11. Collateral Damage

by Fern Michaels

  Abernathy loved women. Adored women. Lusted after women. One in particular: Lizzie Fox. And she traded on that love, adoration, and lust. Translation…Abernathy was Lizzie’s informant, her source, her snitch, her stool pigeon, and she’d go to jail before she ever revealed his name.

  When the plate glass door with the ornate grillwork on the inside opened, the whole room stopped what they were doing to stare at the ravishing creature about to grace the room with her presence. Abernathy saw her first and leaped over the bar with the agility of a ballet dancer. The crowd parted as he swung the lawyer high in the air until she was breathless. “I’ve missed you, luv!”

  “Wow!” Lizzie laughed as she brushed at her hair. “I need to come here more often.”

  “How about helping me out for the next hour or so?” the big, burly man with the twinkling eyes asked.

  “Love to,” Lizzie said. It wouldn’t be the first time she stepped behind the bar to mix and hand out drinks for Abernathy. One time she’d worked an hour and made three hundred dollars in tips, which she donated to the local SPCA. Her feet left the floor, and in the blink of an eye, she was behind the bar and taking her first order.

  “That rock on your hand is new. Talk to me, luv,” Abernathy said over the clinking of glassware and the chatter at the bar.

  Lizzie laughed. “Keeps the wolves at bay. It’s one of those fancy new synthetics,” she hissed in his ear.

  “So I still have a chance, eh?”

  “You darling man, you’ve always had a chance. To be my best friend. I love your wife and kids. Besides, what would that lovely wife of yours say if we took off and canoodled behind the bar? She’d damn well kill you, that’s what she would do.”

  “That she would, luv. She says it’s okay to look, but I mustn’t touch.”

  “Katy is a wise woman, and I’d be first in line to help her kill you if you ever stray. Tell me,” she said out of the corner of her mouth as she shook up a martini, “what’s going on? I’ve been on a sabbatical, so I’m not up on the latest. I’m meeting a reporter from the Post in a bit, so I can’t stay here long. You got anything worth hanging around for?”

  “I do, luv. It’s meaty. I thought about you when I heard it, but you weren’t answering your cell phone.”

  “No cell phone usage where I was. Listen, Graham, I have a meeting after I ditch the reporter. If things go off on schedule, I can be back here at four. That will give us an hour before the cocktail crowd shows up. Will that work for you?”

  “It will, luv, it will.” He grinned when he watched Lizzie stick a five-dollar bill into her cleavage.

  Lizzie worked quickly, uncapping longnecks, pouring white wine, and shaking up cocktails, all the while keeping up a chirpy banter with the men three deep at the bar.

  On more than one occasion Graham had called her at the courthouse to tell her that her opposing counsel was drowning his sorrows at the bar. More times than she cared to admit, her adversaries returned to court after the lunch break in a sluggish mood, their eyes glazed, thanks to Graham’s heavy hand with the bottle. Sure it was dirty pool, sure it was a shade unethical, but Lizzie Fox played to win. There was no place in the courtroom for losers except maybe as the defendant or the plaintiff.

  It was 12:50 when Lizzie looked up to see Ted Robinson at the bar. “Find a green table, and I’ll join you.”

  Green tables were always reserved for Graham’s special guests. Lizzie had no problem trading on the special guest part. She slapped down a cocktail napkin and a Corona with a wedge of lime stuck in the opening in front of a bald-headed judge in a Savile Row suit. She winked at the judge, who winked back. She slid the ten-dollar bill to Graham, wiped her hands on the bar towel before she walked out from behind the bar. Carrying a Diet Coke and a Bud longneck, she fought her way through the crowd of admiring men and envious women without spilling a drop.

  “On the house, Robinson, but you get to leave the tip.”

  Ted nodded as he upended the bottle. “What’s up, Lizzie? You okay with me recording our conversation?”

  “No, I’m not comfortable with that. We’re off the record here, okay?”

  “I’m easy. Okay by me.”

  “The fibs are looking for you. They want to sweat you on the vigilantes. You seem to be the only one in this town with knowledge of them. I am well aware of your…ah…passion, to bring the ladies to justice. How am I doing so far?”

  Ted shrugged. “Go on.”

  “So what are you going to say when they haul you in and hold you for seventy-two hours?”

  “And you need to know this…why? You soliciting business, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie managed to look outraged. “Sweetie, I have prospective clients lined up from here to Baltimore. I can pick and choose. You don’t look like you could pay my retainer, much less my hourly rate—which, by the way, is seven hundred dollars.”

  “You’re right about that, I can’t afford it. Are you telling me in a roundabout way that I need a lawyer? The Post has lawyers that are at my disposal.”

  “Not anymore they don’t. All those buttoned-up guys got their walking papers. Didn’t you hear? There are new owners in town who are bringing in their own people.”

  Ted’s stomach started to rumble. He stared at the woman sitting across from him and decided she was telling him the truth. “Okay, I’m going to need a lawyer. You take time payments?”

  Lizzie winced. “What would you say to a trade-off?”

  Ted thumped his bottle down on the table. “What kind of trade-off?”

  “Keep your lip zipped when you’re hauled in. All you say is you’re obsessed with the vigilantes. Deniability will take you a long way. You did hear about that new task force Cummings started up, right? Call me and I’ll represent you. For free.”

  “Why are you being so damn generous all of a sudden, Lizzie? You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Lizzie lied with a straight face. “I’m still pissed that they jumped their bond and left me holding the bag. Don’t try to spin it any other way, Ted.”

  “Wait just a damn fucking minute. You just threatened me. Either I play ball with you, for whatever your reasons are, or…What’s the or, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie leaned back in the green-upholstered chair and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “I never threaten. I make promises.”

  Ted looked into his empty bottle and grimaced. Lizzie reached for it and held it up high for a waiter to see it. A fresh bottle appeared like magic.

  “And if I play ball, I get…what?”

  “A twofer. You get me to represent you, and you get to keep your job. Win-win,” she said happily.

  Ted thought Lizzie looked like a barracuda, with him caught between its jaws. “God’s a guy. You’re full of yourself, Lizzie. No one is that influential.”

  “I’m handling the transfer of the Post. In fact, when I leave here, I’m heading to the Post to wrap up some final details. We can share a cab if you like. Bet you don’t know who the new EIC is. Sullivan is being put out to pasture. New broom sweeps clean. You want to keep your job, do what I say. I can guarantee Espinosa his job as well.”

  “A contract?”

  “Do you want a contract?”

  “Well, yeah. I’d hate for some new EIC to hold my job over my head. Five years. Guarantee my package if the new deal doesn’t go through. Upgrade my health benefits and my expense account.”

  “Deal,” Lizzie said. “And I get what?”

  “My silence. Isn’t that what this is all about? Who’s coming on board as the new EIC? I’ve heard rumors. The guy from the Times?”

  “Not even close. Maggie Spritzer.”

  Ted’s eyes rolled back in his head. He clutched at the edge of the green table till he could focus on Lizzie. “That was beyond cruel, even for you, Lizzie.”

  Lizzie laughed. “Why is the truth cruel? Ms. Spritzer will be at the meeting. So do we have a deal or not?”

  “Yeah,” Ted said. “But all be
ts are off if I catch you breaking the law. If that happens, you’ll be standing in the tall grass, and I’ll personally stuff the contract up your…whatever. I do have some ethics left, you know. We still on the same page now?” Ted asked coldly.

  “Oh, yeah. We’re on the same page. Now, I want you to call the FBI and ask for Erin Powell. Say you heard they want you to come in. Make an appointment, then call me, and I’ll meet you there.

  “So are we sharing that cab or not?”

  Ted slugged down the rest of the beer in his bottle, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table, and stood up. “Why the hell not?”

  “Yeah, why the hell not,” Lizzie said.

  Chapter 12

  The women were armed with rakes and paper bags as they moved about the compound. Raking and bagging leaves and debris was the same as doing a ten-mile run, Charles said as they pelted him with pinecones to show what they thought of his order.

  They worked in teams of two each, while the seventh Sister, Yoko, trimmed back the autumn chrysanthemums that graced the perimeter of the compound. They talked among themselves as they worked, their voices excited at first, then sobering at the possibilities that might confront them once they arrived back in Washington.

  Annie scooped up a load of leaves to dump into the bag Alexis was holding open. “We’re going to be staying in a house down the street from the ex-national security advisor. You remember Mr. Woodley, right? It was before my time with the Sisters, but Myra told me everything. I’m sorry I missed that little caper.”

  “Do I ever? I’m sorry you missed it, too, Annie. It was a mind bender from the git-go.” Alexis grinned.

  “Well, Charles said Paula, the ex-NSA’s wife, told him a house was for sale, so we bought it. We’re going to be flight attendants. Myra and I will be the den mothers or cook and housekeeper. Mrs. Woodley invited us for tea after we move in. Myra thinks Mrs. Woodley just wants to torment her husband with the sight of us, which Myra said is okay with all of us. I said I thought that would be fine. I’m really looking forward to meeting both of them.” Annie laughed, then Alexis doubled over as she formed a mental picture of the man they’d turned into a virtual vegetable.

  “According to Charles, you girls will have the proper airline uniforms and the requisite luggage. And you will be coming and going, so no one will be suspicious. As Mrs. Woodley said, it’s pretty much a mind-your-own-business kind of neighborhood, so we shouldn’t draw too much attention. For the past few days some women from an acting studio have been going in and out, dressed as flight attendants, so the neighbors could see them. Their gig is up tomorrow, when we show up one by one. You know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men, right?”

  Alexis laughed as she snapped a plastic tie around the neck of the bag that they would later haul to the side of the mountain, open, and dump the leaves. The mountain was their personal landfill.

  “What’s so funny?” Nikki asked as she dragged a huge bag of leaves over to where the others were piled up. “This is a thankless task. By tonight there will be just as many leaves as we’ve raked up on the ground. I don’t want to do this again. It would be different if we could burn them, but we can’t. I have blisters that have blisters of their own, even wearing these gloves.” To prove her point, she peeled off the work gloves to reveal huge blisters on the palms of her hands. “Better yet, I quit!” she said dramatically.

  That was all the others had to hear. They threw down their rakes and their work gloves, marched over to the steps of the Big House, and sat down.

  Yoko closed her pruning shears and joined the others. “I can’t believe we’re going to Washington tomorrow.” Her eyes sparkled as she sat down on the bottom step. “This trip, I want to take a drive past my old shop just to see what’s going on. We always had mountains of pumpkins for the children. I worked so hard to make it festive for the little ones. On Saturdays we did a hayride. I don’t care what Charles says, I’m going. Do you all hear me? I’m going to do that.”

  “We’re all going to do it, Yoko. If the gods are in the right position, maybe we can all take the hayride. Wouldn’t that be great?” Nikki asked.

  The others clapped enthusiastically.

  Charles appeared in the open doorway. “What is it I’m going to say that you won’t like?” Before anyone could reply, he looked at the wild disarray in the middle of the compound and knew instantly his chicks had quit on him. He backed inside and closed the door.

  “Coward!” Kathryn shouted.

  “So, where were we,” Myra asked, “before Sir Charles made his presence known?”

  “We were saying how excited we all are to be going back to Washington. Imagine having tea with the Woodleys. I can hardly wait,” Alexis said.

  “So our game plan hinges in part on Lizzie. Let’s make sure we have this down right. She’s going to get one of us into Pamela Lock’s inner circle by trading on an old friendship, not to mention that Lizzie has acted as legal counsel to both Lock and the woman who will be her party’s presidential nominee. One of us will be a high-powered, well-connected volunteer with her own Rolodex along with the proper credentials Charles will set up. Said volunteer will have her own assistant. It will be the same for the RNC operation. One high-powered, well-connected volunteer plus assistant. Do I have that right?” Kathryn asked.

  “That’s my understanding, which means there are three of us left doing…what?” Alexis asked.

  “Don’t even go there if you’re planning on planting Myra and me in that Kalorama house being den mothers. We want in, don’t we, Myra?” Annie demanded.

  Myra fingered the pearls at her neck. “Yes. Absolutely, we want in. We are not going to sit on our…our duffs, this time around. We are definitely in.” God, did she just say that? Obviously she did because the others were looking at her with a great deal of interest. Or maybe it was respect. She did love getting respect.

  “I wouldn’t mind sitting this one out,” Isabelle said. “I can run errands, chauffeur anyone who needs to go somewhere. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “Trust me, no one is going to be sitting around. We just have to refine the plan a little more and get it up and running,” Nikki said.

  “Nikki, what’s your gut feeling? Do you think a pardon is even a remote possibility?” Myra asked, her tone so wistful, Nikki felt herself choke up.

  “No, Myra, I don’t. I’m sorry. For the president’s chief of staff to promise something like that is just too unbelievable, but in doing so, I think the man tipped his hand. I think he’s involved somehow. I can almost guarantee the president knows nothing about that particular wild promise.”

  “Think about this, Nikki,” Annie said. “What if we can get Lizzie to…uh…drop a few little hints that we might be willing to help if Martine Connor offers us the same deal should she make it to the White House? All is fair in love and war, and this is war. To the victor go the spoils, that kind of thing. This is our survival we’re talking about. I for one have no trouble working to make Ms. Connor her party’s nominee. We help to get her the nomination, then do everything we can to get Connor into office, using the Post to support her against the incumbent.”

  The others thought about it, looked at Annie, and, as one, nodded.

  “That’ll work for me,” Kathryn said.

  The others nodded.

  “I don’t know about helping the Democrats,” Myra fretted.

  “Get over it, Myra. You’re going to love helping this Democrat,” Annie said. “More to the point, you can’t vote, anyway. Think of it as just a word you have trouble saying. End of story. Well, no, that’s not really the end of the story, you’re going to have to plan a huge party, a big, glorious fund-raiser. We can blackmail all those Hollywood people that were on the fringe of Michael Lyons’s smarmy life. We also have the file Mitchell Riley kept on all those people with money. We can blackmail every single one of them to donate generously to the fund-raiser.”

  Myra didn’t know if she coul
d bring herself to help a Democrat or not. She shrugged. She’d worry about her political affiliations later. She did know how to plan and throw a party, though.

  The Sisters looked at Annie in awe, their jaws slack at her suggestion.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? Blackmail is a pimple compared to what we’ve been doing,” Annie said airily.

  “Annie does have a point, girls. Personally, I love the idea,” Kathryn said. “Let’s make our fabulous fund-raiser in New York, so we can shop. I need some new clothes.”

  The girls hooted with laughter because, as they all knew, Kathryn used to live in jeans and flannel shirts—but since hooking up with Bert Navarro, she was into clothes, perfume, and enticing animal-print undies. She flushed but held her ground.

  “Okay, New York it is. Anything outside of Washington will give us more cover. I think we should call it a soirée for Ms. Connor. A hundred thousand a plate. Ten to a table. How many on our guest list? How much do we want to raise to get her the nomination?” Annie asked, excitement ringing in her voice.

  “Ten million sounds like a nice, healthy number. Connor can buy a lot of airtime in the big primary states for that kind of money,” Nikki observed.

  Annie clapped her hands together. “Myra and I will head it up. I think the Waldorf-Astoria will do nicely. Don’t you think so, Myra?”

  Myra was speechless as she fingered her pearls. All she could do was nod. What would Charles say when he found out they might be helping a Democrat become her party’s nominee and then take the White House from the Republican incumbent?

  Annie clapped her hands again. “Okay, it’s done. We can promise Ms. Connor the ten million without blinking. Think, girls, what else can we promise her to sweeten the deal?”

  “We have a lot of time for that. We can arrange a whole host of things to bring in money as long as we’re in blackmail mode. For now, we’re just making promises to see if she’s receptive. While she might be leading in the polls against the guys trying to get the nomination, she’s still strapped for funds. Hey, we’re women, we can make it happen. We dangle the carrot, see if she takes the bait, then get to work,” Nikki said. “No sense spinning our wheels until we see if it will fly.”