Sweet Revenge

by Fern Michaels

  “It does matter, Jack. The last time, when we went after the National Security Advisor, you helped. How do you explain that?”

  “The best I can do is to say I love you. I don’t want to lose you. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep us together. Look, this will pass. I guess I just want us to be on the same page so there are no misunderstandings later on. I’m going out to get some breakfast. Call me later if you get a chance. I’ll probably be home going over some work. Listen, Nik, one more thing. You have too many open ends. There’s no way you can get a lockdown on the location. You’re going to be wide open. Have you thought about that?”

  “We have it covered, Jack. I keep telling you, this is not a Mickey Mouse operation. Thanks for the concern. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Jack looked around for his jacket. Now he knew what it was that was bothering him. Giving voice to his concerns brought it front and center. Which meant he was going to have to act on those concerns.

  Outside, he was surprised at how warm it was. Maybe spring was really on the way. He walked briskly up to the main thoroughfare and stopped in the Copper Penny where he ate a monster breakfast of bacon, eggs, pancakes, juice and three cups of coffee. While he waited for his order to arrive, he whipped out his cell phone. He didn’t skirt around the issue but got right to the point.

  “Harry, it’s Jack Emery.”

  Harry Wong was a skinny, sinewy little man who owned and operated his own dojo in the heart of the District. With a black belt in martial arts, Harry was the logical man to train the local police one day a week. The training was mandatory and the officers who grumbled and complained in the beginning of the training thanked Harry profusely when they reached a satisfactory level of expertise. Jack had trained with Harry for five years when he was an ADA and had managed somehow to cement a friendship that had lasted to this day.

  “What’s on your agenda tomorrow night, Harry? I know you told me not to call you again. Hey, buddy, I saw the fitness reports on those new recruits and they made me want to cry. Did you ever see a DA cry? It ain’t pretty. Never you mind where I got those reports. I got them, end of story. Your guys need more practice. I hope you just had a bunch of sloppy recruits and you aren’t slipping. I’m willing to give you that practice. What do you say? What do you mean, what’s in it for you? The chance to help out a friend, that’s what’s in it for you. I’d do it for you and you know it. Who are you kidding, Harry? You never do anything on Sunday night except watch the tube. OK, I’ll get back to you with the details,” Jack said when he saw the waitress approaching the table with his food. “Yeah, I owe you, Harry. Yeah, big time.”

  Jack started to feel a little better now that he’d taken control of his end of the situation. By the time he was finished with his monster breakfast, he was feeling more than a little pleased with himself. He knew he was right. In fact, he was positive that he was right. But his high spirits suddenly took a nosedive when he realized he was aiding and abetting the ladies of Pinewood again. Which meant there was no backtracking now. He was just as guilty now as he was the night he’d helped them with the National Security Advisor. That had been behind the scenes. But behind the scenes or front and center, it didn’t make one bit of difference. He was just as guilty as the ladies of Pinewood. His ass would go into the slammer right along with theirs. It was an ugly picture that he didn’t want to dwell on.

  Right now, though, he had a bigger problem. He had to find a way to elude the guy with the gold shield who was sitting outside waiting while he chowed down. He looked around, trying to assess his options. There were none that he could see.

  He’d eaten here a few times but not enough that he knew the layout of the small café. He held out his cup to a roving waitress as he let his gaze rake the eatery. The restrooms were to the left. Kitchen to the right. Where was the back door? Probably somewhere near the kitchen. For sure there was a door in the kitchen, but the fire codes would make it mandatory to have another exit other than the front door. Would Nevins or his counterpart have a view of the back door? Probably, since it was the first rule of surveillance. Always know how your subject could elude you. That left only the restroom and a window. Assuming there was a window.

  Four cups of coffee demanded that Jack head for the restroom. He left a small pile of bills on the table and made his way across the café. He cursed when he saw the forty-seven coats of paint on the restroom window. It looked like it hadn’t been opened for years and years. OK, that left the back exit or the kitchen exit. If he was going to do that, he might as well go out the front door and head back to the house for his car. Maybe he could lose the shield in traffic.

  Outside in the early-morning spring air, Jack sprinted for the corner where he waited for the light to change. His destination was one block up and one block over where there was a cop directing traffic. His ID in hand, he walked briskly, knowing his tail was right with him. Too bad he couldn’t turn around for a full-frontal look. To do so would alert the shield to his intentions.

  Jack slowed his steps as he approached the corner. He waited for the light to turn red, at which point the traffic cop stepped to the curb. He sprinted forward, arriving at the curb at the same time the cop did. He whipped out his ID and hissed, “I want you to detain the tall guy in the dark suit. He’s wearing sunglasses. Looks like a Fed but he isn’t. Don’t let his creds fool you. I put him away ten years ago and he’s out now swearing to kill me. I just need a five-minute head start. Can you do it?”

  The stocky cop got into the act and mumbled under his breath. “I’ll give you a head start when the light changes. I’ll hold him. OK, pick up your feet and go!”

  The moment the light turned green, Jack ran across the street and then sprinted up one street and down another until he spotted a cab, which he flagged down. He hopped in and yelled, “Drive!”

  “Where to, mister?”

  “Just drive till I catch my breath. I want to make a deal with you. I don’t want the meter running either. A hundred bucks for the next hour and a half. Twenty buck tip.”

  The driver turned off the meter. “Let me see the money up front.”

  Jack obliged.

  The minute his breathing returned to normal, he handed over a piece of paper on which he’d drawn a crude map. “That’s where I want to go. I’m going to need you to wait for me while I check out some things. Relax, I’m the District Attorney. I know what I’m doing. I need to check out every entrance and every exit and I have some measuring to do. It shouldn’t take me more than an hour. You OK with that?”

  “Yeah. What would you have said if I said no?”

  “Then I’d just have to kill you,” Jack said cheerfully.

  Twenty-One

  Rosemary Hershey looked at the clock. Sixty minutes till it was time to leave for the Silver Swan. She was already dressed and made up. She’d done a remarkable makeup job, if she did say so herself. Of course, the hours she’d spent at the spa earlier accounted for much of the way she looked. The massage was heavenly. The facial to die for. The manicure and pedicure exquisite. The new hairstyle was so perfect that she couldn’t have asked for a better one. The industrial strength under-eye concealer had worked magic. She still looked thin and a little gaunt, but her pumpkin-colored dress with the matching jacket covered a multitude of flaws — her scrawny arms and loss of one breast size, just to mention a few. The mandarin collar successfully covered her stringy neck. She felt that she was more than presentable. If anything, she’d blow plain old Isabelle Flanders’s socks right off her feet.

  She still hadn’t spoken to Bobby, although she’d tried calling his cell phone to thank him for giving her his designs to enter as her own. Tonight, though, she’d get a chance to talk to him. If she played her cards right, she could entice him back to the house and really thank him. The way she used to. The thought sent shivers up and down her spine.

  With nothing to do until it was time to leave, Rosemary walked around her house. She pas
sed the door to Bobby’s bathroom with the charred blackened mess still inside. She brought herself up short. How could she bring Bobby back here with that mess? Was there a key somewhere so she could lock the door? Of course there was; she just had to find it. She really needed to get back on track and find a new cleaning lady. Someone, anyone, to clean up that mess.

  Her pacing took her to her home office. It was so messy she didn’t even want to step inside. She could see the pile of hate mail on her desk. She’d given up opening the mail days ago. Let old Isabelle send her all the crap she wanted. She wasn’t going to buckle. The case was over and done with. No one could touch her for anything that had happened in the past. Just let them try and she’d come out swinging with both arms. Feet, too, if necessary.

  People died every day of the week. Every single day of the week, traffic accidents killed people. Every single day of the week people profited from those accidents. Isabelle was a slug. A goody two-shoes. Content to piddle along, no long-term goals, going to dinner with Bobby one night a week, having sex on that same one night. Bobby needed more. Rosemary had given him more, too. But in the end he was just like Isabelle, dull and boring with only one ambition in life: pleasing the client.

  She’d let those mailings get to her at first. She’d become paranoid, thinking someone was after her. So what if they were? No one could prove anything. Everything was now after the fact. She’d bounced back with a vengeance, thanks to Bobby. She really had to make it up to him.

  A horrible thought struck her suddenly. If Bobby had given up his designs to her then he wouldn’t be at the dinner because he didn’t have an entry. Even if he worked around the clock there was no way he could have completed two designs. Well, that took the ice out of the ice cream. She didn’t even know where he was living these days. He didn’t return her calls, so how was she supposed to get in touch with him?

  Rosemary poked her head into her walk-in closet that looked like the aftereffects of a fifty-percent sale at Saks. Her gaze went to the back of the closet and the rainbow of froth. She blinked. The froth was all part of her planned seduction of her husband. He was still her husband, after all. She could win him back in a heartbeat. She was sure of it. Maybe one of the architects at the dinner would know where Bobby was these days. She wasn’t about to give up unless she absolutely had to.

  She looked down at the Presidential Rolex on her wrist. The car service she’d hired for the evening should be arriving any minute now.

  The long beveled mirror on the closet door beckoned. She posed, she preened, she turned this way and that. Perfect! I’m going to win tonight. Bobby’s designs are spectacular. How could I not win? My speech will be short and succinct. A sincere thank you. I’m looking forward to working on this remarkable project. A dazzling smile for the cameras and then the walk back to her table. More smiles. Lots of handshaking. Everyone congratulating her, even though they didn’t mean it. Jealousy was a terrible thing.

  Another plaque for her office wall. Maybe she’d make Architect of the Year again. With a contract like this one, how could she not win accolades? Getting the nomination was a piece of cake. She knew exactly what she had to do to get it. Been there, done that.

  The doorbell rang just as Rosemary started to walk down the hall. Time to go, she thought happily. The hell with you, Isabelle Flanders. You can’t win.

  When she’d settled herself in the back seat of the town car, Rosemary wondered why she was still trembling. Nerves, she told herself, something she had a right to feel considering the circumstances. The trembling had nothing to do with Isabelle and the ugly mail she’d been getting these past few weeks. Absolutely nothing.

  Myra stood in the doorway of the dining room, welcoming her guests with Charles at her side. She smiled and made small talk as she handed out a seating diagram to each guest. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the governor and Nealy Clay talking animatedly. The mayor and other dignitaries milled around, sipping champagne and sampling the canapés.

  Inside, the tables were draped in pale yellow with centerpieces of exquisite flowers. There was a small dais with a podium. A draped easel with the winning entry stood to the left of the podium where Myra would later announce whose designs had won the coveted position. The architects — some friends, some acquaintances — milled around as they talked shop. Elegantly clad waiters walked around with trays of dainty canapés and flutes of champagne.

  A small cluster of architects stood at the back of the room extolling the gastronomic delights of dining at the Silver Swan. The selection this evening, according to Isabelle Flanders, was lobster and shrimp scampi, prime rib and chicken cordon bleu. Bobby Harcourt smiled and made a small wager that the lobster and shrimp scampi would be the first choice.

  “It looks like we’re all seated at table number seven,” Isabelle said as she looked down at the table plan in her hands. “You’re sitting next to me, Bobby.” Under her breath she muttered, “I wonder how that happened.”

  Bobby grinned. “Pure dumb luck, I’d say.”

  Ignoring the byplay, a balding Joel Witlaw asked, “Anyone have any inside information on tonight’s choice?”

  Agnes Simmons, a sixtyish dowager, laughed and said, “It’ll go to one of these young bucks here. We’ve been put out to pasture, Joe. All us old-timers had our day in the sun a hundred years ago. Speaking strictly for myself, while I submitted an entry, I’m here for the dinner. This place is way beyond my means.”

  Bobby looked uncomfortable at the woman’s words but he knew it was true. The old-timers rarely submitted a unique or original design, preferring to go the remodeling route. Maybe he really did have a shot at the McLean horse farm. He wasn’t being conceited when he thought that his only real competition was Isabelle. If she won over him, he’d be happy for her. She deserved to win, too, to make up for the bad years.

  “Looks like it’s time to take our seats,” Agnes Simmons said. “Where’s that wife of yours, Bobby?”

  Bobby looked around. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her this evening.”

  “She’s over there by table twelve. I saw her when she came in,” Joel Witlaw said. “I think she’s seated with the Pioneers.”

  Isabelle gathered up her long turquoise skirt and sat down in the chair that Bobby held out for her. She gathered the short, shimmery shawl closer about her bare shoulders and looked up to see Rosemary Hershey glaring at her from across the room. She started to shake. Bobby leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “She can only spoil this evening for you, Isabelle, if you allow it. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

  Easy for him to say. He didn’t know what was going to happen within the hour. How, Isabelle wondered, was she going to choke down the food that was coming her way, knowing what was about to happen? Around her, everyone was chattering, their voices coming at her from all angles. Off in the distance, Isabelle could feel Myra’s gaze on her. She smiled and winked. Charles tilted his head slightly, which meant stiff upper lip.

  Isabelle sucked in her breath as she dug her fork into the delectable salad in front of her. She tried to listen to the small talk going on around her but finally gave up and concentrated on eating. She gulped at the champagne in her glass as though it was iced tea.

  “Easy on the bubbly,” Bobby whispered. “Why are you so nervous? You’re probably going to win. I have a feeling this is your night, Isabelle. The rest of us are just here to see you back on top.”

  Isabelle placed her salad fork on her plate. “That’s really a nice thing to say, Bobby, and I know you mean it. But I think you’re the one who’s going to take it home. You’re a good architect, Bobby, one of the best. You just made a shitty fiancé. The flowers are beautiful,” she said, trying to change the subject.

  Dinner progressed, served on the fine bone china the Silver Swan was noted for. Isabelle longed for coffee but the plan was that when coffee was being served, Myra would take to the podium, announce the winning architect and then display the winning design already on t
he easel. But before she did that, she would make another announcement that would rock the room.

  Isabelle’s heartbeat sped up as she looked around, trying to imagine her colleagues’ reaction. She couldn’t help but wonder what Bobby would do.

  The waiter reached for Isabelle’s cup to fill it. She wanted it so badly she could almost taste it but she knew she’d spill it all over the place if she tried to pick it up. She felt Bobby’s eyes on her but all she could do was offer up a sickly smile.

  Myra rapped a small gavel for silence. The only sound to be heard was the clink of the china cups on the saucers.

  “On behalf of the new owners of Barrington Farms, I want to thank you all for coming this evening. I know you weren’t given much notice and the owners asked me to convey their appreciation to you for your willingness to participate in this worthwhile endeavor on such short notice. We have a winning design, chosen by Nealy Clay. I’ll get to that in a minute. First, though, I have another announcement to make. It saddens me to make it, but I have no other choice.”

  Isabelle clasped her hands together in her lap. Here it comes, she thought. You can handle it. Take a deep breath and know it’s just part of the plan.

  “In going over the designs, it was soon apparent that two sets of blueprints were identical. However, each one had a different name on it. I’m not making an accusation; your architectural board will have to do that. It was obvious that one of you saw fit to place your name on a colleague’s work to pass off as your own design. The reason I know this is because Isabelle Flanders submitted her design a week ago. When the duplicate design came in, submitted by Rosemary Hershey, we were forced to go to Miss Flanders’s offices to have her colleagues vouch for the authenticity of her work. We were not able to glean anything from Miss Hershey’s offices as there were no employees to question. Miss Hershey herself was unavailable for comment. Unfortunately, Rosemary Hershey will have to answer to your board. I would appreciate it if you would now leave the room, Miss Hershey. I would like to apologize to all of you for this unpleasant announcement.”