The women’s fists shot in the air to a chorus of, “I like it…I think it will work, too…She’s a woman, and women stick together.”
“We need to go over that file on Martine Connor that Charles gave us,” Kathryn said. “We need to know everything about her from the day she was born so we don’t get sandbagged along the way. Lizzie can help us with that. We need to make Martine Connor a household name. Maybe Charles can help us with that.”
The front door of the Big House opened. Charles stood in the doorway with a silver tray in his hand and a manila folder under his arm. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pumpkin tarts, and hot tea for lunch, ladies. In the envelope is the updated, guaranteed-to-be complete file on Martine Connor, and will be of more help to you than the first one I gave you.” He turned around and closed the door.
“How does he do that?” Alexis grumbled.
“By listening at the door,” Annie snapped as she bit into her sandwich. She chewed furiously, and when she finished her sandwich, she looked down at her watch and then at the Sisters. “Lizzie should be at the Post about now. I wish I was a fly on the wall to see how that’s all going to work out. Not that I’m worried, it’s a done deal. I just never owned a newspaper before. What if I screw up? What if things don’t work out? Then what? It’s such a massive undertaking,” she babbled.
“I can’t believe that’s you talking, Annie,” Myra said. “Aren’t you always the eternal optimist? Where is this worry coming from all of a sudden? The glass is always half-full as opposed to half-empty with you. Why are you so worried now when it’s too late to back out? It’s not like you’re going to be running the paper; other people will be doing that,” she finished, with a bite to her tone.
Isabelle started to laugh and couldn’t stop. “The part I like best is that Maggie is going to be Ted Robinson’s boss. Close your eyes and visualize how that’s going to play out. I think I might pay to see that if it was on pay per view.”
While Annie and Myra cleaned up the luncheon debris, which was almost nil, the others went back to raking leaves.
“I thought they quit,” Annie said, looking over her shoulder.
“No one quits on Charles and lives to talk about it. You know that, Annie.” Myra smiled. “Not even us, so get ready to rake as soon as we take all these things back to the kitchen. He’s watching us, you know.”
“I know, I know,” Annie said cheerfully, her good mood restored.
At the same time as the Sisters were raking the leaves, Lizzie Fox and Ted Robinson were taking the elevator up to the fifth floor of the Post, where the two parted company, Ted to his newly assigned cubicle and Lizzie to the conference room. She knew her way, having been there four times, but always late at night after the paper had been put to bed.
They were waiting for her, and to a man they stood when she entered the room. The bright-red leg-hugging boots with the four-inch heels did not go unnoticed. Nor did the clinging leather pants miss inspection.
Maggie Spritzer, dressed in a conservative charcoal-gray suit befitting her new position at the paper, was the one who walked around the long table and hugged Lizzie, to everyone but Lizzie’s amazement. They watched bug-eyed as Lizzie hugged Maggie with a bone-crushing embrace.
“Gentlemen,” Lizzie said by way of greeting. “Please sit down and let’s get to work.” Before she opened her one-of-a-kind briefcase, she looked around at the faces of the men she was dealing with. They looked like sharks but were so in the box she discounted them entirely. All they wanted to do was nitpick. Lizzie Fox did not nitpick. She slammed and rammed, and if you were still standing, she’d sucker punch you right out of the room.
Lizzie slapped stack after stack of papers, all earmarked with red sticky note arrows, on the table in front of her. She looked around again, and said, “I have exactly seventy minutes to wrap this up. The new owner has informed me that if we don’t get it done in that time period, I am to walk out of this room and the deal is off. I do not play games, gentlemen. From this minute on until the clock runs out, it’s my way or it’s the highway. It’s up to you. Now, let’s go to the yellow folder. Shame on you for trying to slip that past me. It’s gone. Let’s move on to the red folder…”
Sixty-eight minutes later the digital kitchen timer in Lizzie’s briefcase pinged.
“That’s it, gentlemen. Thank you for your cooperation, your willingness to try to screw me—and you see where that got you. We have ourselves a deal. I hope your client is as happy as my client. I won’t say it’s been nice doing business with you because it has not been a pleasant experience.”
Lizzie stood, the scarlet bomber jacket gaping at the neckline. She exhaled, and the jacket settled itself nicely over her chest. She focused on Maggie, and said, “It’s officially yours, dear. Make it work.” She offered up a jaunty salute and was gone a minute later. She left in her wake a dozen sweating, frustrated, angry, belligerent lawyers who did everything but paw the floor and howl.
It was all Maggie could do not to burst out laughing.
“Coffee, anyone?” she asked in her new editor-in-chief voice. She had no takers, so she poured herself a cup from a fancy silver urn and liberally laced it with real cream and four sugars. She sat back down and sipped at her coffee, her eyes on the skedaddling posse of high-powered lawyers. And all it had taken was one very sexy, brainy woman to put them in their place. She did laugh then, but there was no one to hear her because the last man out the door slammed it shut.
“And this, Maggie Spritzer, is the first day of your new life here at the Post. Yah, Maggie,” she mumbled as she congratulated herself. “This is better than any Pulitzer I could have ever dreamed about.”
Chapter 13
It was an inky-black night, and while not clandestine, the evening had all the makings of a spook meeting. Part of it might have been the black rental cars, the black clothing worn by the women. As Lizzie Fox put it, you can never be too careful in Alphabet City. She was, of course, referring to the nation’s capital, where it was harder to keep a secret than it was to catch a greased pig.
In the wild hope she could thwart any unwelcome scrutiny, Lizzie had donned a chestnut-brown wig to cover her trademark hair. A baseball cap and a black Nike running suit along with black running shoes completed her attire. Her two companions were similarly attired. Just three women meeting for coffee after a workout at the local gym. Ironically, not one of the trio had seen the inside of a gym in years.
The meeting was in a shabby coffeehouse in a shabby part of town, where people stared into their coffee cups wondering where they could panhandle next or how to get their next fix. It was the ideal location for a late-evening rendezvous.
It took all of ten minutes for the women to play catch-up. Lizzie brought the social talk to a close by saying, “And here you are, Marty, the prohibitive favorite to be the Democratic nominee. Damn if I’m not impressed. And you, Pam, I can’t believe you’re still trailing in the money polls.”
Martine Connor pulled the bill of her baseball cap even lower and allowed a small grin. “I tried for months to get hold of you, Lizzie. I wanted to see if you’d come aboard. I could use someone like you in my corner. They’re shredding me out there. And on top of that, some scum…Well, that’s why we’re all here. Tell me, what if anything can you do for us?”
With Martine it was never I, but always we or us. Lizzie looked at the striking woman sitting across from her and thought she looked tired and worried.
“Pam and I both know you’re the go-to woman, so here we are.”
Lizzie looked across the table, liking what she was seeing, two dedicated women hell-bent on putting the first woman ever in the White House.
Martine Connor was not a beautiful woman. But she wasn’t ugly, either. Her features were blunt and could be softened with the right makeup and hairstyle, something she rarely took the time to bother with. Now, this minute, she looked like someone’s aunt from next door. She’d never worried about designer clothes or f
ancy cars. There were those who called her a Plain Jane, while others called her a misfit. She’d worked hard all her life, fighting to survive. An orphan, she’d made her own way early and stayed on the path she’d chosen—education. Working two jobs and going to school for her doctorate left no time for fooling around. Life was too serious. Squeaky clean to the core, she was the perfect presidential candidate. She wasn’t politically tested. Yet. But she had almost a whole year to get there. There was little doubt that she would win the nomination. The big question in everyone’s mind was, could she, the first woman presidential nominee, unseat the incumbent, a man—even a man whose approval numbers were heading toward single-digit territory? The voting public was divided on whether the president should be a man whose competence and policies were, to say the least, seriously suspect, or a competent woman with a reputation for hard work and absolute integrity. And though it would never be put that way in their diatribes, so were the media and the pundits.
“I needed to take a break and get away. To say I was burned out would be putting it mildly. But, I’m back. I guess this little meeting is because you need my help. I’m more than willing, but let’s put our cards on the table. Tell me everything. And I do mean everything. By the way, I left the firm, gave them back their partnership. I’m on my own these days. I have no backup. But I do have sources and friends. I have a lot of outstanding IOUs I can call in. My new offices are in Georgetown. I haven’t officially moved in yet, maybe later this week if the paint smell goes away.”
She was about to say she was around the corner from Nikki’s old offices, but changed her mind at the last second. All in good time. “I’d be more than happy to work with both of you. We can worry about the bill later. Let’s just make a plan and see if it’s doable.”
Pamela Lock grimaced. “We’ve been screwed, Lizzie. Somehow, someone got hold of my donor list, and is threatening to sell it off to the highest bidder. We have some heavy hitters on that list. In this marvelous age of computers, all it takes is a few keystrokes, and people’s lives can be forever ruined. If that happens, it’s good-bye White House for Martine. Hell, she might not even get the nomination. I have guarded that list with my life, so I have no idea how it got into other hands. But there’s something fishy about the whole deal. Something about it all isn’t sitting right with me. I know this sounds crazy, but I have this feeling it’s all a setup.”
Lizzie clucked her tongue. There was disgust in her voice when she said, “Always pay attention to your gut feelings. Instinct never lets you down. Did you ever hear the term ‘hacker’?”
“Of course I’ve heard it, and I even know how it’s done. I had the best of the best installing firewalls to make my computer system impregnable, and still they got through. If that’s what happened. The GOP will have a field day with this. Bastards! I’m sure they’re behind this in some way. To be honest, Lizzie, I don’t know where the hell to turn or what to do.”
Lizzie looked at the two of them, knowing the answer to the question before she even asked it. “And aside from being your legal counsel, what is it you want from me?”
Martine and Pamela looked at one another, but it was Martine who spoke. “We want to know if you can…I don’t know how to say this…We want to know if you can somehow, some way, reach out to…to the vigilantes. There, I said it,” she gasped, her face a rosy pink with the effort it cost her.
Lizzie sipped at the bitter coffee in her cup. She was more than pleased with herself. She was never wrong. She could read people a mile away. “What makes you think I can somehow, some way, contact the vigilantes?”
“Oh, come on, Lizzie, this is me and Martine you’re talking to. You were their attorney when they got busted. That means you know them.”
“Well, yeah, and they hung me out to dry when they absconded. Did you forget about that?” Lizzie responded, hoping that her feigned outrage came across as genuine.
“Well, yeah,” Pamela drawled, mimicking Lizzie’s words. “They had help. Who do you turn to in your blackest hours? You! That’s who. I know you helped them. I think that Judge Easter and that DDA, I forget his name, were in on it, too. It’s the only way it could have gone down. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with us. Now, how about it? Can we engage their services or not? We don’t have time to screw around here, Lizzie. And before you can ask what’s in it for you, our response is whatever you want.”
Martine Connor nodded in agreement. “Whatever you want, Lizzie, name it, and it’s yours. Just so you know, Pam and I will both go to our deaths before we’d utter a word about them.”
A waitress as tired-looking as the café she worked in approached and refilled their coffee cups. Lizzie could hardly believe she’d consumed a whole cup of the vile brew. She gulped at her fresh cup, looked at the two women sitting across from her, and said, “They’ll be here tomorrow. It was a preemptive strike on my part. Now I’m going to tell you something you don’t know. The Republicans have also contacted them. The RNC was hit just like you were. Or so they say. Pure and simple, it’s an identity theft ring. Or so they claim. They held out a really large carrot to the vigilantes. I don’t know if you can match it. That’s the gopher in the woodpile, ladies.”
Pamela snorted. “Are you telling me Baron Russell was hit, too? I don’t believe it! He can’t keep a secret to save his life. What’s the carrot he dangled?” she asked suspiciously.
Lizzie looked at the coffee in her cup as she sucked on her lower lip. When she released it, she said, “A presidential pardon.” She watched to see what the women’s reactions were and saw outrage, anger, and disbelief.
“Son of a bitch!” Pam seethed.
“Unbelievable,” Martine whispered. “That would mean someone in the White House okayed it. Is that possible, Lizzie?”
“Think about it. It got the vigilantes’ attention, now, didn’t it? Being as smart and as astute as I am, I pretty much figured out you guys got hit, too. Or are in on it in some way. That’s why I went preemptive. Which one of you hit the message board?”
Pam pointed to herself. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I put out some discreet feelers and tried a message board. I figured since it was anonymous, I didn’t have anything to lose. But do you think the White House is in on it?”
“I find it highly unlikely. It’s my understanding the…uh…ladies asked for written confirmation on paper that contains the presidential seal. I don’t see that happening, and neither do they.”
“They’re actually arriving tomorrow?” Pam asked, her voice full of awe.
“Yes. You will have a new fund-raising volunteer showing up for work the following day. Don’t get friendly. Give her free rein and sit back and watch.”
Lizzie addressed her next comments to Martine. “You’re going to have to promise me something. In writing. Nothing less is acceptable. And for this help, you are going to get the biggest, the most glamorous, the most anticipated event in political history. A soirée in New York at the Waldorf-Astoria. If everyone’s calculations are right, it should bring in $10 million. That’s a lot of airtime in a lot of primary states and enough to fund your campaign staff for quite a while, Martine.”
“And they can do this…how?” Martine asked.
“Did you forget who one of their members is? Only one of the richest women in the world. I’m also now going to tell you a secret. You both have to swear to me on all our lives that you will never divulge what I’m going to tell you. Agreed?” Martine and Pam nodded. Martine slapped her hand down first on the table. Pam put hers on top, and Lizzie put both her hands on top of theirs. It was as binding a promise as there was.
“Guess who the new owner of the Post is?”
Both women stared at Lizzie, totally speechless. Lizzie nodded. “You know what that means for you, Martine, right?”
Lizzie could see her old friend swallow hard. She knew, just knew, Martine was seeing herself walking into the Oval Office and taking her seat behind the desk. Suddenly she burst out laughing.
“I hope you’ll keep a picture of me behind your desk,” Lizzie said.
Martine finally found her voice. “Dear God, tell me my luck is finally turning.”
“Only if you can keep that promise. That’s our bottom line here, Martine.”
“I’ll find a way, Lizzie. Trust me.”
Lizzie believed her, but lawyer and cynic that she was, she said, “If you don’t, Martine, I will go after you, and so will the vigilantes. So be forewarned.”
“Well, damn,” was all Pam Lock could think of to say.
“Okay, ladies, let’s make it work for us. No more meetings like this from here on in. Tomorrow, or no later than the day after, I’ll have special phones for you. No one, not even the Secret Service, can access them. You keep them on your person at all times. Are we good to go?”
Both women nodded.
Lizzie paid the check and left a fifty-dollar tip for the waitress. She was almost to her car when she wondered if her good deed was a mistake. She took a moment to remember how tired the older woman looked and the place where she worked, and decided she was an I-didn’t-see-anyone-like-that, I-mind-my-own-business kind of woman. And, the coffee shop was that kind of place. Lizzie felt better with her assessment.
Fat little bomblets of rain started to fall as Lizzie unlocked the rental car. She tried to remember if the weatherman had predicted rain for tonight or tomorrow. In the end, did it really matter? She decided that with everything she had on her plate, she didn’t care one way or the other.
Lizzie was an excellent driver. She liked to drive fast, had a heavy foot, but at the same time she did her best to obey all driving laws and had a sparkling-clean record.
Collateral Damage Page 11
