14. Razor Sharp

by Fern Michaels

  Ted clambered out of his rental car and looked over the terrain. It was mind-boggling that he was seeing lush green grass in the middle of nowhere, with desert all around. Living in Washington, he didn’t see too much grass, and never an expanse like he was seeing now. Little patches of lawn didn’t cut it. He wondered what it would feel like to tramp over the green blades in his bare feet. He looked down at his shoes.

  “Don’t even think about running through my grass, young man. It’s to look at, to lust over, to dream about. It is not to walk on. Even I do not walk on it.”

  “Then what good is it? How can you enjoy such a spectacle if you don’t walk on it? I thought grass was sturdy,” Ted grumbled, as his mind raced to a vision of himself and Maggie having sex amid the lush greenery.

  “That won’t work either, young man,” Fish said, knowing what was on Ted’s mind. Everyone wanted to have sex on his grass. If anyone was going to christen his meadow, it would be him and no one else.

  Jesus, was the guy a mind reader? Ted flushed. “Ted Robinson,” Ted said, holding out his hand.

  “Little Fish. People just call me Fish. I’m Indian. No point in telling you my real name because it isn’t important. What brings you out here, and what do you want?”

  “What? You’re a mind reader and you want me to believe you don’t know why I’m here? I want to pick your brain,” Ted grumbled. “Is it true you have claymore mines all over this place?”

  “I do. Does it bother you, Mr. Robinson?”

  “Well, yeah. I don’t want to get splattered to hell and back. If you love this grass so much, how come you’re willing to blow it up?”

  “You talk too much. Come along and walk right behind me.”

  Ted made sure he stepped only where he was told. When they reached the front door of the long, sprawling house, he heaved a sigh of relief.

  Fish smiled to himself. No one but he and his people knew there were no mines. It was a rumor he himself had started years ago to keep lookie-loos and other unsavory people away from his property. Especially when he had to truck in water all the way from Arizona to keep his grass lush and healthy.

  It was a man’s house for sure, Ted thought as he looked around. Plank floors, wood all over the place, leather furniture, no feminine touches anywhere. Maggie would hate it with a passion. Indian rugs dotted the floors in some of the rooms, others hung from the walls. Ted decided he could definitely live in a place like this. But, if Maggie got her mitts on it, there would be ruffled curtains on the windows, gizmos, and knickknacks everywhere, not to mention silk plants and artificial trees.

  “I’m a kitchen kind of guy. That means we’ll sit out here at the table. You want coffee or soda pop? I have both. I make good coffee. Strong but good. Grind my own beans, and you have to use real cream. Not that artificial crap. Sit down, young fella, and tell me what you want to know.”

  Ted sat down in a wooden chair that he knew had to weigh five hundred pounds. The round wooden table looked like it weighed half a ton and was made from old tree trunks. A bowl of bright red apples sat in the middle of the table. He stretched out his legs, and asked, “Who are you, Fish?”

  “I’m the man who’s making you coffee.” And that was the end of that.

  Ted stared at the man who was making him coffee. He was leathered and wrinkled, but his eyes were his most remarkable feature. They were summer blue, not faded like some older people’s. He had plenty of hair that was iron gray and tended to curl around his ears. The fishing cap he’d taken off and squashed into his pocket was as old and as worn as the jeans and plaid shirt he was wearing. If Fish had more money than Fort Knox, as Lizzie had told Ted on his last trip, it sure didn’t show in his attire. Ted knew there was a gun tucked into the back of Fish’s waistband. Another was strapped to his ankle. Lizzie had told him that, too. An old guy who used to be a mercenary and who wasn’t about to give up that exciting life. A rich, old mercenary, a rare commodity, Ted expected.

  “Talk to me,” Fish said.

  “I was told that you know everything there is to know about Vegas. How come they call Wayne Newton ‘Mr. Vegas’ and not you?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” Fish grinned.

  Ted blinked at the startling white teeth that shone like beacons in the sun-darkened face. “Who put up the money for the Happy Day Camp out there in Podunk?”

  Fish laughed. “Pahrump. Why do you want to know? It’s not a good thing to lie to me. Not that you would, but I frown on people who try to get one over on me. You got here on sterling credentials, but that can change in the time it takes your heart to beat twice.”

  Ted mulled that over, and said, “Some big shit is going down in the nation’s capital. It involves the new administration. Seems the madam of the Happy Day Camp took her crew on the road and got herself in a spot of trouble. Then she did a disappearing act. The FBI is looking for her, and so is the current administration, along with some Secret Service types. And the Vigilantes are on it.”

  “Oh, well, then you don’t have to worry about anything if the ladies are on it.” Fish guffawed. “Those FBI types can’t find the end of their noses, and the Secret Service isn’t any better. Didn’t you check the land records?”

  “I did, but it’s buried. I was hoping you might have heard who put the money up. It’s a given that the lady didn’t have those kinds of assets. Someone had to bankroll it, and that someone had to have some clout to bury it all so deep. The big question is why? Prostitution is legal here in Nevada. Who cares who bankrolled something like a brothel?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Well, yeah,” Ted drawled “that’s what I think because I can’t think any other way at the moment. I’m in the ‘what, where, when, and why’ business. I’m thinking that person has a lot to hide by burying it so deep. I can’t believe the revenue from one brothel could bring in that much money that it all has to be kept secret. It has to be more than that. So what do you know?”

  “That’s going way back—twelve, maybe thirteen years at least. My memory isn’t all that good of late. Seems to me it was some group that put up the money.”

  Ted managed to look disgusted. “My ass, you don’t know. I was told you know everything. Are you telling me that’s a lie, or one of those myths, like your claymore mines? Five will get you ten you don’t have one mine out there in your yard. Let’s cut the bullshit, it was a simple question. If you can’t answer it, then I’ll be on my way. My boss pays me by the hour, and she’s hell on wheels when it comes to wasting time without gleaning useful information.”

  Little Fish let out a loud laugh and slapped at his thigh. “I like that. Short and to the point. Time is money, that kind of thing.” He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Ted. “Bring your coffee and let’s see what we can come up with. On one condition, now.”

  Ted stopped in his tracks. “And that would be…what?”

  “That you tell the ladies I was helpful. I’m inclined to think I let things develop into a bit of a mess the last time we ran into one another. I’d like to clear that up.”

  Ted’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Are you asking me to put in a good word with the Vigilantes? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “That’s what I’m asking, young fella.”

  “What makes you think those ladies are going to listen to me?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” Fish cackled.

  Ted shrugged. The man had a point. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Fish smacked his hands as he led Ted into a room that looked like it belonged at the Kennedy Space Center. All Ted could do was gawk and gasp for breath. He was so astounded at the array of computers, screens, and other equipment he sloshed his coffee all over his pants leg. Fish pretended not to notice his faux pas.

  “What in the name of God is all this?” Ted asked as he waved his arm about, spilling even more coffee down his legs. He barely noticed or felt the heat of the hot coffee on his leg.

  “This,” Fi
sh said, “is how I know everything.”

  Ted knew that Maggie was absolutely going to love all this. He could hardly wait to get back outside so he could text her. He knew if he tried right then, Fish would break his fingers. He watched in awe as Fish settled himself on a stool in front of one of the computers. He tapped away, then scooted to another computer until he’d made the rounds of the entire room. Paper literally flew out of a line of fax machines. Ted had to force himself to stand still in the little area Fish had pointed to, just far enough away so Ted couldn’t see the various passwords he was typing into all the computers.

  In the blink of an eye, all the screens suddenly went blank. Fish rolled across the room to the fax machines and started gathering up all the papers. “What are you going to do with this information, kid?”

  Kid? “I don’t think my boss is going to sit on it, if that’s what you mean. We work for a newspaper. My job is to write stories, articles, gather news. My boss’s job is to publish that news. We both know who owns that newspaper, so take your best guess. That’s a hell of a lot of paper you’re holding in your hands.”

  “So it is. You want a name, right?”

  “Yeah. You want to tell me who it is? Why couldn’t you just tell me instead of taking up thirty minutes of my time and printing out all that stuff? Aren’t you into the environment and saving all those trees? You’re holding at least three trees right there in your hands.”

  “If I just rattled off a name, where is your second source? Don’t you need proof?”

  Silly me, Ted thought. This guy is one step ahead of me all the way. “Yeah, I need proof.”

  Fish waved a piece of paper under Ted’s nose. Ted looked at the name, felt suddenly light-headed. “Oh, shit!”

  “That pretty much sums it up, young fella. You want some more coffee, seeing as how you spilled most of yours? Maybe this time we should put a little jolt of something in it to bring back your color. You’re looking a bit pasty right now.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, a little jolt would be good right now.”

  One jolt coming up. The old man cackled as he led the way back to the kitchen.

  Chapter 13

  It was late in the day, almost everyone was gone, even Maggie’s secretary. Espinosa had just dropped off a ton of papers, profiles of just about every politico in the Connor administration. Maggie eyed the pile with a jaundiced eye. Then she looked over at a red folder labeled SENATORS and a yellow folder labeled CONGRESSMEN. Her reading for the evening. Oh, joy!

  The big problem was, did she really want to lug this mountain of paperwork home, then lug it back in the morning? Maybe what she should do was go out to get something to eat or order something in and stay to work her way through the profiles to see what she actually had to work with. After five minutes of serious thought, takeout food and staying at the office won out. She hadn’t had Chinese in two days, Italian in three days, a mishmash of every junk food known to man yesterday. Maybe ribs and some fries. She heard her arteries snapping shut at the thought. The deli around the corner was open till ten. She could order a vegetable salad, a fruit salad, some chocolate cake, a slice of apple pie, a loaded baked potato, and some hot garlic bread. That should tide her over till she got home and could eat some real food. Then she remembered her larder was bare. She needed to give some serious thought to hiring someone to do her shopping and maybe even preparing some meals once in a while. She made a mental note to call Alexis, as she used to be a personal shopper when she got out of prison. Alexis would know how all that worked.

  Maggie was about to pick up the phone to call the deli when she saw a shadow pass her window and move toward her door. There stood Lizzie Fox Cricket in the flesh.

  As always, Maggie moaned that even on her best day she could never come anywhere near to looking like the Silver Fox. Just hours ago Lizzie had been a newlywed in Las Vegas. Now, here she was looking like she’d just stepped out of a bandbox. Her makeup was so flawless, it looked like she wasn’t wearing any. Her silvery hair actually glistened under the fluorescent lights. She was dressed in a dove-gray suit with an emerald tank top underneath that just barely peeked through the neckline of the jacket, but even a glimpse complemented the emerald earrings dangling from Lizzie’s ears. Maggie knew she could retire on what those babies cost. Gray ostrich-skin shoes and bag completed the picture. “The lady in silver” was how Maggie later described Lizzie to Ted.

  Maggie grinned now and bolted off the chair to run to Lizzie and hug her. “I can’t believe you got married! What are you doing here? Something’s wrong, right? Oh, Lizzie, I am so happy for you!”

  “I came to take you to a late dinner. I already called Jack and Harry. They’re going to meet us at Squire’s Pub. Grab your purse and jacket, and let’s go or we’ll be late, and, yes, something is wrong. I’d rather tell all of you at the same time.”

  Squire’s Pub! Hmmm. Carnivorous by nature, all Maggie could think of was the five-pound Porterhouse the pub was known for, a fully loaded baked potato, a few beers, and maybe a salad, with chocolate thunder cake for dessert. Something was always wrong, so why get her panties in a wad until she heard whatever it was that had brought Lizzie back to D.C. in the middle of her honeymoon?

  The Squire’s Pub was exactly what the name implied, a British saloon. It had been closed for almost a year while the new owners renovated what was perfectly fine before the renovations began. The only difference to the eye was that the brass was a little brighter, and the prints on the wall were different—mostly celebrities rather than the old pictures of hunting dogs and polo ponies. The sawdust on the floors was fresh, and there was no stale smell of beer or ale. All in all a pleasant place after the rush hour crowd of federal workers departed for the suburbs.

  Jack and Harry were already in a back booth, their old-time favorite, which had been re-covered in a deep burgundy leather. The tables were long and shellacked to a high gloss. The guys made an attempt to stand up, but Lizzie waved them back down. Both women slid in opposite Jack and Harry. A waiter in a ruffled white shirt, knickers, and leggings bore down on the table. Jack pointed to the pitcher of beer, which was almost empty. Another pitcher and two more glasses appeared as if by magic. Jack poured generously into the frosty mugs. Harry made the toast to Mrs. Cosmo Cricket. They clinked glasses, and Lizzie’s face went all soft and melting. Jack nodded and winked at her. Love was a wondrous thing.

  They waited another minute before they gave their order: steaks and loaded baked potatoes all around, garden salad, dressing on the side, garlic bread, heavy on the garlic, and double chocolate thunder cake and coffee for dessert.

  “Okay, Miz Cricket, what’s up?” Jack asked, as soon as the waiter scurried off with their order.

  Harry was left to stare at the leggings, a bemused expression on his face. He shook his head when he couldn’t figure out why a grown man would put up with an outfit like the waiter was wearing, and he said so.

  “House rules, Harry. I guess waiters dress this way in the pubs in England, or the current owner thinks that’s how waiters dress across the pond. Don’t worry about it. Just for the record, female waitresses are called barmaids, and they wear aprons with ruffles. End of story. Okay, Lizzie, you’re on.”

  Lizzie looked first at Maggie, and said, “I’m sorry I’m the one with the news. Ted got it, but I warned him not to call or text it to you. I just thought it would be safer if you were all told in person. Ted went out to see Little Fish. He not only got the information we need verbally, but he also got hard proof in writing. All kinds of sources, Maggie, so you will be in the clear.

  “And”—Lizzie paused to take a swig of her beer—“the madam is dead. She had a car accident several days ago on the Cajon Pass. So far, Cosmo, Ted, Bert, and I are the only ones who know that the person identified as Lily Flowers, the name the deceased was using when she died, was the madam. Cosmo had her cremated, and we…what we did was scatter her ashes in the desert. No one, not even Cosmo, knows her real name. She had various a
liases along with credentials that backed up each identity. Yesterday morning, Cosmo received a packet sent by messenger. It was Ms. Flowers’s will, and she gave Cosmo her power of attorney, which was over and above the authorization she had already given him to go after the johns. That’s why he went ahead and had her cremated.”

  “What’s it all mean?” Harry asked.

  Then Jack and Maggie also bombarded Lizzie with questions that she didn’t have answers for.

  “So where does all this leave us?” Maggie asked. “No body, no Vegas madam, no case? What?”

  “Flowers’s girls are safe and sound for the moment. Financially, they’re sound, and I doubt they will be returning to Vegas anytime soon, if ever. They’re too afraid. They don’t think it was an accident. Cosmo and I don’t think it was an accident either. But the troopers who investigated the incident are convinced that it was. A tire blew. At this moment, I don’t know which way Bert is leaning. He’s got a crackerjack agent out there who, according to him, is like a bulldog. The agent might sniff this all out eventually, but then again, maybe not. The madam had a well-thought-out plan, and she acted on it. But, she did end up dead.”

  “But, Lizzie, where does that leave us? Do we have a mission, or don’t we? If the madam is dead, doesn’t that leave the Washington bad boys off the hook?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, our little group is the only one who knows she’s dead. They’ll keep looking for her. In the meantime, it would be my guess that politics goes on as usual until something more concrete comes up. I’m going to go up to the mountain tomorrow morning.”