Vanishing Act

by Fern Michaels

  With years of long practice, Charles sifted through the faxes and printed e-mails. Those that were crucial went into one pile, those that needed attention but not immediately went into another pile. Those with tidbits of information went into a third stack.

  Fifteen minutes later, Charles thought he had the initial elements of a plan. He made call after call, cryptic messages were left and recorded. He pressed a button, and the plasma screens sprang to life. He wished, as he always did, that Lady Justice would remove her blindfold, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  Charles reached for a stack of bright yellow folders and proceeded to fill them with stapled reports. Stepping down from his dais, he was meticulous as he placed the folders in front of each chair at the round table. His job for the moment was done.

  His eyes were drawn to Maggie Spritzer’s blue folder. Annie had been so right when she appointed Maggie editor-in-chief of the Post. He allowed a small smile to tug at his lips when he recalled how he’d almost gone ballistic when he found out Annie wanted to buy the newspaper. A smart move. More than smart; brilliant. He’d had misgivings about Spritzer, Ted Robinson, and Joe Espinosa, but those had turned out to be unfounded. All three had performed beyond his expectations. No regrets there. And he had no regrets where Bert Navarro was concerned. He still wasn’t sure about the liaisons the girls had formed with the newest members. It seemed everyone had someone to lighten and brighten their lives. Nikki and Jack. Yoko and Harry, Kathryn and Bert, Alexis and Joe Espinosa, Maggie and Ted, Annie and Little Fish. Isabelle was the odd woman out, but he was sure that would change sometime soon. At the moment Isabelle had the company of Myra. Myra, dear Myra. He couldn’t think about Myra just then and what the future held for the two of them or—more to the point—whether they even had a future together.

  Charles looked at his watch. Five more minutes before the girls would appear to take their seats. Five minutes until they looked up at him expecting a miracle that would turn Harry Wong’s life right-side up. For the first time in his life, he wondered if he could make the desired result happen.

  Charles’s gaze went to the wall of windows to see that it was totally dark outside. The summer storm was kicking up in intensity. Lightning ripped across the sky as thunder rumbled and cracked. It sounded like it was directly overhead. Since there was nothing he could do about the weather, he made his way back to the computers. His nerves were still twanging every which way.

  He almost gagged in relief when he heard the door open and the women enter the room. They made a production of taking their seats, murmuring among themselves. The sound of the chairs scraping on the pine floors sounded to Charles’s ears as loud as the thunder overhead. He found himself watching them out of the corner of his eye. All expression seemed to be gone from their faces. Two days, he told himself, wasn’t all that long to put a plan into action. But to the girls it was an eternity. He could read them like a book.

  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew his position was hanging in the balance. All of them, Yoko in particular, wanted a miracle. Could he produce one? Only time would tell. He knew that he was being tested, tested as to whether he still belonged with them, whether they still needed him, whether they still wanted him.

  Charles followed protocol and descended the steps that put him next to the round table. He allowed himself the luxury of one last look at the faces staring up at him. Surprisingly, it was Annie’s expression that told him he had only one option, and unless he exercised it, his job there was done.

  The women were so polite, so blank, it was unnerving. He decided to take the bull by the horns and said in as neutral voice as he could manage, “I have something to tell all of you. When I’m finished, I never want to speak of it again.” He had their attention now, especially Annie’s. She gave a slight nod of her head.

  Charles took a deep breath and said, “My son was a traitor to Her Majesty and to his family. The details are not to be spoken of, it is what it is. I found myself in a position where I had to…to make concessions, promises; promises that I’ve now broken. That means I can never go back across the pond. Never. I will never be able to see my daughter-in-law again. I will never be able to see my grandchildren. My relationship with…my childhood friend has come to an end because I refused to stay in England; the reason is that my life is here with all of you. Having said that, I expect you all to make up your minds at this precise moment and decide if we can get past this episode and get back on track.”

  “Charles, thank you for that disclosure, and I think I speak for all of us when I say thank you and that your…your…family business is safe with us. Having said that, let’s get down to work on Harry’s problem,” Annie said.

  The atmosphere in the room changed as quickly as the weather had outside. Sunlight streamed through the windows, the rain ceased, and Myra smiled up at him. He thought her eyes were full of promises. He’d made the right decision. It was his turn to smile, and smile he did. And then they were all smiling and giggling.

  Life was back on track. Charles felt like a peacock ready to strut his stuff, but he stifled the feeling. He risked a quick glance at Myra, who was still smiling. He felt buoyed at the thought she might switch up that ugly comforter on the bed and put her fluffy yellow towels back in the bathroom. He couldn’t get emotional at the moment. He had a job to do, and his chicks were waiting.

  “First things first. I want to congratulate you on your last two successful missions. I say successful because you are back here safe on the mountain. I want to stress to all of you that you broke all the rules. You took ridiculous chances with your well-being. What that means to me and should mean to you is you all got cocky. If it was just one of you, I might be able to understand the attitude, but for all of you to endanger one another is not acceptable. Someday, not today, I want you to tell me what you were trying to prove by going to the White House and driving those people home to Kalorama. What you accomplished is to turn every organization into high gear in regard to capturing you. You acted like teenagers out on a lark. There will be no more of that. Do you understand me?”

  The Sisters nodded. Only Myra and Annie managed to look defiant. Charles glared at them.

  “And, you two!” he said, pointing his finger at them. “Do not think for one minute that I won’t find out where you went in deliberate disregard of the rules that you all stick together. Make no mistake, I will find out.

  “I’m going to ask you all one more time. Do you want me to continue in my role as master planner? Are you going to do as I say when I say it? Last but not least, are we all on the same page? And that includes you, Myra and Annie. Just raise your hand.”

  Seven hands went up at the speed of light.

  Charles felt the insane urge to guffaw, but he stamped it down, and said, “Open your folders, girls, and let’s see what we’re up against.”

  Papers rustled, feet tapped the pine floors. At some point Murphy and Grady had come in, but the pair had gone unnoticed until they both barked as if on cue. Charles nodded in their direction. Both dogs dropped to the floor in the middle of the doorway, their large heads on their paws, their eyes alert to what was going on.

  “What you’re looking at is Maggie Spritzer’s report. There is no point in going over it again. I have some additional information such as names. The loan officer at East Coast Savings was a white female named Sara Brickman. According to her employment file she is thirty-two years of age. She worked for East Coast for eighteen months. She claimed to be single when she filled out her employment application. The Social Security number listed is bogus. Sara Brickman was created out of whole cloth five years ago. There is no record of her in any of the databases before that time.”

  Charles clicked a button, and a picture of Sara Brickman appeared on the plasma screen. “There is nothing outstanding about her or anything that would cause anyone to think she wasn’t who she said she was. Blond, blue-eyed. She’s five feet four inches tall. She weighed 112 pounds at the time she
filled out her employment application. She claims to have been in good health and only availed herself of her health insurance twice in the eighteen months she worked at the bank. Once for a deep cut that required seven sutures when she opened a can and it sliced the palm of her hand. The second time was for multiple bee stings.

  “Miss Brickman got sick at the end of her last month of employment and said she was diagnosed with mono. She was away from work for three weeks when she said she’d decided to return to her parents’ home in Texas after her recovery was not as speedy as she would have liked. She claimed no benefits from the bank for her illness. She sent a resignation letter to the bank and moved on. The detectives I have on the job said none of her coworkers have heard from her since she left. No one had a bad word to say about Miss Brickman. Her superior at the bank said she was a hard worker, often staying past closing to get caught up on paperwork. An exemplary employee.

  “My investigator went to the apartment on Connecticut Avenue where Miss Brickman lived and discovered that she was indeed married and her married name was Carson. Husband’s first name was Dennis. Dennis worked for Sovereign Bank as a loan officer. Both husband and wife moved out of the apartment at the end of March, at the same time Mr. Carson resigned his position at Sovereign Bank. It seems Mr. Carson told the manager at the apartment complex’s leasing company that his mother was in ill health, and he and his wife had no choice but to break their lease and return to Colorado, where the mother lived. A neighbor said they are a nice couple, had no company that she ever saw, and that the couple kept to themselves. They both drove late-model Honda cars and both of them attended the Lutheran church on Connecticut Avenue. The neighbor said they never missed a Sunday, and she knows because she belongs to the same church.”

  Charles clicked a button, and Dennis Carson’s image appeared next to his wife’s on the plasma screen. “These pictures are compliments of both banks’ summer picnics.

  “The couple look like suburbanites. Clean-cut, the kind of people you’d like to number among your friends. The only problem is my people couldn’t find any friends, but it’s still early in the game for that.”

  “Do we know where they are now? And how sure are we that they’re the ones responsible for the identity theft?” Nikki asked.

  “We do know where they are but only as the result of a fluke. The same neighbor who shared her information with my investigator said that in mid-May she went to a dinner party at the Watergate. She said she saw both Miss Brickman and Mr. Carson, as we know them, coming out of Apartment 1206 and getting into the elevator, and, before you can ask, no, they did not see our informant. She, however, took it upon herself to make inquiries about the residents of Apartment 1206. The names under which they had obtained the apartment were Angela and Derek Bookman. Needless to say, the neighbor was most eager to share this information with my investigator.

  “Angela and Derek are each driving a brand-new Lexus. My people are checking what they can, and that’s pretty much where we stand at the moment. And to answer your other question, Nikki, I think the chances are pretty good that they are the ones responsible for Harry’s current problem.”

  Charles turned his attention to Yoko. “I know you want instant retaliation, but we have to do this right. If we’re right about this couple, there is a good chance that we can bring down the whole ring. I think Harry would want that, Yoko. We need hard proof before we can invade their lives.”

  “When are your people due to check in again?” Kathryn asked.

  Charles shrugged. “I have a man and a woman on each of them. I’ve also taken the liberty of leasing an apartment at the Watergate in the Post’s name. We might need it at some point. My best guess would be sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “So we just twiddle our thumbs until you hear something, is that it?” Annie asked.

  “That pretty much sums it up unless you have a better idea. I hesitate to remind all of you that preparation is the name of our game,” Charles said quietly.

  “How far back were your people able to go in checking Angela and Derek Bookman? Do they only go back five years, too?” Isabelle asked.

  “I can’t answer that right now. My gut feeling is yes. If my feeling turns out to be right, then I think we can safely assume this couple is up to their necks in this scheme. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out they’re the ringleaders. I say that because they look so normal.”

  “Are they renters or owners at the Watergate? How did they pass a credit check?” Alexis asked.

  “Credit is their business, Alexis. I’m sure they know how to manage anything and everything to safeguard their identities. It goes without saying we could be wrong about this particular pair. We have to be very careful so as not to alert them in any way. Now, if there are no more questions, I have a lunch to prepare.”

  Charles gave a low, sweeping bow, and winked at Myra, whose hands automatically went to her neck, but her pearls were gone. She felt flustered, her cheeks turning pink. She pretended to sneeze to cover her confusion, not that she fooled anyone.

  “So, girls, what do you think?” Nikki asked.

  “Could it be that easy?” Alexis asked. “First crack out of the gate, and we have names? Names that will ultimately lead us to the people who ruined Harry’s life? I find it a bit of a stretch, but I suppose it might turn out to be right, and we just stumbled into it. Dumb luck at its best. Or red herrings, and everyone is spinning their wheels.”

  Kathryn weighed in. “Why, if they are the ones responsible, didn’t they leave town? Even a lousy crook hits the road after a crime. Why did they stay around? It doesn’t make sense to me. So what if they worked at banks? So what if they quit their jobs around the same time? So what if no one knew they were married? Half the people in this town who live together in D.C. aren’t married.”

  “Dear girl, aren’t you forgetting that their background checks only go back five years?” Myra asked. “Why would they relocate to the Watergate using different names? That doesn’t even come close to passing the sniff test,” she said testily.

  “I think those two are the leaders of a ring that has been operating in the District, Maryland, and Virginia. It’s just my gut feeling, but it’s a strong one,” Annie said.

  All eyes turned to Yoko, who hadn’t spoken. “I agree with Annie. It’s them.”

  “We need to call Maggie to see how she’s coming along with the interviews she has Ted and Joe working on,” Myra said. “If she’s ready to go to press with another big story, we don’t want to alarm Mr. and Mrs. Carson, or whatever their names are.”

  “I’ll call her, but first we all want to know if you are moving back with Charles, and if you need our help?” Nikki said. “We could have you moved in by the time lunch is over.” She grinned.

  Myra reached for the pearls that weren’t there. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said primly.

  The girls laughed and laughed.

  Chapter 9

  Lizzie Fox, freshly showered and powdered, stood at the door of her closet. Normally, when she went to sleep she hung her outfit for the next day on a hook outside the closet door so all she had to do was step into it. She hadn’t done that last night and didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she hadn’t decided how to play the game this morning. Did she want to sweep into the bank and bowl over the president? Did she just want to be Harry’s lawyer and go with the facts? Did she want to dazzle and bullshit the bank president until he fell at her knees? A different outfit would be required for each of the above.

  Lizzie backed away from the closet, her silky robe slithering against her body as she made her way to a little office that was no bigger than an oversize closet, located off her bedroom in a tiny alcove. She looked around to see where her coffee cup was and realized she’d finished the coffee before she’d taken her shower. She ran back to the kitchen, poured a fresh cup, and carefully carried it back to her office. She was, as Annie would put it, at sixes and sevens that morning. Translation…she
didn’t know which end was up.

  She opened her briefcase and stared at its pitiful contents. She had so little to go on where Harry was concerned that she didn’t know if there was anything she could actually do for him. She’d talked a good game to the nervous martial arts expert late into the night, doing her best to reassure him. Damn. That was why she hadn’t picked out an outfit for today. She’d been so tired when she got off the phone with Harry that she had just dropped into bed.

  She had time, more than enough, to go over things once more since she didn’t actually have an appointment with Douglas Sooner, the president of East Coast Savings.

  She’d Googled him, but she hadn’t discovered anything untoward. He was just like all other bank presidents—boring, well dressed, perfect banking wife, three children, the requisite dog, and a house in Arlington, Virginia, with a manicured lawn. He belonged to all the right clubs, his wife was a do-gooder, and the children were above reproach and attended private schools. Even the dog had a pedigree.

  Douglas Sooner was neither handsome nor ugly. He was just ordinary-looking, someone you’d pass on the street and label “banker” and never know why that tag seemed to fit the man. He had thinning hair, but then most men of fifty had thinning hair. He was neither tall nor short; nor was he fat or thin. A box of a man, she’d decided when she’d stared at the picture that came with his profile. Just another John Q. Citizen with a title. She scanned the papers one more time before sliding them into the shredder. No sense carrying around profiles of men she didn’t respect.

  A quick glance at the digital clock on her desk told Lizzie she had plenty of time to make a plan and get dressed. She even had time, if she wanted to utilize that time, to stop by the Post and chat with Maggie, even do lunch if Maggie was available, before she headed off to the bank to take care of Harry’s business. She rifled through the thin stack of records he had given her. What she could possibly do to get Harry back into his dojo was still a mystery to her.