Final Justice: Sisterhood Series #5

by Fern Michaels

  "Actually, we'll be wheels up in two hours and fifteen minutes. Yes, well, it was nice meeting you, too. You take care of this end, I'll take care of mine, and I'm sure one of these days we'll meet up again."

  Lizzie closed her cell phone, turned around, and looked at Ted, her eyes bright and shiny. Ted thought she was going to cry at any moment. The awesome Lizzie Fox crying. The odds of that happening were about the same as a hurricane hitting the desert.

  Ted knew this was a very important moment in Lizzie's life. Sometimes, according to Maggie, people didn't have the good sense to take advantage of such moments.

  "Lizzie, it's okay to be tough as nails, and I admire that trait in you. But it's also okay to wear your heart on your sleeve once in a while. I wasn't eavesdropping," he lied, "but I assume that was Cricket you were talking to. Why don't you call him back and invite him to Washington or, better yet, stay over another day? Take some personal time. That guy is yours for the asking. If you want him, that is. I'm a guy, I know these things. There must have been a time in your life when you were. . .you know, into guys and all the romance that goes with it. Let your hair down and go for it. Let it all hang out."

  Lizzie's features softened. She leaned over, touched Ted's cheek, then kissed him on the tip of his nose. "I don't know how, Ted," she whispered.

  Ted saw the tears, heard the anguish, felt the body tremors. And then the moment was gone, and Ted wasn't sure if he'd imagined it all or not.

  "Well, if you think smacking up two million dollars' worth of machinery is going to get you anywhere, you're wrong. That guy is looking for. . .for you, Lizzie. He knows you did it. And he hasn't made a peep in your direction." Ted knew he was losing her right that second. He had to try another tack. "Damn, if that guy isn't the ugliest man I've ever seen. I don't know what you see in him." Lizzie's eyes sparked. That was good, he had her. Maggie was going to be so proud of him.

  "You're no prize yourself, Ted," Lizzie snapped.

  "I know! I know! You see, now you're getting it! I'm almost as ugly as Cricket. Chicks don't like guys whose hair turns red in the sun. My ears, if I flap them right, allow me to fly. I have too many freckles, I'm skinny, and I don't have a spleen. But Maggie loves me anyway." Then the one word in the whole world that Lizzie detested shot out of his mouth faster than a bullet. "Coward!"

  Lizzie's eyes burned so bad she thought she'd been caught in a sandstorm. Her head high, she marched into the bedroom, where she changed her clothes. Skintight leather pants, ankle boots with hooker heels, Harley-Davidson jacket, and a Chanel purse. She picked up her briefcase and marched out to the living room.

  The vigilantes stopped what they were doing to stare at Lizzie. They all knew something was different, they just didn't know what it was.

  Her voice wasn't brisk and professional, it wasn't lilting and melodious, either. It was dead flat when she said, "I have a few last-minute things to take care of, and with the traffic in this town, it's time for Ted and me to leave. I'll see you all back in D.C." She forced a smile. "I think your plan is awesome, and I wish you luck. See you."

  "Something's wrong," Kathryn said, when the door closed behind Lizzie and Ted. "We should have done something. Hugged her, kissed her, something. She's always there for us, no questions asked."

  Annie walked over to the middle of the circle where the women were sitting on the floor. She flopped down next to Myra. "Lizzie's in love, and she doesn't know what to do about it," she said softly.

  Myra nodded. The others looked at each other in stupefied amazement.

  "I probably shouldn't tell you this because Jack told me in confidence, but I don't think he'll mind if I tell you what happened last Christmas with Lizzie." Nikki talked softly, recounting Jack's experience at the cemetery. "And there you have it! There's nothing any of us can do. This is something Lizzie will have to work through."

  The silence following Nikki's words was stunning.

  "I think we need to finalize our plans, girls," Myra said as she struggled to her feet. "Charles has assured me that while our requests were a bit out of the ordinary, he can and will comply. Actually, he was choking on his own laughter when we hung up. One of the things Lizzie still has to do is get in touch with Homer Winters. He will make his call promptly at seven o'clock. That means we all have to be in position at that time. Now, let's do one more run-through to make sure we don't hit any snags along the way. Positions, girls!"

  Lizzie hit every shoe boutique in just about every hotel on the Strip and was told the same thing, there had been a run on white rhinestone cowgirl boots, and they had none in stock in a size 8. Her shoulders sagging, Lizzie climbed back into Homer Winters's limo. "I cannot believe in this whole damn town no one has one pair of those stupid boots. I guess you didn't have any luck, either," she snarled at Ted.

  Ted shook his head. Not for all the chips in Vegas would he tell Lizzie he found a pair in a size 7 that he had the store send to Maggie by overnight mail. "We're running late, Lizzie."

  "Ask me if I care? The plane isn't going to leave without us since we're the only two passengers. God, I hope there's some food on board."

  It was five o'clock, thirty minutes past scheduled takeoff time, and the Gulfstream was burning jet fuel when Lizzie ran up the steps, Ted behind her. The minute they reached the top, the portable stairway was being pushed away.

  Ted didn't know why he turned because he couldn't hear anything over the sound of the jet's engines. Lumbering across the tarmac with a horde of airline employees was Cosmo Cricket, who looked like he was shouting at the top of his lungs. As Ted marveled at the speed of the big man he reached for Lizzie's arm and spun her around. "Lizzie, this is where the rubber meets the road. It's your show now."

  And then a huge box sailed upward, and Ted caught it. Cricket cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, "Boots!"

  Lizzie leaned so far out the door, Ted had to hold on to her arm. He knew everyone in Vegas could hear her when she shouted, "I want a plain gold wedding band!"

  Cosmo Cricket's fist shot in the air as he was led away by airport security.

  The pilot, the copilot, and the steward clapped their hands and whistled.

  "Attagirl, Lizzie."

  Lizzie looked like she was in a daze as she buckled up. "I did do that, didn't I?"

  "Oh, yeah," Ted drawled.

  Lizzie closed her eyes, and said, "I've never been married. I wonder what it's like to wake up every morning and have that special person lying next to you. I can't believe I. . .I'm not dreaming, am I, Ted?"

  "No, Lizzie, you're not dreaming. I think you committed big-time, and I think it will be everything you want it to be. You guys going to practice law together? I can see it now, Cricket and Fox. Or, Fox and Cricket. Who the hell is going to hire you with a firm named Cricket and Fox?"

  Lizzie started to laugh and couldn't stop.

  Ted opened the box he was holding on his lap and held up a pair of white leather boots studded with colored rhinestones. Size 8.

  Annie de Silva was going to go over the moon. His fingers, whose blisters had blisters, tapped the words Happy ending on his BlackBerry.

  At six o'clock the vigilantes closed up the condo and made their way down the eighteen flights of steps to the back of the building, which had no windows. There were three gigantic Dumpsters blocking the entrance, allowing room for only a single car to pass through. Huge signs in bright red letters said the Dumpsters were full and to use the ones on the south side of the building.

  Their vehicle stood, black, shiny, and ominous, just outside the exit door. Kathryn shivered and observed, "I do believe our ride is here."

  The women took a moment to stare at their transportation: a long black hearse driven by Jack Emery, with Harry Wong, his assistant, sitting on the passenger side. Both men wore somber black suits.

  No one was in a hurry to climb into the back of the hearse. Jack and Harry had to prod them.

  "It creeps me out," Kathryn grumbled.

 
"What's that smell?" Annie asked.

  "Beats me," Jack said cheerfully.

  Harry slammed the door shut with such violence that the curtains on the side of the hearse fell to the floor. As one, the women screamed. Harry and Jack laughed.

  "How long before we get there?" Isabelle asked in a quaking voice.

  "As long as it takes," Harry said. "Lots of traffic today."

  The women sat on the floor in the back of the vehicle as they hissed and snarled at one another and blamed Charles for this affront to their dignity.

  Annie looked around at their surroundings. "So this is what it's like. Well, when we finally have to take our last ride, we'll know. And I didn't get my boots either. Oh, I just hate this."

  Myra reached up and pinched her nose to make her stop talking.

  "Just breathe through your mouth," Nikki said, as Annie made gagging sounds.

  "You guys better not get sick back there," Jack hooted. "Want some music? There's a DVD player up here." When there were no takers, he observed, "This is really a smooth ride, isn't it, Harry? These babies must have some superb shocks in them."

  "SHUT UP, JACK!" Nikki screamed. "Can't you go any faster?"

  "Hearses only go twenty miles an hour. That's in the handbook. Harry read it. Fifteen is the recommended speed, so we're five miles over the limit. Just sit back and enjoy the ride, knowing you're going to get out when I bring this goddamn fucking vehicle to a complete stop at the mortuary."

  The women clamped their lips shut, until Yoko said, "I feel like something is crawling all over me."

  "Me, too," Isabelle said.

  Twenty minutes later, Jack said, "Okay, ladies, look alive here, no pun intended. We have arrived! You have to wait while we get out to open the door. That was in the handbook, too. One time, some mortician forgot to lock it, and the casket slid out and landed in the middle of I-95 in Florida. Stopped traffic for days until they could figure whose jurisdiction it was in. That was in the handbook, too. You know, case histories or Mortuary 101, something like that. It never happened again. Families get irate when things like that happen, so morticians have to really be on top of shit like that."

  "Kill him right now!" Annie said, landing on the asphalt driveway.

  "I would if I had a gun," Myra replied. "Enough already, we don't have much time. We need to get in place."

  "What time is it?" Yoko asked.

  "Twenty minutes of seven," Kathryn said. "Alexis, where's your Red Bag?"

  "Harry took it in."

  Jack took a moment to look around at the line of shiny black hearses under the portico. Six in all. He wondered how much it had cost Charles to rent the place for the evening. Probably a bundle. Like Yoko, he was starting to itch. He took one last look around and entered the building. He hated the sound the door made when it locked behind him.

  The scent of cloying flowers was so intense, Jack found himself gagging as he followed the women to the front of the building, where somber music was playing in the background. He thought he smelled incense. He passed a chapel loaded with fresh bouquets. He decided right then that he never wanted to live in a place that had such a robust dying business. Twelve layout rooms. Translation, according to the handbook, twelve bodies for viewing at any given time. Only six hearses. He shrugged. Two a day would work.

  Suddenly, he found himself in a short hallway facing a door that said, in stark black letters, EMPLOYEES ONLY. He opened it and looked inside. Rows and rows of caskets lined the room. Bronze, silver, wood, aluminum, white, big, small. All were on wheels. He turned to run and bumped into Harry, who was bug-eyed. "Chop-chop, Harry, we have to get these back to the. . .what the hell did the handbook call it?"

  "THE WORKROOM."

  "Yeah, yeah, the workroom. C'mon pedal to the metal, we need to get four of these babies into that workroom."

  Harry protested his outrage. "What? You're leaving the decision up to me? No, no! That damn book said the lining had to go with the. . .that thing. You want lavender, you want tufted, you want silk or satin. You want pillows in a different color. Jesus Christ, Jack, it's all I can do to look at these things, much less pick one."

  "Okay, okay, let's forget the mix and match and just take the four closest to the door."

  "They have price tags on them," Harry said in awe.

  "The mortician's handy-dandy handbook did say on page ninety-three that it was expensive to die and to be gentle when mentioning the top-of-the-line prices. Mahogany, as I recall, is the best seller."

  "Eat shit, Jack," Harry said as he started pushing one of the caskets out the oversize door. "Oh, damn, they don't turn corners. We're going to need some help here."

  Jack froze. "Are you saying you want me to go back to that. . .that workroom and tell the women we need help?"

  "All right, you're right. I lost my head there for a minute. You help me, then I'll scoot back here and help you. Whee!" he shouted as he took a running leap and pushed a polished-bronze coffin down the hall with so much force it hit the swinging doors and came to a dead stop in the workroom. As one, the women screamed. "One down and three to go!" Harry shouted.

  "This is lovely," Annie said as she fingered the shirring on the satin coverlet. "I never really liked lavender. Peach is more subtle."

  A glorious, oversize silver coffin appeared. "Two down and two to go," Jack said breathlessly. "What time is it?"

  "There's your peach," Myra sniffed. "It's seven ten. Did the actor who is supposed to be impersonating the owner get here yet?"

  "I have no clue. As you can see, I've been rather busy."

  "We ordered pizza. If you see the deliveryman, tell him to come around back," Kathryn said.

  Jack raced back to the workroom, where Harry was waiting for him. "They ordered pizza. Don't say it, Harry. C'mon, c'mon, this sucker is really heavy. How come the lid is closed?"

  "Oh, shit! You don't suppose. . ."

  "Nah!"

  "Check, Jack."

  "You check, Harry."

  Together they inched up the lid, then slammed it shut. "I guess the owner didn't know what to do with his. . .that person, so he shoved him in here, not knowing our plans. Okay, back him up and take another one. While you're doing that, I have to check to see if our actor arrived and to make arrangements for the pizza."

  Harry broke a sweat as he pushed, shoved, angled, and finally parked the spiffy aluminum casket off to the side. He yanked, shoved, and kicked at the wheels of what looked like a solid-oak casket and felt like it. He was waiting at the corner for Jack, who came on the run, then ran back for the last one. Jack was huffing and puffing and looking forward to the pizza when Harry returned to help him maneuver around the corner.

  "Done!" both men shouted as they lined up number four next to number three.

  "What time is it?" someone asked.

  "Seven twenty," Myra said, just as a knock sounded on the workroom door. "I do believe that's our pizza."

  Jack opened the door, paid the driver, and accepted four pizzas, while Harry reached for a cardboard tray of soft drinks.

  "I think I hear a car. Hurry, Jack, get outside. The minute those guys are in here, lock the door from the outside. Be sure to lock the front door after the actor leaves," Harry said.

  Jack was gone a minute later, taking up his position outside the showroom, all but invisible to the naked eye. He listened to four sets of footsteps as they marched down the tile floor to the workroom. When he heard the door clang shut behind the men, he sprinted forward, slid the bar across the door, then ran back to the welcoming foyer, where the somber music was still playing. He paid the actor three hundred dollars and locked the door behind him. He waited behind the frosted glass till he saw the man drive out of the parking lot before he sprinted back down the hall. He was breathing like a racehorse, so he leaned against the wall until his respiration returned to normal. He looked down at his watch. Right on schedule. He slid the bar and opened the door.

  A standoff, guns drawn, just like in an old, silly
Western movie. Owens whirled, as did the remaining members of the inner ring, at the sound of the door opening. Harry and the vigilantes moved in sync, and before Jack could blink twice, all four men were on the floor. He gathered up the deadly looking weapons and tossed them into one of the sinks.

  The women looked at one another and shrugged.

  "Let's put Owens on the table, strap him down, and hook up the other three to those contraptions under the caskets. For sure they won't be going anywhere," Nikki said as she whipped out a package of flexicuffs.

  The others dragged the members of the inner ring over to the caskets, while Jack and Harry hoisted Hank Owens onto the embalming table. They strapped him down, then everyone washed their hands.

  With no seats available, the women slouched against the wall as they ate their pizza and gulped at their drinks. The conversation ranged from Annie's inability to get her white boots with the rhinestones to Harry's certainty that Ling Jun was going to win the competition to Jack saying Vegas sure knew how to make a good pizza.

  All four men came around at the same time as they tried to figure out what had happened. Owens roared with rage, while the other three took in their surroundings with fear radiating from their pores.

  Kathryn stirred from her spot against the wall and walked over to the embalming table. "Kathryn Lucas," she said by way of introduction. "I'm one of the vigilantes. We brought you here because we want something from you. If you don't give us what we want, we're going to embalm you right here on this table. You will, of course, have to tell us where to send the bodies when we're finished."

  Words, some of which the women had never heard before, all of them curses, flew about the room.

  "I'm not telling you anything, you'll go to jail for this. Do you hear me? Don't tell these bitches anything," Owens ordered.

  "What do you want to know?" the three tied to the caskets asked.