Final Justice

by Fern Michaels

  Owens struggled beneath the straps as he bellowed for Quintera to shut his mouth.

  A crust of the pizza clutched between her teeth, Annie walked over to the embalming table and flicked at the hoses that drained into a huge outflow port on the floor. She removed the crust of pizza, and asked, "Which one is the intake and which one is the outflow?"

  Kathryn pondered the question. "I think this one drains the blood and that one shoots in the embalming fluid. But, I'm not sure. Do you think it matters, Annie?"

  Annie chomped down on the pizza crust. "Probably not. But I'm thinking maybe we should have practiced a little more. What if we make a mistake?"

  "Oh, well!" Kathryn said.

  "Where's your share of the money, Mr. Owens?" Annie asked.

  "I know all about you women. You don't kill people, you just screw up their lives. I'm telling you dickshit."

  Alexis and Isabelle walked over to the embalming table and looked around. Something that looked like a pump was sitting on the floor. Neither one knew what it was other than that a plug was in a socket. Alexis turned it on to see if it made noise.

  It did. She turned it off. The silence in the room was deafening.

  "Where's your share of the money, Owens? This is the last time I'm going to ask you."

  "And this is the last time I'm telling you to go to hell."

  "Greed is a terrible thing, Mr. Owens," Myra said.

  The three men attached to the caskets were jabbering about where their money was. "He has a safe in his office, and that's where he keeps his computer. He sends it all offshore," one of the men said.

  Annie walked over to them and stooped so she was eye level with the men. "You know, just because you're hooked up to these particular caskets doesn't mean they're the ones you have to go out in. Take your pick. Silver and peach, bronze and lavender, mahogany with quilted lining. Owens gets the one that's left, and may I say it is the bottom of the line. It wouldn't be my choice at all. Or, anyone's I know, for that matter."

  Quintera blacked out. Oliver's eyes rolled back in his head, and Richards started to whimper.

  Annie continued, "Your buddy Stu Franklin had his laptop hand-delivered to Peter Udal at the NGC earlier today. Udal, in turn, gave it to their legal counsel, Cosmo Cricket. Now," she said, turning to Richards and Oliver, "if you tell us everything we want to know, like the password to Owens's computer and the combination to his safe, we'll let you go, and this will all be just a nightmare you want to forget."

  "Are you nuts?" Richards barked. "Do you think for one minute that crazy son of a bitch would tell us that? Think again."

  "He's probably right," Kathryn said. "You better come up with something fast, or one of you is next on that table." She turned around, and said, "So, it's back to you, Mister Owens. Last chance."

  Nikki peered down at a stainless steel tray and picked up what looked like a scalpel. "Does it make a difference where we slice him to insert the tubes?"

  "They always do it in the groin area on CSI," Annie chirped.

  "Then the groin it is," Nikki said as she sliced away at Owens's five-thousand-dollar suit. "Ah, tighty whities. I would have taken him for a boxer guy. Hey, Yoko, what did the book say about the blood?"

  "The book assumed the person was dead, so no blood. As he's alive, it's going to spurt. Even if you get the hose in quickly, it's still going to shoot all over and make a mess. How do they combat that on CSI, Annie?"

  "I think they only work on dead bodies. Did we decide which is intake and outflow?" Annie asked. "Or did we say it doesn't matter?"

  "I think we're going with it doesn't matter," Kathryn said. "Just slice and dice, and let's get on with it. We can always take a shower later."

  Alexis turned on the machine at her feet. Nikki bent over, the scalpel poised. She reached for the band of Owen's underwear and sliced downward, exposing his private parts. "Hmmm," she said as she pulled at his left leg. "Right side or left side?"

  "Is he a left kind of guy or a right kind of guy?" Kathryn asked.

  "Actually, they're hanging in the middle like he can't decide. I can barely see anything," Annie chirped. "Go with the right, Nikki."

  Nikki backed up a step. "I should be wearing my glasses for this. Did anyone see them?"

  "Wear mine, dear," Myra said, fishing in her pocket for her reading glasses.

  Nikki slipped them on, and said, "It makes such a difference for upclose work." She jabbed the tip of the scalpel into Owens's skin, and he yelped so loud the room shook.

  "Okay, okay, you crazy bitch. Untie me, and I'll tell you."

  "It doesn't work that way. You tell us, then we untie you. First, you give us the combination to your safe. We'll call Mr. Winters, who will then have the contents delivered here to us by the same kind gentleman who gave you the story about Stu and admitted you when you first arrived. You know, to satisfy yourself that Stu Franklin was dead, and you were coming to identify the body. Now, what is it?"

  Owens rattled off the number. Jack stirred himself to open his cell to call Homer Winters. "Twenty minutes, give or take. Harry will meet the guy up front."

  While they waited for their delivery, Annie prowled around the room, checking out all the bottles and jars. The others continued to nibble on the remaining pizza.

  "Cover me up," Owens said.

  Myra walked over to the embalming table and looked down. "Why should we? You act like there's something to see. There isn't. Now be quiet, or I'll take matters into my own hands. Well, not literally, I'm very careful what kind of garbage I touch. By the way, Mr. Owens, I'm curious about something. Mr. Franklin said you got onto us because of sweaters. Explain that, please."

  Owens was so drained he responded. "Old people always wear sweaters when they plan to be in the casinos for a few hours. We keep it cold on purpose so people don't get sluggish. None of you were wearing sweaters. Maybe if one or two of you had had them on, I wouldn't have paid any attention."

  Myra looked at the others. She shrugged.

  Thirty minutes later, Harry was back with two huge manila envelopes full of cash and Owens's laptop. Nikki popped it open, powered up, and turned to Jack. "I can't transfer any of his stuff until I have a place to send it. Call Mr. Udal and have him give you an account somewhere.

  "Let's have your password, Mr. Owens, and don't make me work for it."

  "Lucky six."

  Nikki typed in the password and sat back as numbers flashed on the screen. Even she was impressed. She heard Jack telling Udal to stay on the line as he repeated the numbers to Nikki, who immediately input them into the computer. She blinked as funds moved at the speed of light until the balance registered zero.

  "Done!"

  Kathryn walked over to the three men tied to the caskets. "Do you know your account numbers? I wouldn't lie if I were you. Easy, easy, one at a time."

  Nikki's fingers went to work. "Funny how these jerks all used the same brokerage, the same banks, the same offshore banks.

  "Done!"

  "Okay, you got it all. You said you'd cut us loose if we gave it up," Owens said.

  "And you believed me? You really are a bunch of jerks. Just lie here and reflect, Mr. Owens. There will be some people here shortly to take care of you." By people, Nikki meant Bert Navarro, Duncan Wright, his best field agent, and Elias Cummings, who would be doing the cleanup work.

  "Tidy up, girls! Wipe everything down and don't miss anything. Trash in the Dumpster outside. Don't forget the guns in the sink. Jack, did Winters give security the night off?" Nikki asked.

  "Yep. The floor is wide-open tonight for anyone interested in trying his or her luck. No rules on this night!" Jack said as he smacked his hands in anticipation of a beginner's gambling luck. Nikki would bring him luck, he was sure of it.

  "Girls, it's time to do a little shake, rattle, and roll! Vegas, here we come," Annie said as she led the way out of the mortuary.

  Outside in the parking area, all the women said in unison, "I'm not riding in that
thing again."

  "Let's go public and take taxis," Myra said, excitement ringing in her voice.

  "Myra, you rock! You really do," Annie said as she walked toward the road that would take them to the boulevard, where they could hail a taxi. "Do you have any idea what kind of statement we could make if we had those boots? All right, all right, Myra, I won't say another word about the boots."

  As the first cab slid to the curb, Annie turned. "We did good, girls! I think we earned our money. Now, let's see how much we can WIN and get out alive to tell about it."

  A tourist who was passing by with his digital camera narrowed his eyes at the sight of the familiar-looking women. He looked over at his wife, who nodded. He snapped and snapped again.

  The tourist and his wife went home to Perth Amboy, New Jersey, winners to the tune of $25,000. Compliments of the Las Vegas Sun.

  Epilogue

  Back on the mountain it was still dark out but they were all in the dining room, fully dressed, waiting for Charles to print out the morning editions from the online papers.

  Expectations were running high. "There's no way she can't win," Lizzie said. With very little arm twisting, Lizzie had convinced her new employers in Las Vegas and Homer Winters to kick in the money at the eleventh hour to cover Martine's television blitz, which had hit the airwaves with such force, the other side had virtually collapsed from the onslaught.

  The women made small talk, nibbling on blueberry muffins and sipping coffee and juice.

  Maggie Spritzer looked around the table and laughed. "C'mon, you know she won!"

  Nellie, minus her new husband, smiled as she looked down at her feet. "I never thought I'd be wearing white rhinestone cowgirl boots. Elias says they are definitely me. And, I never thought I'd have Elvis sing 'Love Me Tender' at my wedding."

  The others held out their feet to show that they, too, were wearing the coveted boots. Even Myra sported a pair, and said they kept her feet and legs warm.

  "Does anyone have any other news? Worthy news?" Kathryn asked.

  "What's taking so long?" Nikki asked.

  No one answered her.

  The front door opened, and a strong gust of wind blew into the dining room. Charles held up a sheaf of printouts and chortled, "We now have a female president. The headline in the Post said it was because of a massive influx of money that came in rather suddenly that pushed Connor ahead. Actually, the words the paper used were 'massive onslaught of money at just the right time.'

  "Now, ladies, what would you like for breakfast? Just say the words, and it's yours."

  "What's that noise?" Kathryn asked. She ran to the door and looked out.

  "Charles, it's a helicopter! Who's coming? I didn't know we were expecting company," Nikki said.

  "We aren't. All of you stay here, I'll see what this is all about."

  "Like he thinks we're going to sit here and wait to find out! I-don't-think-so!" Annie said as she grabbed her jacket, her new boots pounding the oak floor. The others followed suit.

  Outside in the blustery wind, the steady whump-whump of the helicopter blades was so loud that the women covered their ears.

  Kathryn, who bragged that she had the best eyesight of all of them, squealed and yelped, "Look what it says on the helicopter. Air Force One. Oh, myyyy Godddd!"

  The women huddled together as they tried to figure out what was going on. A tall, distinguished-looking man stepped to the ground and ran over to where Charles was standing.

  "We had a bit of engine trouble and needed to set down. I hope you don't mind. Won't take but a minute to fix. My passenger would like a word with you all. Follow me. Feel free to climb aboard. You have exactly four minutes before I find out what the trouble is. Or isn't," he mumbled under his breath.

  The women ran forward and there was the new president-elect of the United States standing with her arms outstretched in the open doorway.

  Lizzie was the closest. Martine Connor hugged her. "We developed some mysterious engine problems when we were overhead. We saw your lights and set down. Where did all that money come from? God, Lizzie, how do I thank you?"

  "No thanks necessary. We had a deal, Miz President. You renege, and we'll come after you. You know that, right? Doesn't matter if you're the chief exec or not. We have to be clear on that. My ladies are not known for their patience. We need to be clear on that, too."

  "Tell me something I don't know. Where I come from, a deal's a deal. Nice boots, Lizzie! Oh, my goodness, I think they found the problem. Come to visit sometime, but be sure to call ahead. I'll be sure to reserve the Lincoln Bedroom."

  The newly elected commander in chief reached out her hand to touch each of the vigilantes. She smiled and winked. The women all nearly swooned with joy. The first woman to be elected president of the United States had touched them. Actually touched them.

  "Sorry, folks, we have to lift off. Thanks for your hospitality, sorry for the intrusion," the distinguished-looking man said. "Back away, please."

  When the helicopter was nothing more than a speck on the horizon, the women all started to jabber at once. "What'd she say? Is she going to grant our pardons? What? Tell us right now, Lizzie, or we're pushing you off this mountain."

  Lizzie paused for effect. She slowly enunciated each and every word. "She-said. . .'Nice-boots! Come-for-a-visit-sometime.'"

  The women chased Lizzie all the way back to the dining room, with Charles in the lead.

  "I think I might want some brandy in my coffee this morning," Annie said.

  "Sounds good to me," Charles said as he headed for his kitchen.

  "Nice going, ladies," he murmured to no one in particular.

  If you enjoyed Final Justice, read on for a special preview of Fern Michaels's emotionally rich and wonderfully compelling best-seller.

  The Windsors have been living on the Windsor Hill estate in Crestwood, South Carolina, for generations. Now, on the anniversary of her daughter Emily's death, Sarabess Windsor fears she may be the last to carry the family name—unless she can locate her second daughter, Trinity, the child she gave up for adoption. Sarabess enlists the help of her lawyer, Rifkin, and his son, Jake, in tracking down Trinity. But finding her will stir up buried secrets, past wounds, and loves old and new. And for Trinity, Sarabess's quest will have lasting—and surprising—repercussions. . ..

  UPCLOSE AND PERSONAL

  At last a Zebra paperback on sale in April 2009!

  Prologue

  The hour was late, the middle of the night to be precise, and the silence was so total it was ominous. The woman standing at the window stared out at the dark night. Here and there she could see tiny pinpricks of light, but she had no idea what they were. She could also see her reflection in the dark window as well as the entire room behind her.

  The woman closed her eyes and wondered if she would ever sleep again. How long could a person go without sleeping? She should know the answer. Why didn't she know? When she opened her eyes she could see the reflection of a woman standing in the middle of the open doorway. She was still as a statue.

  The woman knew the figure in the open doorway wasn't going to speak until she was spoken to. Strange how she knew that and didn't know how long a person could go without sleep. "Did you do as I asked?"

  The woman waited for a response. None came. "Grace, I'm speaking to you. Did you do what I asked you to do?"

  Five seconds passed, then five more seconds before the woman said, "Yes."

  The woman at the window turned. She peered at Grace, and said, "You sounded unsure. You can't lie to me, Grace. I gave you enough money to put your four boys through Ivy League colleges. When you told me your husband had medical problems I gave you enough money to buy a small lake house so you could both retire. With the additional money you demanded, you can both live quite comfortably for the rest of your lives. Now, I am going to ask you again, did you do what I asked you to do?"

  The woman turned back to the window. She stiffened when she heard the single word, "Ye
s."

  "Thank you, Grace. I'll be leaving in a few hours. Thanks to you, I'll be able to leave with a lighter heart. I don't ever want to see you again. I don't want our paths to cross again. It will be best if you never return to this state again. When you leave you will follow all my instructions to the letter. Do we understand each other, Grace?"

  "Yes, ma'am, we understand each other."

  The woman watched Grace Finnegan's reflection in the window as she left the room, closing the door behind her. Long ago she had committed Grace's face to memory, not that she had any intention of remembering her in the days to come. There was no need to say goodbye. After all, they weren't friends. Business associates if you will. She banished the picture of Grace Finnegan from her mind as she continued to stare out at the tiny dots of light. Soon the sun would rise, and she'd walk away from this place and never look back.

  Chapter 1

  It was a beautiful summer day, but the agitated woman pacing and kneading her hands barely noticed. Warm golden sunshine flooded the sunroom where she was pacing, doing its best to warm the trembling woman. As hard as she tried, she couldn't avoid the gallery of pictures that lined one wall. She knew she shouldn't have come here this morning of all days. Yet she'd carried her coffee cup in with the intention of sitting on one of the rattan chairs. Not to think. Never to think. She knew it was impossible, but she'd come anyway. The sunroom had been Emily's favorite room in the whole house.

  Once this room had held every toy known to a child, a life-size giraffe, easels, paints, brushes, blackboard and pastel chalks, a television, a pink polka-dotted sleeping bag with the name EMILY embroidered across the front in huge white silky letters. An oversize toy box, again with the name EMILY stenciled on it, stuffed with animals and assorted toys. Deep, comfortable furniture suitable for a sickly little girl had been covered in all the colors of the rainbow just waiting for her to sit or lie down with her storybooks.