Vanishing Act

by Fern Michaels

  “Here comes the messenger. Twenty-nine minutes. I do like punctuality.”

  The man scooped up the little dog and walked to the door. He had two hundred-dollar bills in his hand when he handed over the dog and waited until he was secure in the canvas carrier. “Take good care of him. His owner loves him very much.”

  The messenger scribbled off a receipt and handed it over. The man waited until the messenger was in his Jeep and halfway down the street before closing and locking the door.

  The woman peeled off her sweats to reveal shorts and a tank top. Her blond hair was now red and in a pixie cut. She wore wire-rim glasses and dangling earrings. The man was now wearing running shorts and a sleeveless ragged T-shirt. A bandanna was tied around his forehead. The woman tossed him the tartan backpack. She watched as he settled it comfortably on his shoulders. She herself had a small purse looped crossways across her chest.

  The man led the way to the kitchen and the door that led to the cellar. It was cool and damp, and strange scurrying noises came from all directions. With the aid of a small penlight, the man led the way to a small window and pried it open. He helped the woman go through. Then, by standing on an empty wooden box, he followed her and settled the window back into place.

  In the narrow space between their house and the one adjacent, which was no more than a foot and a half and smelled of dankness and moldy leaves, he pried open the cellar window next door and helped his partner through it. He knew for a fact the building housed a bunch of crackheads who would never venture into the cellar. Part of his contingency plan months ago had been this very drill. In the darkness, with the aid of the tiny light, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the contents of the cellar before they exited through yet another window.

  They repeated the same process four more times. Finally, they came out of the back alley five houses away from their starting point. They moved off, apparently just a couple out for a midafternoon stroll. No one looked at them, no one called out. Totally ignored they walked a good mile before they found a cab.

  Avery Snowden felt quite smug when he looked through his rearview mirror at the cluster of Asians slouched against a scraggly tree as he steered the Yellow Cab away from the curb. Silly amateurs!

  Maggie Spritzer looked down at her littered desk and winced. If she didn’t clean it off soon, she’d have to relocate. She looked away just in time to see Ted and Espinosa loping down the hallway on their way to her office. The moment both men skidded to a stop, she grinned from ear to ear. “Tell me my headline isn’t the work of a genius.”

  Both men laughed.

  “It is,” Ted agreed.

  “Things are working out just perfectly. I know that a few hours ago, all of you were bumming because Harry’s guys lost those two snots. In a way the reprieve was good for me because we get the paper out, and, bam, even though they think they got away, they aren’t going anywhere.”

  “They’re toast,” Espinosa said. “Once the paper hits the street, the whole world will be watching for those two, and a disguise won’t make a difference. There’s always someone who will see through it.”

  “I like that you led off with the retired couple from Alexandria who lost everything,” Ted said, “even their retirement because of those two. The public is not going to like it that a seventy-eight-year-old couple who were living comfortably, certainly not lavishly, are now being forced to live in a one-bedroom furnished apartment and count their pennies.

  “Bringing in the foster kids whose credit had been ruined years ago, when they were minors and couldn’t have possibly prevented it, also worked. I’m glad that the interviews Joe and I did with Antonio Vargas and Henry Workman gave you so much to work with. You used their stories brilliantly.

  “Which brings me to something I just heard on the news on the way over here.”

  “Whatever it is, tell me it isn’t going to interfere in my series.”

  Ted bit down on his lower lip. “It could, Maggie, but not by tomorrow morning.”

  Maggie poked around on her desk to see if there was possibly a cookie or something under the piles of papers—anything edible she might have missed. “You going to make me pull it out of you or what? Why do you guys always have to rain on my parade?”

  “Trust me, it’s not intentional. What we heard is three brothers right here in our very own nation’s capital bilked thousands and thousands of people, as well as some very large corporations and charitable foundations, out of huge amounts of money. Apparently, these brothers have been running a Ponzi scheme to the tune of tens of billions of dollars. That’s billions with a b. All three brothers are considered A-list. What you have going on with the identity theft is small-time compared to that trio. Politicians, movie stars, union pension funds, university endowments—they showed no mercy. Small investors, big investors, they duped them all.”

  “Oh, God, I feel a headache coming on. You two want to run with this, is that it?”

  “Yeah, we do. There’s nothing more we can do with the others for now, we’ve pretty much come to a dead end on finding out who helped the dynamic duo with the foster-kid scams, but if something comes up, just squeal and we’re there. You might want to…alert…the others. This is something they could really sink their teeth into if they have a mind to go into action.”

  “Who is it? Give me names.” Maggie’s mind started to race. She could do a dual headline, split the top page. This just might be the time to go with color. Red, like in a bloodbath.

  Ted laughed. “The brothers Grimm. Adolpho, Vincenzi, and Eduardo. The Big Three of the financial world. The news is calling them The Munchkins. Last name originally Grimaldi but changed to Grimm twenty-five years ago so they wouldn’t be confused with the Mafia Grimaldis. Can you chew on that one for a while?”

  “Chew? Did you say chew? If this turns out to be what I think it might, then forget the chewing part. Let’s just gobble those bastards up whole. Go!”

  Maggie felt so gleeful, she forgot how hungry she was. How often did the gods of journalism smile twice in the same day? Where was she going to put all her Pulitzers? She needed to give serious thought to having some extra shelves built into her office. But she really didn’t want to get ahead of herself.

  A moment later she had her phone in hand as she called the Sisters to report in.

  The temporary tenants in Apartment 809 at the Watergate were sitting around the dining room table grumbling among themselves. Harry looked so glum that Yoko was patting him on the shoulder and whispering soothing words of comfort.

  “Stop being such a nebbish, Harry. Your people are warriors, not spies. You told them to watch and report in. You didn’t tell them to break in or start World War III. I really don’t see blame here. I say we should be thankful Snowden was on the scene and knows how this crap goes down. It’s what he does for a living. We’re just fringe players.”

  “Jack’s right,” Annie said. “As soon as Mr. Snowden reports in, we move. Are we all agreed?”

  Every hand in the room shot upward.

  Myra twirled her chair around, and said, “That was Maggie. She really had some interesting information. I’ll get to that in a minute. She wants us to turn on the computer. She sent us a mock-up of the morning paper. She said—and this is a direct quote—‘I hope you all pee in your pants when you see it.’ End of quote.”

  The group got up as one and ran to the bedroom, where Nikki booted up the computer.

  “Would you look at that!” Kathryn marveled.

  Nine pairs of eyes stared at the bold black headline that read:

  DO YOU KNOW WHERE SARA BRICKMAN AND DENNIS CARSON ARE?

  Underneath the headline it read:

  If the answer is no, do you know people with the following names? Those are among the aliases Brickman and Carson used in their identity theft of thousands of people, possibly people only you, Post readers, can identify.

  “Check that out!” Nikki said. “Six columns straight across the page and above the fold. Th
e Post’s switchboard is going to blow up when the paper hits the street. You know there are people out there who knew those two under one of the aliases they used. Good God, there must be close to four hundred names there! The AP will pick it up, and the whole East Coast will be on red alert. Maggie kept her word and thanked Damon Finn of Chase for his invaluable help when the Post called upon him. This is beyond clever!”

  Jack poked Harry in the arm. “See! I told you that you weren’t the only one whose identity was stolen. None of them were as lucky as you either.”

  “Wow! A double headline,” Isabelle said as she pointed a finger at the dark lettering under the fold that said simply:

  THE BOTTOM LINE

  $100,000,000

  Under the second headline there were pictures of some of the identity theft victims, including two whose identities had been stolen when they were minors in foster care, and alongside those pictures were pictures Espinosa had taken of Brickman and Carson, as well as pictures Ted had gotten of them from various bank’s archives. Pages two and three carried more pictures of the victims and the various stories of how their lives had changed since their identities were stolen.

  “I’m so glad I bought that newspaper and hired Maggie. She’s been doing a masterful job,” Annie chortled.

  When the little group trooped back to the dining room, Yoko held Jack back and whispered in his ear, “Jack, how could you do that to Harry? The pink bathroom, bedspread, rugs, towels? I hate pink. So much for what you know about women.”

  “I wish Charles would call so we know what the next step is,” Kathryn said.

  “Patience is its own reward,” Myra said. “Now, do you want to hear what else Maggie told me? I’m thinking we might want to get involved, but of course we would have to take a vote on it.” When she had their undivided attention she said, “You’ve all heard of the Brothers Grimm, the financial gurus of Wall Street, right? Well, here’s the poop on that…”

  Chapter 18

  Bert Navarro took the call personally, something he didn’t normally do as director of the FBI.

  “This particular call,” his secretary said, “sounds ominous. The man says he’s seen the vigilantes. Before you can ask, Mr. Director, the phone is a throwaway. The trace is saying it’s the Crystal City area. I’ve kept him on the phone for a few minutes until we could complete it. If he knew what I was doing, he didn’t give any indication. He is refusing to talk to anyone but you. I’ll put him through now, sir.”

  “Navarro,” Bert said briskly. “What can I do for you today, sir?”

  “It’s not what you can do for me, Mr. Director, it’s what I can do for you.” The voice lowered in tone to a soft whisper Bert had to strain to hear.

  One of Harry Wong’s people. Or, possibly one of Charles Martin’s operatives. It had to be one or the other, he was sure of it. He leaned back into the soft leather of his chair and waited and listened to the voice coming over the wire.

  “I saw two of the vigilantes in Crystal City! I don’t want to tell the FBI how to do their business, but if I were you, I’d send a contingent of agents to check it out. I hate the way those damn women make fools of the fine institution of the FBI. So are you going to do something about it, Mr. Director?”

  “I’ll have my agents look into it, sir. Now, would you care to give me your name?”

  “I prefer to remain anonymous at this time for purely personal reasons. You’ll look into it, when? Later in the day, tomorrow, next week? Those women are like greased lightning. If they’re here, something is going on. You snooze, you lose. Aren’t you people at the Bureau tired of always being made fools of? You’re as bad as the pathetic Secret Service agents those damn women hog-tied in a Dumpster out there in Kalorama. And then they went to the White House, brazen as hell, and nobody did anything. Where the hell are my tax dollars going these days? You people are pissing them away, that’s where they’re going, and I damn well don’t like it.”

  “In other words, is it safe to say you’re going against the females in your family—at this time?” Bert had to fight not to laugh out loud when he heard the man’s response.

  “Yeah, it would be safe to say that. I can see where I’m not making any headway with you, but you really need to take care of business, Mr. Director. I’m going to hang up and make some other calls now.”

  Bert did laugh then.

  The game was on. He felt a small thrill of excitement when he buzzed his secretary and told her to put all calls through directly to him from any and all media.

  Next he called in the two agents sitting outside his office, and simply said, “We have another vigilante sighting in the Crystal City Underground. Check it out and report back to me. I think it was just some ticked-off citizen mad at his wife for something, and he’s acting out, but you never know. Those women are wily.”

  Joyce Hart, Fox 5’s evening news anchor, picked up her extension a mere five minutes after Bert Navarro’s anonymous caller hung up. She listened to the rapid-fire explanation of the call, her jaw dropping.

  “How sure are you? Which vigilantes? Can you describe them? How do I know you aren’t some dumb schmuck who wants his fifteen minutes of fame? You do have a point, they’re world-famous, and they do have unforgettable faces. What’s your name? Yeah, right. Before I take my crew and go chasing over to the Crystal City Underground, I’m going to need a little more information. Just so you know, I don’t pay for information. Who else did you call? If you say no one, then it becomes an exclusive and maybe we can talk about some kind of monetary remuneration. What do you mean you called the FBI first? What am I, chopped liver? I don’t much care if you like my attitude or not, and I don’t care if you think you’re doing your civic duty or not. I think you’re calling because the females in your personal life have stood up to you, and the vigilantes somehow, some way, have made your life miserable. Good-bye, whoever you are.”

  Hart broke the connection, snapped off her recorder, then dialed the offices of the FBI, where she identified herself and asked to speak to the director. She was surprised that she was put through immediately. She got right to the point, and then asked, “Can you give me a comment, Mr. Director?”

  Bert clucked his tongue, but he was smiling from ear to ear. “Miss Hart, you know we don’t make comments to the media. I will say, however, that we field thousands of calls a day, most of them anonymous. Have a nice day, Miss Hart.”

  On Big Pine Mountain, Charles Martin did his best to wade through the tsunami of intel that was coming in via e-mails, faxes, and cell phone calls. This was what he loved, the second-by-second coordination of all the minutiae, pickups, drop-offs, drop zones, and transportation by either air, land, or sea, and sometimes even by bicycle or horseback. He allowed himself a visual of Harry Wong on horseback, which made him laugh out loud.

  His fingers were like magic, his eyes sharper than an eagle’s as he scanned the faxes that kept shooting out in all directions. He’d always excelled at multitasking, and that trait was working overtime. His words were bullet-fast when he spoke to Avery Snowden. “Everything is in place. Do it! Good work, Avery.”

  Charles pressed a number, and Annie picked up. “Go!”

  The activity or lack thereof in Apartment 809 in the Watergate accelerated to beehive speed.

  Jack and Harry were the first to leave. “We can get there faster on the Ducati, Jack. It’s up to you if you want to take your car. Those people must really be stupid. They split, and now they’re going running at the Tidal Basin. How dumb is that?”

  “No, they’re smart, they have to be somewhere until it gets dark. What better place to blend in until nightfall?”

  Five minutes later, Harry sprinted over to his motorcycle, and asked, “What exactly is our role in this?”

  Jack climbed on the back of the Ducati, plopped his helmet on his head, and asked, “What the hell are you waiting for, Harry? Charles said to go. We’re just sitting here. Oh, you want to know what our role is. We pick up two hypode
rmic syringes from the guy at the Sno-Cone machine and pass them on to the girls when we spot them. Now, go!”

  The Ducati shot forward and hit a speed bump. Jack cursed. “You did that on purpose, you terrorist. Now I have whiplash.”

  Harry ignored him as he gunned the powerful machine. Jack hung on for dear life.

  “I have a gun, Harry. I just want you to know that.”

  “Black belt warriors have no need of guns. Obviously you aren’t as good as you think you are.”

  “Yeah, well I’m an officer of the court and as such am authorized to carry.”

  “Where is it?”

  “What do you care?” Jack shot back. “In my pants, if you must know.”

  “Front or back?”

  “If it’s that important for you to know, the front. My shirt covers it. Why?”

  “Because when I hit the next speed bump, I don’t want you shooting your dick off.”

  “The only thing you have to worry about is me shooting you in the ass if you hit a speed bump, so I hope that explains why the gun is in front.”

  Harry’s response was to bend low over the handlebars. Jack did the same. He didn’t think it was possible for Harry to drive any faster than he already was, but they now seemed to be flying. Jack held on, the July heat searing his face. He was so light-headed when Harry finally came to a stop that he had to hold on to the Ducati until his equilibrium returned to normal.

  “Wuss.”

  “Eat it, Harry, and remember I have a gun.”

  “I’d be worried if you could hit the broadside of a barn, but you can’t.”

  “And your point is?” Not bothering to wait for a response, he added, “That’s why you have to be worried. Eventually, I’ll hit something. Look around, what do you see?”