Roland fed papers into the fax machine, one by one, a devilish light in his eyes that Arden couldn’t see. Maybe, just maybe, this was a way for him to sever his connection with Arden. Give her enough rope and she’d hang herself. Finally, he’d be rid of her and some way, some how, he might be able to appease his guilt over Sara Whittier. He might even be able to get back into the good graces of his family.
“I know just what I’m going to wear,” Arden trilled. “I bought this beautiful Armani suit. I even had shoes dyed to match. We’ll go in my Mercedes. Or, do you think we should hire a chauffeur? Just because we’re a small firm doesn’t mean we should look tacky. Everyone knows good things come in small packages. In other words, Roland, big doesn’t mean better. Wear your Brioni suit. You look so…so dashing and cosmopolitan.”
Like he was really going to show up wearing a Brioni suit after reading Anna de Silva’s profile that said she was a simple woman with simple tastes. Anything ostentatious was an automatic turnoff to one of the richest ladies in the world. He couldn’t help but wonder how Arden had missed that part of de Silva’s profile.
Roland ignored his partner as he kept feeding papers into the fax machine.
Life, Roland decided, was about to get mired in muck. He felt so depressed, he wanted to go home to hear his wife tell him everything would be okay, like in the old days when he was just starting out. Back then she’d been so supportive. That was then and he hadn’t screwed up yet. It wasn’t going to happen and he knew it. Things would never be okay again and he knew that, too.
Chapter 14
The news room hummed with activity but Maggie Spritzer paid little attention. It was always like this around mid-morning for some reason. She typed the last few words of her column, ran spell check, and printed it out. Her extension would ring off the hook tomorrow when the ladies of Washington turned to her column. My oh my, what would they say when they found out Senator Myers’s wife charged 900 dollars worth of spring flowers to the taxpayers? They’d probably fall off their breakfast chairs or spill their morning coffee when they went on to read how the Secretary of State’s wife didn’t use her pooper scooper. On Massachusetts Avenue no less. The big question was, would she be fined or would she trade on her husband’s political position? Did the world care? Probably not, but the social ladies of Washington would have something to buzz about over their luncheons and teas for at least three days.
Maggie dropped off her column in her boss’s in-box and prepared to leave the newsroom.
Today, Maggie was wearing a flowered spring dress with matching jacket. She carried a tote, hating it because she missed her old L L Bean backpack. The colorful tote matched her outfit. Ted Robinson whistled approvingly as she approached his desk. “What’s up, Slick?” he asked, using the new nickname he’d given for her.
Maggie perched on the corner of Ted’s desk, showing a generous portion of leg and thigh. “Wanna go for coffee? I just turned in my column and have tomorrow’s done in draft form. I’m free as that breeze outside. How about you? I have something I want to show you,” she whispered.
“Then I’m your man.” Ted shouted across the room, “Hey, Espinosa, cover my phone, okay?”
Ted adjusted his baseball cap, slipped on his backpack, and followed Maggie from the room. She led him out of the building and around the corner to a greasy spoon that had scarred formica tables, six stools, two bar tables and the worst coffee and food in the entire District. Free refills were the joint’s claim to fame. The place was jamming.
Maggie got in line while Ted moved to one of the bar tables where a sports writer from the paper was sitting with one of the financial guys. “Yo, Garrity, can I have this table when you’re done?”
“Sure, Robinson, if you don’t mind getting your ass kicked by one of the other twenty people waiting for it.”
“But did they ask as politely as I did? C’mon, I’ve been up since forever and I need some of this swill to get me going.”
“It’s all yours, buddy,” the sports writer said, sliding off his chair. Ted immediately plopped down, ignoring the boos and hisses. A couple of minutes later, Maggie joined him to more boos and hisses. Both reporters ignored the disgruntled customers.
“Well, whatcha got? May I say you look particularly springy this morning. Is something going on that I’m not aware of?”
“Spring is in the air. Flowers are blooming. The sun is shining. The trees are almost in full leaf. Do I need a better reason? As to what’s up, take a look at this,” Maggie said sliding a thick stapled sheaf of papers across the small table. “Tell me what you think.”
Ted looked at an aerial photo of a large estate. “It looks like a scaled down castle of some kind. I’ve seen this before but can’t quite place it. Ah,” he said, as he scanned the text. “Anna de Silva. She’s a countess or something. You got some dirt on her? What?”
Maggie grinned like a Cheshire cat. “I followed some of the ladies from Pinewood out there yesterday. Actually, I was tailing the Asian gal. I followed her from her nursery to Pinewood and then I followed a dark SUV to Manassas. That’s where they are. I don’t know if all of them are there or not. There’s more security out there than there is at Pinewood. Doesn’t that make you wonder? And, Anna de Silva lives in Spain. She is not in residence in Manassas.”
Ted’s eyes narrowed. “And this all means…what?”
“They’re on the move, Ted. They’re going to do something. They relocated so they could do whatever it is they’re going to do. I spent all night on the computer and called in every favor owed me to get the goods on the de Silva woman. I think she’s aiding and abetting, Ted.”
Ted snorted. “All the way from Spain? Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?”
“Did I mention I spent all night on this stuff? It’s my female gut instinct, Ted.”
No way in hell was he going to touch that. “Okay, spit it out.”
“I think…and you and I agreed more or less, that Myra Rutledge is behind this little group of vigilantes. She’s got the money and the power. Stretch that mind of yours and digest this. Myra Rutledge, Judge Cornelia Easter and Anna Ryland de Silva are best friends going back to the age of five. Easter doesn’t have the money the other two have. De Silva is one of the richest women in the world. Myra can hold her own in that regard but she is not quite as rich as de Silva. Are you following me, Ted?”
“I’m with you.”
A strange voice said, “Are you ever going to give up this table?”
“Not any time soon. Beat it,” Maggie said, menace ringing in her voice.
“Okay. Why would the ladies of Pinewood relocate to Manassas if something isn’t going on or about to go on? Didn’t you say Myra Rutledge and Charles Martin took a vacation? Five bucks says they went to Spain. By the way, how do you know that?”
“I have a source at the airport who is a mechanic,” Ted said. “He calls me anytime that Gulfstream takes off. He did some checking and the flight plan was to Barcelona, Spain.”
“Aha! And why do you suppose they went there? For reinforcements. More money. De Silva’s clout. Her house in Manassas. A bunch of reasons, Ted. De Silva is going to become a player in this mess. I am ninety-nine and ninetenths percent sure of that.”
Ted slurped on his coffee. He looked up as a waitress held her pot aloft. He nodded. So did Maggie. The waitress poured liberally. “They should condemn this place,” Ted said.
“What could they be up to, Ted? How does de Silva figure in this? Is it just her money and her house that they need? If that’s the case, wouldn’t a phone call have sufficed? Why go all the way to Spain?”
“Maybe they wanted a short vacation? You did say they were best friends.”
“Keep reading, sweet cheeks. The woman hasn’t been back here in close to twenty years. What’s that say for her tie to her old homestead, where, by the way, she has maintained a skeleton staff to oversee things? They call her a woman of simple tastes. They say she suffered a terrible
tragedy and that’s why she’s reclusive. They were on their yacht with an inexperienced crew when a terrible storm came up The husband and both children were swept overboard but somehow she survived. Details are sketchy and she doesn’t give interviews. That’s why she’s never left her mountain top. Take a gander at her digs in Spain. Any bells going off in your head?”
Ted stared at the pictures for a long time. “This picture,” he said, tapping a photo of Anna de Silva’s Spanish home, “says it used to be a monastery that Count Armand de Silva inherited, which then passed on to Anna at his death.” He looked up and across at Maggie. “Isn’t that the order of things? A spouse dies and the surviving spouse inherits.”
“C’mon, Ted, think. Put it all together and tell me what you see.”
“What’s to see, Maggie? Obviously, Myra Rutledge is taking advantage of an old friendship to enlist de Silva’s aid. De Silva must have agreed if the ladies have relocated to the old homestead. If de Silva is really a recluse, she won’t be coming here. That tells me she offered financial aid, and the use of her home but she is not going to be an active player in…whatever they’re up to. I assume you think I’m missing something. Enlighten me. Can we leave? I can’t drink any more of this coffee.”
Maggie gathered up the de Silva file and slipped it into her tote. She slid off the high-backed chair, smoothed down her dress and jacket. “I’m ready.”
As the two reporters exited the greasy spoon they were followed by snide comments and more boos and hisses.
Outside in the bright sunshine, Maggie looked up at her tall companion. “I’ve got things to do but I want to leave you with a thought. Go back to the paper and bone up on the law of sanctuary.”
Ted removed his baseball cap and smacked it against his leg. “I’ll be dipped in shit! So that’s where all this is going. Talk about clever. Good work, Maggie! Really good work!”
Ted never paid compliments. Maggie beamed. “Am I back in your good graces?”
“Yes, you are.”
“All right then. I shared all this research. Where’s the tape you stole from my house?”
Ted didn’t hesitate. “I gave it to the boss. It’s in the safe at the paper. It’s going to stay there until we need it. Am I in your good graces?”
“You are.” Maggie stood on her toes and kissed Ted lightly on the tip of his nose. “Come by around seven,” she said. “I threw some stuff in the crock pot this morning. You can bring some French bread and a good bottle of wine if you’re interested.”
“Okay. Where are you going now?”
“Home to try and figure some things out. I have a lot of loose ends I need to tie up or at least try to make sense of. I might have more to tell you tonight.”
The two reporters separated, Ted going one way, Maggie the other way.
Instead of heading for the Post, Ted continued down the street. A walk around the block in the warm sunshine was just what he needed. His thoughts were thousands of miles away on a mountain in Spain. What did it all mean? He was so engrossed in his thoughts as he loped along that Jack Emery had to grab his arm to spin him around.
“Hey, earth to Ted! What’s with you? You must be getting ready to crucify someone in that paper of yours. Either that or you’re in love again. Which is it?”
“Well, if it isn’t Mister Crime Fighter himself out and about on this lovely spring morning. It isn’t even lunch time so that makes me wonder where the defender of the people is going. Is your destination worthy of a mention in the Post?” Ted guffawed at his own wit.
Jack grimaced. “Nothing that exciting. I’ve been sitting in court since eight this morning. After cooling our heels for ninety minutes we were told the judge, his clerk, his secretary and the bailiff ate some bad sausage in the cafeteria earlier. No court. I couldn’t resist taking the long way back to the office. What’s up with you?”
“Not a damn thing, Jack.”
“Now that’s a lie if I ever heard one. Wanna stop for coffee?”
“Guess you want to pick my brain, huh? Guess what, Jack, my brain is empty. I’m up for a good cup of coffee and maybe a fried egg sandwich. You buying?”
“Don’t I always? You look rather smug this morning, Ted. Want to share?”
Ted snorted. “That will be the damn day. How’s things going with Nikki?”
“Not a clue. Like I said, I just live in her house.”
“Yeah, I always say that, too. By the way, where are we going for that coffee and egg sandwich?”
“Sadie Green’s Café. Shouldn’t be a crowd now, breakfast is over, too early for lunch.”
“You seeing anyone besides Nikki?”
“Marcey Williams. She’s an ADA in the office. You on or off with Maggie?”
“It’s a day to day thing. One day we’re on, one day we’re off.”
Jack held the white painted door of Sadie’s café. The café smelled of fresh coffee, cinnamon and bacon. His mouth started to water. They took their seats at a window table with a green checked tablecloth. A waitress appeared the moment they were seated. She had two matching napkins wrapped around the silver. “Coffee?” Both men nodded and then gave their order.
Wariness shone in both men’s eyes as they looked at each other across the table. “What do you want to talk about, Ted?”
“The weather? Looks like spring has finally sprung. It was a hell of a winter, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it was a hell of a winter. Supposed to be a hot summer,” Jack said.
“Are we having a titillating conversation?”
“I’d call it boring. We’re both working too hard not to say anything. Saved by our food,” Jack said as he looked up at the waitress. “This is why I like coming here. You don’t have to wait an hour for your food and it’s hot when you get it.” He watched as Ted poured ketchup all over his sandwich and then cut it with a knife and fork.
A worm of unease settled itself between Jack’s shoulder blades. He didn’t know why but he felt Ted knew something he didn’t know. What was it Nikki said? When you were in control, you were in the cat bird seat. Then she laughed and asked, and what does the cat in the cat bird seat do? When he shrugged his shoulders, she laughed again. Why, darling Jack, you purr. Ted was purring.
Ted wiped up the mess on his plate with a stray piece of toast, then he said, “How come the Pinewood ladies relocated?”
Jack didn’t have to pretend to be surprised. He was. “Huh?”
“The ladies of Pinewood. Your significant other. How come they relocated?” Ted said, enunciating each word carefully as though Jack was an idiot.
“Now, how the hell would I know something like that? For starters, I didn’t know the ladies of Pinewood had relocated. You seem to know more than I do. Why don’t you explain it to me?” Oh, Nik, you are definitely not going to like this.
Ted gulped the last of his coffee. “Ha!”
Jack fished around his pocket for the money to pay the check. He stood up and said, “Don’t you think you’re a little old to play these stupid games? Who the hell cares if the Pinewood ladies moved or went on vacation, or decided to go camping? Certainly not me. Keep up with this silliness and you’re going to get your dick in a sling and then what will Miz Spritzer do? You think about that, Mr. Hotshot reporter.”
“Let me worry about my dick. I’m just trying to apprise you of the latest developments so that when the hammer falls you can’t say I didn’t drop all these little hints.”
“Guess you don’t think much about your missing spleen these days, eh? Well, guess what, I do think about it and that’s why I’m keeping my nose out of anything that doesn’t concern me. You do what you want, Ted. Be careful, okay?”
“Yeah, Jack, I’ll be careful. Thanks for breakfast,” Ted said as he headed for the men’s room.
“Any time.”
Outside, Jack let his breath out in a long agonized sigh. Washington, D. C., the nation’s capital where it was impossible to keep a secret. Nikki was going to pitch a fit wh
en he told her about his breakfast meeting with Ted.
Chapter 15
At five-thirty Maggie Spritzer decided to take a break so she could check the contents of her crock pot. As she peered down into the bubbling food she wondered what she should call the mess bubbling away. She hoped it would taste as good as it smelled. Ted loved comfort foods cooked in one pot, but then so did she.
Daisy nipped at her toes, a signal that she wanted to go for a walk. Maggie slipped into a pair of clogs she kept by the front door. Inside, she liked to go barefoot. “Okay, get your leash and we’ll go for a walk.” The little brown and white dog bee-lined to the bedroom and dragged the leash and dropped it at Maggie’s feet.
Forty minutes later, owner and dog were back in the apartment. Daisy went off with her dog biscuit and Maggie returned to her computer. She perched her reading glasses on her nose and rummaged through her files for the fiftieth time. She wished she knew what she was looking for. Whatever it was, it wasn’t smacking her in the nose. It was here, she knew it. Why wasn’t she homing in on it? Damn, maybe she was just too tired to see the obvious. “Okay,” she muttered, “let’s start over.”
The ladies of Pinewood. She had a file on all of them, thanks to Ted who said he got the files from Jack Emery. Maybe her problem was someone else made the files and the folders and that was what was throwing her off. In the blink of an eye, Maggie had new file folders in her hand. She labeled all of them before she created a new file on her computer. Just hit the high lights. You can fill in the details later, she told herself.
By six-thirty she felt she was making progress.
Myra Rutledge. Rich. Money out the kazoo. Mother of Barbara Rutledge who was killed by a diplomat’s son or nephew. That part wasn’t clear but didn’t really make a difference. Guy has diplomatic immunity, but was never punished for his crime, left the country. Flash forward several years to ladies of Pinewood taking a trip to China. Maggie drew a big fat zero with a red magic marker. Then she wrote, no further details.
6. Lethal Justice Page 12