Razor Sharp

by Fern Michaels

  Annie held up her hand. “How do you feel about doing something outrageous?”

  Myra whacked through an orange. “How outrageous?”

  “As long as we’re getting our ears pierced, let’s take it a step further and get our belly buttons pierced. We could get a really big diamond. Or we could get one of those belly chains with a diamond in the middle. A chastity belt. Kind of. Sort of. What do you think, Myra?” Annie asked fretfully.

  Myra whacked another orange. “How long have you been thinking about this, Annie?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Hmmm, five minutes? Okay, let’s do it. Do you think it will hurt?”

  “How the hell would I know that? It’s the price we’ll have to pay. Three carats at the very least. Do you agree?”

  “Absolutely. I’m kind of excited. You’re right, it is outrageous. I never thought I would do something so…so…decadent.”

  The juicer whirred again. “See, Myra, we’re having fun. Now we have something to look forward to. Piercings! Who knew?” Annie cackled gleefully. “Wait a minute. How about if we go for something really out of the box, over the top, totally, totally outrageous?”

  Myra looked dubious, but at the gleeful look in Annie’s eyes, she said, “Hit me.”

  Annie whispered in her ear.

  Myra’s jaw dropped and her eyes popped. “Oh, Annie!”

  “Come on, Myra, you only go this way once, we have to make the most of it. I already went online to check it out.”

  Myra now looked beyond dubious. “Where…where…will we put it?”

  “On our asses, where else? We don’t want anyone to see it, so where else could we put it?”

  Myra’s voice rose in pitch as she said, “A tattoo seems so…tacky.”

  “That depends on one’s point of view. Think of it as making a statement. Listen, Myra, this is all about us. Are you ready to step out of the box?”

  “What kind of statement will we be making if it’s on our asses?”

  “We answer to no one, Myra. I think I’ll get the scales of justice. What will you get?”

  “A flower, a heart, maybe a rose?”

  Annie ignored her friend’s jittery-sounding voice.

  “That’s so last year, Myra. Go big! Remember, we’re being outrageous. How about a smoking gun?”

  “Dear God! Do I have to make a decision right now?”

  “No, dear, not right now. For now it’s enough that you committed to doing it. I’m so proud of you, Myra.”

  Myra looked around the kitchen. She squared her shoulders and decided at that precise moment she was proud of herself, too.

  Neither of them noticed Nikki loitering just outside the door to the kitchen.

  “Now that we’re on a roll, how about if we order those chains?”

  Annie covered the pitcher of orange juice and set it in the refrigerator while Myra cleaned off the counter. Annie washed the juicer and Myra dried it.

  “We’re a team, Myra,” Annie said, linking her arm with Myra. “Let’s take on eBay. We might be able to give Nellie a run for her money. She’s addicted to the Shopper’s Channel. We can hit their Web site while we’re at it. Isn’t the Internet a wonderful thing? You can shop in the middle of the night in your jammies if you want. Life is just so good, isn’t it, Myra?”

  “It is, Annie, it is.”

  Jack Emery woke with a pounding headache. He looked toward the window and saw that it was going to be another gray day, with rain that wasn’t needed. As he walked sluggishly toward the shower, he wished he hadn’t eaten the rack of spareribs Harry had fixed last night. He’d eaten more than Maggie, something he didn’t think was possible.

  He gulped down a handful of aspirin before he stepped into the shower. He thought his head was going to explode right off his neck when the steaming hot water hit him. He danced around under the spray when he turned the nozzle to COLD. He cursed a whole new language before he turned it back to the HOT setting.

  Ten minutes later he was shaved and dressed when his doorbell rang. He galloped down the steps. He peered through the peephole to see Maggie standing on his doorstep.

  “What?” he growled. “You just left here a few hours ago. You better not be trying to bond with me this early in the morning. What?” he growled again. “There are no more spareribs. You took the leftovers.”

  “Well, aren’t you the little bucket of sunshine this morning? I’ll settle for a cup of coffee. I brought the morning paper for your perusal.”

  “I have a really bad headache, Maggie. What’s it say?” Jack filled the coffeepot with water from the tap, then added the coffee grounds. He got a container of half-and-half out of the refrigerator and set it in the center of the table along with a small bowlful of sugar cubes and sweeteners. “Well, what does the paper say?”

  “It says that POTUS, or the President of the United States, has invited Main Street America to a dinner at the White House. POTUS invited eleven families from the Kalorama area. One whole street. The street where Karl Woodley, the ex–national security advisor, and his wife, Paula, used to live.”

  “And you think I need to know this…why? Of all places, why that one? The girls were almost caught out there not too long ago.” Jack massaged his temples, which were still pounding like a jackhammer. He felt like banging his head against the wall to drive away the pain, but if he did that, he’d probably crack his skull.

  “Because, Jack, that’s where the action is going to go down. No one would ever think they’d go back to the scene of an old crime. They’d think the Vigilantes are too smart to do something like that. It was the girls’ idea. Lizzie set it up with POTUS and it’s on. I reported it for the reading public and, at the same time, did a bit of a recap, reminding that same reading public that POTUS’s advisors and the DNC pushed to have Hunter Pryce put on the ticket. I also reminded the reading public that POTUS wanted Chandler Maddox as her running mate, not Hunter Pryce, because she didn’t want the voters to think she was picking Pryce because of their prior romantic relationship. The DNC somehow convinced her to go with Pryce. That’s why I kept running those editorials every day reminding everyone that she really wanted Chandler Maddox. I even ran an in-depth interview Ted did with Maddox. Trust me, we got our licks in. The purpose of this morning’s edition is so when the dark stuff hits the fan, it won’t splatter in Connor’s direction. We have to keep her on our side, Jack, so she gives the girls the pardon she promised. She’s two for two now. Are you getting it now?”

  Jack mumbled something that sounded like yes. “What’s the plan?” he asked as he poured coffee into two bright-red mugs. One of the mugs said “Jack” and one said “Nikki” in fancy white script with tiny snowflakes all over the mugs, a gift to Jack one Christmas from Nellie Easter.

  “I’m waiting to hear. At the moment there are a lot of loose ends that have to be tied up. Lizzie is working on it, and so is Bert. The girls are doing what they do best, planning and plotting. I’d really like to stay and chat, but I want to get to the office to see how this front page is going to play out. You should put a vinegar rag on your forehead, and it will make your headache go away.”

  Jack just gawked at her.

  “It’s an old-timey remedy, but it kind of works. Of course, you’ll smell like vinegar, but what the heck, your headache will be gone.”

  “Go, already, and leave me to my misery,” Jack bellowed.

  When the door closed behind Maggie, Jack rummaged in the pantry to see if he had any vinegar. He didn’t. He felt relieved when he gathered up his briefcase and keys.

  Standing on the doorstep with no umbrella, Jack cursed again in the new language he’d come up with in the shower. “Screw it,” he muttered as he ran to his car, which was parked a block away.

  Just as he settled himself in the car his cell phone rang. Nikki. Suddenly he felt like singing. Singing in the rain, would that be too clichéd or what? he thought.

  Chapter 19

  Bert Navarro climbed o
ut of his car and headed toward the building housing the field office. He chewed on his lower lip, knowing he was walking into a hornets’ nest. Not that he was worried, but he hated confrontations with his men.

  Special Agent in Charge Duncan Wright and Special Agent John Clawson were busy on their respective computers. A newbie named Chuck Symon was sticking colored pins on a wall map. All three Special Agents snapped to attention when Bert walked into the office.

  “Let’s hear it,” Bert said, not bothering with amenities. “It’s been over twenty-four hours since you sent out the artist’s sketch. What’s the feedback?”

  “Sorry, sir, nothing worth a hill of beans. Every loony tune within a fifty-mile radius has called in. Nothing,” he said again succinctly.

  Bert was tempted to say something cutting, but Wright looked too miserable. “Don’t beat yourself up, Agent Wright. You gave it a shot.”

  Agent Wright nodded. “A fax came in for you early this morning, Director.” He plucked it off his desk and handed it to Bert. “Begging your pardon, Director, but since when, and I know I asked this before but I’m asking again, since when does the White House interfere with FBI business?”

  Bert scanned the White House communiqué and shrugged. It didn’t get any better than the White House telling one to cease and desist—even though the message was a fake.

  “Elias Cummings, my predecessor, developed a good rapport with the past administration, and it’s carried over to this presidency. It’s called sharing and not withholding information that the White House deems important. Obviously, they are on top of what’s going on. In the end it’s my decision; but, like Director Cummings, I want to keep relations open and aboveboard with 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—even though I’m not exactly keen on the whole deal. One learns to pick one’s battles, Special Agent Wright.”

  “I’m getting it, Director, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. So, we file it away as a case closed?”

  Bert grinned. “That’s what it means. I see you’re a fast learner, Wright.” He looked over at John Clawson, whose gaze was disconcerting. Bert had always prided himself on being able to read people, and Clawson wasn’t buying the whole drill, for some reason, but he was too good of an agent to go up against Bert or the White House. Bert felt a chill run up the back of his neck.

  He opened his briefcase and was about to slip the directive from the White House into it when Agent Clawson asked, “Shouldn’t we have a copy for our files here?”

  Clawson had his answer when Bert snapped his briefcase shut. “File a detailed report to my office, Agent Wright. List every lead that has come in and every call that came in once the artist’s sketch went public. I’ll be in touch. I’ll call when I get to the airport to let you know where I parked the car.” Hands were shaken, then Bert was outside. He heaved a sigh of relief.

  Once Bert settled himself behind the wheel and turned on the engine, he ran the short meeting over and over in his mind until he was sure there would be no repercussions from it. Since the buck stopped with him, he now felt confident enough to shift gears and pull out into traffic. He keyed in Cosmo Cricket’s office phone number and settled back, his eyes on the road, the Bluetooth headset secure in his ear allowing him to talk and keep his hands on the wheel. “I’m on my way to your office. Please wait for me.” He ended the call, then shifted his thoughts to a neutral zone so he could travel mentally to Big Pine Mountain and Kathryn Lucas.

  Forty minutes later, Cosmo Cricket greeted Bert at the door to his office, Lizzie Fox at his side.

  Bert grinned. “Case closed on the Vegas madam. I’m taking a seven o’clock flight back to D.C. I just stopped by to see if I could take you both to a very late lunch or a very early dinner.”

  Cosmo looked adoringly at his new wife and smiled. “She’s the boss.”

  Lizzie, to Bert’s eye, looked so happy he thought she was going to burst out singing. She nodded. “That would be nice, Bert. We accept.”

  Cosmo beamed his pleasure. “Just let me shut down and we’ll be good to go. My secretary had to leave early for a parent-teacher conference after school hours. I won’t be long.”

  Lizzie motioned for Bert to take a seat in one of the soft, buttery leather chairs. She looked at him questioningly, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Under control, Lizzie. You look happy.”

  Lizzie leaned forward. “I’ve never been happier, Bert. Never. I don’t want to go back to D.C. I guess I don’t have to tell you how that is. The pardons will come, I just don’t know when. This latest incident makes the president even more indebted to the Vigilantes. She’s a woman of her word. But patience is not something any of us is known for. I just want you to know that.”

  The phone in Cosmo’s office rang three times before it was picked up. Whoever it was, Lizzie knew Cosmo would cut the call short. She continued to expound on Martine Connor’s capabilities. Suddenly, Lizzie frowned as she looked toward Cosmo’s private office. Bert sat up straighter, alert to the change in the tone he was hearing coming from the inner office, even though neither he nor Lizzie could distinguish the words. Lizzie got up and made her way to the doorway, Bert on her heels. They both stared at Cosmo, who looked to be in a state of shock. They were just in time to see him set the phone back into its base.

  Cosmo cleared his throat. “That was…that was the Vegas madam, Lily Flowers.”

  Lizzie blinked.

  Bert’s jaw dropped.

  “She’s alive,” Cosmo said.

  Lizzie, who was never at a loss for words, couldn’t think of a thing to say. Bert seemed to be suffering from the same problem.

  “I cremated someone who wasn’t Lily Flowers.”

  Lizzie rushed to her husband. “Cosmo, you didn’t know. Don’t blame yourself for that. Did Ms. Flowers say who it was? What happened?”

  Cosmo’s eyes glazed over. He threw his hands in the air to show he was having trouble trying to understand what was going on. “Miss Flowers, who is now Caroline Summers, said that the night she left, she stopped on the Strip to say good-bye to an old friend. When she came back out of the building, her car was gone. She had her purse with her, but she’d left one of those folding wallets with her Lily Flowers’s driver’s license, insurance card, and the car registration with about twenty dollars in the console, along with a copy of the receipt for a hotel reservation in San Bernardino. It goes without saying she was suddenly suspicious, so she had her friend rent her a car under the friend’s name, and she drove to where she was going, and, no, she didn’t tell me where that was, and took a plane to where she is now, and I don’t know that location either. She said she just today logged onto the Internet and read the obituary for Lily Flowers. She called to tell me she was alive, well, and safe. She also said she had had the car checked from top to bottom and even had the tires rotated and checked before she set out for her trip.”

  Bert finally found his tongue. “The case is closed officially.”

  “Who was driving Ms. Flowers’s car that night?” Lizzie asked. “Was it planned, or was ‘Lily Flowers’ just at the wrong place at the wrong time? Whom did we cremate, Cosmo?”

  “And I just violated my attorney-client privilege by divulging it all in the presence of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Bert waved his hands in dismissal. “Case closed, remember? Pay me a dollar and my lips are sealed.”

  Cosmo’s hand moved so fast Lizzie and Bert both thought it was magic. Bert pocketed the dollar and grinned. He stretched out his hand, and the two men shook on it.

  “So, Cosmo, do we think the madam was set up? If we go with that theory, it doesn’t make sense. No one knew she was going to make a stop on the Strip that night. So, was the tire tampered with? Was it just a car heist? I’m having a little trouble with the idea that a woman who matches Lily Flowers’s description heists a car, then heads, we think, to where Ms. Flowers was going to go. None of it makes sense,” Lizzie said.

  “Maybe someone did
something to the tire so that when it was driven at a higher speed, it would blow. It’s been known to happen,” Bert said. “Maybe Flowers was the intended victim but things got derailed when her car was stolen. The case is closed, ‘terrible car crash’ is the final word by the locals. Can’t argue with the locals. I can see you’re going to beat yourself up over this, Cosmo. Don’t. No one claimed the body. The victim had no prints on file. No dental or medical records, no ID on the body or in the vehicle, other than Lily Flowers’s billfold in the console. The woman would have stayed at the morgue for two weeks, then the State of Nevada would have buried her in a potter’s field as a Jane Doe.”

  “I think there was some kind of plan being implemented either by Hunter Pryce or someone he hired,” Lizzie said. “It was dark. Perhaps the person who stole the car resembled Ms. Flowers. Or, the car’s tires were tampered with earlier, and the person responsible just sat back and waited, knowing sooner or later there would be an accident. It’s the best I can come up with.”

  “The case is officially closed by the locals and now by the FBI. It’s time to move on. There’s nothing we can do at this point unless the Vigilantes come up with something when they take over. The case can be reopened at any time. As you know we call it a ‘cold case’ if and when we go back to take a second look.”

  “This is going to haunt me,” Cosmo said.

  “All the cases haunt me to varying degrees. You learn to shelve it and compartmentalize. And, no, it doesn’t get better, it seems to get worse because the bad guys keep coming up with new shit to terrorize us. Just when you think you have a lock on an MO, they throw you a curve. You deal with it the best way you can and hope you win a few along the way. The ones you don’t win go on the shelf. That’s the way it is, Cosmo. Welcome to our world.”

  “Come on, Cricket, we’re going out to eat. We are not going to talk shop, and we are not going to moan and groan about would haves, should haves, could haves. Besides, the FBI is picking up the tab.”