Vanishing Act

by Fern Michaels

  Charles laughed. “Never leave anything to chance.”

  Back at the Watergate, police, FBI agents, and a lone woman were standing near the doorway to the front entrance.

  “I’m not saying you were wrong, Miss Augustine, but I’m not saying you were right either,” Bert Navarro said.

  “Then how do you explain that photographer taking those pictures? The vigilantes took off those crazy-looking head covers and posed. I SAW it with my own eyes,” Sharon Augustine cried indignantly.

  “Well, when I see it with my own eyes, I will make sure the FBI acknowledges your tip.” Bert moved off toward a quasifriend he knew in the police department, who was standing next to the curb looking glum.

  “Those crazy-ass women did it again! Killer bees! This whole damn town is going to go to red alert. Who the hell would have thought of bumblebees? The vigilantes made jackasses out of us. Again! I’m thinking my pension is suddenly looking not so good. What’s your excuse, Navarro?” Leroy Jackson demanded.

  “Honeybees, not killer bees. Not even bumblebees. There’s a difference! Nine hives were in that apartment! That translates into millions of bees. The queen was among them! Don’t even ask me what that means because I don’t know. Some beekeeper from Bethesda is on his way to take charge of the hives.”

  “How’d those guys from the Post know to be here just when the vigilantes were leaving? Seems to me if you’re paying attention, and I’m paying attention, they always manage to show up to get their damn pictures. Something’s fishy there. I’m going to haul their asses in and go a few rounds with them. Don’t give me any of that shit that it’s just good reporting, that seventh sense that newshounds have. What do the brains in the Hoover Building think?” Detective Jackson asked.

  Bert forced a laugh he didn’t feel. “They’re saying those women are smarter than we are. I’m not so sure they aren’t right.”

  “You know what I think, Navarro? I think they have people here in the District helping them. Powerful people, influential people. That’s what I think.”

  “All you have to do is prove it, Jackson. That’s not to say I disagree with you. On the contrary, I think like you do, but those influential, important people can bite you on the ass if you start something you can’t prove. You want to haul Robinson and Espinosa in, go for it. Been there, done that. You’ll have Lizzie Fox so far up your ass, you won’t be able to sit for a week. She’ll be at the station before you can get those two through the door. Like I said, been there, done that. By the way, you didn’t hear this from me, but the rumor is she’s going to be chief White House counsel. They offered her the job. What’s-his-name has some kind of medical condition and he’s moving on and the job was offered to Fox. Now, that’s what I call being high-powered and influential. You want to take a shot at it, go for it.”

  “Did those two suspects give up anything when your guys hauled them off?” Jackson asked.

  “Singing like canaries! Especially the woman! She just kept howling that she’s allergic to bees. The guy kept telling her to shut up. He’ll break, too.”

  “So what happens now?” Jackson asked.

  “Depends on the vigilantes. The woman said the vigilantes have all their records. Will they do the right thing and turn those records over? I think so. I’m sure the Post will report on it with a special edition. Stay tuned. Nice talking to you, Jackson. Call me if you want to go out for a beer sometime.”

  Detective Leroy Jackson watched Director Bert Navarro walk away. Yeah, like he was really going to call him to go out for a beer. His years on the force along with his cop’s instinct told him Navarro knew more than he let on, but Jackson knew better than to tangle with the FBI. Those guys from the Post, now, that was something else entirely. That damn paper always came out on top, and he didn’t think it was due to diligent reporting. He’d bet his pension they had an inside track to those damn vigilantes. He sighed, knowing when he got back to the precinct there would be a message that the police commissioner and the mayor wanted an audience with him, and not at his convenience.

  Seven more years and he could file for his pension. Screw influential people who perch in high places. Navarro was right, let some other dick-weed go after those damn women. Seven more years and he was home free.

  “These pictures are absolutely delicious, Espinosa. I’m thinking this time, as a show of good faith, we share them with MSNBC. We don’t want to be accused of being biased, now, do we?” Maggie chortled. “Damn, you guys are the best!”

  Ted and Espinosa beamed with pleasure.

  “Absolutely, we do not want to be accused of being biased! How come you aren’t going with a special edition?” Ted asked.

  “Because, gentlemen, we have someplace to go in exactly ten minutes. This paper is going to be running itself for a little while. I worked it all out. Go home, pack a bag, and meet me out at Dulles. Don’t ask questions. Go!”

  Dressed in military camouflage, the Sisters stepped out of the white van, the two dogs in tow. They walked in military precision to the waiting plane. Charles and Myra were the last to get out of the van.

  “Hold on, Myra. I brought something for you.” Charles reached into his pocket and brought out Myra’s heirloom pearls. He handed them to her. “I hate those chains you’ve been wearing. It’s time to put these back on.”

  Myra’s eyes filled with tears. She smiled as she stuffed her beloved pearls into her own pocket. “What’s in the bag, Charles?” she asked when she finally got her tongue to work.

  Charles laughed, a great, booming sound. “The yellow comforter.”

  Chapter 21

  It was an island with no name. Nor was it on any map. Rumor had it that at one time the nine-mile-long island belonged to a Colombian drug lord. No one knew who the true owner was, nor did the vigilantes care. All they knew was that they were in a tropical paradise with every luxury their hearts desired.

  They were enjoying an Olympic-size pool, tennis court, putting green, and a stable with six magnificent horses for the guests. There was also a guesthouse with eight bedrooms along with a dormitory-style room with a triple bath for unexpected visitors. The Sisters and guests had arrived on three Gulfstream jets, and the pilots were currently occupying the large dorm room. The staff consisted of two groomsmen, a five-star chef, three maids, two groundskeepers, and a majordomo of sorts.

  The main house, or, as the girls called it, the mansion, itself held seventeen rooms, nine bathrooms, three powder rooms, a gourmet kitchen, and a dining room that seated twenty at its massive table.

  The most important features of the island with no name that wasn’t on any map were the impressive landing strip—just off of which the three Gulfstreams nested inside a hangar that any international airport would have envied—the sleek white yacht at anchor whose crew stayed onboard, and the paved roads leading to the mansion from the landing strip. Then there were the six all-terrain vehicles in a seven-car garage that also held massive generators and Deepfreezes.

  A sea of beautiful flowers, some wild, most cultivated, were profuse and every color of the rainbow. Yoko wandered around the formal flowerbeds and through the English garden in the back of the mansion, her eyes alight as she named flower after flower. The Sisters all agreed this very private place had to be one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

  An island unto itself.

  The guests of the island with no name were sitting poolside.

  “This is beyond anything I’ve ever seen, even in the movies. Who owns it, Charles? Are we safe here? How did you find it? Can we trust the people working here?” Annie babbled as she sniffed the fragrant air that permeated the island.

  The others looked up, wanting to know the answers as much as Annie did.

  Charles smiled. “You own it, Annie. You are definitely safe here. This island has no name and is not on any map. Everything has been camouflaged. It cannot be seen from the air. There are mines out there in the water, all compliments of the previous owner, who was indeed a
drug lord. The captain of the yacht knows exactly how to maneuver through them. I am not at liberty at this time to tell you how I found this little island paradise. The staff is as trustworthy as the people who guard the president of the United States.”

  The Sisters stared at Annie, who was staring at Charles in disbelief. “When did I buy this…this little place?”

  Charles laughed. “Two years ago when I asked you if you would be interested in buying an—”

  “Island resort,” Annie said. “This is a little more than an island resort, Charles.”

  “That’s true, but it’s how it was listed in the Times’s real estate section: ‘Island resort for sale.’ I sent an inquiry, and a very prestigious white-shoe law firm responded to my inquiry. The drug lord’s funds were confiscated, and he needed money to pay for his legal defense. Fifty million was what you paid for it. I haggled. The asking price was $120,000,000. I offered cash, and the firm snapped it up. This island is almost as big as Guam, which is eleven miles in length. Of course, unlike Guam, the major portion of this island is uninhabited. A sterling investment, if I do say so. Anytime you want to develop it, you could in the end make billions of dollars. I was thinking into the future.

  “I thought we might need a safe haven at some point in time. Just in case Pappy gets tired of living on your mountain in Spain and wants to return to Big Pine Mountain. It’s called thinking ahead and anticipating things before they happen.”

  Annie looked around. “And worth every penny,” she said spiritedly.

  The others clapped their hands in approval.

  “It should have a name even if it’s just among ourselves,” Isabelle grumbled.

  The Sisters kicked that around for a while but were unable to come up with a suitable name for the luxurious paradise. They shelved the project, vowing to come up with just the right one before it was time to leave to return to Big Pine Mountain.

  Charles excused himself to go back inside. He headed straight for the massive library. He looked around at the shiny teakwood bookshelves that covered the walls on three sides of the room. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the floor-to-ceiling shelves could hold every work of notable English language fiction published in the past fifty years. He reached for a book and wasn’t surprised to see that the spine hadn’t been broken. He couldn’t help but wonder if the drug lord was a reader. The law firm had told him very little other than that the house had been built by Guatemalan craftsmen—every board, nail, and pane of glass imported and top-grade. The law firm had attested to the fact that the drug lord hadn’t had a chance to inspect or visit the finished project before he’d been arrested in Venezuela just as he was about to board his private jet.

  Charles replaced the book and walked over to the strange-looking desk across the room. A monstrous slab of concrete sat on two ornate pedestals. The slab had been lacquered to a high shine and held everything he would need to stay in contact with the outside world. All wireless and secure, of course. Before he sat down in the custom-made leather chair, he looked around approvingly. Either the drug lord had exquisite taste, or his Guatemalan decorator did.

  What puzzled him more than anything, though, was the fireplace. A fireplace on an island whose yearly temperature held steady at seventy-five degrees seemed bizarre. Maybe they’d fashioned the room from a picture in a magazine. Or, perhaps when storms came in off the ocean, the temperature dropped, and a fire could be built. He really needed to find out the answer because sooner or later one of the girls was going to ask him the question. He made a mental note to find out, then got down to work.

  An hour later, Charles returned poolside and sat down just as one of the maids arrived with a frosty pitcher of tart lemonade and a plate of freshly baked something that looked like scones. The moment she returned to the house, Charles whistled sharply, and everyone got out of the pool. “I have an update.”

  “I hope you’re going to tell us why this place has three fireplaces,” Kathryn said.

  “Actually, Kathryn, I do know. The previous owner saw a picture in Architectural Digest and liked what he saw. He particularly liked the idea of having a mantel. I am assuming he had treasures he was going to place there at some point in time. And when storms come through in September and October, the temperature will drop to the fifty-degree mark. There are bundles of birch logs in the garage in case you get the crazy urge to light a fire.

  “Moving right along here. I spoke to the office manager of Nikki’s old law firm and to Lizzie, who is on the first leg of her delayed honeymoon. The three memory sticks we passed on to the firm held the name and Social Security number of every person whose identity was stolen. Strangely enough, one of the sticks contained only the names of the kids in foster care, which apparently was a separate operation from the others. Restitution will be made as soon as possible. In some cases, like Harry’s, for instance, a substantial bonus will be paid for pain and suffering. The firm will be working directly with the three major credit reporting agencies to delete all the negatives and help the victims get their lives back on track.”

  “And Bonnie and Clyde?” Alexis asked.

  “You’ll never have to worry about them again. They’re in custody, and the FBI can truthfully say they captured them since Bert’s agents freed them from the bathroom, where they were tethered to the toilet.

  “Furthermore, the memory sticks had a record of the names and addresses of all their accomplices: the people who used the credit cards to buy merchandise and those who picked up the illegally obtained items and put them up for sale on the black market. The FBI will be having a field day going after those slimeballs.”

  “What about the banks that allowed all this to happen?” Kathryn asked.

  “Well, Chase recognized that they were at significant risk of being taken to the cleaners by lawyers for the former foster-child victims whose identities were stolen by one of Chase’s own employees. They will be treating each of those cases as deserving of a large payment for pain and suffering, even if the child is still in foster care and has not yet suffered any known loss.”

  Charles smiled. And then he laughed out loud. “Finally, I think you might really enjoy what I’m about to tell you. It seems the bank presidents recently held a minisummit of some sort, and, remarkably, they all agreed to hire a professional to handle their Internet banking security to make sure this doesn’t happen again. The professional’s name is Abner Tookus.”

  Maggie’s fist shot in the air as the others whooped and hollered. “How much are they paying him?” she finally managed to ask.

  “High seven figures,” Charles said with a straight face. “I’m told they had to coax him to come back from his honeymoon in Hawaii.”

  The Sisters and their guests laughed so hard they didn’t hear Charles say, “Well done, girls, well done indeed.”

  They were the vigilantes, and they were women.

  Of course the job was well done.

  Epilogue

  Charles stood in the middle of the compound and rang the bell; the sound was pure and clear as it ricocheted over Big Pine Mountain. The Sisters scurried from all directions into the main building.

  All were breathless as they took their seats in the command center at the round table. Murphy and Grady were panting from their long run up and down the paths with Alexis and Kathryn, something they did every afternoon.

  The simple explanation was that the bell meant there was business going on in the main building, and Charles was waiting to discuss it.

  “I can’t believe tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” Kathryn said. “I’ve never seen three and a half months go by so fast since we returned from the island.”

  The others agreed, their thoughts on the guests who would be arriving shortly to celebrate the holiday. Only Lizzie would be absent, as she was on the return leg of her honeymoon. But she’d called, and arrangements were set up to have a webcam visit after Thanksgiving dinner.

  Nikki stared out the window at the last of the autumn leaves blo
wing in the late afternoon wind. Her thoughts were on Jack’s arrival. Her heart ached with loneliness. Three and a half months of not seeing the person you loved was three and a half months too long. She brought her thoughts back to the present when Charles called the meeting to order. Suddenly she was on her feet. “I have something to say!”

  Startled, the others stared at her. Myra’s hands flew to the pearls at her neck. She was certain she’d never heard that tone in Nikki’s voice before. She risked a glance at Annie, who was suddenly alert.

  “Can it wait until we get our business done with?” Charles asked.

  “No! No, Charles, it can’t wait. I want to speak now. I need to speak now.”

  “You have the floor, dear,” Myra said.

  Nikki cleared her throat. “I’m sick of waiting for Martine Connor to grant our pardon. I think it’s time we did something about it. She promised to pardon us. We made sure she got into the White House, and she hasn’t taken one single step to keep her promise. To me, a person is only as good as her word. I want to make another point. It’s been three and a half months since I’ve seen Jack. Yes, he and the others are coming up the mountain in a few hours, and, yes, they will be here for a four-day weekend, but then they’ll be gone, and we’re back to being alone again. My clock is ticking. I want to get married, I would dearly love to have children if it’s in the cards for me. That is not going to happen unless Martine Connor gets off her duff and keeps her promise. I’m sick of the stalling, sick of the promises that don’t materialize.”

  “Dear, Lizzie has been working on our case, you know that,” Myra said, her grip fierce on the pearls around her neck.

  “Well, Myra, Lizzie isn’t here, now, is she? She’s been working on our case for so long my hair grew three inches. What that means is Connor is bullshitting her, and excuse my language. I thought Lizzie was smarter than that, I’m sorry to say. Connor has been in office almost two years. She said she needed time, we gave her time. Then she said the time wasn’t quite right, so we waited again. Then there was that business with the vice president. We pulled her out of that one, and she still didn’t honor her promise. I for one am sick and tired of waiting, and I also think we need to take a vote here as to what our next project is.” Nikki, her face red from frustration, flopped down on her chair and glared at Charles.