Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(11)
Surprisingly, she gave him a small grin. “It’s got to be the only time in my married life I wish I’d been parked at my daughter-in-law’s house.” Then, “I think I know who you are. You’re Sarah Elliott’s grandson. I’ve seen your amazing whittled pieces in the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown. Your grandmother—her painting The Flanders Market Place has been one of my favorites for as long as I can remember.”
“Thank you. I have my favorite painting of hers hanging over my fireplace.” Because the insurance company didn’t want him to give away which painting it was, he didn’t say more.
By the time Savich drove into the Manverses’ driveway on Belmont Road NW, she’d told him, somewhat unwillingly, he’d thought, about her visit the previous night to a medium named Zoltan who’d tried to convince her she’d spoken with her dead grandfather. She didn’t give him any details, said only the medium had to be a fake, and shook her head. He wondered if she’d told her husband any more. And why hadn’t she wanted to tell him? Perhaps the medium visit was a coincidence, but he would look into it.
He met with Congressman Manvers, went through what had happened one more time as Rebekah added details, and listened to the congressman’s shock, then his outrage and demands the FBI make this their top priority. Since Manvers was a politician, he was naturally concerned about the media and what would happen if news of Rebekah’s attempted kidnapping got out, as of course it would. It was doubtless the main topic of conversation at Celeste Manvers’s luncheon. “Agent Savich, what would you suggest we do?”
“I’d make a statement immediately, sir, explain what happened, and ask anyone with any information to call the FBI hotline.”
Later that afternoon, Rebekah answered the door to the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. From behind her, Kit whistled. “I don’t care what you’re selling, I want a dozen. Maybe two dozen. Please come in.”
He gave them a gorgeous white-toothed smile. “Actually, I’m not selling anything today. I’m Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith. Agent Savich asked me to come over and keep an eye on you, Mrs. Manvers. And he wants to know if you’ve thought of anything more to help us find whoever’s responsible for what happened to you.”
6
WASHINGTON, D.C.
HOOVER BUILDING
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT (CAU)
THURSDAY, LATE AFTERNOON
Denny Roper from Security appeared in Savich’s office with a large box in his hands. “Good day, Savich. This box just came over from Facilities and Logistics, cleared for delivery to you. It looked more than a little interesting, as it’s addressed to you as ‘PERSONAL’ in big black letters, so I offered to bring it to you myself. You never know what some fruitcake might have sent you. I had to bring those two guys from Security with me. They want to see what’s inside, too.”
The four CAU agents working in the office today were just as interested in what had come in the package addressed to Savich personally, and followed Savich, Roper, and the men from Security into the conference room. Sherlock and Ruth weren’t due back from Norfolk until later. Savich set the plain brown paper–wrapped box on the conference room table, Denny at his elbow. He pointed. “You can see it was mailed here in Washington three days ago, got diverted to our Cheverly facility to be checked out, and then delivered here. Funny size, about a foot square.” He turned to Ollie Hamish, Savich’s second-in-command. “Any bets on what’s inside?”
“Maybe it’s a baby gift you ordered for me, Dillon,” Agent Lucy McKnight said. “A monitor to sing lullabies?”
There was laughter as Savich took the knife Denny handed him, slit through the tape, and peeled away the paper wrapper. They stared at a blood-red box inside. Blood-red? If someone wanted to make a statement, it was exactly the right shade of red. And addressed to him personally. He wondered if maybe the techs at Cheverly had missed something dangerous, but as far as he knew, nothing had ever gotten past them. He lifted the lid.
Matching red wrapping paper was folded around what was inside. Savich carefully lifted it all out and laid it on the table. The box didn’t weigh much and the contents were solid but thin, like cardboard. Shirley, the unit secretary, all-purpose confidante, and logistics expert, joined them and looked with interest at the red wrapping paper so neatly folded in front of them.
Agent Davis Sullivan said, “I was hoping for a severed finger or a kneecap, disguised to fool the X-ray.”
“Disguised how?” Shirley asked, an eyebrow arched. “You mean like dipped in French’s mustard?”
There was laughter again, but then everyone’s attention returned to the red wrapping paper. Denny rubbed his hands together. Savich didn’t think there were any people on earth more naturally curious—or nosy, depending on your point of view—than cops: federal, state, local, didn’t matter, it was a job requirement.
He opened the paper and saw an eight-by-eleven piece of thick blank cardboard, puzzle pieces scattered over it.
Savich started to fit the pieces together. With so many hands eager to help, the puzzle pieces soon formed the beginnings of a photograph—water lapping against pilings, a long, ancient wooden pier with spindly wooden legs sticking out of the water to hold its banged-up slats. There was a sidewalk, a rather narrow street, and the hint of buildings, some wood, some stone, some brick. There were no people, no signs, no animals, nothing to identify the location, no shadows to indicate the time of day. Savich moved the grouped pieces over to cover the bottom third or so of the cardboard.