“Time to go, girls,” Kathryn said as she handed Nikki two huge, colorful shopping bags. Yoko carried a smaller bag.
“What’s in the bag?” Jack asked.
“You don’t want to know, dear,” Annie said, patting him on the back. “Go, girls. Call if there’s a problem. Harry is standing by. Remember now, quick and fast.”
In the blink of an eye, Nikki and Yoko were gone. They piled into the car Jack had moved to the driveway on his arrival the night before. Within minutes they were on the way, Yoko strapped in and settled in the back, Nikki driving.
They drove in silence. Both women eyed the streets, the parked cars, looking for anything that might cause alarm.
It was 10:35 when Nikki did the first drive-by, circled the block, then pulled up behind Alice Riley’s BMW. Armed with the key to the Rileys’ front door, Nikki and Yoko walked up the steps as if they lived in the house. “I hope the people next door aren’t the type who like to look out their windows to spy on their neighbors.”
Inside the house, the two women went to work. They ran up the steps to the second floor, the huge shopping bags in their hands. Wearing skintight rubber gloves, they started pulling strips of pink fiberglass insulation out of the bags. They worked carefully, rubbing the fiberglass over every inch of Mitchell Riley’s underwear, his socks, his dress shirts, his suits, his jogging clothes. When they finished with the clothing they headed for Riley’s bathroom and proceeded to rub the fiberglass over the man’s hairbrush, his toothbrush, and every towel and washcloth in the linen closet.
“How long will it take a surgeon to pick the fiberglass out of his body?” Yoko asked.
“Years!” Nikki giggled. “If the surgeons can figure out what it is. He’ll be treated for every rash known to man before they figure it out. You did get his jockey shorts real good in the front, didn’t you?” Yoko giggled and nodded. “It’s going to be a very long time before Mr. Riley stands in front of a camera.”
Downstairs, the women looked around. They froze in their tracks when the doorbell rang. Yoko ran to the window and peered through the miniblinds. “There’s a taxi in front and Maggie Spritzer is standing at the door. What should we do?”
“Nothing. Head for the stairs. We need to get into Mitchell Riley’s secret room. Don’t make a sound,” Nikki whispered.
Together, both women tiptoed through the house to a small hallway off the kitchen where a stairway led to Mitchell Riley’s secret room. Nikki opened the door, still wearing the skintight rubber gloves. “Quick, Yoko, dismantle the computer, take the hard drive. It goes in this gym bag. I’ll carry it. I can’t think. What else are we supposed to take?”
“Nothing. Charles said it was up to us if we wanted to leave a ‘gotcha’ note. Your call, Nikki.”
Nikki was already scribbling on an official-looking FBI notepad on the desk. She drew seven stick figures with their names underneath, then wrote carefully in block letters: WE HAVE ALL YOUR FILES. She signed the note with two words: The Vigilantes.
“What time is it, Nikki? The back doorbell is ringing.”
“We’re running overtime. Damn, the phone is ringing. If Spritzer’s ringing the back doorbell we might be able to make it to the car if we run out the front door.”
“It is not a good idea, Nikki. What if it is Mr. Riley on the phone? The GPS tracker on Mrs. Riley’s car will show she’s home. Why isn’t she answering the phone? We can wait five minutes. Call Myra or Jack and tell them what’s happening. Where is Harry? He should be doing something if he has us in his sights.”
Both women rushed back up the stairs when they heard a commotion outside. Peeping through the miniblinds they could see the taxi driver going at it with a burly man in the middle of the road. They watched as Maggie Spritzer ran out to the road, her arms flailing in all directions.
Nikki looked down at her watch and then at Yoko. Yoko met her worried gaze. “We have to get out of here,” she whispered.
“I know. We can exit through the back door and stand off to the side until we have a clear path to the car. The phone is ringing again. Quick, Nikki.”
They left the house by the laundry room door and waited, squeezed between two evergreen shrubs that were in the shadows. They stood quietly, hardly daring to breathe. They could hear the phone start to ring again.
“I forgot to turn on the alarm,” Yoko said. “We don’t have time to go back in and arm it.”
Nikki shrugged. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew the phone wouldn’t ring again. Someone would be arriving at the house within minutes. “We can’t wait. We have to make a run for it. Bail into the backseat and I’ll get us out of here as fast as I can. I might be wrong about this but I think the big guy belongs to Harry, but just in case he’s not—if Maggie or he look like they’re coming our way—put your head down and whatever you do, don’t open your mouth.”
“Okay, go now, quick, Yoko!”
Chapter 24
Nikki and Yoko ran to the side of the house where a thick row of privet lined the walkway leading to the back door. They stepped as deep into the shrubbery as the branches would allow and still give them a view of what was taking place in the middle of the road. The sumo-like person was berating the angry cab driver, and Maggie Spritzer was still flailing her arms.
“We have to get out of here,” Nikki said, her brow puckered in worry. “I really do hope that big guy is one of Harry’s men.”
“I think so. Harry has many such looking men working at his dojo.”
Nikki poked her head out of the bushes. She did a halfhearted wave, hoping the big guy in the middle of the road would see her predicament and move things along. Within seconds he moved sideways, his huge body dwarfing Maggie Spritzer. The women made a run for it, barreling inside the SUV and locking the doors. In the time it took her heart to beat five times, Nikki had the ignition turned on and was racing down the driveway.
“Hey! Hey! That’s Mrs. Riley! That’s who I came to see! Get away from me, you big oaf. Hey, Mrs. Riley!” It was Maggie Spritzer’s voice.
“Hold on, Yoko!” Nikki rounded the corner on two wheels. She slowed when she saw a car approaching at the far end of the street. She risked a glance in her rearview mirror to see the white and green taxi gaining on her. A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. And then the heavens opened up and rain poured from the sky.
“Can I get off the floor now?” Yoko asked.
“No, not yet. Toss me that hat on the backseat.” The minute it was in her hand, Nikki crunched it on her head. As a disguise it was worthless, as were the sunglasses she struggled to put on. Who wore sunglasses in the rain? She took them off and tossed them on the passenger seat just as a brown sedan passed her. Mitchell Riley! “Mitchell Riley just passed us, Yoko. You can get up now. Call Myra and tell her what happened.”
Nikki’s foot hit the pedal as she raced down one street after another. Fifteen minutes later, she was convinced she’d lost Maggie Spritzer. The rain continued to pour down so fast the streets were starting to flood.
“I have to pull over somewhere and take the license plate off this car. I’m sure Maggie copied down the number. I wouldn’t put it past her to call the cops to run the plate. No one told us whose car this is. Any ideas, Yoko?”
“Tell me where we are. I will call Harry to bring a new plate. It is dangerous to drive in these weather conditions, Nikki.”
Ahead, Nikki could barely make out a flashing neon sign: Spangle’s Hot Dogs. She slowed to a crawl and turned into the parking lot. She was trembling from head to foot.
“Harry wants to know where we are. He will come immediately.”
“Spangle’s Hot Dogs. It’s a chain, so there’s more than one in the District, but I can’t see any street signs. Tell him there’s a carpet store on the right and it looks like a junk discount store is on the left. That might help him pinpoint it. Ask him how long it will take.”
“Ten minutes. Everything with Harry is ten minutes. It could be thirty o
r forty or it could be five minutes. It is the best I can do, Nikki. Go through the drive-thru and get me a hot dog and an Orange Crush.”
“How can you eat at a time like this? Do you have any idea what they put in hot dogs?”
“No and I do not want to know. Harry loves hot dogs.”
“Say no more,” Nikki said as she steered the big SUV through the narrow drive-thru.
“We got away. We lost Maggie Spritzer. This is a good thing, isn’t it, Nikki?”
“For the moment. I sure would like to know what tipped off Mitchell Riley. I can’t believe how close we cut it.” Nikki accepted her change and the bag containing the hot dogs and the two Orange Crushes. She handed one to Yoko and bit into her own hot dog. It was good. “Jack loves hot dogs, too,” she said, just to have something to say.
“Perhaps a second car in the Mitchell driveway alerted the authorities,” Yoko said. “It is Saturday and Mrs. Riley works in her shop on Saturdays. We show up and the routine the neighbors are used to is challenged. Maggie, the cab driver and Harry’s person were fighting in the middle of the road, directly in front of the Riley house. Those same neighbors might also consider that suspicious.”
A moment later, Nikki’s cell phone rang. Her mouth full of the hot dog, she mumbled something that passed for “hello.” She listened and then said, “Okay.”
“What? Something is wrong. What is it, Nikki?”
“There’s been a change in plans. Since we’re already in costume, so to speak, you and I are the ones who will meet up with Maggie Spritzer. If Harry shows up, we take him with us. Isabelle will be calling Maggie Spritzer to set up the meeting and then call us back.”
“Did something happen?” Yoko asked.
“Guess so. You know how it is. Sometimes the less you know the better off you are. Damn, this is a good hot dog.”
Nikki almost jumped out of her skin a minute later when she heard a knock on the car window.
“Harry!” Yoko called happily from the backseat. Now everything would be all right.
Across town at the Hoover Building, Mitchell Riley stormed into his office. He was like a wet cat whose tail had gotten caught in a live light socket. He cursed ripely as he slammed the door so hard the pencils danced across his desk. He’d given his beloved Bureau twenty-five years of his life but that wasn’t good enough. Did they want his fucking blood? He flopped down on the special chair he’d purchased with his own money. To save the Bureau money. It was a damn good thing he happened to be in the men’s room stall during a crucial whispered conversation at the urinals—he heard two hissing voices saying his days at the Bureau were numbered, that old Josh had named a successor and it wasn’t him. Elias Cummings. Who the fuck was Elias Cummings? Not anyone in the Bureau. A goddamn outsider who undoubtedly didn’t know his ass from his elbow.
Riley bounded upright and kicked the desk. He was pleased to see the dent in the bottom drawer of the ancient metal desk. “We’ll see about that!” he snarled. His key ring found its way to his hand. He unlocked the top drawer and stared down at the contents. His eyes narrowed to slits when he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Massey! Dennis! Lupinski! In my office! Now!”
The door blew open but the three agents remained outside. Everyone knew you didn’t enter Riley’s office unless you were invited. They waited but they didn’t cross the threshold. Riley advanced on them, three stacks of papers in his hands. “Massey, pick Cornelia Easter up and don’t let a lawyer get near her. I don’t want to hear any shit about her being a judge. Your orders are to pick her up and hold her. Dennis, you get the sex queen. Pick up Lizzie Fox and hold her. No lawyer for her, either. Lupinski, partner up with Frank Peeps and bring in those two reporters from the Post. Everyone, listen up. Confiscate their cell phones. You’re still standing here! Why is that, Dennis?”
“I’m on it, boss,” the agent said, backing away from the open doorway. “Guess he heard the rumor,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Riley barked again. “Tomaso, get your ass in here right now!”
A short, squat man with a receding hairline and tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses appeared in the doorway. “Yeah, boss.”
Riley scribbled his name on the papers in his hand, added the date and handed the sheaf of papers over to his agent. “Pick up Jack Emery and that squinty-eyed foreigner Harry Wong. Bring them in and don’t let them near a lawyer. Confiscate their cell phones. Are you listening to me, Tomaso?”
“Yeah, boss, I hear you.”
“Then get the hell out of here. Report in the moment you pick up those guys.”
Riley marched over to the door and shouted to his secretary. His voice softened a little when he said, “Get the task force in here right now. I don’t care what they’re doing or where they are. Now means NOW!”
His secretary nodded. “You have a call on line 2. The agent said it was urgent.”
“Now what?” Riley stormed as he stomped his way back to the desk. He pressed a button and picked up the phone. “This goddamn well better be urgent,” he said by way of greeting. As he rummaged in his desk he listened with half an ear to the agent in charge of his family’s security. Suddenly his head jerked upright. “What the hell are you telling me, Nolan? You lost my family? That better not be what you just told me.”
Riley’s face went from white to red to purple. “Listen to me, you asshole, if you can’t keep track of one little one-hundred-pound woman and one little girl, then you don’t belong working for the FBI. No, I cannot go out to the house. That’s what you’re there for. I have to run this Bureau. In case no one told you, Josh Carpenter died this morning. I have things to do.
“What strange car? What reporter are you talking about? What sumo wrestler? For Christ’s sake, Nolan, I don’t need this. If her car is still in the driveway then she’s somewhere in the house. First you’re telling me she went to the shop, then you’re telling me she went to pick up my daughter, and now you tell me she drove off by herself in a strange car. You repeatedly called the house and no one answered the phone. Did I miss anything?”
“No, sir. That’s it. There’s no one in the house. Someone named Julia is running the store. Mrs. Riley’s car with the GPS tracker is still in the driveway. What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Where are you right now, Nolan?” Riley had a splitting headache. He always got headaches when it rained. Of late he’d been getting headaches every damn day. He popped four aspirin and chewed them up, washing them down with yesterday’s cold coffee that was still on his desk.
“Sitting on your front porch, sir. I didn’t think it was right to stay in the house. I did search it and there’s no one here. Nothing appears to be missing. There are no locked doors anywhere in the house.”
Riley didn’t want to ask the question but he asked it anyway. “Did you look in the basement?”
“I did, sir, and the utility room is neat and tidy. Your office seems okay, too. I didn’t go in even though the door was open. Tell me what you want me to do, sir.”
Riley thought he was going to barf. The aspirin spiraled upward and burned his throat. “I’ll be right there.”
“Sir! Sir, wait.”
“What now, Nolan?” Riley snarled.
“I just want to give you a heads-up. Some garden center just delivered a load of manure and dumped it in your driveway. I checked the guy out and your wife ordered it yesterday along with all kinds of flowers. You’ll have to park in the street.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
His stomach churning, his head pounding, Mitchell Riley moved like a deadly tornado in his quest to get to the parking lot and his car. The door to his office couldn’t be open. He had the only Medeco key. No one could make a copy. No one. How in hell had that happened?
Twenty-three minutes later, Riley screeched to a stop in front of his home. He looked at the pile of manure, at the mounds of flowers that were drooping in the heavy downpour. He wanted to run but he cautioned hims
elf not to show his anxiety. He picked his way gingerly, his Brooks Brothers loafers slipping and sliding on the slick surface.
One minute he was upright, the next minute he was lying facedown in the pile of wet manure. “Fuck!” he cursed. Now he was going to have to take a shower. What the hell else could go wrong today?
Nolan reached out his hand, getting drenched in the bargain, to help his boss to his feet. He tugged a little too hard and the assistant director of the FBI went down again. This time, his face hit the smelly mound dead center. Nolan backed off when it looked like Riley was going to swing at him.
“Get the hell out of here, Nolan. I’ll handle this.”
The agent didn’t need a second order. He ran to his car parked on the street and climbed in. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. He hated this goddamn job. He had loved it before Riley took over, but he sure hated it now.
In spite of himself, Agent Nolan couldn’t resist calling his fellow agents to regale them with the story of Riley’s header into the manure pile. The final consensus among the agents: shit goes to shit.
Chapter 25
Mark Lane, former FBI agent, former FBI computer programmer and current private dick, stared out his window, wondering if the news he was hearing from a well-respected FBI agent would help or harm his friend Jack Emery. Mark had left the FBI several years ago because of his deep hatred for Mitchell Riley and what he was doing to the FBI to further his own agenda. From time to time the Bureau would still call on Mark when something went awry with one of the intricate computer programs he’d installed. It was his way of staying involved in Bureau business. He drew great pleasure in sending off astronomical bills that demanded payment within ten days. He still had friends in the Hoover Building, good friends to have dinner with or the occasional beer after work—sometimes in the middle of the night, since agents didn’t work nine to five. Because they were good friends they kept Mark up to speed on Riley’s latest doings.
8. Hide and Seek Page 16