Hokus Pokus (The Sisterhood: Rules of the Game, Book 2)

by Fern Michaels

  “Okay, Jack. I’m at the paper. I’m waiting for Ted so I can kill him. No one seems to know where he is. It’s bad, Jack, when no one knows where Ted is. That means I’m limited as to where I can go because he’ll be following me, or one of his buddies will be. Listen, I hate to cut you short but I gotta go, my boss is summoning me.”

  “We’ll catch up later, Maggie.”

  Jack looked around and noticed for the first time what a nice spring day it was. There was a time, and it wasn’t too long ago, when he was aware of everything around him—his surroundings, people, traffic, animals, the world. These days he was lucky if he knew what day it was and never mind the time. He was capable of losing hours at a stretch. He choked up as he loped along to the courthouse. Childishly he crossed his fingers as he wished for yesterday. It wasn’t going to happen and he knew it. He’d made his decision to join forces with Nikki and the Sisterhood because he loved her with all his heart. He took a deep breath as he mounted the steps to the courthouse. Life was going to go on no matter what he did or didn’t do.

  When Jack Emery settled himself behind the old, scarred courthouse desk he had a moment of panic as he tried to recall who he was prosecuting and the why of it. His mind a blank, he had to open his briefcase for the legal papers and the list that outlined what he had to do for the next three hours. Like Harry Wong, right now he hated everyone.

  Just as Jack got to his feet to acknowledge the Honorable Adam Wright, Maggie Spritzer was entering her boss’s office.

  “What’s up? You hear from Ted today?”

  “Your boyfriend seems to think I work for him, not the other way around. That means, no, I haven’t heard from him. Espinosa, his shadow, said Ted was hot on some big political story and would call in from time to time. Look, with Ted out doing his own thing I’m going to need you to work some overtime. I know you hate covering the doings at the White House so I’m giving you a pass on covering the Russians’ arrival. Instead you’re going to be covering the arrival of the…the…some…what they are is a musical group out of South Africa called…”

  Maggie let out a whoop of pleasure. “The G-String Girls! I have every CD and album they ever made. Ted loves them more than I do. Sometimes,” Maggie said happily, “there is a silver lining. When do they arrive?”

  Liam Sullivan tossed a thick blue folder in Maggie’s direction. She caught it in midair, two of the glossy pictures falling to the floor. She offered up a wicked grin as Sullivan turned beet red. A devil perched itself on her shoulder. “Guitars…strings…G-strings. Get it?”

  “I get it. Now get out of here and make sure your readers get a good human-interest story. I don’t see any need to play up all that…skin.”

  “That’s what it’s all about, Chief—skin, long legs, bosoms and a little music and lots of sparkle and lust.”

  Sullivan grumbled something that sounded like, “It’s a damn sick society where women have to cover their naked bodies with guitars and the damn music sounds like a bunch of sick cats squalling their heads off.”

  Maggie shrugged. Liam was old, at least fifty, what did he know about good music? She clicked on her computer, swivelled her chair a little to the right so she could see Ted’s desk if he decided to grace the Post with his presence. Political story slash scoop, my ass.

  Before Maggie could work herself into a frenzy over what she considered Ted’s thievery, she logged onto the think tank where Tyler Hughes worked. She fired off an email and wrote the word “URGENT” in the Subject line. All she could do now was wait for a reply.

  The newsroom was quiet. Maggie looked around. Half the desks were empty, the computer screens blank. Obviously nothing newsworthy was going on in the nation’s capital. When that happened the bosses told the reporters to get creative. In other words, make up something but make sure you have two sources. Not that Liam Sullivan ever said anything like that. All that would change in a matter of hours when the Russian delegation appeared. Maggie knew in her gut that no one was interested in the Russians but would be incredibly interested in the G-String Girls. Maybe interested was too mild a term. She liked the word “obsessed.” Just in case the G-String Girls didn’t generate enough interest media-wise, she knew how to be creative.

  Maggie leafed through the glossy publicity pictures. It wasn’t fair that these women were so gorgeous, so long limbed and she was so ordinary-looking. With freckles and flyaway hair to compound the problem. They were satiny and sexy-looking. So visual. Even the damn guitars looked sensual.

  Maggie blinked when out of the corner of her eye she saw her intrepid colleague approaching his desk just as she received an email alert. She quickly shuffled the photos of the G-String Girls back into the blue folder. Within seconds she changed her password again and then clicked off the computer before Ted could see what she was doing. She’d pull up her email on her laptop the minute she left the building.

  “Maggie, wait,” Ted said, trying to grab her arm.

  Maggie swung the backpack at the same moment her foot lashed out. The backpack caught Ted square on the side of the head, her foot making impact with his groin. An evil grin spread across her face when he howled with pain. “I hope they have to amputate,” she bellowed as she raced from the newsroom and headed for the elevator.

  Chapter 9

  Charles Martin, ever methodical, even anal at times, according to Myra, stared down at his cryptic notes. In a matter of hours with all the high-tech knowledge at his fingertips he now had a plan. It always amazed him that things could come together so quickly when the right people were in place to carry out one’s plan. He was confident now that he could get his girls in and out of the nation’s capital with ease. The only negative he could see was the human element. Things could go wrong when a person trampled on concrete plans, as he’d found out. But potential snafus were something he tried not to worry about.

  He let his mind wander as he packed up his notes and files. How would the girls like living on Big Pine Mountain? Being back in the States would definitely be a plus, that much he was sure of. But…Being so close to their old homes and haunts, not to mention Jack Emery and Harry Wong, might be a problem…

  Only in moments like this did Charles allow his deepest fear to surface. No one was around to see his shoulders slump. No one could see the worry in his eyes. It was the human element that bothered him. Yes, they’d made a getaway and lived to fight another day, but others had picked up the gauntlet. No matter what they did, no matter how prepared a plan was, things could go wrong. The thought of a second possible capture made his blood run cold, keeping him awake at night.

  Charles sighed. He had to clear his thoughts and prepare for this new mission. He had no time to worry about what might or might not happen. He was about to leave to join the others for lunch when his encrypted cell phone beeped. His eyebrows shot upward. “Good morning, uh…afternoon, Jack.”

  There were no greetings, no pleasantries on the other end. “Charles, Mark Lane, my contact who is a programmer, and used to be with the FBI, just contacted me. I think I told you he knows what’s going on in the Hoover Building before the occupants know. Justice Barnes is off the grid. It seems her live-in significant other, Grant Conlon, who is also the brother-in-law of Elias Cummings the current director of the FBI, has asked for discreet help. If you’re going to ask me if she was snatched or she walked away on her own, I can’t tell you. She has some serious security so I don’t know how she’d pull off a disappearance. As we speak, Maggie Spritzer is meeting up with Tyler Hughes. What, if anything, do you want me to do, Charles?”

  “Sit tight, I’ll get back to you. For now, stay in touch with Maggie.”

  Charles broke the connection and retraced his steps to his bank of computers. His fingers flew over the keys as he chewed on his lower lip. That he was not expecting. The human element rearing its ugly head even before the mission got off the ground was not a good thing. His right foot tapped impatiently as he waited for responses to his various emails to pepper h
is computer screen.

  Did Pearl Barnes simply walk away or was she abducted? He discounted the latter as soon as the thought popped into his head. He told himself she’d panicked and left without thinking things through. Right now, if Jack was right, the worst possible thing that could happen had just happened. If Grant Conlon alerted the FBI, Elias Cummings would be on it like, as Alexis would say, white on rice, whatever that meant. The agency sorely needed some good press after the last fiasco with the vigilantes. That would be a terrible mistake on Conlon’s part, one that would make his own and the girls’ jobs much harder.

  Charles’s foot tapped faster. For some reason he thought Nellie Easter was behind Justice Barnes’s disappearance. His anxiety lessened with the thought. He snatched the printed incoming email before it was all the way out of the printer. For the second time in less than an hour his clenched fist shot in the air.

  It was a relaxed luncheon as Isabelle brought out the salmon soufflé, an early garden salad and fresh yeast rolls with soft, golden butter. A pitcher of ice tea sat in the middle of the table. Yoko poured the amber liquid into frosted glasses that Alexis handed her on a silver tray.

  They chatted like the old and good friends they were as they served themselves and sipped the freshly brewed tea.

  Sensing food, a bevy of small birds settled themselves on the railing that surrounded the terrace, their anticipation obvious, their eyes bright. A brilliant golden-yellow butterfly flirted with the colorful blooms that lined the entire terrace. Within seconds a swarm settled down in the various clay pots. Murphy and Grady watched, their gaze keen, but they didn’t bark or attempt to chase the winged visitors away.

  The moment the golden sun was overhead, Charles got up to press the button that would roll out the retractable awning. The birds watched but didn’t move. Charles thought it remarkable that such small creatures trusted him.

  Thirty minutes later it seemed to Charles that he heard a collective sigh of relief when Annie entered the house to wheel out a serving cart with a silver coffee urn.

  In unison the women started to talk. “What? Tell us. Details, Charles.”

  Charles allowed himself a small smile. “For starters, Justice Barnes has disappeared. Her partner, Grant Conlon, contacted the FBI. We know this because Jack’s friend, who is privy to details at the Hoover Building, informed him of this less than an hour ago. My personal opinion is that Justice Barnes panicked and Nellie helped her escape. But, it’s just my feeling. Intuition, if you will.

  “Now, having said that, let’s get down to the details of your trip to the States. The padre will have someone take you to the airport in Barcelona. There you will board a private jet that belongs to the G-String Girls. It’s winging its way to Barcelona as we speak. The real G-String Girls are in, uh…concert, for lack of a better word, in Germany. Another concert has been scheduled five days from now in Washington, DC. It’s a benefit, with all proceeds going to AIDS Relief. It’s a sold-out performance. I’m told that the moment the news went out that the G-String Girls were willing to go Stateside the tickets sold out in three hours. You are the advance team, so to speak. Your trip, your arrival, your stint at the hotel have been choreographed down to the smallest detail. To add to your mysterious arrival there will be a cordon of security with you at all times, headed up by one Jack Emery and Harry Wong.” When Yoko squealed her pleasure and Nikki nearly swooned Charles allowed himself a big grin. “Neither Jack nor Harry know you are impersonating the real G-String Girls. If you can fool them, you can fool everyone.

  “You will be giving no newspaper interviews unless it’s by phone. Television is definitely out. You are going to be in seclusion until the night of the concert when the real stars will perform and you will all be on your way to Big Pine Mountain in North Carolina. At best you will have ninety-six hours to accomplish your mission. I’m holding an extra day in case something goes wrong and we have to fall back and regroup. Any questions?”

  “Tell us the downside,” Kathryn said.

  “You might get caught! Jack thinks Ted Robinson has Maggie’s encrypted phone and Maggie says Ted is on her tail. By the way, she will be covering your arrival for the Post.”

  “What about Ted? Where is he going to be? Do you know?” Nikki asked.

  “Covering the Russian delegation’s arrival. A job it seems no one wants,” Charles said. “Think about it. It’s the perfect cover for all of you. All of the agencies in Washington will be concentrating on the Russians. Rock stars won’t be on their radar screen.”

  Kathryn posed a second question. “Clarify our mission again, Charles. Is it protecting Justice Barnes and her secret or is it snatching Tyler Hughes and finding out to whom he’s told his mother-in-law’s secret? What? If Justice Barnes is gone, how do we find the last stop in the underground where those women and children are stranded? You just said her life partner contacted the FBI. That sure as hell can’t be good for Justice Barnes or us.”

  Charles leaned in closer to the table. “If we’re successful in getting that location, you, Kathryn, will be driving a big yellow bus from Oregon to Jack’s cabin in Montana until other arrangements can be made. You’ll be back on the road, Kathryn, with Murphy riding shotgun.”

  “I guess a bus is almost as good as an eighteen-wheeler. I want to assure you that Murphy will know the difference,” Kathryn said. She sighed, remembering the time in her life when she was a long-distance truck driver with her dog by her side.

  Charles addressed Alexis. “Is your Red Bag of magic tricks filled to the brim? Is there anything you need?”

  Alexis dug into the pocket of her shorts. She slid a long, detailed list across the table. Charles looked at it. He nodded. “Everything will be on the plane when you board. It goes without saying you will be working your magic onboard before you land.” Charles, as well as the others, considered Alexis a genius.

  “Any other questions?”

  “Where will we be staying?” Nikki asked.

  “You’ll be staying in the Embassy Suites. We’ve reserved the entire floor to ensure your privacy. These suites consist of bedrooms, sitting rooms and kitchenettes. In other words, you’ll have walking-around room when you spend time there. For the most part, you’ll be on the move. I have agents who will be on the floor as lookouts for inquisitive hotel staff.

  “If there’s nothing else, I have work to do. It was a wonderful lunch, Isabelle. Do I dare ask what’s for dinner?”

  “You dare but I’m not going to tell you,” Annie said. “I’m cooking and it will be a surprise. We aren’t coming back here, are we, Charles?”

  Charles turned in the open doorway and looked from one to the other. “Not for a while. If Big Pine Mountain works for us, we may stay there. So, be sure you bring whatever you think you will miss when you leave here.”

  “Well, that’s a no-brainer,” Kathryn snapped, “since we arrived here with just the clothes on our backs.”

  Charles waved airily.

  “I will clean up,” Yoko said.

  “Myra and I are going for a walk,” Annie said as she nudged Myra, who gaped at her. “You said you wanted to get in shape for those G-strings.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I? All right, Annie, let me get my walking shoes. Just give me a few minutes.”

  Myra was as good as her word. She returned, walking briskly, not even bothering to stop. Annie had to jog to keep up with her.

  The two walked along in silence, neither enjoying the gorgeous day, the pungent scent of the pine trees or the brilliant wildflowers dotting the path. Myra’s arms were pumping furiously as she stomped down the path.

  “Dammit, Myra, wait a minute. What’s wrong?”

  “You know damn well what’s wrong. I am not going to wear a G-string and pasties. Did you hear me, Annie? I refuse!”

  “But they said…”

  “They said, they said…And you believe them? Six members make up the G-String Girls. All of them are white. That lets Alexis out, since she’s black.
You and I are needed to make up the number six. Read my lips, Annie, I am not wearing a G-string and pasties. I don’t give a…a…damn what they say about hiking up our breasts and rear ends.”

  “But they said…”

  “They’re young, Annie. While they’re taking this seriously it’s still a lark for them. I repeat, they’re young! My God, my pubic hair is gray and it does not match the color in my hair. I am not…I am not shaving…down there.”

  Annie stopped in her tracks before she doubled over laughing. “Vanity, thy name is woman. I had no idea you were such a prude. Oh, Myra, who cares? I don’t care if my toenails are yellow. That’s why they make nail polish. Same thing,” she said breezily.

  Myra stared at her old friend. “You’re an idiot, Annie. There is a big difference between gray pubic hair and yellow toenails.”

  “Okay, have it your way. I’m doing it. I’m viewing this as the ultimate challenge in my life. I’ll leave it up to you to explain to Charles how you plan to compromise this mission even before it gets off the ground. I am not backing you up, either.”

  Myra, huffing and puffing, sat down on a rotted log, her legs straight out in front of her. She pointed to her wrinkled knees, at the liver spots on the calves of her legs. She ignored her polished toenails. “Yours are no better, Annie.”

  “The nude nylon bodysuit will cover all those…those little flaws.”

  Myra picked up a stick, a wicked gleam in her eye. She waved it ominously. “What nylon bodysuit? I didn’t hear anyone say anything about a nude nylon bodysuit.”

  “All right, all right, so I made that up. I’m sure it was an oversight by the girls in not mentioning it. They probably assumed since you and I are so worldly that it was understood.”

  “Do you want me to beat you to death now or later?” Myra asked, using the stick to get to her feet. Annie backed up warily.

  “Myra, we are not going to be on a stage. It’s all make-believe. We’ll be playing a part. The real G-String Girls are the performers. Think of us as their stand-ins. We’re just part of the package to make it all seem more real for the fans. Now, don’t you feel better? You can apologize now.”