7. Free Fall

by Fern Michaels

  “I read in the paper that all of your children are successful. Your sons are all in politics. I think I read that your oldest son is a congressman and another works for the Department of Justice, another son works in the White House. Your wife is on the board of the Red Cross. Your daughters married well into prominent Atlanta families.”

  “What the hell is this?” The words exploded from Newhouse’s mouth like bullets.

  Alexis leaned back into the depths of the leather sofa and crossed her legs. “That’s a really good question, Mr. Newhouse. What the hell is a man of your stature, a pillar of the community, doing getting his jollies off on a slavery ring? Those young women you’re boffing in those pictures are only fifteen years old. You have granddaughters that age.”

  “Who the hell are you? What right…?” Spittle flew from the man’s mouth. “This is a lie! Someone superimposed my head on these pictures!”

  Alexis laughed. “How do you suppose they superimposed the rest of your body on those pictures? Oh, it’s you, so don’t deny it. My favorite is the one where you’re practicing tonsil hockey. That’s the one your whole family is going to see.”

  For a round, fat man, Newhouse was fast. He was up and racing toward her, his arms outstretched. Alexis was even faster and had the toy .22 from her briefcase in her hand, and pointed directly between the CEO’s eyes.

  Newhouse skidded to a stop and then backed up to his desk. He reached down to press a button on the elaborate telephone console on his desk.

  “Power’s off, Mr. Sleaze. Try your cell phone.”

  Newhouse reached for his cell phone and clicked it on.

  Alexis laughed. “There are some pigeons on your windowsill. Maybe you could send a message with one of them.”

  Newhouse mopped at the mottled skin on his forehead and bald head. “This is all some kind of ghastly mistake. I refuse to be blackmailed. What do you want? Blackmail is against the law.”

  “You are so right, blackmail is against the law. The big question is, Who are you going to tell? Were you thinking of offering me money to keep this all quiet? Mr. Newhouse, there is not enough money in the whole world that could make me keep this quiet.”

  Newhouse continued to mop at his head. The handkerchief looked sodden to Alexis. “I can give you millions. Whatever you want. Just give me a number.”

  Alexis smiled, the toy gun still in her hand. “You want a number? Okay, try this, 404-555-1121.”

  “What kind of number is that?”

  “It’s the Atlanta police. You can call them anytime of the day or night. Or, you can call Michael Lyons. We have your…contributions to Mr. Lyons’s organization, of which you are one of the founding fathers. What’s it going to be, Mr. Newhouse? I see you are at a loss for words. That’s okay, I have to go now, anyway. Do you think you might need some additional copies, Mr. Newhouse? I have stacks and stacks. We’ll be sending them out to anyone and everyone you said so much as hello to. Oh, by the way, if you try to skip town you won’t get far. We red-flagged your passport. Do you know what happens to men like you who go to jail for the kinds of things you’ve been doing? Of course, that’s assuming you even get to jail. Society frowns on what you’ve been doing. You might well meet your maker ahead of schedule.”

  “Get out of here and don’t come back. If you do, I’ll kill you,” Newhouse said hoarsely.

  At the door, Alexis stopped and turned, the toy gun in her hand. She winked and said, “Bang!”

  Alexis could tell the power was still off so she high-tailed it to the nearest EXIT sign that was battery operated and clattered down twenty-two flights of stairs. She was so light-headed, so nervous, she had trouble punching in the numbers on the cell phone to reach Charles. She hated the shakiness in her voice when she said, “I’m on my way to the airport.”

  Just as Alexis was stepping into a cab on Peachtree, Isabelle Flanders found herself in a wrestling match with retired General Josh Tappen in Dallas, Texas, where he oversaw one of the country’s largest oil companies. The general was huffing and puffing, obviously out of shape, as Isabelle struggled in his stranglehold. Suddenly, she let her body go slack. In a nanosecond, she kicked backward and made contact with his groin. She was free a second later. Oh, God, what was she supposed to do now? What had Yoko said? Chop his neck. Isabelle clasped her hands together and brought them down across the back of the retired general’s neck. She danced backward, her breathing ragged as she debated her next move.

  Charles had said there was a chance one of the men might get physical.

  “You bitch! Who the hell do you think you are coming in here with this disgusting filth and trying to blackmail me! I’ll call the police and have you locked up for the rest of your life!”

  Isabelle laughed. She moved a tad closer and kicked out with her pointy-toed shoe. She caught the general in the throat. He gasped and rolled backward, his fat little fingers clutching at his throat.

  The door to the general’s suite cracked open and his secretary poked her head in. “Is something wrong?”

  Isabelle thought she was going to black out at the sight of the secretary. She managed somehow to trill with laughter. “Good heavens no! The general is showing me how he used to disarm men in combat. I think we’re going to use this scenario in our opening teaser. Your boss is quite a man!”

  “Yes, he is. Well, keep up the good work.”

  When the door closed behind the secretary, Isabelle fell against the door as she struggled to take deep breaths. When she had her breathing under control she said, “You can kiss good-bye that book deal on your army experiences you got seven figures for. I’m going to write a picture book of your real after-hours’ experiences. I guarantee it will be a best-seller. You can read it when you’re in prison. Now, get up or I’ll break your ribs, cut off your dick and stuff it down your throat. I want to see what kind of man you are when a real woman has the edge. While I’m doing all that, I want you to think about all those little girls you paid for and then raped and sent out on the sex circuit. What’s that nice family of yours going to think?”

  The general struggled to his feet, his eyes murderous. He staggered to his desk and sat down.

  “To think people like you are the defenders of our country.” Isabelle stared down the retired four-star general. Her gaze swiveled to the family lineup behind him. Four daughters and a wife. She just knew they were a nice family with no clue what their father and husband did. She hoped they would be strong when the dark stuff hit the fan.

  Knowing she was safe on the other side of the desk, Isabelle leaned over and lowered her voice. “You have no options, General. All of you are going to be exposed and sent to prison. I suspect you won’t make it to the prison doors but I could be wrong. Someone will pop you, I can almost guarantee it. I also want you to know you offended me earlier when you offered to bribe me to keep quiet.

  “Before I leave I want to tell you that you can run but you can’t hide. Your passport has been red-flagged. We closed your bank accounts. You know, those special accounts you use to buy all those young Asian women. And, of course, your membership dues in that skeevy club you belong to. It’s a cruel world out there for people like you. You might want to just sit here and wait for the authorities to come for you. What I wouldn’t do if I were you is to call Michael Lyons. Well, good-bye, General.”

  “Who are you?” the general rasped.

  Isabelle thought about the question for a full minute before she stepped out the door. “I’m the conscience of all those innocent young women you and those pigs in your little club turned into whores.”

  In the cab on the way to the airport, Isabelle called Charles’s number and said, “I’m on the way to the airport. Has everyone called in?”

  “Everyone but Nikki,” Charles responded.

  “So,” he’d said.

  The man was cool, Nikki thought. And brazen. He was acting like she’d just shown him pictures of sailboats instead of the sick, perverted sex pictures scattered on his d
esk.

  “‘So’?” That’s all you have to say?”

  He was beyond handsome. Royce Gardener, chief counsel to the Catholic Diocese of Boston, chief counsel to the state’s baseball team and chief counsel to half the organizations and businesses in the city, sat behind his busy-looking desk, an amused smile on his face. Nikki couldn’t decide if he was yanking her chain or not. Maybe the guy was an accomplished poker player. Maybe a lot of things.

  “So you found out I have a private life outside this office. So what?”

  “So what? So you’re breaking the law. You’re buying and selling human beings and you’re forcing them to do obscene things, that’s what. And let’s not forget that you and your cronies smuggle these women into this country for your own pleasures. You’re a sexual deviate, Mr. Gardener, as are the others in your inner circle. Alphabet City is going to be on your butt within hours. You can’t run. Your family is going to be destroyed. You’ll be the main topic of conversation for years to come. You’re going to go to prison. We have all your records.”

  Gardener leaned back in his ergonomic chair and smiled. “You keep using the word we. Who exactly is we?”

  Not only was he cool, he was smart, too, but Nikki knew how to play the game. “Why don’t we just say it was a slip of the tongue. I have copies of your bank records. All that money you flash around the world in those secret accounts. How about this? Josh Tappen, Lucian Treadwell, Adam Newhouse and Michael Lyons. Which one do you think will be able to keep his mouth shut? You know the drill, Gardener. First one to cut a deal gets points. By the way, I’m not here to take a bribe or to ask for anything. I’m just the messenger. We have thousands of those,” Nikki said, pointing to the perversion that littered the desk. “We tracked all your business transactions and moved your money for you. Don’t thank me. It was a pleasure to do it. You’re flat broke as of early this morning. We left you $64.22 in your account. We cancelled all your credit cards, even your American Express Black Card. Your passport has been flagged. That’s another way of saying you’re dead in the water. How in the world are you going to pay for that fancy wedding you’re throwing for your daughter in June?”

  Gardener stood up, his fists clenched. “Leave my daughter out of this and the rest of my family.”

  Nikki looked around the luxurious office. The furnishings and paintings on the wall could have supported a family of five for a generation. The man himself was an endorsement to the fashion industry. “You should have thought about your family before you got involved in that slave ring. I don’t care if you’re the Second Coming of Clarence Darrow, there’s no way you or your colleagues can sweep this under the table. If you think that’s possible, you’re a fool.”

  The amusement was gone, evil leaked out of Gardener’s eyes. “What do you want? How much to shut you up? How much to burn this trash?” he asked, pointing to the pile of obscene material on his desk.

  “Spill your guts. Names, dates, places. The percentage of everyone’s involvement. Your own as well. Every member’s profile. We’ll match up what you tell us with the information we have and, rest assured, we have plenty. By the way, there is no such thing as a safe computer. No matter how many safeguards you have in place there’s always someone out there smarter than you are who can hack through it all. We have the King Grandfather of all hackers on our payroll.”

  Gardener nibbled on his lower lip. He no longer looked amused or cool. Now he looked frazzled and worried. “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain if I spill my guts?”

  “You don’t. That’s a chance you have to take,” Nikki said coolly.

  “I want to know who you are. Who do you represent?”

  Nikki smirked. “Privileged information, counselor.”

  “Will you give me back my money and reinstate my credit cards?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to live?”

  “That’s your problem, Mr. Gardener. Oh, before we continue, if you alert any of your buddies to this little deal we’re doing, all bets are off.” Nikki looked at her watch—4:30. She wanted out of here. Her gut told her that Gardener was going to try to beat the odds and wouldn’t say word one.

  Gardener stood up and towered over Nikki. She rose immediately and headed for the door. Her hand was on the doorknob when Gardener reached her in three long-legged strides. “Without a guarantee, I can’t help you,” he said coldly. “You don’t know these people.”

  Nikki turned around and jabbed her finger into Gardener’s throat. “Now, you see, that’s where you’re wrong. I do know those people. You don’t know me and my people.”

  “They’ll find you and kill you. Once you’re in, you’re in. I tried to get out years ago but it wasn’t possible.”

  Nikki felt a chill race up her arms. With all the bravado she could muster, she said, “Now, Mr. Gardener, if you were a betting man, who would you put your money on? You just made the biggest mistake of your life.” She opened the door and walked through the outer office and then headed for the elevator, whose door swished open. Thank God the power was back on.

  Nikki didn’t relax until she was in the cab that would take her to Logan Airport. She called Charles and said, “I’m running late and headed for the airport. He didn’t go for the deal. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Chapter 18

  Michael Lyons scratched at the mysterious rash that covered his body. He’d used almost a gallon of some kind of antibacterial itch lotion but it wasn’t helping. He looked in the mirror and was stunned at his puffy face. He squinted to try to see himself better and was sorry he did. His eyes were almost swollen shut, his lips were puffy, and his nose had a scab on it from scratching. His lips appeared to be twice their normal size. Even his dick was swollen. Oh, he was going to look wonderful for the Academy Awards. Son of a bitch, he might have to cancel.

  Nerves? Maybe he should go to a doctor instead of trying to doctor himself. Like that was really going to happen. There was no way he was going outside where people could see him. His daily domestic said the rash looked like a severe case of shingles, whatever the hell that was. She’d backed away from him as though he might be contagious, which had angered him even more.

  And now this fucking shit! He looked down at the cell phone in his hand, willing it to ring. He needed to get a new one. It worked and then it didn’t work. It beeped when there were no calls and then he would get nothing but static for hours on end. He’d paid thousands for this piece of crap and it wasn’t worth shit. He clicked it on, hoping he would hear the dull buzz indicating the phone was in a working mode. He dialed Dan Boatman, cursing when the computer wizard didn’t pick up. He cancelled the call and dialed Paul Yarm from Five Star Investigations. When the detective identified himself, Lyons snarled, “Well?”

  Lyons scratched and scratched as he listened to the investigator say they’d located his daughter, but she was away. “Out of town, the shop assistant said. We managed to check the calls stored on the answering machine.” He went on to say the business she operated was a profitable one. “The workers speak limited English. Communication is difficult. Implied threats mean nothing, as they know nothing. We have the entire nursery and flower shop under surveillance.”

  Lyons scratched some more. “How long has she been gone? Business owners don’t go away without leaving a number to be called in case of an emergency. Sweat them.”

  “Mr. Lyons, we know what we’re doing. Your daughter goes away quite often, sometimes for as long as a week. She calls in. As I understand it there are no emergencies in the flower business. She’s been gone for over a week. Let’s understand each other, Mr. Lyons. We do not ‘sweat’ the people we trace. We stop short of threats. More often than not, stern words work better. We contracted to locate your daughter and that’s what we’ve done. The fact that she isn’t here is not our fault. Legally and technically, we can walk off the job, bill you and go on from there. We will continue with our surveillance until you tell us to
stop, but that’s all we will do. Once the subject returns, we will notify you and send you a final report.”

  Lyons started to sputter. “Did she use a credit card? When people go away or travel, they use credit cards, gas cards, they make ATM withdrawals.”

  “This lady has not done any of those things. No charges of any kind. The last time she used her credit card, which, by the way is a VISA card, was back in June of last year when she purchased five pairs of house slippers. She paid the bill in full the following month. She doesn’t have a gas card and she’s never used an ATM machine. She deals in cash for her personal purchases. She pays the business bills out of a special account that carries a very low balance. There is one other thing. There were quite a few messages on your daughter’s answering machine from a man named Harry Wong. Whoever he is, your daughter didn’t see fit to tell him she was going away so he probably isn’t important, but we are checking him out. All we have so far is he is a martial arts expert. We think your daughter takes lessons from him because in one of the messages he says she missed class.”

  “Well, find out all you can about him. What about women friends?” Lyons was not about to give up.

  “None that we know of. We’ve checked everything. These people, if they know anything—and there’s no reason to suspect they do—do not talk to strangers. I have another call coming in, Mr. Lyons. Shall we continue the surveillance or not?”

  “Yes. Call me as soon as you know something. Put more people on it. Money is no object. I have to find my daughter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lyons broke the connection.

  Clad only in a pair of boxer shorts, Lyons started to swab his body with the smelly pink lotion again. Maybe he could find a doctor who would make a house call. Yeah, yeah, that’s what he would do. He could use his celebrity and demand a house call. The only problem was he really didn’t know any regular doctors. He knew dozens of plastic surgeons. Maybe they could help him.