5. Sweet Revenge

by Fern Michaels

  Jack groaned when he saw Ted standing in his office doorway. “You’re starting to give this place a bad name. What the hell do you want now? Listen, pal, you cannot keep coming here like this. People are starting to talk. I mean it, Ted. Call me but stop coming here. What’s with you anyway?”

  “I got it. I know what’s going on. I just need to pick your brains a little before I forge ahead. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Hell, yes, I mind. You need to get your ass outta here. Oh, fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

  Ted looked up and immediately turned pale. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Damn straight it is. The second string. Can’t you smell him? Those jerks all smell the same. It must be written in the spook manual that they’re to wear cologne capable of overpowering whomever they’re trying to beat to death. See where he’s going? My boss’s office! If you leave now, it will look more suspicious. Make it quick, Ted, what do you want?”

  “A rundown on the Flanders woman. Those ladies of Pinewood are gearing up for…something. I can smell it. Maybe a sting. Look, if they ream your ass out, just say I’m here on that high-profile capital case you’re working on. They gave the assignment to someone else but no one here has to know that. OK, OK, I’m leaving,” Ted said, stuffing his notebook back into his backpack. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Can’t you forget you know me and my phone number?” Jack said, his eyes on his boss’s office door.

  Ted grinned. “Yeah, I could, but I’m not going to. You’re precious to me, Jackie,” he said, blowing Jack a kiss as he left the office. It took every ounce of Ted’s willpower not to turn and look at Jack’s boss’s door. His breathing was shallow and harsh as he made his way down to the lobby of the building.

  It was still rainy and windy. Ted let his thoughts run wild. What the hell was the second string doing in Jack’s office building? Like he didn’t know. The power of wealth and pure, raw power. In other words, Myra Rutledge and Charles Martin. He felt a degree of satisfaction as he made his way down the windy street. He was glad no one could see how badly he was trembling. Under his breath, he muttered over and over, there’s nothing to fear but fear itself. Jack Emery 101 on fear. What a crock.

  Jack busied himself doing nothing but scrolling down Amazon.com on his computer. He tried to keep his eyes off Seymour Ridley’s office door. He didn’t think Ridley could be intimidated, but what the hell did he know? If the second string of gold shields was as powerful as the first, he was going to be standing in the dark brown stuff within minutes. Jack clicked off Amazon and turned around to see a shadow cross his well-lit desk. He sucked in his breath when he looked up. Six feet two. Two hundred and ten pounds. Full head of hair. Gleaming white teeth. Light suntan. In February? Jack’s ribs started to ache at the sight of the man.

  “Yeah?” he said calmly.

  “Chuck Nevins. Just wanted to say hello. How’s it going, Mr. District Attorney?”

  “Smooth as silk, Mr. Nevins. Boring but smooth.”

  “Thought you might like to know my colleagues are still undergoing physical therapy.”

  “And you think I want to know this…why? Obviously you have me mixed up with someone who gives a shit. Do those friends have names?”

  “Nah, they’re anonymous, just three guys without spleens.”

  “Ah, those guys. Wanna go for four?” Jack said, standing up. “Listen up, you overgrown gorilla, don’t fuck with me. Stop with the theatrics already. They only make you look stupid. By the way, real men don’t blow-dry their hair. Now, take your fucking ass out of my office; you’re smelling it up. And another thing, no one wears Polo anymore. It’s passé.”

  Nevins narrowed his eyes. “You’re a wiseass, Emery. That’s going to be your undoing.”

  “You can’t shut me up. I’m a taxpayer. I have rights. Didn’t you learn anything from Watergate?”

  The door closed softly behind Chuck Nevins. Jack watched until the man was out of sight before he turned his gaze to Seymour Ridley’s office. His stomach started to crunch up when Ridley beckoned him. He pretended to scribble a few notes on a blank piece of paper before he made his way through.

  Seymour Ridley could have worked as a Donald Trump lookalike, right down to the strawlike, blow-dried hair. “Sit down, Jack, and tell me what that bird said to you when he stopped by your desk.”

  “He introduced himself, reported on the medical conditions of some of his buddies. I made a few snide comments. He called me a wiseass when I said he couldn’t shut me up because I was a citizen and a taxpayer. I don’t think he believed me. I didn’t lie, did I, Seymour?”

  “Are you still working on all that crap you told me about a while back? I thought I told you to lay off unless you had concrete proof — two sources outlined in blood and willing to testify in court.”

  “I dropped it after they beat the crap out of me. I did what you said, Seymour.”

  “Is there any truth to the rumor that you took out three of his guys with a bunch of…ah…ninjas?”

  Jack snorted. “I wish. The short answer is no,” he lied with a straight face. “What did he want?”

  Ridley laughed. “He wants me to fire you.”

  Jack gaped at his boss. “Did he say why?”

  “Said you get in his way. He showed me a lot of impressive credentials. I showed him your court record and told him you were the best of the best. He did some more blustering but stopped short of threatening me when I asked him how he’d like to see his name above the fold in the Post. What’s going on, Jack? Why has Robinson been here so much? We should be charging him rent.”

  Jack debated for all of five seconds before he responded. He couldn’t find one good reason to lie. “He picked up where I left off, Seymour. He’s on to something and comes by to pick my brain. That’s as much as I’m involved. Ted has an axe to grind now; he’s minus a spleen these days. He says he’s OK, but he’s not. It’s going to take a while for him to totally get back in the groove — and you know reporters; they’re like elephants, they never forget.”

  Ridley peered over the top of his glasses. Jack thought he looked like he was trying to make up his mind about something. It wasn’t the look in his eyes; it was the way his fingers were drumming on the desk. “So, in fact, you signed off on something you can no longer pursue.”

  Jack eye-balled his superior. “More or less. If Ted needs me, I won’t let him down. It’s the best I can do right now, Seymour. I swore to uphold the law. What else do you want me to say?”

  “Not a thing, Jack. I just like to know where my people stand. You’re a hell of a prosecutor, almost as good as myself,” Ridley said, without a trace of modesty. “All I ask is that you try to keep this office out of your extra-curricular activities. If you find yourself up to your knees in shit, call me. Your knees, Jack, not your ankles.”

  Jack nodded. “About those credentials…”

  “Jesus, Jack, this is the nation’s capital. Every dude walking down the street has credentials, some more impressive than others. If you’re referring to those eye-catching presidential gold shields, let’s just say I wasn’t impressed. I know some influential people on both sides up on the Hill. Don’t go off half-cocked, is all I’m asking.”

  Jack nodded again as he walked out of the office, his shoulders straighter than when he’d walked in. He knew he had to call Nikki quickly and alert her to what Ted was about to do.

  Cell phone in hand, Jack walked over to the window and looked down at the traffic below. All he could see was pelting rain, umbrellas and people running to and fro. There was a traffic jam at the corner. Even though he was on the eleventh floor, he could hear the blaring horns.

  “Can you talk?” Jack asked when Nikki answered her phone.

  “No, not really, but I have good ears. Whatcha got?”

  Jack told her. Nikki thanked him and then clicked off.

  In the lobby of the building that was going to be Isabelle Flanders’s new home, Ted sauntered over to the
newsstand to pick up a copy of the Chronicle, his competition. He whistled when he snapped the paper open to see a picture of a smiling Nealy Diamond Clay astride her Triple Crown horse. It was an old picture, but that wasn’t what made him whistle. It was the picture of Isabelle Flanders standing next to Nealy Clay. “The plot thickens,” he muttered as he folded up the paper into a cylinder. He walked over to the sign-in area, signed his name, showed his credentials and was allowed to advance to the elevator. Reporters’ privilege.

  He saw her at the same moment she saw him. She quirked an eyebrow just the way he did. Ted unrolled the Chronicle. “I was wondering, Miss Flanders, if you’d care to give the Post a comment?”

  Isabelle pushed the yellow hard hat she was wearing farther back on her head. “What would you like me to comment on?”

  “A few things. What was it like to meet Nealy Diamond Clay?”

  Isabelle relaxed a little. She knew who Ted Robinson was. Jack Emery’s buddy. “It was very interesting. I was in awe. She’s quite a lady. Actually, I met her by accident. I was out at the farm site looking around and there she was. I didn’t know there was a reporter there until he stepped forward to identify himself.”

  “Would you care to comment on Rosemary Hershey and your past baggage?”

  “No, I wouldn’t care to comment. That’s a personal matter.”

  “Fair enough,” Ted drawled. He waved his arms about. “Pretty impressive. Care to comment on the high rent in this building?”

  “No, I wouldn’t care to comment,” Isabelle said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Would you care to comment on the ladies of Pinewood?” Not bothering to wait for a response, Ted continued. “Are you ladies preparing to take on Rosemary Hershey to make her pay for what she did to you? That’s what you do, isn’t it? Like that National Security Advisor. I lost my spleen over that little deal. I just thought I’d throw that in as a tidbit of interest.”

  Isabelle’s heart pounded inside her chest. For one split second she thought she was going to faint. “What in the world are you talking about? By the way, how did you get up here? This is a secure building.”

  Ted flashed his credentials. “You didn’t answer my question, Miss Flanders.”

  “No, and I’m not going to either. It might be a good idea for you to leave now before I call security.”

  “Is that your comment? If it is, I want to report it verbatim.” Ted thought the architect looked like a startled deer caught in headlights.

  Seven

  Charles listened with amusement as the ladies of Pinewood clustered around Alexis to hear about her most recent date. He stacked and stapled his papers as he tried to concentrate on what he was doing but had to admit what he was hearing was more interesting than what he was doing. At times he found himself saddened at the women’s jaundiced, jaded view of men, even though he understood how and why they had the attitudes they had. He waited for the finale to Alexis’s story.

  “Yeah, yeah, and then what?” Isabelle demanded.

  “Did he kiss you, try to swallow your tongue…what?” Kathryn asked.

  Alexis sighed. “None of the above. He shook my hand, said good night and went home. He said he had a pleasant evening.”

  “Get out of here!” Nikki said, disbelief ringing in her voice. “Did you wear that red dress we picked out for you, the one that screams Come to Mama, Baby?”

  Alexis sighed again. “Yes, I wore the red dress and the red shoes. He said he had to go home because his sitter couldn’t stay past eleven o’clock because she had school the next day. He has a five-year-old boy.”

  Myra chirped up. “But that’s wonderful, dear! It shows he’s a family man. And conscientious. Did he make another date with you?”

  “No. He said he’d call. We all know what that means. Maybe the red dress was too much for him to handle. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the red shoes, too. Grady did like him, though. His name is Braden Gunderson. He’s a partner in some computer company in the District.”

  Isabelle groaned. “Just tell me he doesn’t drive a pickup truck.”

  “Actually, he drives a burgundy Jaguar convertible. The whole back seat, even though it’s quite small, was full of his son’s stuff. He talked about his son all night, and I talked about my dog. It wasn’t very romantic but it was nice and comfortable. First dates are usually horrific.”

  “When do you think he’ll call?” Kathryn asked. “You must have a feel for what he’s about.”

  Alexis rolled her eyes. “He’s not going to call. I’m too much woman for him. The truth is, I think I scared him. I suspect he’s looking for a mama for his son. The kind who will cook, clean and run the boy to and fro. Right now that is not on my agenda.”

  Charles silently cheered her on as he stepped down from the bank of computers he constantly monitored. “Are we now up to date on Alexis’s social life, ladies? Can we proceed with the business at hand?”

  Kathryn flipped him the bird. “Any time you’re ready, Charles.”

  Charles settled into a chair next to Myra. “First things first. From this minute on, Isabelle must be able to account for her time with a witness. Around the clock. I’ve arranged for everything. Now, this is what we’re going to do.”

  The women watched as Charles separated his files. “We’re going to do a mail campaign where Rosemary Hershey is concerned. Pictures of the family killed in the accident. Copies of the different articles that appeared in the newspapers. Different pages of the transcript of the trial. Each day she will receive a new piece of mail. We’re going to play with her mind. We’ll be sending the mail from different towns — Arlington, Alexandria, Vienna, Springfield, and so on. Nothing will be sent from McLean or the District. Of course, Miss Hershey will immediately blame Isabelle, but she won’t be able to come up with any proof. Isabelle will be beyond such shenanigans.”

  Charles handed a folder to Alexis. “This is the family that was killed in the accident. Their names were Thomas and Patty Myers. They were taking their little girl, Diane, to the ear doctor in town. Diane was two years old. They left behind a little boy named Tommy who is now seven years old. His grandmother is caring for him. After the lawyers were paid — and let me say here, the grandmother didn’t have a very good lawyer — she walked away with very little. The lawyers took the lion’s share of the jury award. What was left, she put in a trust for the little boy’s college fund. They’re managing, but just barely. The grandmother’s name is Irma Myers. Thomas Senior was her only son. Patty was the daughter she never had but always wanted. A wonderful little family.

  “Alexis, I want you to go to their home and make contact. I have a cover story all made up for you. You’ll take this Game Boy for Tommy,” Charles said, handing over a boxed gift. “Tommy wants one desperately but it is not in their budget. I want current pictures. I want confidences shared by Irma about her family. Then I want you to promise her that Tommy’s life will be made as whole as we can make it. You’re going to be a new insurance investigator who decided to reopen their file. When the insurance company paid out, they left a pending sticker on the file. It’s your job to finish off the report and put it to bed. Do you have any problems with this, Alexis?”

  “No.”

  “Ladies?”

  The others shook their heads.

  “That’s it? We’re going to send things in the mail? When do we get to the good stuff?” Kathryn asked, a stupefied expression on her face.

  Charles allowed himself a brief smile. “How do you feel about breaking and entering, Kathryn?”

  Kathryn leaned forward. “Now you have my attention! What are we looking for?”

  “Money! Aside from Miss Hershey’s business account — a joint checking account with very little money in it — I haven’t been able to find where she keeps her money, which tells me she’s got it in the house. She’s one smart lady, I can tell you that. Everything she did, she did on paper. That means she borrowed money from the bank and used their money to build and buy her
house, start up the business, buy her cars. By the way, she has an excellent credit rating and pays her bills on time. It’s my opinion that she has a crackerjack accountant. Now, Mr. Harcourt is a different story. His finances check out one hundred percent. He has a robust brokerage account. He has a healthy 401 (k) plan, certificates of deposit, and a personal checking account with quite a few zeros in it. His share of the profits from the business are all accounted for. But then he is a top-notch architect so it is to be expected. With the exception of being married to Rosemary, the man has a sterling reputation. Miss Hershey’s share of the business profits do not show up anywhere, nor does her settlement money. I suppose it’s possible that it’s offshore somewhere and I just haven’t found it yet. What I really think is she’s got it in her house somewhere. The woman is paranoid, that much we know. She lied, cheated, betrayed Isabelle, caused an accident that killed three people and showed absolutely no remorse. That alone convinces me that if she went to those lengths out of greed, she isn’t going to trust her money anywhere but with herself.

  “What I want you to do is go to her home, find where she keeps it, but don’t touch it. For now we just want to know she actually has it. The woman is an architect. She’s more than capable of building a safe into her home that no one knows about, not even her husband, but I may be premature in my thinking where Mr. Harcourt is concerned. Kathryn and Yoko will do the breaking and entering. Isabelle will be overseeing the remodeling of her offices. Myra will be up to her ears with the farm next door. Nikki, you will start to figure out a way to get Miss Hershey’s money to the Myers family so that no suspicion is aroused. Assuming we find it, of course.”

  Isabelle’s voice became a whisper. “What about Bobby? I feel like I’m not contributing to my own mission here. All I do is sit at the new office and watch the renovations. Isn’t there something I can do?”