12. Final Justice

by Fern Michaels

  He looked down at the picture of himself with Bert Navarro covering his body, a black-clad ninja hovering overhead. Thank God the new EIC hadn't enlarged the picture. He shrugged. No matter, it showed Navarro in a good light, protecting his boss at great harm to himself. That should make the Senate sit up and take notice and vote favorably. The deliberately muttered comment by Bert that the press was supposed to hear worked well. Blaming Jack Emery and Harry Wong for the attack played out especially well.

  Cummings looked to the left of the paper for Emery's short interview. It was cold and brittle and to the point. "Bert Navarro is no friend of mine. You know what you can do with your insinuations, don't you, Mr. Espinosa? You really don't want to know what I think about his proposed appointment as director of the FBI. Your paper is a family paper, isn't it?" The short interview went on to list numerous cases he'd won in court and also his prior engagement to Nikki Quinn, one of the vigilantes.

  Cummings let his gaze go to the enlarged picture of the pile of ashes that had settled on the ground after the ninjas disappeared into thin air. He smiled, knowing full well that when analyzed, the ashes would prove to be human. He almost laughed out loud when he recalled the early morning news report of the break-in at the FBI lab during the night, where the only thing taken was the beaker of ashes that were being tested. The ninjas returning for their own so they could rise again. This time he did laugh aloud but sobered immediately when he saw Bert Navarro standing in the doorway.

  "You okay?"

  The tall, dark-haired assistant director just stood there, slouching. He had a scrape down one side of his face and two shiners. Navarro winced slightly as he straightened up and entered the room. "I'll live. I see you have the paper. The whole damn thing gave me a kingsize adrenaline rush. And then the news this morning. Will you please tell me how someone broke into our lab? Goddammit, this is the FBI, and they infiltrated us. How the hell did that happen? Whose ass are we going to put in a sling over this?" Bert bellowed.

  Cummings leaned back in his chair. "No one's. I thought you knew ninjas were invisible. What I mean is the myth is they can disappear, dissolve, whatever the hell it is they do. We have to ignore it because if we give any kind of credence to the news, it just makes us look worse. Thanks again, Bert, for saving my life. You know what I want to know is, where in the damn hell those Secret Service guys were while all this was going down?"

  "They were there. Well, after the fact they were there. I remember lying on the ground and looking up at all those Brooks Brothers suits." Bert turned around and closed the door. On his way to Cummings's desk, he flinched a few times from the pain in his legs. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it on the desk. The words were simple and concise. "A setup, right?"

  Cummings nodded, then slid the slip of paper into the shredder.

  "I'm on my way to the White House. No, Bert, you weren't invited. It's been a hell of a busy morning, I can tell you that. By the way, Martine Connor, our next president, if the polls are right, sent me a box, all tied up with a red ribbon, with seventy-two jelly donuts inside. I think that was her way of letting me know you're going to be confirmed tomorrow. You know how sneaky you have to be in this town, and if a box of seventy-two jelly donuts is what it takes, then so be it. I also think that's why I'm being called to the White House. Regardless, I'm outta here come morning. I'm going to Vegas."

  "Seems like a lot of people are going to Vegas lately." Bert snickered. "Is there any truth to the rumor that you're traveling with Judge Easter and that you're getting married? Not just tying the knot but doing it in one of those Elvis chapels with the King singing at the nuptials?"

  Cummings pretended horror, but it didn't quite come off, since he himself, on orders from Nellie, had started the rumor. "Who told you that?" he blustered.

  "Aside from the fact that I almost got stomped to death by some fucking ninjas, then saved your life and still managed to come to work, I'd say it's because we at the Federal Bureau of Investigation are agents who are known to always get our man after we track down all the. . ."

  "Enough!" Cummings growled. "Now will you get someone to carry these boxes down to my car?" The boxes contained the junk he'd accumulated during his tenure as director of the FBI. Junk, but still he couldn't leave it behind because one was supposed to exit with boxes of junk. As far as he knew, it was some kind of unwritten rule.

  "What? You mean you aren't coming back here? No, no, you can't do that, Elias," Bert said. "The guys. . ."

  "Screw the guys and the party they planned. Look, son, I'm no hypocrite. I know they can't wait to see me go. I remember the mutiny that almost happened when I replaced Mitch Riley. And, I don't need another gold watch. I'm walking out of here just the way I walked in, with half my dignity intact. Goddamn ninjas! You guys are never going to be able to live that down. Well, maybe you will." He grinned.

  Bert's eyes burned. "Okay, okay, I can live with all that, but what I can't live with is you not wanting me to be your best man. How's that going to look when it hits the papers, you and Judge Easter being married in an Elvis chapel with Elvis look-alikes standing up for you?"

  "Like we're two old fools having a hell of a good time. Give me twenty bucks, and I'll play one of those progressive slots for you."

  Bert dug a twenty out of his wallet and handed it over. His eyes continued to burn as the director smothered him in a bear hug. He could feel the big man trembling.

  Cummings was almost to the door, when Bert said, "What should I do about the ninja crap?"

  Cummings turned around. "See that box of donuts the next president of the United States sent me this morning? Pick some guy you really hate and have him hand-deliver it to Harry Wong and make sure you put Jack Emery's name on the box, too."

  It was the perfect exit line, and Bert burst out laughing as the director waved nonchalantly and walked through the door like he was going to lunch.

  When Bert finally calmed down enough to speak coherently, he walked out to the corridor and bellowed at the top of his lungs the way Cummings did when he was pissed to the teeth. "Listen up! The party has been canceled, and Elvis has left the building. Jackson! Front and center."

  A tall, handsome agent who believed he was the Second Coming of George Clooney, a belief no one else shared, literally saluted, then waited. Bert hated his guts because he was a glory hound.

  "The director's last order was for you, Jackson. He said you were personally to hand-deliver this box," he said, holding out the beribboned jelly donut box, "to Harry Wong's dojo and you are to get a receipt. He also said if Wong wants you to kiss his ass, you are to do it, and, know this, Jackson, the eyes and ears of the FBI are upon you, so don't screw this up."

  John Jackson didn't look like George Clooney at that moment, he looked like a wet cat that had gotten tangled up in an electrical wire.

  "Okay, back to work, everyone," Bert ordered, a smirk on his face. There was no way in hell he could have disobeyed Cummings's last official order.

  Bert limped his way to his office and slammed the door shut. He wanted to cry so damn bad he didn't know what to do. He sat down and dropped his head into his hands. If he was smart, he would gather up his belongings and run after Elias Cummings. He thought about life in a federal penitentiary for what he'd been doing, which was aiding and abetting the vigilantes. He knew that, in his own way, Elias Cummings had been doing the same thing. But Elias was out now, and Bert had been passed the torch. Cummings had just walked out of the Hoover Building to start his new life, his tenure here at the FBI just a memory. Bert wondered if the memory would be a good or bad one.

  Then his thoughts took him to Jack Emery and Harry Wong, his two best friends in the whole world, and what they'd just done for him so he could be appointed director of the FBI. He'd known in his gut the ninja event at the White House was a setup, but he was FBI through and through and needed Elias Cummings's confirmation to make him accept it 100 percent, which he now did. Jack and Harry would never giv
e him up, just the way he hadn't given them up by refusing to sever his friendship with both men, even though the prize was taking over the FBI directorship.

  Bert's thoughts switched over to the vigilantes, Kathryn Lucas in particular. He wondered if he was a fool. He believed he could separate his position at the FBI and still be a supporter and ally of the vigilantes. He bit down on his lower lip. Better men than he had probably thought they could play both ends against the middle. He'd made his decision the minute he'd allowed Elias Cummings to speak with the president about nominating him as director. Now he had to live with it. If he ended up in the federal pen, he'd have no one to blame but himself. He shivered inside his jacket.

  Bert sat upright, his eyes clear and bright. It was time to think about a few things. Something was going to go down in Las Vegas. Why else would Elias and Judge Easter be going there? Duncan Wright, one of his best agents, had called him at home last night to check on how he was doing. After the amenities, Duncan had shared some information and asked what he should do with it. Bert remembered how he'd broken out into a sweat when Dunk, as the other agents called him, told him a source at the Post told him that Lizzie Fox and Ted Robinson had flown to Las Vegas in the Post's private jet. Somehow or other, Bert had managed to mutter something—and he still couldn't remember exactly what he'd said—about filing a report and putting it on his desk in the morning.

  He now shuffled through the stacks of papers on his desk until he found it. Dunk was concise and to the point. It was just the way he'd said it last night and not one word extra. That's when he noticed the sticky note on the back of the report that said Fox and Robinson had checked into the Babylon. And then they'd checked out. They had been met in the casino by a woman.

  Bert tugged at his earlobe, something he always did when he tried to figure something out. Maybe this was some kind of cockamamie test. He reached for his phone to call the agent. "Get your gear together, Dunk. You're going to Vegas. Report in to me twice a day, every twelve hours. Pick up three agents, more if you need them, at the local field office in Vegas, and put a tail on Fox and Robinson. By the way, Dunk, in case you haven't heard the scuttlebutt, Director Cummings and Judge Easter are traveling to Vegas to get married. Don't say anything, Dunk, check it out and let me know what you find out."

  No matter which way the wind was blowing, it always came down to CYA. And that's exactly what he was doing, covering his ass. He reached for a blank yellow pad and started to scribble—time, date, and the orders he'd just issued. Later, he'd transfer the notes to himself to a formal report on his computer.

  Bert inched open the top drawer of his desk and propped his feet on it. In just a few days, if his confirmation came through, he'd be moving two doors down the hall to Cummings's old office. Maybe he'd assign Jackson the task of moving his things into the new space.

  Bert closed his eyes and let his mind have free rein. He'd traveled a long, hard road. Being a minority had not been easy, but he'd hunkered down and played the game to win. If the announcement tomorrow was positive, as Cummings thought it was going to be, Bert had not only persevered, but he had prevailed as well.

  But he had to revise his game plan.

  An hour later, Bert was still working on his new strategy when John Jackson banged on his office door. Bert bellowed, "Come in."

  The door opened and Jackson poked his head in. "I'm gonna get you for this, Navarro. I don't care if you're going to be the new director or not."

  Bert might have been discussing the weather when he swung his feet down on the floor with a loud, smacking sound. "You like working for the FBI, right, Jackson?"

  "Just love it. Why?"

  "'Cause I'm going to find a way to fire your sorry ass out of here. Where do you get off threatening me?"

  The George Clooney look-alike blanched, knowing he'd stepped over the line. "Jeez, Navarro, can't you take a joke?"

  "Not that kind. Get the hell out of here before I fire you now. I hate agents who whine. Reminds me of my niece, and she's only six years old."

  The door to Bert's office closed quietly.

  Bert settled back into his chair. Now, where was I in my planning?

  Chapter 9

  The dining hall, where Charles whipped up gourmet delights and where the Sisters took all their meals, was fragrant with the scent of cinnamon and freshly baked apple dumplings. The sideboard held other delectable delights: crisp bacon, plump sausages, fluffy golden scrambled eggs, and freshly squeezed orange juice.

  The women all eyed the scrumptious array of food, trying to decide what to eat and what not to eat if they were going to focus on the apple dumplings that were taking center stage.

  "Oh, who cares. I say we go for the whole thing," Annie said happily as she waved her arm over the covered dishes. "In the next few days we'll be burning calories right and left." To prove her point, she loaded her plate with a little of everything.

  Isabelle giggled. "Annie has a point. When we're on a mission, all we ever seem to eat is crackers and cheese except when Paula Woodley made us all those apple pies on our last mission. If I close my eyes, I can still taste them."

  From the window in the kitchen that overlooked the dining room Charles watched his chicks—that's how he thought of the Sisters—fill their plates and take their seats at the table.

  He'd spent the past ninety minutes cooking and baking, his second passion in life. His first had been serving as a covert agent in Her Majesty's Secret Service. Retired now, he relished his role as chief advisor to the vigilantes. He was still in the game and loving every minute of the time he spent with his chicks as they worked to help men and women whom the judicial system had failed, victims who had fallen through the cracks.

  Piled on the kitchen counter and out of the Sisters' view, was a neat stack of unbound printouts. He scanned the papers as he tidied up the kitchen. He pretty much had everything he was looking at committed to memory, but still, he wasn't sure. He had spent the night in what the Sisters called his lair—otherwise known as the war room. He'd dispatched a small army of former agents to Las Vegas—most, like him, retired and only too happy to get back in action.

  Las Vegas, the small corner of the world that never slept. He'd been amazed to find out that there were no clocks in any of the casinos. Sin City. "Land of lost dreams" was how one report had read. He'd scanned so many articles on gambling addiction, he got dizzy as he tried to fathom how people could gamble their homes away, just one step from gambling away their families.

  Charles looked around the kitchen to make sure he was leaving it the way he wanted to return to it to prepare lunch—sparkling clean. The girls themselves would clear the sideboard and load the dishwasher.

  He quickly shuffled his papers into a neat pile and slipped them into an accordion-pleated envelope. He walked into the dining room to pour himself a last cup of coffee, coffee he didn't need. His nerves were already twanging all over the place, and it was only eight in the morning. He knew he would consume another gallon of coffee before what promised to be a long day finally came to a close.

  Following Charles's rule that no business was to be discussed until meals were over, they all made small talk when he took his seat at the table.

  "The acorns are starting to fall," Nikki said. "I saw a dozen squirrels scurrying about hiding nuts. I think that means it's going to be a bad winter."

  "The pinecones are falling, too," Alexis said. "I gathered two bushel baskets yesterday." The Sisters loved to add the pinecones to a blazing fire in the winter. "Remember how we all gathered the acorns last year and put them in baskets to make it easy for the squirrels? We worked for hours and hours, and those darn squirrels didn't want them. My back ached for days after all that bending."

  "That's because we touched them," Yoko said. "If we had worn gloves, our scent wouldn't have been on them. I gathered two buckets yesterday and I saw this morning that they're all gone. Did you know that in the winter squirrels only find about ten percent of the nuts they have st
ashed during the autumn?"

  Annie slid her chair back from the table. "Enough with the squirrels and pinecones. We have a mission to plan, and I'm in a hurry to get to Las Vegas. Look," she said, holding out her hands, "my palms are itching. That means I'm going to win some money."

  The others laughed, but they, too, were just as anxious as Annie was to get down to business.

  Within minutes the sideboard was cleared, the table was wiped clean, and the dishwasher was humming in the kitchen.

  All eyes turned to Charles. He smiled. There were times when the Sisters allowed him to tease them, but their expressions told him this wasn't one of those times. "This is what I know at the moment. As usual, everything is ongoing and subject to change.

  "As we speak, Elias Cummings and Nellie are winging their way to Las Vegas.

  "Lizzie and Ted Robinson checked into the Babylon hotel and casino, then they checked out. Rena Gold has relocated them. Robinson has made contact with two of the local newspapers and struck up an alliance with a couple of very seasoned reporters.

  "I received a call at four thirty this morning while you were all still sleeping. The call was to tell me that Bert Navarro's nomination will definitely be confirmed. The president will make the announcement at ten o'clock this morning." Charles fixed his gaze on Kathryn, and said, "Bert will be sitting this mission out. For his own welfare. Having said that, he can still work behind the scenes, and that's exactly what he's doing. Communication with Bert for the moment is iffy at best and will also have to be circuitous in nature.