Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Sherlock

26 Federal Plaza

FBI New York Field Office

New York City

Thursday

Sherlock locked her eyes on Angela Storin when she walked into the conference room. She saw what she’d expected to see, a plain, proper woman of a certain age who looked faded, disapproving, ultimately forgettable. She wore a baize suit, baize low-heeled pumps, no jewelry. Her eyes were a flat light brown, hard to get a read on her with the oversized black-framed glasses. She wore her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and no makeup. Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, hoping to see a flash of nerves, a hint of some anxiety, but there was no outward sign the woman felt anything at all other than boredom. Storin looked back at her, placid and disinterested as a cow.

Special Agent Kelly Giusti slowly rose. “Mr. Clooney, Ms. Storin, this is Special Agent Sherlock, who has kindly come up from Washington for our meeting.” Abel Clooney rose, shook her hand. “Agent.”

Sherlock gave him her sunny smile. “Counselor.” He looked like Matlock in the old TV series, with his silver hair and his comfortable paunch, artfully minimized in a dark pin-striped thousand-dollar Hugo Boss suit. He looked pleased with himself, quite happy to be who he was, confident he’d close down whatever this latest summons of his client would bring. He was giving Sherlock an appraising look, doubtless deciding how to deal with her. Clooney knew who she was, of course, but why ask her in particular?

Sherlock nodded to Benjamin Varno, the federal prosecutor. He was younger than Clooney, tall and fit with hair as black as sin, with only a few silver flecks at his temples. He was endowed with an evangelist’s deep voice that would resonate in the courtroom. He knew what was coming, of course, and looked hungry for blood.

Clooney sat down again, leaned back, and tapped his Mont Blanc pen on the tabletop. He said to Sherlock, “I do not understand why you are here. There are no terrorists for you to take down.”

Sherlock said, “Believe me, Mr. Clooney, if I never see another terrorist in my lifetime, I will consider myself blessed. It was all a case of being in a certain place at a certain time.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was asked to provide a new eye.” And she said nothing more.

Clooney said, “New eye? Not that it matters. Agent Giusti, I agreed to this meeting because I’m hopeful we can clear up any remaining concerns you have about Ms. Storin’s involvement in this tragic incident in Brickson and finish this witch hunt. Then you can all turn your attention to finding the real murderer. We have offered plausible alternatives: a patient or one of their family members who might have blamed Dr. Madison for an injury or a loved one’s death seems the most logical. You have focused on my client for long enough, wasted valuable time. It must stop. When we’ve answered your questions, when my client and I leave today, I expect your assurance she’s been cleared of all suspicion and this harassment will stop.”

Varno said, “That will depend on your client’s answers, Mr. Clooney. We have a lot to cover, so let’s proceed.”

“Ms. Storin,” Sherlock said and she smiled at her. Storin started, blinked behind the glasses, and remained silent, still the continued picture of disinterest. Sherlock said, “Ms. Storin, even though I’m new to this case, they’ve told me a lot about you.”

Say something, I want to hear your voice.

“I’m sure they have, Agent Sherlock, and yes, I’ve heard of you as well. Some people think you’re important,” Storin added with a touch of impatience in her voice and a dismissive shrug.

Storin’s voice was low, sort of husky, really quite lovely.

Kelly rose. “Ms. Storin, you have stated on record that your Walther PPK was stolen two weeks prior to the three murders at the Madison house, is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You further stated that your first husband, Mr. Martin Orloff, purchased the gun for you and showed you how to use it, but you rarely touched it. Is that correct?”

“I told you he showed me how to fire the gun, so I knew how it worked. I never used it again, as I’ve told you several times already. I’ve also told you I don’t approve of guns, the reason I never wanted it in the first place.”

“You found the gun missing and reported it stolen to the Brickson police. Is that correct?”

Storin merely nodded and studied a fingernail.

Clooney began tapping his Mont Blanc pen on the conference tabletop. “What is the point of going over all this again, Agent Giusti? Move along. Let’s get this done.”

Kelly nodded. “Let me remind you, Ms. Storin, that lying to a federal agent is a felony.”

Storin gave her a flat-eyed stare. “I have no reason to lie to anyone.”

Sherlock saw Mr. Clooney’s hand close over Storin’s—to keep her from saying more? Probably.

Kelly said easily, “Moving along then. Agent Sherlock visited the Madison house on Tuesday. Do you know what she noticed?”

“Get on with it, Agent,” Clooney said. “Cut the cute drama.”

Sherlock said, her voice matter-of-fact, “I noticed one of the kitchen chairs was pulled out from the table and faced out, toward the kitchen doorway. After you shot Mrs. Madison in the face, Ms. Storin, you sat in that chair with Mrs. Madison’s body nearly at your feet and waited for your ex-lover to return. When Dr. Madison came in he wasn’t alone, and I imagine you were surprised, but it didn’t deter you, probably didn’t even particularly concern you. You stood up from that chair and shot both men between the eyes. After you shot them, you did your best to make the murders look like a robbery, but of course no one bought that scenario for very long.” Sherlock paused a second, hardened her voice. “In short, Ms. Storin, you shot both men from at least twelve feet away, which means you’re an excellent shot.”

Storin stared at Sherlock with her cold flat eyes, raised her chin an arrogant fraction, and said in a voice as smooth as glass, “What you’re saying is impossible. I couldn’t do that. I barely know how to fire a gun.”

Clooney again pressed his hand on Storin’s and said, his voice dismissive, “I don’t know what you’re trying for, Agent Sherlock, with this tedious tale about the placement of a kitchen chair. It’s wild supposition, a not-very-clever spin on what might have happened.”

Storin shook off Clooney’s hand, sat forward, and now there was anger in her voice. “I understand what you’re doing. Your superiors sent you up here to close this case however you can, so you don’t continue to blunder around like incompetent clowns. Really? Me? Firing a gun from twelve feet away? That’s longer than this table. Impossible.

“You will listen to me now. After the FBI got involved, I was hopeful, all of Brickson was hopeful, this horrible situation would be resolved, the Madison murderer would be identified, but instead of doing your jobs and finding the murderer, you decided I was your best shot to save face, so you’ve continued to browbeat me.” Her voice dripped contempt. “So much for my prayers that there might finally be justice, that a man I cared about would be avenged.” She splayed her hands in front of her, small hands, buffed nails, no rings. “I am more than disappointed with the lot of you.”

Clooney nodded, looked pleased. “My client could not have summed up the situation better. Now, I expect you to make clear why you asked my client to appear here today or we are going to leave.”

It was hard not to applaud Storin’s brilliant performance, but Kelly kept her voice calm and steady. “We’ve asked you before about your frequent trips to Washington, D.C. Have you now remembered where you’ve stayed when you visited?”

Storin shrugged, pursed her lips. “As I’ve told you before, I’ve stayed at various B&Bs around the city, to sample the different neighborhood flavors, you could say.”

Clooney said, “Again, Agent Giusti, Ms. Storin told you this. Do you have anything more to say?”

“And there were times you and Dr. Madison traveled to Washington, D.C., together.”

Impatience simmered. Clooney said, “Is that supposed to be a question, Agent?”

Kelly ignored Clooney. “Ms. Storin?”

“As I have told you, Agent, Dr. Madison and I were adults and since he was married, we were discreet. I am very fond of Washington, and we traveled there to enjoy ourselves as often as we could.”

Clooney said, “If you have a new point to make, Agent, spit it out or move along. My client doesn’t remember or simply doesn’t choose to discuss where they stayed. It doesn’t matter.”

Kelly said, “You’re on the record stating you always paid cash.”

“I prefer cash,” Storin said. “Some people do.”

Sherlock picked it up. “Ms. Storin, it appears you neglected to inform your attorney about a lovely property in Washington, D.C., more a picturesque cottage, really, at 743 Black Street NW.”

Sherlock saw it, a flash of fear in Storin’s flat eyes, then calculation. You never thought we’d find that cottage, did you? She waited, but Storin merely shrugged, said nothing.

Sherlock continued. “We ran a computer search of real estate deeds of private homes in your name or either of your ex-husbands’ and of course didn’t find it. However, when we searched further afield, we found a property at 743 Black Street NW, owned by a Mrs. Mary Gilbert. As you very well know, she’s the mother of your first husband, Martin Orloff. The name isn’t the same because she remarried. This first husband, Martin Orloff, was murdered, too, his killer never identified, but that’s not what we’re addressing here today. You no doubt visited that lovely little cottage in Washington with your first husband, and it appears you wanted it.

“After Mr. Orloff was dead and buried, you renewed your relationship with his mother. Mrs. Mary Gilbert was living in a nursing home in Albany, New York, suffering from Alzheimer’s. We know from the facility’s records you spent a lot of time with her before her death last year. You consoled her for the tragic death of her son, long enough for you to manipulate her into turning control of the cottage over to you, or rather to an LLC we traced back to you. The LLC has been making quite a nice profit over these years from the cottage, as a short-term rental, without sharing any of that profit with Mrs. Gilbert, the real owner. That is, when you weren’t there yourself or with a lover, most recently, Dr. Madison.

“Our agents visited your cottage with a search warrant and found your caretaker, Mrs. Jernigan, very helpful. Our agents came away with personal items that belonged to Dr. Madison as well as photos of the two of you.”

Sherlock lined up the three photos side by side in front of Storin. “It appears you have a very different look when you’re in Washington, Ms. Storin. Look at that red spiky hair, the flamboyant makeup, the black stiletto boots, the short leather skirt.”

Storin stared down at the photos, said nothing.

Clooney shoved the photos back toward Sherlock. “You have no proof that woman in the photos is Ms. Storin, and if it is, what of it?”

Angela Storin interrupted him. “No, she’s right, it’s me in the photos.” She shrugged. “Who cares? I enjoy changing my look. I’m certainly not causing harm to anyone. A different wardrobe, a fun wig, and using Mrs. Gilbert’s house doesn’t make me guilty of murder.”

“True, but it helped us realize why none of the gun ranges we contacted to find out where you honed your shooting skills recognized our photos of you.”

Sherlock turned to Clooney. “Your client practices at Curly Johnson’s Bivouac, a gun range outside of Plankton, Connecticut, about a half hour from the New York border. Curly looked at these photos and grinned from ear to ear. He said, ‘That’s our girl, Misty Lee, the biker chick, a little long in the tooth, sure, but you should see her shoot. She roars up on her Harley and usually takes some of the guys’ money, but they don’t mind too much because she buys them all beers afterward.’

“So, hi, Misty. I really like your look, it’s an amazing transformation. I imagine it must be very liberating for you to travel to Washington or Connecticut and shed your dowdy professional image, become Misty Lee, and sling your leg over the seat of your Harley. It must have been fun for Dr. Madison, too, I imagine, to see the proper Ms. Angela Storin transform into wild-as-the-wind Misty Lee.

“You keep that Harley in a storage locker somewhere, but we’ll find it, along with Misty Lee’s clothes and that cute red wig.”

Sherlock leaned toward Storin. “Tell us, Ms. Storin—or Ms. Lee—is there a reason you play at being two vastly different people, or is it really simply for the fun of it?”

“I don’t have to say anything.”

Kelly continued before Clooney could object. “After Curly Johnson identified you, we presented him with a search warrant. It turns out you keep a locker there, Ms. Storin.”

Kelly leaned down and opened a small box on the floor beside her. She pulled out a labeled clear plastic bag with a Walther PPK inside it and held it up. “You really shouldn’t have kept the murder weapon in your locker at Curly’s gun range, Ms. Storin. I know you never imagined we’d find out about your identity in Washington, and even if we did, we’d have no reason to think you were an expert markswoman.” Kelly leaned toward Storin, and smiled. “It appears we’re not as incompetent as you seem to think.”

“Agent Giusti—” Clooney began.

Kelly shook her head at Clooney, continued in a rapid-fire voice. “It was your arrogance in keeping it there that brought you down. You should have tossed the gun in the river, where you doubtless tossed the jewelry and the wallets you took from the Madison house.”

After a beat of dead silence, Sherlock said, “Tell us, were you Angela Storin or Misty Lee when you killed your two ex-husbands?”

Storin stared at Sherlock, slowly shook her head. “I have nothing more to say.” She paused, a rictus of a smile on her pale mouth. “You are all so common.”

Kelly rose, looked down at her. “I’m arresting you for the murders of Mrs. Ellen Madison, Dr. Douglas Madison, and Mr. Stanley La Shea.” And Kelly read Storin her rights.

Clooney slowly rose, placed his hand on Storin’s shoulder. “I wish to speak to my client.”

As she was leaving the conference room, Sherlock looked back to see Angela Storin staring after her. Sherlock was relieved the Walther wasn’t loaded, or Storin might have tried for it.