Crash And Burn

by Fern Michaels

  “No, sir, you have already told me four times who you are. But it just doesn’t matter. You are not my employer, and you do not set policy for the Quinn Law Firm. Now, either you sit down or you leave, or I will be forced to call security. How do you think that is going to look on the evening news? I can just hear the news anchor: ‘And now a story about the Speaker of the House, Buzz Lambert, being escorted by security out of the building housing the Quinn Law Firm. Calls to the Speaker’s office asking for comment on the incident have not been returned. ’ I am calling Ms. Quinn now.”

  Buzz couldn’t believe that this slip of a girl was telling him, the man two heartbeats away from becoming the president of the United States, what to do. And yet, here he was, sitting down. He seethed like a fire-breathing dragon as he waited.

  “Ms. Quinn instructed me to escort you to her office. She said she can give you five minutes, not one minute longer, as she has a client who is due to arrive momentarily. Here at the Quinn Law Firm, we do our best not to keep our clients waiting. Follow me, sir.”

  Nikki was standing in the open doorway to her office. She nodded to Judy that she should return to her own office, that she could and would handle things from here on in. “Mr. Speaker, I’m Nikki Quinn. This is my firm. I don’t care who you are or why you’re here, but do not ever try to bluster your way in here and try to intimidate my employees. We do not tolerate that kind of behavior. You have five minutes, so talk fast. I have a client who is due to arrive any minute.”

  “Where’s my son? Where’s that gold digger he married? Jeffrey’s mother told me they were getting divorced and that you were handling the divorce.”

  “I have not the slightest clue as to the current whereabouts of your son. I assume that he has finished what he came here to do and has departed. Likewise for his wife.

  “And as a lawyer yourself, you should know that I cannot discuss my clients’ business with you. This might sound trite, but I would bet dollars to donuts that you have your son’s phone number and access to a telephone. Perhaps you should try calling him to find out where he is, instead of coming here and disrupting my law firm. I think we’re done here, Mr. Speaker.”

  “This isn’t the end of it, lady,” Buzz blustered. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had talked to him like this blond floozy. Even men didn’t dare talk to him like she had.

  His face red and mottled like the old bricks on the building, Wilson “Buzz” Lambert turned on his heel and marched down the hall, his back ramrod stiff.

  The fine hairs on the back of Nikki’s neck moved. So her gut was right, and right now her gut was telling her that the Speaker’s words were true. This wasn’t the end of the Lambert divorce, not by a long shot.

  Chapter 2

  The dowdy-looking woman in the stretched-out sweater, ankle-length skirt, and shoes with run-down heels spotted the Speaker of the House a second too late. She’d stepped into the revolving door just as the Speaker gave it a hard slam that forced the woman to do a full circle before she stumbled out into the lobby of the Quinn Law Firm, where a buxom blonde reached out just in time to catch her before she fell to the floor.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  Of course she wasn’t all right. Why would anyone think that she was? But, being polite, she nodded, and said, “Thank you, young lady.”

  “Are you sure? You look a little shaky. Can I get someone to help you?”

  Of course she was shaky, the dowdy woman thought, but not for all the tea in China would she admit to it. “Really, I’m fine, thank you very much for your help.” On less-than-shaky legs, the dowdy woman made her way over to the receptionist’s desk, and said, “I have an appointment with Ms. Quinn. My name is Selma Roland.”

  The receptionist, a fashion plate in her own right, tried not to stare at the woman and couldn’t help but wonder how she could afford the hourly rate the firm charged. “Yes, you do, Ms. Roland. It will be just a moment until someone gets here to take you up to Ms. Quinn’s office. Please have a seat.”

  The dowdy woman shuffled her way across the small lobby and took a seat. Thank God her breathing was back to normal. Of all the people in the world, Wilson Lambert was the last person she had expected to run into. Here at this office. At this hour of the day. Her mind started to race. She asked herself why she was surprised, since Wilson Lambert seemed to know whatever was going on before anyone else did. Thanks to the network of flunkies who kept him apprised of everything that went on in the District and genuflected in front of him for the privilege of doing his bidding. It was sick. Sick, sick, sick.

  A door behind the receptionist’s desk opened. “Ms. Roland. I’m Mitzi Doyle. Ms. Quinn asked me to fetch you up to her office. She’s waiting for you. Just follow me.” If the woman’s shabby attire puzzled Ms. Doyle, she gave off no outward sign.

  Nor did Nikki give off any signs that the woman’s shabbiness bothered her when she held out her hand for a handshake. “Please”—Nikki motioned to the casual seating area—“take a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “No thanks. I . . . appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I have this really bad habit of waiting till the last minute to . . . to make appointments. I’m working on trying to do better. Should we discuss your retainer fee first?”

  “I like to wait on that until I hear what it is you want my firm to do for you. That way, I can gauge how much time I’ll need to work on your case. Tell me why you’re here and how I can help.”

  I know I’ve seen this woman before, but she didn’t look anything like she looks now, Nikki thought. Did she fall on hard times, or is this a disguise of some sort?

  “I’ve heard really good things about your firm. So I feel like I’m in good hands.”

  “That’s nice of you to say that. We try very hard here at the firm to do what is best for all our clients. Now, how can I help you?”

  “First things first. I have a confession to make. I came here under a false name. I had . . . have my reasons for that. I just want to apologize right up front for deceiving you. I never . . . I never do things like that. This . . . this time, I am afraid, I had no other choice. My real name is Livinia Roland Lambert. My friends call me Liv. Selma is my middle name, and Roland is my maiden name. So I didn’t exactly lie. I detest liars. Yes, I am the wife of the Speaker of the House, Wilson, or Buzz, as he likes to be called, Lambert. And I am also the mother of Jeffrey Lambert, who was here to see you earlier. I look . . . like this . . . because I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. Case in point . . .” She went on to describe the revolving-door incident and could not keep herself from laughing about it. Nikki found it impossible not to smile as she visualized the outraged, and thoroughly objectionable, Speaker of the House slamming through the door, having no idea that he was spinning his very own wife in a full circle.

  “I want to file for divorce. I talked to my son, and he helped me reach my decision. By helping me, I mean we talked for hours, and he helped me wade through all the years of my marriage and how I arrived at this point in time. Jeffrey found the courage, as did Amy, to come to terms with the end of their marriage, and may I say I adore that young woman, but even so, they were not right for each other. They owned up to what each of them wants, and it wasn’t marriage. So they took steps to rectify that. Jeffrey said I had to look it all in the face and ask myself if I wanted to spend the rest of my years like all the years that have gone by, or did I want to live. As in live. When put that way, it was not a hard choice at all.

  “Actually, to me, it was a no-brainer. What really startled me, however, was that my son is smarter than I am. If Jeffrey and Amy hadn’t filed for divorce, I do believe I would have just stayed in the unhappy rut my marriage had become a long time ago.

  “There will be problems. I can guarantee that. I am very wealthy. Please don’t think I’m bragging, because I am not. The money in our marriage came from me, and it is all mine. I have some very good old family lawyers who have been with me since
I became of age. Of course, I will give you their names and permission to talk to them.

  “Wilson earns something around $223,500 a year as Speaker of the House. He will earn that amount every year until the day he dies. He spends that much during the first quarter of the year. He loves to live high.

  “My . . . ah . . . game plan is to get up one morning and walk out of the house and not actually disappear but depart the East Coast and head to California, to be closer to my son. On that day, I want my husband served with divorce papers, preferably at his office. But I want to be airborne when that happens.

  “I also want to ask you if the firm can handle the sale of my family home. Again, only after I am gone. To facilitate that, I am going to give you power of attorney so that you can sign anything that needs to be signed.

  “Moreover, I want Wilson evicted as soon as possible. I fervently hope that he ends up living in a tent and peeing in a bucket. I think I know how that must sound to you, but I have finally reached the end of my rope. The only thing other than my son that man ever gave me was the flu, and even then, he didn’t take care of me. I’m sorry if I sound bitter, because I am bitter. No point in lying about it at this stage of my life.

  “You need to know that we will have a fight on our hands, I can absolutely guarantee that. Wilson will go immediately to the Chessmen, as he calls them. The law firm of Queen, King, Bishop, and Rook. I’m sure you know of them. I think Wilson is responsible for that firm’s success.”

  Nikki childishly crossed her fingers that Livinia Lambert wasn’t picking up on what she was feeling. As Jack was fond of saying, I certainly didn’t see this coming. Of course she knew of the firm—everyone in Washington, D.C., knew who the Chessmen, the firm’s founders and only partners, as they liked to be called, were. Nikki opted for silence and simply nodded, pretending that she was not letting on about how that reference to the Chessmen rattled her.

  “Wilson has no idea I know this, but I tapped into his personal e-mail account, and there are those out there who want him to make a bid for the presidency. I think the Chessmen are the driving force behind the plan. That buffoon, meaning my husband, actually thinks he can win. And perhaps he can. Stranger things have happened in Washington, D.C.

  “I’ve heard him whispering on the phone from time to time. Wilson would make a terrible president. Even the thought that he is now second in the line of succession scares the wits out of me.

  “That’s another reason I’m doing this. I do not want to be attached to him in any way, should he make a run for the presidency. Assuming he can even get out of the gate. If I can successfully remove myself, my money, and my friends, then I think they will very quickly lose interest in him as a presidential candidate. As it stands now, he needs me. He might, I say might, try to hit up Jeffrey, what with his newfound software wealth, but I can assure you that Jeffrey wants no part of his father. Wilson was an absentee father during Jeffrey’s most crucial years.”

  Livinia threw her hands in the air, and said, “That’s pretty much the condensed version of things, Ms. Quinn. Will you represent me? Should we talk about the retainer now?”

  Every nerve in Nikki’s body was screaming, No, no, no, a thousand times no! What she said was, “Of course the firm will represent you. I don’t want you to worry about the Chessmen if you think that’s who your husband will have representing him. We’re all big girls here at the firm. We can handle them.”

  Livinia let loose with a mighty sigh. “I was so hoping that you would say yes. Thank you. What’s my next step? Aside from paying you the retainer. What kind of paperwork do you need from me other than that power of attorney? Oh, one other thing. Jeffrey and I have what Jeffrey calls burner phones. And that means Wilson doesn’t know about them. And we also have our own private e-mail accounts. Jeff, as I am sure you know, is very high-tech, and he took care of all that. I even have separate sets of identity papers so when the day comes, and I walk out of the house, no one will know where I am. Not the Selma Roland name, that’s too obvious. I know that part is illegal, but I really don’t care at this point.”

  Nikki struggled to process all she was hearing. “Ah . . . it sounds like you and your son pretty much thought of everything. You do realize, don’t you, Livinia, that this is not going to be a walk in the park, especially if the Chessmen are involved.”

  “My dear, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I know more than you think I know about those scoundrels at that firm. They’re all about dirty tricks and intimidation. I lost count of the number of times the four of them came out to the house, ostensibly to play cards, but all they did was talk about how they shafted, that’s the word they actually used, their clients’ spouses in divorce settlements. When I finally realized what those meetings were all about, I hired someone to come in and bug Wilson’s office. It was someone I trusted, so don’t you worry about that end of it. I have a shoe box full of tapes I can hand over to you.”

  Good Lord, this woman is chock-full of surprises! “Really! That’s good to know. Yes, of course we’ll want to listen to those tapes. Is there anything else you want to tell me?” God, I hope not, Nikki prayed.

  “No. That’s pretty much it. I imagine you want to know if Wilson ever cheated on me or not. I don’t know. I never cared enough to look into it. We haven’t been man and wife in that sense for more years than I can remember. Now about that retainer. Will fifty thousand dollars work for now? I know all about billable hours, and I also know that, as you say, this is not going to be a ‘walk in the park.’ Just tell me what to sign, so I can get back home and out of this . . . this bag-lady outfit.

  “My son said something I thought was very profound yesterday. He said the choices we make in life define who we are. He also said that fate is what happens to you. Free will is how you respond. I raised a very smart young man, and, yes, I take one hundred percent credit for that.” Livinia shrugged. “I don’t know why I felt the need to tell you that. I guess because I am going to do my best to make the right choices from here on in and let my free will rise to the surface. We’re done, right, Ms. Quinn?”

  “For now, yes. How do we get in touch with you?”

  Livinia squinted, then completely closed one eye as she homed in on a picture on the wall. “I think it might be best if I get in touch with you. Don’t send me any mail at my home. Wilson has the help on his side. What that means is they report to him on my comings and goings, although why he wants to know what I’m doing is beyond me. Jeffrey says he worries that either he or I will damage his reputation somehow, someway. Can we just leave it at that for now?”

  “Yes, for now.”

  “How long before you are in a position to serve the papers on him? I don’t mean to rush you, but now that I’ve made my decision, I want to walk out of that house and get on with my life as soon as possible. But you’re the lawyer, take as much time as you need so we get it done right. I’ll find a way to get all those tapes to you.”

  “A week from today should do it. Call me two days before, and I’ll let you know if we are ready to act as soon as you are on that airplane to California.”

  And then they were at the door. “Is this where you say something to me like, ‘If you change your mind, it won’t be a problem’? A week will give me time to make my plane reservation. I thought I would book a flight to Kansas City. No one I know goes to Kansas. Then I will book another flight from there, a few days later, for San Diego, where I will stay another few days. The next step will be to buy an old car of some sort to finish off the trip. This way, I won’t be leaving any footprints for Wilson to follow. Once I leave, I will only use cash to pay for everything, so he cannot trace any credit-card use.”

  Nikki laughed out loud. “You really did think this through, didn’t you? Actually, I usually do say something like that, but in your case, I don’t think it’s at all necessary. Perhaps I should hire you to work on my investigative team.

  “Good luck, Livinia. You know how to reach me, if you need me. O
h, wait, I do have one other question. What about your household help?”

  This time, it was Livinia’s turn to laugh out loud. “The way I see it, those people are Wilson’s problem. He hired them all. Let him deal with whatever crops up. Have a nice day, Ms. Quinn.”

  “You too, Livinia. And please call me Nikki. Ah, here comes Mitzi. She’ll show you out and make sure no one is . . . ah . . . observing you.”

  Nikki smiled as she watched the spring in the dowdy woman’s step. Even from where she was standing, she could tell that Mitzi, who took Livinia into her office to write the retainer and sign a standard power of attorney, was also aware of the difference in their new client.

  Nikki was a whirlwind as she raced down the hall and around the corner to Alexis’s office. She knocked softly and was told to enter. She did, her hands in the air, palms facing Alexis. “In a million years, no, a billion years, you are not going to believe what I am going to tell you.”

  Alexis sat up a little straighter, closed the book she had been studying, and stared at Nikki. “You have my undivided attention, boss.”

  Chapter 3

  Maggie Spritzer looked up at the bank of clocks on the wall, which told her the time all over the world. Not that she cared what time it was in Australia or Japan, or anywhere else, for that matter. All she cared about was that it was only one o’clock in the afternoon, way too early to call it a day, in the Eastern time zone. And she was bored out of her mind.

  It was a very slow news day. One of those rare days in the nation’s capital when it seemed that absolutely nothing newsworthy was going on. And she was stuck here in the office as the once-again, temporary editor in chief of the Washington Post. She was sorry now that she’d let Annie de Silva talk her into taking over the post for a third time. But it was just so hard to say no to Annie. She hated sitting here and calling the shots for the reporters, since she was, plain and simple, a reporter at heart. She belonged out there, ferreting out the news stories that would make headlines, not sitting here in this plush chair, waiting for someone else to bring her a story that might or might not be newsworthy. Always and forever, she would be a newshound.