Need to Know

by Fern Michaels

  “No, mate, it is not,” Charles said as he dried the gleaming pot in his hands.

  * * *

  In the sunroom, where there was not an iota of sun, Myra started to pace. “I hate this feeling of being marooned way out here on the farm. I hate feeling helpless.”

  Annie held up her iPhone. “We can still communicate with the outside world. We know what we know, so let’s spread the word. Why wait for a conference call? I’ll start with Maggie. I want to see what she’s written for tomorrow’s edition. That fact alone could change what goes down in the morning with Mr. SOP. Once he sees the morning edition, I think he’s going to go flat-out berserk. What do you think, Myra?”

  “I agree. The . . . um . . . men seem to have forgotten about that, which just goes to prove, yet once again, that women are the superior force. I’ll call Yoko to see how she made out at the nursery with all the plants and this heavy rain.”

  Lady appeared in the doorway and woofed softly, a signal she needed to go out. Her offspring behind her, they formed a parade to the back door. Annie motioned for Myra to go ahead, that she would make the calls.

  Myra opened the kitchen door, and admonished her charges, “Don’t go in the mud, don’t roll over in the water, and make it quick!” Lady looked up at her as much as to say, Seriously, Mom? In spite of herself, Myra laughed. “Go!”

  Ten minutes later, Myra opened the door and stood aside for the stampede. “You know the drill. Go into the laundry room, and I’ll dry you off. Then you get the treat.” The dogs obediently did as they were told and suffered through the brisk rubdown. They waited for the words that would signal the treat was forthcoming. “Okay, guys, we are good to go. Five greenies coming up!”

  Back in the sunroom, Myra was happy to see the smile on Annie’s face as she read whatever she was seeing on her phone. When she ended the call, she looked at Myra and said, “Maggie did a good job. She said she had just finished when I called. Earlier, she sent Garland the rough draft, which she approved. I think it is safe to say Mr. SOP is going to pee green when he sees it tomorrow morning. Then, when he gets into the city and calls Mr. Spicer to find out he’s flown the coop, he is going to pitch a fit. It’s anyone’s guess what he’ll do at that point. Don’cha love it, Myra?” Annie exclaimed exuberantly.

  “I do, I do. What do you think he’ll do, Annie?”

  “Well, for starters, after he sees the morning paper, he is going to be one angry man at all the money he could have had and lost. That’s going to make him crazy. He’ll be in a real state by the time he gets into the city, only to find out his secret weapon is nothing more than wishful thinking. So he’ll head back home to plot and scheme some more. That would be my guess. I don’t think he’ll go to the firm. What would be the point? Without Mr. Spicer, all he has are empty threats that will get him nowhere. Is that how you see it, Myra?”

  Myra nodded. “Too bad we aren’t in the blackmail business. With everything we know, we could make a killing here.” Myra laughed. “Weather permitting, I think we should plan on heading to Riverville later tomorrow afternoon. We either do the snatch tomorrow night or the following night. We really should put it to a vote. Are you okay with doing that, Annie?”

  “Should we take the shuttle or should we take the Post van? Personally, I think we should take the van, since we’re all going to be in attendance. We can switch up the license plates. Maggie knows how to do all that. We have a bunch of them in back of the van for . . . um . . . such things. We also have a box of magnetic decals. You just never know who is going to remember what. Some little old lady walking her dog might remember a white van with out-of-state plates, yada yada yada.

  “Once we snatch him, we change the plates and the decals, and we’re good to go. It’s always worked before for us, so there is no reason to think it won’t work again. Let’s just think positive,” Annie said, her eyes sparkling with the thought of the coming action.

  “Avery’s nose is going to be out of joint when he finds out we’re doing this without his okay and his expertise,” Myra said.

  “He should have thought about that before he left us hanging to go to Delaware. He needs to know who is in charge here. I think he forgets sometimes,” Annie snapped again. Suddenly she was feeling meaner than a junkyard dog.

  “Reminders are good sometimes,” Myra said, laughing.

  “Of course, there is still that pesky problem of disposing of... what I mean is relocating... the package. Meaning Mr. SOP. That’s spook speak, Myra. The package is another name for Mr. SOP.”

  “I get it, Annie. The plan is to snatch him, bring him here to the farm, and put him down in the dungeon. We don’t need Avery for that. We can keep him forever in that cell we outfitted, if we want to. When we get tired of playing with him, we can tell Avery he’s all his. By that time, Mr. Snowden will know better than to trifle with us.”

  “Myra, I just love and adore you when you think like that,” Annie gushed. Myra beamed at Annie’s effusive praise.

  “Let’s join the gentlemen in the kitchen. Charles should be done scrubbing that pot by now, and he and Fergus will both be looking to do something nice for us, like serving up that apple pie he baked earlier. Fergus made some ice cream in that fancy-dancy ice-cream maker you bought at Target last month. A good cup of coffee and pie à la mode might make me almost agreeable. What do you say, pal?”

  Myra linked her arm with Annie’s. “I think that’s the second-best idea you’ve had all day, pal. And I’m really hungry.”

  Lady and her pups got up and followed the two women into the kitchen, because the kitchen was where the treats were.

  Chapter 11

  Café Davino wasn’t exactly a landmark, but it was close to it if you counted all the years the Mongellos had operated their Italian eatery. Fifty long years of serving, with cheerful smiles, good Italian food, cooked by four different generations of Mongellos, constituted landmark status in the ever-changing restaurant scene in the nation’s capital.

  Natives to the area swore you could smell the garlic and cheese a block away. Tourists grumbled and complained because they couldn’t get near the eatery to sample what was reputed to be the best Italian food in all of Washington, D.C.

  There was nothing glamorous or upscale about Café Davino, which was little more than a hole-in-the-wall. It had all of twelve tables, which seated four to a table. A tiny counter with two stools for single diners completed the seating. On any given day, the Mongellos could turn the evening tables over at least four times starting at four o’clock, with the last diners being seated at nine o’clock. Lunch turned over three times.

  The décor was simple, almost rustic, with red-checkered tablecloths, empty green Chianti bottles hanging from the rafters, the rattan chairs more duct tape than rattan, and sawdust on the floor. Napkins, along with containers of hot pepper flakes and grated cheese, graced every table. There were also the obligatory artificial flowers along the shelves that lined the walls and painted murals of long-ago Italy. In one corner stood an Italian flag, and next to it was the American flag.

  The menu was simple and hadn’t changed in the fifty years that the restaurant had been around. Diners were given exactly two daily choices, and that was it. Everyone knew what it was because it never changed. The eatery was known for its soft, yeasty, melt-in-your-mouth garlic twists, which were in the ovens by seven o’clock every morning. And that was the main reason the restaurant didn’t open till 11:00 A.M. It took a long time to bake the delectable treats, which could also be bought by the dozen.

  Today the dinner choices were lasagna, with a side of meatballs, or shrimp scampi, with a side of spaghetti. Of course, there were also the garlic twists, which came six to a table. If you wanted more, you had to pay extra. No one complained, and everyone ordered more. Dessert was cannolis. And, of course, good, old, rich Italian coffee and espresso with which to wash it all down.

  Seating time was ninety minutes. If you weren’t finished by then, courteous waiters and w
aitresses, the Mongellos’ offspring, appeared at your table with a take-home bag. It wasn’t a subtle hint; it was a flat-out, time-to-go reminder. Again, no one ever complained.

  The moment Matthew Spicer stepped out of the Town Car he’d engaged to take him to the airport, he swooned at the tantalizing aromas swirling around him. For years, he’d heard about the restaurant, but this was the first time he was going to eat there. At least he had assumed he was going to eat there when Henry Ballard had extended the invitation. He hoped he wasn’t wrong.

  With his bags in the trunk of the Town Car, Matthew instructed the driver to find a place to park and said he would text him when he was ready to be picked up.

  Matthew made a mad dash to the front door, but still managed to get soaked in the driving rain. The moment he opened the door, delicious aromas assailed his senses. He nearly swooned. A young girl, with rosy cheeks and sparkling dark eyes, handed him a pristine white towel to wipe his face and hair. She whisked it away the moment he handed it over. “I’m meeting some people here,” he said as he stretched his neck to look into the small dining room.

  He saw the law partners huddled around the table in the very back of the room. It wasn’t crowded yet, with just three other tables filled with diners. Three young men dressed in jeans, sneakers, and ball caps, who looked like they had hearty appetites, and a table with two giggling girls, who looked like students and took turns eyeing the blackboard menu and the three studly-looking guys across from them. All the young people were drinking beer by the pitcher.

  “Your hosts are waiting for you in the far corner,” the rosy-cheeked girl said. “Just follow me.” He did so, to the soft strains of Dean Martin singing some Italian ditty, which seemed to be coming from the kitchen.

  Hands were shaken, and Matthew was told to sit. “We ordered for you, since you do not have all that much time to make it to the airport. We factored in the weather. You’ll make it on time.” Without further ado, Henry Ballard handed over a thin manila envelope. “First-class tickets to Hawaii. You’ll change planes in San Francisco. You have only a one-hour layover. We took the liberty of writing out instructions. You’ll land in Honolulu and take the puddle jumper to Maui. When you land in Maui, the caretaker will meet you. We’ve included two cashier checks in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars each. You will not have any expenses other than gas for the Audi. If you want to take ukulele instructions, you will pay for them yourself. We included the name of an excellent teacher, Tomas Aiola. Do you have any questions?”

  “A dozen or so, but I can’t think of one right this minute.” All Matthew wanted to do was grab a handful of the garlic twists and shove them into his mouth, knowing full well he would reek of garlic for days. He didn’t care.

  “We want your assurances you will not be contacting anyone on the mainland, Mr. Spicer. I am, of course, referring to family, friends, and perhaps a lady friend. What backstory did you come up with?”

  Matthew chewed the tiny garlic twist and wiped at his lips. “The only family I have is a brother, who lives in Barcelona. We send Christmas cards, but that’s pretty much our only contact. I only have two close friends, and both know about my brother. I told them I was going to stay with him for six months to help out because of some back surgery he just had. I was in a relationship, but it ended over the holidays. She wanted to get married, and I didn’t. I told my neighbor, the only person on my floor I have contact with, the same story. My mail, such as it is, will be held for me at the post office. I do mostly everything online. I paid ahead for the garage fees, car insurance, utilities, and my mortgage. I literally cleaned out my bank account. My balance, in case you want to know, was a little under seven thousand dollars.”

  “When you get to Maui, you can open a bank account at the Royal Hawaiian Bank. You will be able to draw on your funds immediately, once you deposit the cashier checks. We allowed for a possible snafu and included five thousand in cash in small bills. I think we covered everything. To your mind’s eye, did we forget anything?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’d really like to know what’s going on, Mr. Ballard.”

  Alvin Ballard cleared his throat, and said, “We discussed this among ourselves, and we think it best if you don’t know what’s going on. Do not take that the wrong way, please. We want you to feel safe, and you will be safe if you play by the rules we laid out and follow our instructions. We have your back, and this will be put to rest very shortly. You need to believe us when we tell you that nothing at all will happen to you. Who knows? Perhaps you will fall in love with Hawaii and decide to relocate on a permanent basis. Are you comfortable with our assurances?”

  Matthew Spicer looked at the three men across the table for a full minute before he nodded. “Who is this Arthur Forrester?”

  “Not anyone you want to know, Mr. Spicer. Let’s leave it at that,” Robert Quinlan said. “Oh, here comes our food. Dig in, Mr. Spicer, and savor every mouthful so you can dream about it while you’re eating pineapple in Hawaii and sipping on exotic drinks with little umbrellas.”

  Sixty minutes later, stuffed to the gills, Matthew Spicer stood up, shook his hosts’ hands, and left the Café Davino with the manila folder clasped tightly in one hand. He didn’t look back.

  If he had taken a moment to do so, he would have seen the two tables of young people ignoring their dinners in favor of frantic texting. Nor did he pay any attention to the two giggling girls, who exited the restaurant right after he did. He did, however, notice them as he climbed into the Town Car, which had pulled to the curb. Just two girls out for an early dinner before they returned to their dorm to crack their books.

  Back in the bustling dining room, where the three young men were still texting faster than lightning, with their dinners, now cold, sitting on their plates, Henry Ballard said, “I think that went well.” He fished around in his wallet, looking for his black American Express card. He handed it over to the waiter, his gaze raking the customers. The place had filled up while they were eating, and he hadn’t even noticed. Even the two single seats at the tiny bar counter were now occupied. Everyone was on their cell phones, tapping out messages. At least three of the people who were doing the tapping had already been seated when he and his partners had entered the café. Obviously, the two young women who had been there had left, for a waiter was busily clearing the table. He thought it odd that the dinner plates being cleared were still full, and the pitcher of beer looked like it had not been touched. Strange, but not his concern. He wondered what would happen if, suddenly, cyberspace crashed. A massive meltdown for certain.

  It was 6:20 P.M. when the three partners exited their favorite restaurant. Henry did notice at first that the three young men were right behind them. It was crowded under the long, narrow canopy that stretched almost to the street. And when he did notice them, he saw that none of the three carried a take-home box. He thought that was strange.

  As the three partners waited for their driver to pull up, Henry reacted to the uneasy feeling he was experiencing. He turned to the three young men, and asked, “So, guys, how did you like your dinner? This was our first time here, and we all liked it,” he added chattily.

  Momentarily taken aback by the question, the tallest of the trio spoke up. “Best food in Washington by far. We come here at least twice a week. You get a lot of bang for your buck, and the owners are supernice. I’m stuffed, I can tell you that.” His two friends bobbed their heads up and down to show that they were in agreement.

  “Indeed,” Henry said. He looked out into the street so as not to give away the fact that he knew that the young man was lying through his teeth. His stomach tied itself in a knot. He knew in that instant that he and his partners, as well as Matthew Spicer, had been spied upon throughout their dinner together. He grappled with his thoughts as to the how and the why of it just as the company car slid to the curb. He was the last to climb into the backseat. “Take us back to the office, please, Stephen,” he told the driver. His partners looked
at him, but they said nothing. Company rule was never to discuss anything in the car that you didn’t want to come back to bite you on the ass.

  Since it was the senior partners’ own rule, the men all settled back to discuss the rain, which was coming down in torrents. They were still talking monsoons and tsunamis as they took the elevator to their floor and strode to the conference room.

  * * *

  The second the door was closed and locked behind them, Henry let loose. “I would absolutely bet the rent on the fact that we were under surveillance this evening at the restaurant.” He rattled on, hating the expressions he was seeing on his partners’ faces. “I am as much a Neanderthal as the two of you are, but I’m betting one of the five young people who were there when we arrived, the three guys and the two girls, had some kind of listening device, and that they overheard our conversation with Matthew Spicer.”

  Robert Quinlan loosened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. “Henry, are you basing all you’ve said on the fact that they didn’t eat their dinners and didn’t have take-home bags with them when they left? Or did you see something else? The only thing I noticed was that the two giggling girls left right after Spicer did.”

  “The tall fellow lied to Henry when he said he was stuffed. How could he be stuffed if he didn’t eat his dinner?” Alvin asked as he, too, jerked at his tie. He ripped it off and stuffed it in his pocket. “Should we alert Mr. Spicer? If all you say is true, whom do we blame? Arthur Forrester?”

  “And give Spicer a coronary! I don’t think so. For some reason, I don’t think Arthur Forrester is behind this. That is if I’m even right. Let’s think about this. How would Arthur know where we were going for dinner? Matthew had no other contact with Arthur, if he was telling us the truth, and he had no reason to lie. Especially to us. Of course, maybe I’m wrong.”

  Alvin Ballard, the most cautious and most methodical of the three partners, shook his head. “I don’t think you’re wrong, Henry. I tend to agree that Arthur doesn’t have the chutzpah to pull off something like this. Besides, they were already seated when we arrived. So they couldn’t have followed Matthew. Unless there is a sixth person hiding in the bushes somewhere. Which brings us back to the question of who knew where we were going. The answer is no one except the three of us and Matthew Spicer. Robert himself called to make the reservation. If my memory serves me right, we never discussed any of this outside of this room. Is that how you two see it?”