents and I did a good deal of talking and planning while I was in hospital. We agreed it would be safest for me to disappear for a time, while we gave MI5 the opportunity to investigate and, we hoped, make arrests. We decided to give them three months, and I knew my father would see to it they kept the investigation a priority.” She leaned closer. “I used a doctored passport and flew to the United States on a commercial jet to make sure no one could track me here. I’d contacted a man who specializes in teaching people, mostly business executives, how to protect themselves whenthey have to travel to foreign climes that might be dangerous, places where there is little rule of law and someone might try to take them for ransom, such as Haiti or Venezuela. The second benefit was he’s located in an isolated spot with little outside communication.”
Sherlock cocked her head to the side again, sending her curly hair over her cheek. “You mean Hurley Janklov’s setup near Porterville?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. Hurley said you probably knew of him. I paid him to reschedule six of his clients and spend three months only with me, so no one but he would know I was there. I wanted him to make me as dangerous as the people who attacked me in London.” She paused, flexed her fingers. “Hurley nearly killed me, but believe me, I was motivated to live through anything he could dish out, as you Americans say. Last week Hurley told me I shoot as well as he does, at least with a handgun. I’m still not very good at distance. Last night, Hurley made sure to remind me that even if I could face one of them down, even two attackers, it still wouldn’t be enough. He said if someone wants me dead, I’ll be dead sooner or later if I go back to London and show myself. Car bombs, snipers, I couldn’t defend myself against any of those. He’s recommended for weeks now that I bring in the FBI, not go back to John Eiserly at MI5. He gave me a grin and said we Brits were all well and good at using our brains, but if I don’t want to die, if I don’t want to live my life being afraid and always looking over my shoulder, my best chance was to come to you. I came to you specifically, Agent Sherlock, because it was you who shot Samir Basara down when he escaped here to Washington. Hurley agreed there was no one better.” Elizabeth paused, felt her heart pound hard and fast because her life depended on what this woman said. “I came here to ask you to help me.”
Sherlock felt a rush of excitement, managed a grin. “I think we can overlook your, ah, doctored passport, given what youfaced and your excellent motives. And Hurley’s right if someone wants you dead, you’ll be killed unless you find them and stop them first.” She paused, took Elizabeth’s hand in hers, again felt the calluses, the strength. “Yes, I’ll do my very best to help you. First off, I’ll need every detail you can give me, and everything MI5 has found. We’ll contact them, ask for their support.”
Elizabeth whooshed out a breath, a boulder lifted off her. She felt hope. “Thank you. Believe me, every single detail is imprinted in my brain.”
Sherlock waved toward Dillon’s glassed-in office. “I think you know the head of the CAU is Special Agent Dillon Savich, who also happens to be my husband. Let me tell you, Dillon and John Eiserly are good friends. They worked together last year to locate Samir Basara. I don’t know if John told you, but he was the one who spotted Bahir sitting next to his own wife and baby, Cici, in St. Paul’s. I know Dillon trusts him implicitly, thinks he’s dedicated and competent. And the best thing about John is he never gives up. I imagine John must have been frantic when you left, wondering where you were or if you were dead and at the bottom of the Thames. We’ll contact him immediately. Then we’ll need to speak to Dillon’s boss, Deputy Director James Maitland, and hope he’ll clear our helping you.”
Elizabeth said, “I did hear talk it was Mr. Eiserly who spotted Bahar Zain at St. Paul’s, but he never said anything about it to me. A bit of British reticence, I suppose. I rang Mr. Eiserly on what you Yanks call a burner phone, assured him I was all right. He apologized, but I knew he couldn’t promise there’d be no more attempts on my life. He didn’t urge me to come home. I told him I’d come home when he saw to it the people who attacked me were in prison or dead. I told him I wouldn’t put any more of his officers protecting me in danger. The first MI5 officer assigned to guard me—” She paused, swallowed hard. “Two men broke into my house, disabled the alarm. I heard a creaking stair onlya minute before they pushed into my bedroom. Benny heard me yell out and ran to me in time to help me. One of the men threw a knife into his chest.” Elizabeth’s voice caught. “Benny could easily have died because of me. He’s still recuperating. When I called him, he was like a Greek chorus, telling me to stay hidden until they found out who was behind this.”
Sherlock turned and sent a fist wave to Dillon indicating urgency. “Excuse me a moment, Elizabeth.” She called Mr. Maitland, told his dragon gatekeeper Goldie she needed an immediate appointment. “No, sorry, Goldie, it’s not about Wilson Ballou’s safe-deposit key, it’s something else entirely and much more important. Tell him Lady Elizabeth Palmer is here asking for our help.”
Goldie said in her no-nonsense voice, “Oh, yes, now I remember her name, Sherlock. What is this about?”
“Right now we don’t know much of anything. Can Mr. Maitland fit us in?”
