Countdown

by Fern Michaels

  Chapter 2

  Dennis heaved a mighty sigh as he struggled to put all the papers he’d taken from his backpack into some kind of order. “Over the weekend, I went out to SE Washington, and that’s not a place I want to go again; but I will, of course. The gangs are . . . everywhere. One of the leaders accosted me, and I told him why I was there. That I was an investigative reporter, and I was trying to get the goods on the landlord for the people living in the buildings he owned. The leader was no dummy. He asked to see my credentials and suggested I also look into the management company that is supposed to take care of the buildings. Once we had a rapport going, he gave the okay to talk to some of the tenants. The tenants that are within his gangdom, if there is such a word. He said he’d pass the word to the other leaders if they wanted to . . . ah . . . come on board. He said he’d let me know and said he’d pave the way for a sit-down meeting.

  “Here’s the thing, Jack. They told me they would help but only if I got the tenants some heat. It was the weekend, there was nothing I could do but wait for this morning. I was at the power company when they opened, and I laid down some serious money to pay for some heating. They assured me there would be heat by noon provided the units were in working order. They promised to send crews out there to work on the units. I laid down some more money to pay for new units if need be, parts, fuel, etc. Luther, the guy I talked to . . . ah . . . offered his gang’s help. I said I’d call on him if I needed him.

  “Here’s the thing, Jack, yeah, these are punks, but they take care of their own the best way they can. There are quite a few old people living in those rat traps. These guys steal for them. Luther admitted it. Like he said, they tried the system, and it doesn’t work for people like them, so they took matters into their own hands.”

  Jack looked at his watch. It was quarter of eleven. “Have you spoken to Luther this morning?”

  “Before I came here. He said the neighborhood is buzzing with all kinds of contractors, electricians, and the management-company spokesperson, who he himself personally ran off. The guy’s name is Lionel Marks, and he owns District Management. He was mouthing off about trespassing, illegal installations, and a bunch of other stuff. He said he was coming back with a lawyer and the police. I don’t know whether or not that was bravado, but the guy ended up walking away because when he wasn’t looking, the gang members jacked up his car, a fancy Mercedes, and stripped it down, leaving nothing but the shell. Short of a SWAT team, few police, I’m told, ever venture out there in what the gangs call Never Land. They’ll sell the parts to some chop shop, take the money, and disburse it through the section they control. You know, warm clothes for the kids, food for the old people, and they pay for cell phones for them, too, in case of an emergency. At first glance, they, the gang members, look kind of fierce, but they’re just kids underneath, and they’re fighting the only way they know how. It’s the slums, man. They don’t see a way out from where they’re standing. We can help, Jack.”

  “I think you made a hell of a start this morning, kid. That’s a good thing you did. Money talks, and I’m glad you have a boatload of it. So what’s our next move here?”

  Dennis glanced at the clock on Jack’s wall. “I gave Luther my number and yours. Since he hasn’t called either one of us, I’m thinking things are progressing. Do you want to take a ride out there? It wouldn’t hurt for you to see it all for yourself.”

  “Sure, why not. Let me check with the guys, and I’ll be ready in ten minutes. What are you driving?”

  “The Post van. Espinosa took his car when he left with Ted. You can bring Cyrus if you want.”

  “I want,” Jack said through clenched teeth. “So what do you think, young Dennis?”

  “I think I have to admire their fight for survival. Yeah, the gangs are wrong, but they don’t have a way out. You play the hand you’re dealt. Who’s to say you or I wouldn’t do the same thing if we walked in their shoes. Oh, one other thing, they make sure the little kids get to school and that they have all the supplies they need. Luther told me there is one little boy who can play the piano so well it makes tears come to your eyes. They take him for lessons in the hope he’ll be able to get out of there someday. I have no clue where they get the money for the lessons, but they get it. I was not about to ask, either. There’s another little girl who needs some medical help, and they’re working on that. Good and bad in everything, Jack.”

  “Well damn,” was all Jack could think of to say. “Okay, I’m ready. You’re driving, I assume.”

  “I am driving,” Dennis said curtly.

  Luther Jones was a tall, gangly young kid. If he was seventeen, he was old. He greeted Dennis like a long-lost brother, and said, “Your wheels are safe. Nice dog, mister. I love dogs. My granny has a cat so’s to keep her warm. We make sure he gets plenty to eat, so he don’t go all skinny on us.

  “Dennis, my brother, I don’t know what kind of magic you worked, but lookie here at all these fine people out here to help us. We getting new furnaces and hot-water heaters, and they are telling us that by suppertime my street is going to be warm and cozy. Unless Mr. Lionel Marks shows up with the cops to strip everything outta here.”

  “That won’t happen,” Jack said. Cyrus barked his approval as he sniffed Luther’s leg. He held up his paw to shake hands. Jack decided right then and there that Luther was A-okay.

  “He smells my granny’s cat on me. Fool animal likes to sit on my lap when he ain’t sitting on Granny’s lap. She calls him Loopy because he loves Fruit Loops.”

  “Luther, we need to speak with the family that lost their children last winter. Can you arrange a meeting?”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t. They moved in April, couldn’t stay here any longer. A cousin drove up from Miami and took them away from here.”

  “Do you know how we can get in touch? We want to make things right for them. As well as the rest of your neighbors.”

  “I’ll ask around. It’s not like we have cell phones growing out our ears around here. In this neighborhood, there’s but five of them. Four for the old folks, and they share among themselves, and I have one. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Dennis was hopping from one foot to the other to ward off the cold. “So, what else can we do for you before we leave?”

  “Man, I have to wonder what planet you dropped from. Nobody has ever been this good to us. Why? What are you getting out of this?”

  “Not a damn thing. We just want to help. Now, what else do you need?”

  “Is the dude serious?” Luther asked Jack directly.

  “He’s serious,” Jack said solemnly.

  “Well, then okay. We could do with some real good food. You know, for suppertime, when we’re all warm and cozy. There’s a market over there on the avenue. I can have two of my guys go with you to shop if you’re sure you want to do that.”

  “Round them up and let’s go. We can pack a lot of stuff in the van.”

  Luther stood back and watched the van disappear from view. He scratched his head as he tried to figure out what had just happened. He pointed to three of his members and told them to spread the word: food was coming. Good food.

  Two hours later, the van showed up just as Ted and Espinosa pulled to the curb. “Dennis sent us,” Ted said as he exited Espinosa’s SUV. We’re here to help. We work at the Post with Dennis.”

  Luther scratched his head again. “Okay. Your car is safe.”

  “Glad to hear it since it isn’t paid for yet,” Espinosa muttered.

  Ted looked at Luther, uncertain how he should say what he wanted to say. In the end, he just blurted it out. “How do you guys feel about being on the front page of the Post tomorrow morning?”

  Luther pondered the question for several moments. “Who do you mean when you say, you guys?”

  “You, your ... ah club members, the tenants—anyone who wants to talk to us.”

  “I don’t see a problem. You gonna talk to Mr. Lionel Marks?”

  “We’l
l call him, and if he cares to comment, we’ll print it. I’m thinking he won’t want to do that because he’ll be way too busy trying to salvage his cutthroat company.”

  Dennis blew the horn on the van. The back doors flew open as the call went up and down the street for everyone to assemble.

  It only took an hour to disburse the food and another two hours for Ted and Espinosa to interview anyone who wanted to talk. He did a separate interview with the young pianist and the little girl in need of medical help. He knew within twenty-four hours both children’s futures would be secure because if there was one thing the Post was good at, it was getting people to help other people. Not to mention that one of Espinosa’s pictures was worth a thousand words.

  Maggie Spritzer gaped and gawked as Ted fed her the story that would be the headline for the morning paper. She could smell a Pulitzer for Ted and Dennis. She was so jealous, she wanted to chew nails and spit rust.

  Chapter 3

  Lionel Marks, the owner of District Management LLC, glared at the morning edition of the Post as he watched e-mail after e-mail ping to life on his computer. Just minutes ago he’d slammed into his plush offices and bellowed to his secretary to hold all his calls and to lock the office doors. He’d made a stupid mistake coming into the office, one he now regretted.

  The staff, which numbered nine altogether, looked at one another and knew instinctively to keep their heads down and do as instructed. The boss was in an uproar. Rightly so, they all thought smugly. Lionel Marks was not a beloved boss—he was a hated boss, but he paid well, and his benefits package was for the most part worth the aggravation.

  Marks looked at the stack of pink message slips, his insides crunching into a tight knot. Landlords—the most hated people on earth next to the people who managed the landlords’ properties—were right up there with used-car salesmen and insurance agents, and their agents, who were responsible for keeping their names out of the public eye. Today’s edition of the Post stared up at him like a large, square, benevolent eye.

  Marks let his thoughts go to his beloved Mercedes, which was nothing but a shell sitting at the curb in SE Washington. Damn scavengers. Should he report it or suck up the loss? Well, he had another Mercedes, so it really didn’t matter all that much in the scheme of things. Then again, it did matter. He looked down at the printed page of the newspaper, which had a full frontal shot of himself, his lips drawn back in a snarl. Christ! He looked like a rabid dog.

  As Marks read the article under his picture, he had to marvel at how the reporters had gathered so much information in such a short period of time; unless, of course, they had this all planned and were just waiting to spring a trap on him. His gut told him that this was just the tip of the iceberg. He tore his eyes away and started to finger through the stack of pink message slips. Nine from Fiona Sandford. Who else. Like her politician husband could be bothered even to comment on ownership of all his properties in SE Washington. Keep the secret at all costs. It’s all about the P&L sheets. “Bastard!” He wondered how long it would be before all the alphabet agencies in town started crawling up his ass. Days, he decided if those two reporters had anything to do with it. He could see this being front-page fodder for weeks to come. And right before Christmas, too, when news was usually slow here in the nation’s capital. He’d get a full-court press for sure.

  Marks turned on the TV and watched in horror as the local station showed its viewers all the activity going on in the SE. He saw his car and winced. He turned up the volume and listened to a shivering reporter as she tried to keep the hair out of her eyes. “All this,” she said, waving her arms to indicate the power-company trucks, water-company trucks, civilian contractors, three different exterminating companies, and people clotting the streets, “is the result of an unknown benefactor who has pledged to give the people living here a decent home. The benefactor, who chooses to remain anonymous at this time, has vowed to go after the slum landlords and the management company that has allowed these deplorable conditions to exist. If you all remember, it was exactly a year ago when three children died here on this same street. Until today . . .”

  Sick to his stomach, Marks turned off the TV and slumped back in his chair. No way in hell was this going to go away. He picked up the phone and dialed Fiona Sandford’s private, unlisted number. She snarled a greeting after only one ring. “What do you have to say for yourself, Lionel?”

  Marks bolted upright in his special ergonomic chair. There was plenty he wanted to say to the bitch talking to him and to her highfalutin lieutenant governor husband. He took a deep breath and marveled at how steady he felt, how much in control of himself. “I think you should be more worried about what you and your husband are going to say, not me. I’m just a hired gun following orders, so you and your husband can remain lily-white. I’m rather busy right now, so I’m sure you can understand if I cut this conversation short. So, if you have nothing else to say to me, I’m hanging up. Oh, wait just one minute. If I’m forced to, I will give you up. You do realize that, don’t you?” Whatever retort was hanging off Fiona Sandford’s collagen-enhanced lips went unsaid because Marks broke the connection. She’d call back—she always did—because she was relentless.

  A knock sounded softly, hesitant. “What?” Marks bellowed.

  His secretary, a dumb blonde if there ever was one, in his opinion, poked her head in the door and announced that three different reporters were in the lobby asking for comments, and no, none of the three were from the Post. “Tell them I have no comment at this time and do not bother me again. If you do, you’re on the unemployment line.” The door made no sound when it closed.

  A monster headache was brewing behind Lionel Marks’s eyes. He knew what he was experiencing was the beginning of the end. Time to pack up and head for the hills. In his case, Hong Kong, where he could get lost among the millions of people who lived there. He owned multiple properties in the New Territories, where he could hide out for the rest of his life if need be. He just wasn’t sure he could live in that culture. Still, when he’d made his plans for a getaway years ago, he’d convinced himself it would work. If it didn’t, then he’d go to Plan B, which was to relocate to Dubai. Now that the time was here, suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Especially if reporters were going to start to dog him.

  Marks thought about his wife then and his three children, who were grown and off on their own for the most part. He gave little thought to his four grandchildren. He wouldn’t miss any of them. They, on the other hand, needed his money to keep up their lifestyles, especially his wife, who thought money grew on trees. If he left, he’d just simply walk away, no baggage, and head for the airport. He wouldn’t look back, either. But he was going to need a foolproof disguise if any of it was to happen. He had long ago invested in an alias, complete with a full set of credentials in case a hasty departure was called for. His long, manicured fingers drummed the top of his shiny desk. Christmas. Maybe he could hold out, bluff it through till after the holidays to try to keep things as normal as possible. Then again, maybe he should start putting his exit plans into gear right now.

  Marks still kept an old-fashioned Rolodex on his desk. He fingered the cards, mentally cataloging how much money he made a year off each client. If even one of them thought they could make him their scapegoat, he’d throw their sorry asses under the bus so fast, they wouldn’t know what hit them.

  Time, he thought, to bring out his Rosetta Stone to brush up on his Chinese.

  While Lionel Marks was rummaging for his Rosetta Stone disks, Annie de Silva was showing that morning’s edition of the Post to Myra. “The kids did a great job on the article, don’t you think, Myra? I see Ted and Dennis playing this out for a Pulitzer, and that’s a plus for the paper. I saw on the news this morning that the tenants in the article have an anonymous benefactor. I have to assume it’s young Dennis, and that’s a good thing from where I’m standing. I just love it when right wins out. Maggie is rather upset that Ted has moved on and is doing his own thing
. She called me last night, I think in the hopes that I would reel him in so that she could control what he does. I hated to do it, Myra, but I had to tell her it was hands off where he is concerned because I know that if she baits him too much, he’ll up and leave. And if he goes, so will Joseph and Dennis. I can’t have that. Tell me what you think. Was I wrong?”

  “Good heavens no, Annie. You are the boss. Sometimes, you seem to forget that. Ted is exemplary, and so is Dennis. I’ve yet to meet a photographer who can hold a candle to Joseph. The paper would falter without them. Maggie has to learn to put her personal feelings aside. Although I do understand what she is going through. You know what they say, business is business, and there is no room for personal vendettas.”

  Annie got up to pour more coffee in their cups. “She’s also upset that the private detectives have come up with nothing, which is rather strange in itself.”

  Annie eyed the long, narrow length of yarn Myra was working on. “Isn’t it time to give that up?” she said, pointing to the pile of messy yarn at Myra’s feet.

  “Are you serious, Annie? If I did that, how would my friend Claudeen out in Arizona—your friend, too, I might remind you—who spent hours on Skype teaching me how to knit, feel. I can’t just quit. I’m getting better, and you know it. I would never want her to think I wasn’t trying. I know I’ll never be able to knit like she does for the terminally ill at hospice. She loves that yarn ministry we put together. My goal is to help out as soon as I get good enough.

  “Hopefully, sooner or later, I’ll improve. We need to recruit more knitters for the ministry. When I think about all those gorgeous afghans Claudeen makes for terminally ill patients, I get all choked up. She’s a really good person, as you know. Swear to me, Annie, that you won’t tell her what a messy knitter I am. It would break her heart.”

  “I’m not going to tell her. Why don’t you tie it off or whatever you have to do to finish it and let the dogs lie on it by the fire?”