4. The Jury

by Fern Michaels

  Jack moved like lightning, shuffling his belongings to the crawl space, to the basement, and the two hall closets, making sure he didn’t take up more than his allotted space. He took a minute to view his pitiful wardrobe next to Nikki’s when he hung his three off-the-rack suits and two sport coats on the rod. A laundry basket held his jeans, tee shirts, various windbreakers, underwear and socks. Heavy-duty sweatshirts and sweatpants were in a trash bag. He wouldn’t be needing them for another month or so. He pushed the bag as far back in the closet as he could. His three pairs of good shoes went under his suits. His ties and white dress shirts, fresh from the laundry, went into one of the dresser drawers.

  He placed his shaving kit and toiletries on his half of the vanity. Now he felt like he belonged here. He turned on the exhaust fan and the shower and waited for the hot water to spew out before he stripped down. Under the steaming spray, he wilted for the first time in twenty-four hours. His shoulders slumped and he felt like crying. He’d sold out everything he believed in — everything he’d worked for all his adult life — for love.

  Jack struggled to rationalize things in his head as he soaped his body. Yeah, now he had the proof he’d searched for. But the attorney-client privilege was in place. Well, hell, when you sold your soul to the Devil, what was breaking a little thing like attorney-client privilege? He knew he wouldn’t do it because he loved Nikki and wanted to be part of her life again. And because of that love, he was prepared to look the other way or close his eyes entirely to what Nikki and the ladies of Pinewood were doing.

  There was no turning back now. He’d committed.

  Forty minutes later Jack was shouldering his way through the mob of yuppies that clogged the pub. He worked his way toward the end of the bar, high-fiving friends and winking at the blondes holding white-wine spritzers. The blondes winked in return as he continued his struggle to the end of the bar where Ted Robinson had just taken possession of two Heinekens. Jack hoisted his bottle and drank thirstily.

  Ted Robinson was tall and gangly with a shock of black, unkempt hair and a face full of freckles. His brown eyes were the sharpest, the shrewdest Jack had ever seen. Not a week went by that he didn’t have a byline, above the fold, in the Post. It was said that Ted lived at the paper, that he slept on a couch and showered at a gas station. It wasn’t true, but he spent so many hours a day there that it might as well have been.

  “So, Big Foot,” Jack said, referring to Ted’s size fourteen sneakers, “what’s going on? You got a big scoop or something?”

  The brown eyes were so penetrating that Jack was unnerved. He brought the green bottle to his lips so he didn’t have to look into those eyes.

  Ted reached for a handful of pretzels and crunched down. Instead of answering the question, he asked one of his own. “You ready to get back in the saddle to fight crime? The criminals out there are probably shuddering in their boots as they wait for Monday morning.”

  Jack laughed. “I’m ready. I liked being a private dick with Mark, but the DA’s office knocked on my door and I opened it. I got my suits cleaned, my shirts laundered, and my shoes polished. I’m good to go. Is this a slow news day or something? By the way, you’re picking up the tab, right?”

  “You moving back to the District?”

  “Yeah, as soon as I can find something I can afford. Until that happens, I’ll bunk in with a friend. You wanna order a hot dog or something?” Squire’s was known for its Dollar Dogs that came loaded. Jack was known to put four away at one sitting; Ted could outeat him by two.

  Ted banged his beer bottle on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. “Ten dogs, Charlie, and two more beers.” He turned to Jack. “I got a nibble on that mess you were working on out at Pinewood. By the way, what are you going to do about all of that if you go back to the DA’s office?”

  Here it was, the purpose of the meeting. Jack shrugged. “Look, you were right, Mark was right. I was obsessed with the whole thing. I went over the edge when Nikki dumped me.” He stared into the penetrating brown eyes and hoped his own were guileless. “I’m not giving up, but will pursue it on my own time, after hours. Don’t tell me you were lucky enough to come up with something.”

  Ted swung his stool around. Jack did the same thing. They could see each other in the bar mirror.

  “Jack, you spent three hours spinning your story to me, and I bought into it. What about that beating you took from the guys with the gold shields? By the way, I was able to confirm that there is such an elite little group. I have sources,” the reporter said smugly.

  “That’s your scoop?” Jack scoffed. “Hey, I knew it was for real. I was the one who got the beating. And don’t forget Mark witnessed the whole thing. Damn, for a minute there I thought you had some real news.”

  The Dollar Dogs arrived and both men dived in. Within minutes, they’d devoured all ten hot dogs and had drained their beers. “Now, that’s what I call a sterling dinner,” Ted said happily.

  Jack grinned. “Did you hear our arteries snapping shut? Good thing we do this only once or twice a year.” The army of ants in his stomach were on the march again. He waited, knowing he wasn’t going to like whatever it was that Ted was about to tell him.

  Ted leaned closer to be heard over the high-pitched conversations surrounding them. “I managed to get copies of Myra Rutledge’s bank records. The last couple of years she’s been moving money around and spending it like she was printing it herself. It goes in, then goes out to some very, very strange places. Millions and millions, Jack. Lots of it going offshore. I’m only telling you this now because you aren’t in the DA’s office yet.”

  Jack blinked. “No shit! Well, everyone knows Myra is filthy rich. A few million here or there would hardly be missed. So, what did she buy? Do you know?”

  “Well, she bought three motorcycles a while back. Maybe it was four, I can’t remember and I didn’t bring my notes with me. The fuel bill for her Gulfstream is incredibly high. I was able to nose around and there was no candy business going on. That means she used the jet for private purposes. Now, if she charges all that to her candy company, she could be in trouble with the IRS if someone wanted to snitch on her. Big-time criminals usually get caught by some pissy-assed detail like this.”

  “That’s it? Jet fuel and three or four motorcycles?” Jack scoffed. “What in the hell are we going to do with that information?”

  The brown eyes narrowed. “There was an extremely large expenditure on some high-tech equipment several years ago. Some of the stuff that Ms. Rutledge bought hasn’t arrived in the marketplace. Even the FBI doesn’t have it.”

  Jack’s heart raced. “What did she do with it? Where is it?”

  Ted held up his bottle for a refill. He shrugged. “No paper trail for delivery. Maybe it was picked up. It sure as hell wasn’t delivered. Cold trail. Three million was the cost. I haven’t been able to get much of anything on that guy Martin. It wasn’t for lack of trying, I can tell you that. Mark shared his files, but if I pursue any of those then I know I can expect a visit from those gold shields.”

  Jack’s jaw dropped. “Listen, I’m sorry I got you involved in this. Let it drop, go back to the paper and forget you know me. Those guys…They’ll show you no mercy. I don’t want to see you get hurt. So just drop it, OK?”

  “Can’t do that, old buddy. I already stuck my nose into it. I never backed off before and I’m not going to back off now. If I crack this, it could be a Pulitzer for me. What do you want me to do if I do crack it and Nikki is in it up to her eyeballs?”

  The ants were now eating their way up to Jack’s chest. He wished there was a way for him to kick his own rear end for involving Ted in this mess. “Just let me know. Before you break the story, OK?”

  “You got it. Right, they need me back at the paper. Call me.” Ted threw some bills on the bar and stalked off. Jack turned around and ordered another beer.

  His chickens were coming home to roost. How the hell was he going to tell Nikki all of this?
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  Ted Robinson pushed his chair away from his desk and then rubbed his gritty eyes. Time to go home to his cats, Minnie and Mickey, who were probably hissing at the door in frustration. His thoughts were on Jack Emery as he shut down his computer, gathered up his backpack with his Blackberry, his scrawled notes and his laptop. He slipped his arms through the straps and headed for the door. There was no one to wave to; no one cared if he worked eighteen hours a day or two hours a day.

  Ted lived in a six-floor walk-up eight blocks away. He hunkered into his flannel-lined jacket as he walked into the windy, rainy night. He hated the rain. Jack had seemed nervous tonight. Maybe nervous was the wrong word. Jittery was more like it. All of a sudden he was giving off indifferent vibes. Six months ago he’d practically gotten on his knees and begged Ted to look into what was going on at Pinewood. Ted had reluctantly agreed and putzed around with the mess just to keep Jack happy. Now he was the one who was obsessed, to his boss’s horror. The old man’s words rang in his ears every time he thought of Jack Emery and the women of Pinewood. “This paper is not interested in learning anything about Madam Rutledge. Keep poking your nose into things that aren’t of interest to this paper and you’ll be on the unemployment line.”

  That was all Ted Robinson had needed to hear. His hound-dog instincts had kicked in and he’d hit the ground running. Suddenly, everything else paled in comparison. Jack had dropped the gauntlet and Ted had picked it up.

  A cab raced by, kicking up a spray of rainwater that drenched Ted’s legs. He cursed as he picked up his feet and jogged the rest of the way to his apartment.

  On any other night he might have noticed the black car parked in front of his building, but with the falling rain and his wet jeans cleaving to his legs, he was intent only on getting home to change his clothes.

  “Screw you, Jack. You get me all excited and then you bail out on me. See if I give you credit when I finally write this damn story!”

  Ted’s long legs took the concrete steps two at a time to the secure door that led into the vestibule of his apartment building. Inside, he checked his mail but found nothing of interest, so he dropped the whole bundle into the trash basket before heading upstairs. As he rounded the corner he saw the three men lounging against the wall outside his door. He could hear Minnie and Mickey meowing inside. Something clutched at his gut. He sucked in his breath, knowing something bad was about to happen. He’d skirted the edges of trouble too many times not to recognize it.

  “Mr. Robinson?”

  Ted decided being flip might get him points. “That’s what my mama named me. I hope you aren’t selling something. If you are, I already have it. Excuse me,” he said, bending down to put his key in the lock. Mickey and Minnie had stopped meowing and were hissing now. He loved the sound; it convinced him he wasn’t having a bad dream.

  “Actually, what we sell is safety and security. Invite us in, please.”

  It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order, and Ted recognized it as such. Since he had never experienced real fear in his life, he took a second to wonder if that was what he was feeling now.

  “Well, sure, come on in. I bet you’re Harry, Mike and Moe, and you each have a gold shield. How’m I doing so far, boys?”

  “He’s a wiseass, too,” one of the men said as he flashed his gold shield. The two remaining men held up their matching shields.

  Mickey and Minnie were streaks of black fur as they raced to hide. Ted wished there was a place for him to hide, too, but the one-room studio didn’t exactly have many hidey-holes.

  “Are you still tailing Jack Emery?” he asked bravely. “Tsk, tsk,” the tallest of the three said, clucking his tongue. “We ask the questions, we don’t answer them.”

  “Is that what you said to Jack Emery before you beat the shit out of him?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” said the third man, the one who hadn’t spoken so far.

  Ted was about to respond when his head suddenly felt like it was going to explode. He went down onto his knees and was struggling to get up when he saw a foot coming his way. He closed his eyes and let it happen.

  Eight

  The war room crackled with sound, all three twenty-four-hour news stations announcing the current news as it happened. Charles’s printers spit out reams of paper while Charles himself tapped out messages to his fellow retired operatives all over the world.

  The women seated themselves, talking in hushed voices so as not to distract Charles. The conversation mostly pertained to the weather and how cool it was so early into the fall. Winter, they said, was probably going to be as brutal as it was last year. While no one actually said the word “horse,” they were all thinking about the cold and how the animals would fare at the Barringtons’ unless something was done before winter set in.

  Suddenly the giant TV monitors went black. The printers pinged, signaling that whatever Charles was printing had come to an end. The women watched as Charles separated the papers into seven separate piles, then stapled them. He walked over to one of the monitors and looked down over the railing at the women. They waited expectantly.

  “I have an announcement to make before we get under way. In case any of you don’t already know this, our main adversary, Jack Emery, will no longer be a freelance threat to us. Do not take that announcement to mean he’s through with us. I suspect he isn’t. On Monday, he will take up his duties as a full-fledged District Attorney. Having said that, I want you all to know that Mr. Emery appears to have passed his torch along to a Post reporter named Ted Robinson. The matter is being taken care of as we speak.”

  Nikki stared at Charles with unblinking intensity, aware that all eyes were watching her to gauge her reaction to this news. She was glad no one could see the tight knot inside her stomach. She shrugged, indifference in her expression, and waited, saying nothing. If the matter was being taken care of, then it was already too late to call Jack to alert Ted.

  Charles descended the two steps to the round table where all the women were seated. He handed out the stapled dossiers on Myra’s neighbors, the Barringtons, and then returned to his position behind the computer bank. He pressed a button on his remote control. The scales of justice appeared on all three monitors. The women stared overhead, their expressions somber and serious.

  Charles pressed the remote again. A picture of the Barrington farm appeared. It was an old picture, the buildings pristine white, the lawns manicured with exquisite shrubbery and brilliant flowers. A second picture appeared, taken just weeks ago. It showed buildings in disrepair, the lawns and flowers replaced with gravel and tufts of grass and weeds. A third picture appeared, showing dilapidated barns and sheds. All looked ready to tumble down. The fencing around the pastures was spindly at best.

  “I’m sorry to report that the information I’ve been able to gather on the Barringtons is rather sketchy. Originally, Myra and I thought that Amelia Barrington, a very distant cousin of the elder Barringtons, was married. It appears that isn’t the case.

  “The Barrington farm was neglected for many, many years. Fifteen, to be exact. The original family died off and the property passed from one to another until Amelia Barrington decided to take it over. This is a picture of Miss Barrington.”

  A picture of a stunning redheaded woman appeared on the screen. “This picture was taken before Miss Barrington fell on hard times. What that means is she frittered away her rather small inheritance on the jet-set life. At some point, she teamed up with Jacques Duquesne, a playboy she met on the Riviera. He made the mistake of thinking she was a rich heiress. She, in turn, thought he was a rich playboy. When the truth came out between them, they put their heads together and proceeded to hit up their jet-setter friends for what they called ‘seed money’ to start up a five-star racing stable here in the States. They returned here to McLean and started buying and selling horses. And, if you are interested, they haven’t repaid any of that ‘seed money’ to their rich friends abroad.”

  Nikki’s eyes bulged. “Five-st
ar racing stable!”

  Charles nodded. “It’s obvious no one lives on the farm. Miss Barrington and her friend have an apartment in the District at the Watergate. I just found that out this morning. If you look inside your folder you’ll see a handsome brochure that Miss Barrington handed out to her rich friends. As you can see, it is not the Barrington farm. It is, however, a racing stable. It’s in Kentucky and it’s called Blue Diamond Farms and was owned and operated by Nealy Coleman. Nealy Coleman was the first woman to own, train and then ride her horse to a Triple Crown. Miss Barrington’s friends were none the wiser and couldn’t wait to put up their money in hopes there would be a horse to ride to a Triple Crown.”

  “Then she must have some really stupid friends,” Kathryn snapped.

  Charles pursed his lips. “Not stupid, just bored and way too rich. They wanted to be part of something and couldn’t wait to donate to the cause. Both Amelia and Jacques are very persuasive people. In other words, superb con artists.”

  “But the lawsuit was brought against both Barringtons. Who is the other Barrington?”

  “Amelia’s brother Conway, who, by the way, is a decent chap. His name is on the deed to the farm along with Amelia’s. He had nothing to do with anything. The state was overzealous in prosecuting him. He lives and works as an insurance broker in Washington. He has a family and lives in Falls Church. Every day of the trial he had heated words with his sister, whom he claims to despise. He had his own attorney and the trial bankrupted him. The man and his family are not very happy with Miss Barrington. He is now suing his sister and the state. It’s one rather messy affair.”

  Alexis leaned across the table to get a better view of Charles. “Aside from Nikki and Myra, the rest of us know very little about the horse business. What kind of money are we talking about? What exactly did they do? And how? I don’t think any of us has a clear picture of what happened.”