A Family Affair

by Fern Michaels

  “That wasn’t what I meant, Malik. What I meant was, what do you and I do? What are your limitations?”

  Malik shrugged. “I think it’s one of those things that you work at as you go along. I’m hopeful that there will be good days along the way. It goes without saying, the bad days will outnumber the good. Can you do it, Trish? I don’t know how strong I will be mentally. You might have to carry my burden, as well.”

  Her heart breaking, Trish did her best to smile. “I will never leave your side. That’s a promise.”

  And then they slept, their bodies pressed tight in the oversize chair, their tears mingling, their hearts beating as one.

  Jeff Davis looked across the linen-covered breakfast table at his three partners. “This is how I see it, guys. We just simply leave the hotel and head for the airport. We leave our luggage behind, all of our winter clothing. This way, the staff will think we’re coming back. I’m in no mood for a fight with the credit cards. That goddamn American Express said if we took out their famous Black Card, the Centurion, we could buy a yacht on it. Since it’s been shut down, we can’t pay for the hotel rooms. After that bullshit with our passports at the American embassy, we’re lucky we’re going to be able to get out of here in one piece. You guys have any thoughts on this?”

  “What the hell happened? In just two days, our lives have been shot to hell. Do these Arabs have that kind of power?” John Gamble hissed.

  Jeff’s eyes narrowed as he picked at the bacon on his breakfast plate. His head was spinning as he tried to figure out how many bills they’d racked up here in Dubai since their arrival, bills that they weren’t going to be able to pay. Five-thousand-dollar-a-night suites for four, each for four nights. The elaborate dinners, with pricey wine, at Dubai’s fanciest restaurant, Al Muntaha, which sat two hundred meters above the Persian Gulf. Those dinners ran into the thousands. And the rental cars. They’d racked up close to a hundred grand, and they were skipping out on the bill.

  Josh Olsen stopped texting long enough to share his thoughts. “I don’t think it’s the Arabs at all. Yeah, they kicked our ass to the curb and told us to get out of their country. Truth be told, we deserve to get kicked out. I’m just surprised we lasted as long as we did in this gig. I thought for sure our money was safe offshore, but now it’s gone. These guys aren’t into that. No, our problems are coming from stateside. I don’t know about you three, but it looks like I’m destitute. Ashley told me she spoke to your wives, and all of us now have foreclosure notices plastered on our front doors. I have sixty-four dollars in cash in my wallet, and that’s it. But who is smart enough to pull something like this off?”

  “My ex-wife, that’s who,” Jeff said. “With the aid of her sister, His Royal Highness’s wife, my dear former sister-in-law. That rumor about her—it’s true. I checked it out last night. There is no other explanation that makes sense. Think about it.”

  Jason Hart thought about his ex-wife, Clare, then. He’d been thinking about her way too much of late. “Clare, Alice, and Robin are best friends with your ex-wife, Emma. Let’s be honest here. After what we did to them, I can see their wanting their pound of flesh. The tables have turned. Looks to me like the only things they missed are our licenses to practice law.”

  “By the time we get home, if we get home, we’ll have correspondence from the bar association in our mailbox. I think that’s a given,” John Gamble said.

  Jason Hart stood up the moment he drained his coffee cup. “I hate this place. It’s so goddamned ostentatious and gaudy at the same time. You can take the Khalifa Tower and shove it. My gut is telling me we won’t ever, as in ever, be staying in a place like this again. More like never. Motel 6 is more like it from here on in, or even a tent in some field.”

  Jeff eyed his partners. “A defeatist attitude will get you nowhere. Be aware, gentlemen, that there are many eyes watching us. Let’s go to our respective rooms, gather our briefcases and laptops, and split this place. Walk confidently, smile, and make small talk. Once we’re out of here, we do what the attaché told us to do, go to the embassy, and they will escort us to the airport, make nice with the customs officials, get our passports stamped, and we board the flight. Thank God we have first-class tickets. Once we get home, we can deal with the passports. Are we all clear on this?”

  The partners nodded.

  An hour later, the four partners who made up International Alliance Capital were escorted through security at Dubai International Airport, where their passports were stamped. Then another stamp, which said FINAL in red ink, was slammed down. Jeff asked their escort from the embassy what it meant.

  “When you get to the United States and clear customs, your passports will be confiscated. My advice is not to kick up a fuss, or you’ll be detained. Settle in, and then fight it out. What the hell did you guys do, anyway?”

  “Not a goddamn thing. Her Royal Highness just happens to be my ex-wife’s sister. You figure it out,” Jeff Davis snarled.

  “Ooh, that’s not good.” The young guy smirked.

  “Yeah, well, you asked. Now you know. Is this flight on time?”

  “It is, and you four will be the first to board. They’re opening the Jetway right now. My orders are to stay here till your plane lifts off.” He motioned for the four partners to move forward.

  The young attaché, whose name was Lester Baker, sat quietly, vigilant, until the Jetway door slammed shut, at which point he walked over to the window and watched the huge silver plane back out of its assigned slot. Only then did he heave a sigh and turn to make his way out to the parking lot, his mission accomplished.

  Chapter 20

  THE FOUR JS, HAVING BEEN RENAMED THE FOUR JERKS BY JOHN Gamble, were the first four passengers off the plane. They headed straight for customs, went through the rigmarole, and didn’t utter a sound when their passports were confiscated. All four men were cold and shivering in their lightweight Dubai clothing.

  They huddled out of sight and hearing of the other passengers as they tried to figure out if they had enough money to get their cars out of the lot.

  Jeff eyed the bills, calculated the amount in his head, then shook it. “Okay, this is what we do. We take my car, head straight for Solomon’s office, and borrow some money. We let him deal with this mess. We’ve paid him an outrageous yearly retainer, so let the bastard earn it. Then, and only then, do we head home. Do you all agree?”

  The Four Jerks nodded their heads as they danced around, stomping their feet, in an attempt to get warm.

  “Damn, it’s snowing,” Jason Hart said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again. I used to love snow.”

  “Shut the hell up, Jason. I’m in no mood for your commentary right now,” Jeff snarled. Hart clamped his lips shut as he hugged his arms to his chest.

  “People are staring at us,” Josh Olsen said through chattering teeth. “It’s like they know.”

  “Sometimes, you are so stupid, I can’t believe I even know you. They’re staring at us because we’re wearing Palm Beach attire and it’s snowing outside,” Jeff said.

  “Who died and appointed you God?” John Gamble barked. “Just remember, Jeff, we’re all in the same boat here. Civility goes a long way, so knock it off.”

  And then they were in the car, the motor running. “We’ll sit here a few minutes, until the engine warms and the heater kicks in,” Jeff said. “Look, we’re all on edge right now. I’m sorry. I’m as upset as you all are. I don’t know what our next move is. Let’s hope Solomon can figure it out and get everything reinstated. I have to tell you, whoever did this to us, and I’m betting it was Mrs. Emir of Dubai, must know some pretty interesting people, never mind having the money to pay said interesting people to pull off what they have pulled off.”

  “How could anyone get to our offshore accounts? Those accounts were so well hidden, I couldn’t even get to them without the instructions, and even then, I had to jump through hoops. All I wanted to do was check the account, not add to it or take anything ou
t. I’m not getting any of this,” Josh Olsen said.

  “You want to beat a dead horse, be my guest,” Jeff said. “I told you, the only explanation I can think of is that my ex-wife’s sister hired someone to do this. I’m thinking she has access to what amounts to all the money in the world. Money talks. Money is power, so it is not out of the question that she found people capable of ruining our lives. I bet her friends in Las Vegas could have put her in touch. Bitch!” he seethed.

  A strong gust of wind whipped through the garage, snow swirling in every direction from the strong wind. The heater finally kicked in with a loud blast of sound and warm air.

  “I love this heated steering wheel,” Jeff said. “Buckle up, guys. We’re outta here.”

  Forty minutes later, Jeff roared into the parking lot of the high-rise office building where Ben Solomon had his law offices. The men ran, their pricey John Lobb shoes skidding on the slushy snow in the parking lot. The snow was coming down harder by then, the wind was howling, and the skeletal trees dotting the perimeter of the parking lot were bent almost all the way over from the force of the wind.

  The Four Js raced to the elevator, savoring the warmth rushing through the vents. And then they were on the sixteenth floor. The elevator doors slid open. Two minutes later, they were in the exquisite marble-and-mahogany reception area, where a stunning blond receptionist usually greeted clients. Today, though, her desk was unmanned. The phone console was silent. No red or green lights flickered. The partners stood silent, listening for a sound from anywhere.

  The Solomon office wasn’t huge, but it was elegant. There were only Ben Solomon, the lead attorney, three associates, four paralegals, plus an office manager and a receptionist. From somewhere down the hall, they could hear a voice, but the words were indistinct.

  Jeff ventured to the doorway and called out, “Ben, are you here?” The hallway went silent, and then they heard footsteps.

  The usually dapper, expensively dressed attorney glared at the Four Js. “What are you doing here? Did we have an appointment? Jesus, you guys look like crap. Why are you decked out like that?”

  The Four Js sighed as one.

  John Gamble said, “It’s a long story, but we need your help. And the reason we’re dressed like this is we just got in from Dubai. We had to skip out on our hotel bill because some asshole stole our identities and cut off our money supply. We couldn’t even go back to the hotel to get our winter clothing.”

  Ben Solomon gaped at the men standing in front of him. At one point in time, several years ago, he had referred to the men standing in front of him as the Fabulous Four, because the money was rolling in faster than they could count it. At present, they didn’t look anywhere near fabulous, but then, neither did he.

  Solomon raked his fingers through his spiky gray hair, which was already standing on end. He needed a shave. He’d lost his tie hours ago, and his shirt looked like he’d been wearing it for a few days, which was true. “Must be something in the air, then, because the same thing happened to me a few days ago. I am at my wits’ end. I have spent twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours trying to figure out what is going on. On top of that, the bar association just sent a notice that they have canceled my license to practice law. Want some coffee? I just made it. Don’t know how good it is, since making coffee is not a specialty of mine. I sent everyone home the minute this shit started going down. It’s just us here.”

  In Solomon’s office, which was as elegant and over the top as that of the CEO of any multibillion-dollar corporation, Solomon motioned for the Four Js to take a seat while he poured coffee at a lavish bar nestled in the corner. “Talk to me,” he growled.

  The Four Js started talking at once, but Solomon was able to get the gist of it all. “Well, you saved me the trouble of telling you my story, because it’s exactly the same as yours. Who the fuck is doing this to us?”

  “I’ll tell you who,” Jeff Davis snarled. “My ex-wife’s sister, that’s who. She’s married to the sheik, His Royal Highness, or whatever the hell he’s called, in Dubai. She’s got money blowing out every orifice of her body. This is her payback for the divorce settlements you negotiated on our behalf.”

  “You need to get over yourself. I don’t care how the hell much money she has. She still couldn’t pull something like this off. Don’t you guys get it? We’ve been erased from society. It’s like we suddenly don’t exist. Whoever did this had to have a network of people who knew what they were doing and how to cover their tracks. As it stands, everything has been erased. That means it was never there. You can’t argue with that, now, can you?”

  “Where did the money go from all the accounts? Where was it wired to? There has to be a trail. You can always follow the money, Ben,” Jeff said.

  “Not this time, boys. Not this time. It’s gone. When something was never there to begin with, how do you trace it? Now do you get it? I, like you, have twenty-eight days before my house is foreclosed on. Every check I wrote bounced. My credit cards are invalid. The bank called in the Feds. They think I’m part of some kind of conspiracy to launder money or some such shit. Then they threw in the credit cards, and they’re planning to charge me with everything in the book. I can’t even figure out how to fight this. It’s some invisible force. And, oh, yeah, my wife is packing to leave me, along with her nest egg of jewelry and her paid-off car. Everything else is mortgaged to the hilt. Just like you guys. Well, will one of you say something?”

  Jeff’s expression turned ugly. “If it’s not Trish, then who? You said a network. What network? I don’t have those kinds of enemies. Hell, I’ve had clients who didn’t like me, but none of them are capable of something like this. I’m telling you, it’s got to be Trish. It’s the five of us she went after. And by the way, my ex is now living in the Enclave. My daughter told me that in a text. I had a text from her this morning saying her tuition check bounced, and unless she pays up, she’s out.”

  Josh Olsen walked over to the bar and poured himself another cup of coffee. He looked at the empty pot and set about making a fresh one. “I agree with Jeff,” he called over his shoulder. “She just went after the five of us. By the way, none of us have been home. We came straight here.”

  “Well, by the time you get there, don’t be surprised to find out that your wives have split,” Solomon told them. “You’ll be lucky they didn’t sell off your antiques, the paintings, and whatever else you have of value.”

  John Gamble gasped. “In two days!”

  “Hell yes! Do you live under a rock or something? When women smell defeat, they close ranks, and it’s every man for himself. Women are vicious. They don’t just grab you by the balls. They squeeze them until you cry uncle. What? Have you guys been living in a cave?”

  “So what do we do?” Jason Hart asked, his voice so choked up, he could barely get the words out. “Should we go to the police? File a report? What?”

  Ben Solomon laughed so loud, he lost his breath. “That’s exactly what you don’t do,” he said when he was finally able to talk. “If you are all certain in your own minds that it was your former sister-in-law who did this, then I suggest you go talk to your ex-wives. See if you can cut a deal. Then again, they probably didn’t do a thing. If the sister did it, that’s who you go after, but you can’t even do that now since your passports were confiscated. Talk about a rock and a hard place. I gotta tell you. For the first time in my life, I honest to God do not know what to do, say, or even think.”

  Four sets of eyes zeroed in on Jeff Davis. Gamble voiced their thoughts. “Since you’re convinced this is all your former sister-in-law’s doing, and since she’s the sister of your ex-wife, I guess you need to speak with your ex and try to get to the bottom of this.”

  “And do it quickly, before the Feds pay us a visit. We can’t represent ourselves, we need to get lawyers, and you know what that’s going to cost,” Solomon said as he swiped at the moisture pooling on his brow. “I can’t believe this shit. I read about it every day, but
until it happens to you, there’s no way to even begin to understand it all.”

  “I feel like squatting in a corner, sucking my thumb, and crying, all at the same time,” Jason Hart said. “They say payback is a bitch. Well, boys, this payback doesn’t get any better than that for our exes. I’m going home. I want to take a shower and get on some warm clothes. Let’s agree to a conference call around six.”

  The others agreed.

  Ben Solomon watched the Fabulous Four, who were far from fabulous, leave his office. He dropped his head in his hands and wept.

  Jeff Davis dropped his partners off one by one, then drove home on the slippery roads. He was thankful when he arrived safe and sound. He pressed the garage door opener that was on his visor and drove into the garage. He sighed with relief when he saw Simone’s car parked in her own bay. At least she hadn’t left yet. But she would; he knew that as surely as he knew he needed to take another breath to keep on living. What he had to do immediately was to get hold of all the costly jewelry he’d given her and sell it.

  Simone was waiting for him in the sterile kitchen, which was never used. He was stunned to see a box of cornflakes sitting on the counter. He wondered if it was her breakfast or her lunch. Not that he cared. He looked at his wife, waiting to see what she would do, which was nothing. There was no “How are you?” No “Glad you’re home.” No “Gee whiz, I missed you.” Not even “What the hell is going on?” Not a peep. But her heavily made-up eyes were narrowed, and he knew she was ready to do battle.

  Simone was beautiful. There was no question about it. She spent her days getting facials, massages, hair treatments, manicures, and pedicures. With the hours that were left over, she shopped or lunched with her friends. That day, she was dressed all in white cashmere, with at least ten strands of real pearls around her neck. He knew the pearls were real because he’d paid for them. And the cashmere—seven grand easy. One day, she’d joked to him that she would never go out of the house unless her turnout was in the seven-thousand-dollar range. Excluding jewelry. He’d laughed, because back then he was pissing money away. He wasn’t laughing anymore as he pondered how much he could get for the pearls.