Ted thought Lizzie was going to start to purr at any moment.
Lizzie sat down in a deep sofa that was so comfortable she sighed. The room was pleasant, with no clutter at all. The floors were oak and polished. The sofa and two chairs were covered with a nappy material that had little nubs all over it. A vase of wilted yellow flowers sat in the middle of the coffee table. The only other color in the room was in the three oversize lemon yellow pillows and the two watercolors that were so vibrant they made her blink. She did notice that there were no photographs, no junky mementoes on the mantel or on any of the little tables. The ficus tree in one corner looked like it needed to be watered, as did the other plants.
From her position on the sofa, Lizzie could see into the dining room. The table was loaded with books, folders, and legal pads. Teaching materials, she thought. Or else her study materials for a dissertation.
Marble Rose walked into the living room. "I don't want to sit down, if that's all right with you. I want to burn this outfit and wash the stink of jail off me. Do you understand?"
"Of course. This won't take long. I just need to ask you a few questions. We'll set up a meeting for tomorrow morning."
"Okay, fire away," Marble Rose said.
Lizzie looked at the attractive woman standing in front of her. "Who are you, Marble Rose Barnes?"
Marble Rose Barnes sat down in the middle of the floor and crossed her legs. Floors could be buffed and polished. No stink would stay on the floor, as opposed to the fabric-covered furniture.
"I'm an orphan. But that's just my opinion. I was abandoned early on. Again, that's my perception of my early years. Oh, I had a mother and a father, but I never knew my father. I never really knew the woman who calls herself my mother. The name on my original birth certificate says my name is Ann Marie Barnes. I had this imaginary friend—actually, she was my only friend—as a child, and I called her Marble Rose Epsom. I got the name Epsom from a jar of Epsom salts that was in my bathroom. The day I turned eighteen I changed my name to Marble Rose Epsom. I had my lawyer send the woman who says she's my mother a letter to that effect. Since I have no contact with her, I don't know if she acknowledged the Epsom part of my name or not. My lawyer tells me she accepted the Marble Rose part, and in any correspondence, she refers to me by that name. Does that answer your question?"
"It certainly tells me who you are. Now, I want you to tell me everything that happened and don't leave anything out, no matter how inconsequential you might think it is. I'm going to record our conversation, with your permission. This way there are no problems later on, and it makes it easier for me to refer to this conversation, as opposed to calling you every ten minutes to clarify things." Lizzie flipped open her recorder, turned it to the ON position before she looked meaningfully at Ted, who gave a slight nod to show his recorder was also turned on.
"Who were those two guys back at the police station?" Marble Rose asked.
Lizzie smiled. "Two men who are going to have a few sleepless nights for a while. The rather large. . .gentleman is Cosmo Cricket. His friends call him Kick. He's chief counsel for the Nevada Gaming Commission. The tall, thin man who didn't say a word is chief counsel for the Babylon. His name is Alvin Lansing. Mr. Lansing showed up to drop all the charges against you. Mr. Cricket was there to make sure it happened so he could report back to the NGC. I'm not clear on how they knew we were there, but we'll find out. If you need an immediate answer, then my guess would be Officer Dewberry notified them. I simply do not believe in coincidence. Now, let's get down to business."
Outside, Cosmo Cricket looked at his car and wanted to cry. The entire driver's side of the door looked like a freight train had sideswiped it and come back for a second hit. "Son of a fucking bitch!" he roared.
Alvin Lansing looked at Cricket's pricey car, winced, and scooted off to his own Volvo three spaces down. Nobody ever hit a Volvo.
The only thing on Cricket's mind was murder. Slow murder of the person responsible for what had been done to his prized car. At least the son of a bitch had the good sense to leave a card under the wiper blade. How in the damn hell did this happen? This is the police parking lot, for Christ's sake. Where were the fucking cops? He looked around and didn't see a soul. He grabbed the card. He blinked. Squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and blinked again. He began cursing, making up obscenities as he went along. And then he started to laugh. He was still laughing when he struggled to open the door. He was howling with rage when he fished around in the trunk for the tire iron. He broke a sweat as he gouged and dug at the sleek door. He finally got it open.
He tossed the tire iron on the floor below the passenger seat and leaned over to close the door, only it wouldn't close. He continued to curse and laugh all at the same time. Well, he'd just have to drive with one hand on the door and the other on the wheel. He did take a moment to wonder what would happen when he had to shift gears. The goddamn door would probably blow off and hit some high roller on his way to a casino, who would then sue his ass off.
Some days it simply did not pay to get out of bed.
Chapter 13
Charles Martin sifted through a stack of e-mails he'd just printed out. He smacked his hands in glee at what he was seeing. His immediate problem was solved. He literally ran to the front porch of the main house and rang the bell, the sound reverberating over the mountain. When the bell rang, everyone dropped what they were doing and raced to the war room. The ringing bell could signal good news or bad news.
In this case, the girls decided it was good news.
"Come, come, I have something to show you all. I think we can do this, but your window is going to be very tight," Charles said as he led the way. The women took their seats at the round table while Charles pressed buttons, and all the plasma TVs came to life. As always, Lady Justice surrounded the room. Charles pressed more buttons. The picture of a group of softball players appeared on the huge screen. According to the sports announcer, it was the bottom of the ninth inning in an exhibition game for the benefit of breast cancer research, and the Southwestern team known as the Paiutes was leading with a score of 2 to 1. There was a runner on first and second when Hickam's star batter sauntered up to the plate, swung the bat in a nonchalant manner, looked around, and took the time to give a thumbs-up to the local television audience and the fans in the stand, who were whooping and hollering.
"It's a baseball game," Isabelle said.
"But it's an all-girl team, and it's softball, not baseball. There's a difference," Charles said.
The pitcher, a long-legged blonde, looked in, got the sign from the catcher, wound up, and tossed a sidearm fastball that just caught the outside corner of the plate. On the next pitch, the star hitter swung and missed, and the crowd in the bleachers went wild. Finally, the pitcher wound up one last time and threw a pitch that had the batter salivating as it slowly made its way to the plate, seemingly as big as a beach ball. But when the batter swung with all her might, the ball dipped as if it were falling off a table, and the batter nearly wrenched her back as her bat met nothing but air.
Fans and players converged on the field to congratulate the Paiutes. The blonde was suddenly hefted up and onto the shoulders of the first baseman and the catcher and doused with what the sports announcer said was sparkling apple cider.
Off the field, the announcer inched his way to the tall blonde. "Dr. Loganberry, tell us how you feel right now."
"I'm very happy. We played a good game but so did Hickam. We might be rivals here on the field, but off the field we're doctors, recovering patients, and medical personnel trying to raise money for breast cancer research."
"And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Dr. Candice Loganberry, an oncologist who practices here in Las Vegas. Let's all give her a big hand, and don't forget to dig deep and give them a donation when you leave the ball field."
"Wow!" the girls said almost in unison. They grew silent as they looked at Charles, then at Annie.
"Well, we were wondering where to
send our fee. I think we just decided," Annie said. The women clapped in approval.
"Wait, there's more," Charles said. The women waited again while he slipped in a new CD and pressed PLAY.
At the Babylon, four men walked to the podium in what looked like a conference room. A tall, athletic-looking man who looked like he was ex-military, with his iron-gray hair and ramrod posture, introduced himself as Hank Owens, head of Babylon security. Then he introduced the casino's attorney, Alvin Lansing, and the owner of the casino, Homer Winters. He turned to the left and motioned for a large man to come to the microphone.
"That guy looks like they glued sixty-seven fireplugs together, and he's what they got," Kathryn said. Charles smiled when she said, "He's got to be the ugliest man I've ever seen. Poor thing, he must have fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down."
Charles laughed out loud at her comment. "That's Cosmo Cricket. He's the NGC's attorney and the man Lizzie is going to go to war with. Listen."
Hank Owens patted Cricket's arm in a show of friendliness. The women blinked and leaned closer when they saw Cricket shake off the man's hand.
"I saw that," Annie said. "Those two are not friends."
Owens never missed a beat as he continued as though the little byplay had never happened. "As all of you here in Nevada know, the Babylon and its employees are keen to help all charities, and today, in honor of the Paiutes winning the exhibition game, we here at the Babylon pledge one million dollars to be donated to Dr. Loganberry and her research team. In addition to that donation we will be donating a million dollars to the Austin-Hatcher Pediatric Cancer Foundation. We will also be hosting a gala to honor both teams here at the Babylon. We're inviting the public and all the guests who are registered here at the time for a free evening of dining and entertainment, Las Vegas style. At this moment I can tell you we are in talks with Wayne Newton, Joan Rivers, and Barry Manilow to perform at our gala. No one has turned me down so far.
"We promise a star-studded night with Cordon Bleu chefs who will prepare the same food they make for the Academy Award parties in Hollywood. All we ask is that you all bring your checkbooks so we can try to match outside funds with our donations. And now, Mr. Cricket has something to say."
Cosmo Cricket moved to the microphone. His voice was a husky baritone as he thanked everyone for coming to what he called "this impromptu news conference. . ."
"The members of the Nevada Gaming Commission wish to donate $5 million to Dr. Loganberry and her research team. We'd like to thank Mr. Winters for agreeing to host the gala Mr. Owens just spoke about." He stepped back and to the side.
Owens reached for the microphone, and said, "Unless there are any questions, we need to get to work to plan the gala."
"It would help if you'd tell us when it is," a reporter shouted from the back loud enough to be heard all the way in the front of the room.
Owens laughed self-consciously. "I guess that would help, wouldn't it? I think I just got carried away with the moment. A week from today. Okay, then, that's it. You can contact our PR office if you need more information. Thanks for coming, and I hope you'll all get the word out so our guests can match the funds we're going to be donating to these worthy causes."
The girls watched as the men trooped off the stage. The camera went dark as Charles removed the disk and turned off the CD player.
"So we're going to be softball players?" Annie gurgled. "I do love those pink ball caps."
Charles rapped on the table to get their attention. The girls stopped buzzing. "Personally, I don't know how he's going to pull all that off in just seven days. There are female softball leagues all over the country who play for breast cancer research. They're going to want to attend."
Alexis clucked her tongue and wagged her finger. "Charles, what you do not know about women would fill a book. I can guarantee just about every one of those women will be there even if they have to walk cross-country to get to Vegas. They're dedicated, and there's nothing more important to women than breast cancer research."
"You're absolutely right. I bow to your knowledge, Alexis," Charles said magnanimously. "If you're right, and I have no reason to doubt you, then all of you will fit in just perfectly. All you're going to need will be those special pink caps, and I have no doubt you know exactly how to get them."
"You're such a dear, sweet man, Charles," Annie cooed. "Now, how do we get to Vegas undetected? The joint is really going to be hopping with the softball gala and Harry's martial-arts exhibition. Guys to the guys and girls to the girls. Oh, this is beyond exciting, isn't it, girls?"
It was hard not to get caught up in Annie's enthusiasm. Even Myra, the most conservative of them all, was laughing at what was going to happen once they all arrived in the gambling mecca.
"A tour bus? Is that our game plan, Charles?" Nikki asked.
"Oh, Nikki, driving cross-country to Nevada will eat into our days," Myra said. "We need to come up with something better than that. When we get there, we can hire a tour bus," the ever-practical Myra added. She fingered her pearls, a sure sign she was worried about something.
"I can have the pilot bring the Gulfstream back," Annie said. "Airport security is a little too tight for comfort these days. I worry about using false IDs regardless of how good they are."
"Annie's right," Charles said. "But to bring the Gulfstream back at this point in time, even though it's now leased to the Post, just might raise a few red flags."
Annie nibbled on a nail. "Do we have time to buy a new one?"
"No, Annie, we don't. But I do know someone who might agree to lend me one for a short period of time. Of course it will have to come across the pond, but that's a mere six hours. If my friend is agreeable, plan on leaving late tomorrow afternoon. I have to make a few calls now, girls. I'll ring the bell when I have confirmation."
The women looked at one another. Across the pond could only mean one thing. They all looked at Myra, who only shrugged.
Annie was jubilant. "Sir Charles does have friends in very high places. I assume it's a done deal. So, girls, let's make a plan. You're going to get those pink hats just right, aren't you, dear? Will we have numbers or names on them? What about jerseys?" she asked of no one in particular.
Nikki fished her cell phone out of her pocket. She'd set it on vibrating mode when she entered the war room. Charles frowned at cell phones ringing when he was conducting business. She looked at the number of the caller. "It's Maggie.
"What's up?" Nikki asked.
She listened without saying a word. Ten minutes later, she powered down and repeated everything Maggie had told her. The room turned electric at her words.
They whooped in glee when Nikki said, "Ted thinks Lizzie is in love with that guy who looks like a Mack truck. Mr. Cosmo Cricket." Then she told them what Lizzie had done to Cricket's one-of-a-kind car.
"Oh, she's smitten all right. However, I'm not sure love is the right word. But I do think our Lizzie was definitely making a statement."
Annie gurgled with laughter. The others joined in.
"I just want to know one thing. Who the hell is our client, and what are we supposed to do when we get there?" Kathryn asked. "What's Lizzie doing except checking out the slot machine princess? Is she part of whatever is to come, or is she coming back here?"
"I guess we'll find out when we get there. Charles will coordinate everything. Since we're probably going to be leaving momentarily, I suggest we finish our outdoor work. Whose turn is it to make dinner tonight?"
"Mine," Yoko said. "Charles said everything is ready, I just have to cook it. He didn't say what it was, though."
"It's meat loaf and baked potatoes. And broccoli and some kind of mess that looks like stewed tomatoes," Kathryn said. She looked at the others. "What? I was in the kitchen looking for some cookies, and I saw everything on the counter. I really don't like meat loaf but I can eat it, and I absolutely loathe stewed tomatoes."
Yoko laughed, her eyes twinkling. "How abou
t some Wasabi Prawns, sesame rice noodles with a nice sesame-and-Wasabi sauce mixed with water chestnuts, shaved broccoli, and carrots? A side order of ribs with burn-your-mouth sauce and fortune cookies for dessert. Will that suit you, Kathryn?"
"You bet, but I'd like something a little more substantial than a fortune cookie for dessert. What are the chances of you whipping up a coconut cream pie?"
"One in a million." Yoko laughed. "I'll give it my best shot, but I'll have to keep Grady and Murphy in the kitchen. They will be the culprits I blame for snitching the meat loaf."
"Whatever it takes," Kathryn said as she pulled on her work gloves and left the house with the others.
Murphy and Grady stayed behind when Yoko enticed them into the kitchen with the promise of chew bones.
While the vigilantes went about their business, back in Washington Maggie Spritzer eyed Joe Espinosa in disbelief. "Tell me you're making that up!"
Espinosa grinned. "I swear on Ted, Maggie, and here's the proof!" He held up his minicam and flicked a switch. Maggie blinked and then burst into chuckles when she saw six ninja figures standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. One of them started to jabber in either Japanese or Chinese. Then they disappeared in a puff of smoke.
"What'd they say? What'd they say?"
Joe just grinned from ear to ear. "They said their work here is done. They just came to say good-bye." Joe couldn't help himself, he guffawed. "They're taking the ancestor's ashes they heisted from the FBI lab with them and will never darken Washington again, and the residents of D.C. can go about their lives. But, they said, if the politicians raise their ire again, they'll be back."
"What?"
"Hey, Maggie, you can't make this stuff up. I don't know who wrote their dialogue, but that's the translation I got. I have no idea what their work is/was, nor do I know what raised their hackles, but they're gone, and we can all sleep peacefully in our beds tonight. How do you want to go with this?"
Final Justice Page 12
