Ted Robinson closed his notebook and stuck it back in his pocket. “This is just my opinion, ladies and gentlemen, so hear me out. I think it’s news because it’s rumored that your outcast, Isabelle Flanders, has the inside track. What say you now?”
The group was saved from replying as the huge double doors opened to admit waiters and waitresses ready to serve lunch.
“OK, I’ll just report that you were all dumbfounded,” Ted said, getting up and then holding Maggie’s chair for her. “Enjoy your lunch, ladies and gentlemen. It looks…ah…interesting.”
Rosemary Hershey jabbed her fork into her fillet of sole, wishing it was Isabelle Flanders’s neck.
Four
Outside in the blustery February wind, Ted Robinson walked Maggie Spritzer to her car. They eyed each other warily, their reporting instincts kicking into high gear. Both their noses had picked up something in the Pioneer meeting and neither of them was willing to confide in the other. They might share a bed these days, a bottle of wine, hold hands and whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears, but they would never consider sharing thoughts, notes, nuances on a possible story. When it came to a byline, it was every man for himself and no hard feelings.
“See ya tonight?” Ted said. It was more of a question than a statement.
“Not tonight, baby, I have things to do.” Maggie’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll call you.”
Ted frowned. His eyes didn’t twinkle. “That’s supposed to be my line.” Damn, being a woman, Maggie had probably picked up on some hot tidbit he’d failed to notice because he was a miserable shit-kicking man. The twinkle in her eyes was all the proof he needed that she had an edge. Well, he’d never groveled in his life and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. “Dinner, breakfast?” he asked, groveling.
“Sorry, can’t. I’ll call you.”
Well, once a groveler, always a groveler. “When?”
“When you hear your phone ring, it might be me. Answer it. If it isn’t me, wait for the next ring.”
“Bitch!”
“Bastard!” Maggie said, driving away.
Ted walked back to his car. He should follow her. He really should. Instead, he shrugged and started his engine. Another visit to Jack Emery was called for.
Ted drove across town to the courthouse, parked, worked his way through security and finally made it to Jack’s office, where the District Attorney immediately threw his pencil across the room at the sight of him.
“Jesus, Ted, what now? I’m up to my eyeballs in a high-profile capital murder case. It’s looking like I’m going to have to try this one myself, which means I will have to move in to this place as I’ll be here twenty-four-seven.” Jack could feel his stomach muscles crunch into a knot. He hoped his feigned indifference to whatever Ted was going to tell him was working.
“You get a break morning and afternoon. It’s the law, so take it now and then I’ll get out of your hair. We can go to the cafeteria.”
“Are you nuts? If you step foot in that place you get sick. OK, OK, we can go to Mo’s for coffee. Fifteen minutes and that’s it, Ted.”
“I’ll take it. I want to run something by you.”
“I thought you had a reference desk at the paper. When did I become your primary source?” Jack said, holding the door of the elevator.
“When you got lily-livered and told me about the ladies of Pinewood. Suck that up, Mr. DA.”
“Yeah, well, that was then and this is now. I’m outta that mess. I thought when I squared it for you that you were going to let things lie.”
Ted walked through the revolving door, the wind driving him backward. “It’s supposed to get warmer tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah, how warm?” Jack asked, struggling to walk against the wind.
“Maybe forty.”
“Shut the hell up, Ted. Forty is for Eskimos. Tell me it will be eighty degrees tomorrow and you will have my undivided attention,” Jack said as he opened the door to the greasy spoon called Mo’s Place. It was so hot and steamy indoors that Ted’s glasses fogged up straightaway. Jack started to sweat as he shouldered his way to a spindly table at the back of the diner where he bellowed for two coffees. Everybody bellowed for coffee at Mo’s.
“Christ, this is even worse than the last time I was here,” Jack griped. “It tastes like licorice and someone’s sweaty sneakers. Spit out whatever you brought me here for before this shit kills me.”
“One of the ladies of Pinewood is flying high, Jack. She’s throwing money around like she’s printing it herself. From low income and qualifying for food stamps, all of a sudden she’s spending like she won the lottery. Since she belongs to that little group out there in McLean, my gut tells me Myra Rutledge has got to be backing her.”
Jack tried another sip of coffee. It wasn’t any better than the first. He slid the heavy mug to the center of the table. “Myra Rutledge is a philanthropist. So what? What’s that bloodhound nose of yours telling you? Who are you talking about, anyway?”
Ted gulped at his own coffee. “I can’t believe you don’t like this coffee. Isabelle Flanders, that’s who. It tells me the ladies of Pinewood are getting ready to pull another…event. It’s been about four months since they hit the National Security Advisor, and don’t even pretend they weren’t responsible for that stunt. We both know they were.”
Jack sighed. “What do you want from me? Did I tell you I’m involved in a high-profile capital crime? I am. I don’t have time for this crap.”
Ted settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. “You’re good, Jack, I’ll give you that. You know what I think, old buddy? I think you’re involved up to your eyeballs with those women. I hate to admit, that never occurred to me before. Maggie also pointed it out to me. That would make you a pimp or a shill, Jack. Maggie’s got a lot on the ball. She also blew my mind when she asked me what you were doing living in Nikki Quinn’s house in Georgetown. I didn’t know that, Jack. I felt like a fool when she told me.”
Shit, shit, shit! “And you’re bent out of shape because you think I should have told you that, right? Well, old buddy, I hate to prick your bubble, but there’s a logical explanation. Nikki is living out at the farm. I asked her if I could rent the house until I found a place of my own. We don’t have a hate on for each other, Ted. We were engaged at one time. We’re still friends. At least I hope we are. We share a lot of good memories. I traded on those memories when I asked for the lease. She obliged. Here, take a look,” Jack said, flipping open his wallet. He withdrew a single sheet of paper folded over enough times to fit in his wallet. He unfolded it and handed it over. “All properly notarized and everything. I pay her eleven hundred bucks on the first of every month. I have to change the light-bulbs, take out the trash, water the plants, shovel snow, rake the leaves, etcetera. Satisfied?”
“Do you always carry your lease around with you? I don’t even know where mine is.”
Jack grimaced as he drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I don’t have to explain how and why I do what I do, but because I’m a nice guy, I will. I didn’t have my briefcase with me the day I signed the lease. I just folded it up and put it in my wallet. To tell you the truth, I forgot about it till just this minute. If you want, I’ll fax Maggie a copy of it for her perusal.” Jack was relieved to see Ted shrug. The lease had been Nikki’s idea to cover his ass.
“Anything else?”
“Do you know Bobby Harcourt?”
“Can’t say that I do. Should I?”
“At one time Bobby Harcourt was Isabelle Flanders’s fiancé. I did a story on him a while back. I thought he was a stand-up guy. He used to fly Tomcats in the Navy. Any guy who can pull nine and a half Gs in a Tomcat has got to be a good guy. He married the chick that ruined Isabelle Flanders. See where I’m headed with this?”
“No, Ted, I don’t see where you’re headed with this. Flying airplanes makes someone a good guy? A grown man going by the name Bobby? Is he a pretty boy?”
Ted favored his friend with
a sour look. “Maggie seems to think he’s good-looking. Tall, works out, dresses well, good architect. Gets manicures, blow-dries his hair. Why is it that women notice stuff like that? Harcourt made Architect of the Year twice in a row and his wife made it once. That Flanders woman made it twice, too. Now, she’s a looker. The Hershey broad, not Flanders.”
“And this means…what?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me something.”
“You’re on your own. Did I tell you I’m working on a high-profile capital murder case?”
“Shit, yes, three times, Jack. Give it a rest. You’re in charge of that office, so don’t pull that garbage with me. Help me out here. Those ladies at Pinewood are going to go after Bobby’s wife, aren’t they? Myra is shilling for Flanders and the others are helping. It makes sense.”
Jack rummaged in his pocket for money to pay for the coffee. He slapped some bills on the table. “Is that your assessment or Maggie’s?”
“Contrary to what you might believe, Jack, just because I’m sleeping with Maggie doesn’t mean I share my sources or my info. I also have a mind of my own that I use on a regular basis. Maggie and I are independents — and adversaries to a certain point.”
“I bet Maggie is just using you for sex. Think about this, Mr. Reporter, you gotta sleep sometime. Women are sneaky. They go through your things when you’re asleep. Especially after you just had sex and you’re down for the count. They have all these little tools — hairpins, nail files, hat pins that can pick a lock. Chew on that one for a while and just remember, you heard it from me. I really have to get back to the office. What’s your next move, you intrepid reporter, you?” Jack guffawed.
“Like I’m really going to tell you,” Ted said huffily as he shouldered his way through the crowd that was waiting in line for their table.
“Tsk, tsk, then don’t come sniffing around my office, and when that lady you’re sleeping with screws you over, don’t come crawling back to me for help.”
Outside in the driving wind, Ted pulled a watch cap out of his pocket and settled it on his head. Jack’s hair started blowing in all directions. He pulled his coat collar up as high as it would go and stared at his friend.
“Let’s cut the shit, Jack, and get serious. You said you wanted those women caught. If you don’t feel like that any longer, I’ll fade into the night and not bother you again. Wherever the chips fall, they fall. I just feel that I’m closing the gap between me and them. Reporter’s instincts.”
Jack pretended to think. “I still feel like that,” he lied. “I just don’t see how I can be of any help. Sometimes, you’re like a bull in a china shop. You need to cover your ass, Ted. Those women are smarter than both of us put together — and remember, there are seven of them, plus that English guy, not to mention the English guy’s buddies. Those guys are still out for your blood — and mine, too. Just because we took out the first string doesn’t mean the second string isn’t warming up in the bull pen. Be careful, Ted, OK? Did I tell you —”
“You have a high-profile criminal case to prepare for. Yeah, three times. I get it, Jack. See ya.”
Jack watched his friend trudge off into the wind. He pushed his way through the revolving door, smoothed down his hair and then walked over to a quiet corner where he called Nikki to tell her what just happened.
Was he a snitch? Hell, yes, he was a snitch, but he was also a bona fide honorary member of the Sisterhood. He didn’t want his ass to get kicked out of the organization by a bunch of savvy women who wouldn’t think twice about slicing off his dick and pickling it just for fun.
Nikki stared across the table at Isabelle’s empty seat. She raised her eyebrows at Myra, expecting an explanation for Isabelle’s absence.
“Isabelle is in town hard at work on the public relations plans we laid out for her. Has anyone heard anything, gossip, speculation, anything at all during the last few days?”
Nikki waggled her index finger. “I heard something a short while ago, but I will only tell you if you can accept it for what I say it is and don’t ask for my source. Otherwise I can’t say anything.”
“You got it. Tell us what you know,” Kathryn said.
Nikki fought the tickle in her throat. She chose her words carefully and hated that she couldn’t tell the others that Jack was her confidant.
“If you all recall, Isabelle told us about the Pioneer Club that meets once a month for a luncheon to discuss whatever it is that architects discuss. Mostly, I’m told, it’s a gossip session. This time there were three reporters there, two we have to worry about as they’re from the Post and are personal friends of Jack Emery. The other reporter, Zack Elderman from the Chronicle, as far as I can tell, poses no threat. He was probably there simply to get the scoop on Isabelle.
“From what I’ve been able to gather, these little luncheons or get-togethers are not usually attended by reporters because one has to pay for one’s own lunch and drinks. The reporters usually call the acting president after the meeting for the highlights.”
Isabelle chose that moment to slip quietly into the war room and take her seat. The others smiled at her.
“Every day there is a new tidbit in the local papers, so we have to believe that Myra’s PR blitz is starting to work. Rosemary Hershey, the lady who did our Isabelle in, is usually the life of the party, so to speak. Today she wasn’t her usual self. Normally she wears provocative clothing, lots of cleavage, shows a lot of leg and flirts with all the old geezers — and the young ones, too. When one of the members made the announcement that Isabelle was reopening her old case, it seems Rosemary turned green. I think it’s safe to say that Operation Rosemary is under way. She won’t be sleeping well from here on in.”
Nikki allowed herself a small smile. “There’s more. Bobby Harcourt, Isabelle’s ex-fiancé, who is now married to Rosemary Hershey and who is also a partner in the firm that she started up with her ill-gotten gains, went to see a lawyer today to ask what his rights were in regard to his marriage and the business. His lawyer called Donna Frankel with whom he is having a relationship. Donna is a partner in my firm. Donna called me and now I’m telling all of you. It looks like Bobby might be trying to bail out on Rosemary.”
Alexis played with the medallion she was wearing around her throat. “Well, that’s a lot of news. What do we do now?”
“We wait,” Myra said. “Charles is checking into Miss Hershey’s finances. And a few other things, too. Charles drove into town to pick up our invitations. We’ll meet after dinner to address them. You girls can do that while I plan the dinner party at the Silver Swan. I have to make a decision as to delivery of the invitations. What do you think, girls? Should we messenger them, overnight them, or just send them first-class mail?”
It was unanimous that Myra should send all the invitations by special messenger.
“All right, special messenger it is. Are we out of line by making it black tie? The governor is going to be there. He loves black-tie affairs, as do I.”
“Definitely black tie,” the women agreed.
“Very well. We’re done here, girls. Please, continue with whatever you were doing before I joined you. Would you all care for some coffee?”
“Not if you’re going to make it, Myra,” Kathryn said.
“Your loss,” Myra quipped as she left the war room.
“Girls, I have a question,” Isabelle said. “What do you all think it would take to drive Rosemary Hershey over the edge? I don’t think me coming out on top is enough punishment for that bitch. She killed three people. Shouldn’t we make her pay for that? Look,” Isabelle added vehemently, “that bitch has to pay for all the panic attacks I had over the years. Those damn things rendered me useless. I almost killed myself trying to work through them. By God, I want to see her pay and pay and pay for that!”
“How did you escape going to jail for vehicular homicide?” Alexis asked.
“Two of the jurors weren’t convinced; the judge ended up giving me ten yea
rs’ probation, five years’ community service, a hefty fine and I lost my license. I guess they thought that was punishment enough. In fact it was way too much since I didn’t do what they charged me with, but the jury spoke. That was the end of it,” Isabelle said.
“Then our goal should be to make sure Rosemary gets the real punishment, whatever it would be without the jury’s charitable decision. Ten to twenty years or so in the slammer without parole sounds about right to me. She took three lives. We can make this happen, can’t we, girls?” Kathryn said.
“Oh, yeah,” Alexis drawled.
“I do like the way that sounds,” Yoko smiled.
Nikki laughed. “What do you have in mind, Kathryn?”
The women shivered at Kathryn’s evil laughter. Isabelle simply smiled.
Isabelle sat alone in the war room after the others left. Sometimes she just needed a bit of what she called “me time.” This was one of those times. She looked around, marveling at the high-tech room that would play such a big part in her mission. She leaned back in her chair and let her thoughts run wild.
She was so close, so very close to vindication. It almost seemed surreal. She gave silent thanks for her sisters who were going to make it happen. She thought about the crippling attacks she’d gone through over the years. The first time she had one, she’d gone to a free clinic to find out what was wrong with her. A kindly nurse helped her, gave her a hotline number to call, and a mentor had helped her through the worst of it. She shivered when she thought back to how she’d gasp for breath, certain she was going to die. The shaking, the lightheaded feeling, the spike in her blood pressure. She was worthless for hours after one of her attacks. Until her mentor told her she could talk herself out of it, work her way through the attacks with physical exercise. God, how she’d suffered in the aftermath of Rosemary’s betrayal.
She was fit now, “hale and hearty” as her mentor said. The last attack had been eighteen months ago. These days, in her free time, she counseled others who were in the same position she had been in. She loved talking to the women at the crisis center, telling them her story, promising them they could and would conquer their panic attacks. She realized now that she would never walk away from the crisis center no matter how busy or famous she became. She owed the center her well-being and she would never forget it.
5. Sweet Revenge Page 4