Chapter 17
M
aggie Spritzer was madder than a wet hen. Her fingers drummed on her desk as she waited for Ted Robinson to answer her call. She blasted him the moment she heard his voice. “Where are you? Your phone has been off. I gave you that assignment and told you it was ASAP five days ago.” Had it really been five days? How had the time gotten away from her like this?
“My phone wasn't off. I ran out of juice and had to recharge. You need to have a little more patience, Maggie. Checking out four politicians from the moment of birth was not and is not an easy task. I'm doing the best I can, but from what I've gathered so far, there are no smoking guns, no proverbial rabbits in the magician's hat, no scandals that I can find. Those guys are just like every other politician in this town. Their wives are social climbers, mean and catty, but other than that, I'm coming up with zip.”
“Then dig deeper, harder. There has to be a connection.”
“Says who?” Ted asked, belligerence ringing in his tone.
“My gut, that's who. There's something there. I can feel it, smell it, taste it. Get it for me so I can own it.”
Never one to argue with Maggie's gut, Ted said, “Okay, I'll do my utmost best.”
Maggie broke the connection. It was four thirty, time for her to head over to Walter Reed to see Gus Sullivan. She could hardly wait, even though she would spend only an hour at the most with him. Then she would come back to the paper, finish up, and head home. She made a mental note to find someone to set up her Christmas tree.
A last thorough check of her office and the kitchen area took ten minutes. Five minutes later, she was in a cab headed to Walter Reed and the hour she would spend with Gus. She felt giddy. Today, though, it wasn't just personal. Today was business. Of a sort.
Maggie hated that it got dark so early these days, but once she was inside the massive hospital, the light was blinding. She found her way to Gus's floor and down to the common room, where he waited for her. She wished, and not for the first time, that she could visit earlier in the day, but visitation then would interfere with his therapy. He was always tired at this hour of the day, but he made a valiant effort to be as cheerful as he could under the circumstances. Just yesterday he had nodded off, so she'd left. He called an hour later to apologize.
The moment she spotted him at the far end of the room, Maggie knew he'd had a good day: he was grinning like a Cheshire cat. She wanted to kiss him till his teeth rattled, but she held herself in check. Instead, she reached for his hand, squeezed it, then pecked him on the cheek. “Listen, Gus, I need your help on something. You said you read every newspaper in the District, not to mention all the political newsletters that come off the Hill. Tell me what, if anything, you know about these four guys. Adam Daniels, Barney Gray, Henry Maris, and Matthew Logan. I need to record your responses. I hope you don't mind,” she said, putting her minirecorder in the middle of the table.
Gus's brow furrowed. He closed his eyes for a minute. “Daniels is with the CIA, Gray is in the FBI, Maris is something or other in Homeland Security, and Logan is at the Department of Justice. Money guys. Daniels and Maris are the two guys who can freeze money, freeze assets. Gray and Logan, I think, are actuaries. Of a sort.”
“Do you think or know if those four guys interact either personally or through their different agencies? Aside from various interagency meetings. Did you see anything in the Hill publications? You know, stuff the public doesn't know or care about.”
Gus thought about the question. “I didn't get back here until June. I wasn't in shape for six weeks or so to do much reading or anything else. By August I was reading nonstop. I don't recall seeing anything that made me think about it or go back and reread the article.” He quirked an eyebrow in Maggie's direction. “Maybe if you told me specifically what you're looking for, it might trigger something in my mind.”
Maggie thought about it. Did she really want to involve Gus Sullivan in her work life? If she did, she knew in her gut she would be opening up a whole big can of worms. She waited so long before responding, Gus nudged her.
What the heck.
“I am trying to figure out why those guys were at Camp David over Thanksgiving. They have families. Not to mention the Europeans. I spent a few days researching past guests at Camp David over the holidays. There hasn't been a guest list like the one you and I were on in the last twenty-five years. Does that answer your question?”
“Well now, that's a rib tickler if I ever heard one. What are you thinking? You said earlier that you talked to the media guys while you were there. What did they think or share with you?”
“The same thing I shared with themânothing, nada, bupkes. They were as much in the dark as I was. We kicked it around for a while, each of us trying to pick the other's brains, but it was like picking strawberries in the middle of winter. Our yield was zip. The only thing we could agree on was that, as guest lists go, it was exceedingly strange. None of the media could figure out
my
last-minute invitation. Hell, I still haven't figured it out.”
“Do you think, and this is just a wild guess on my part, but could it have something to do with your
friends
?”
Maggie felt a sudden chill on her neck. “What
friends
would those be,
Gus
?”
Seeing Maggie's attitude change in a nanosecond, Gus retreated. “I think I should quit while I'm ahead. What I was referring to was your colleagues, your reporters who normally cover the White House beat. Since you are the editor in chief, you aren't reporting anymore, right?” Even Gus knew his explanation sounded lame; she could read it in his expression.
That wasn't what he'd meant at all, and Maggie knew it. She looked down at the oversize watch on her wrist. She still had plenty of time before her hour visit was up. “Would you look at the time! I have to go.” She shut off the minirecorder, jammed it into her pocket. A second later she was literally running from the common room and down the hall to the entrance. She didn't even say good-bye or wave.
Well, Maggie, if you stick your foot in someone's mouth, be prepared to get bitten.
Maggie lucked out. Just as she reached the main door, a cab pulled up. Two men got out, and Maggie hopped in. She rattled off her home address and said, “Go!
”
just as Gus's electric wheelchair collided with the two men entering the hospital. She didn't look back. So much for going back to the
Post.
She'd never felt so alone. She realized she didn't want to go home to an empty house. But where could she go on a Friday night? Everyone was a couple these days. Well, there was alone and then there was
alone.
Maybe she could take a stab at putting up her Christmas tree. How hard could it be to put a tree in a stand, turn the screws, and stand it upright?
When she stepped out of the cab in front of her house, Maggie saw her next door neighbor's high-school-age son walking a gorgeous German shepherd named Pretty Girl. “Drew, hold on a minute,” she said as she paid the driver. “If you aren't doing anything, I'll give you fifty bucks to put up my Christmas tree.”
“Sure, Miss Spritzer, but you don't have to pay me. Just let me take Pretty Girl in and tell my mom where I am. Where's the tree?”
“In a bucket of water on the little porch. I'll get the stand out. If you have a saw, you better bring it with you, or we'll have to use a butcher knife to trim off the lower branches.”
“I'll do that. Be over in a few minutes.”
“At least I won't be alone for a little while,” Maggie muttered as she entered the house, turned off the alarm, and turned up the heat. She ran upstairs and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. With nothing else to do, she went back downstairs to wait for her neighbor. To while away the time, she opened the storage closet under the stairs and rummaged till she found the Christmas ornaments and the neatly coiled lights that she had wrapped around a cardboard paper towel cylinder last year. It was a household hint she'd seen on Martha Stewart's morning show one year. And it worked. Good old Martha.
Maggie's cell phone took that moment to ring. A second later her doorbell chimed. She looked down at the number on the phone: Gus. She turned the phone to vibrate and shoved it in the bread box sitting on the kitchen counter. She ran back to the front door, where her neighbor was standing, holding a tray of food.
“Meat loaf and roasted potatoes and some carrots. Mom makes great meat loaf. Eat it now, while it's warm, she said. I can get the tree in the stand, if you tell me where it is.” He handed over the tray of food, then picked up the tree like it was a toy, shook off the water, and carried it into the house.
Maggie pointed to the corner by the fireplace.
“Good choice. Go ahead and eat. I really can do this. I put our tree up over the weekend.”
Sometimes, Maggie liked taking orders, like now, especially when food was involved. She kept her eyes on the bread box as she ate. She could tell the phone was vibrating by the way the bread box moved against the ceramic canisters.
Two hours later, Maggie was sitting alone in her family room, the only light coming from the TV, which was on mute, and the colored Christmas lights twinkling on the tree. It was beautiful, even though the ornaments weren't heirloom quality. She stared at it and felt sad. So sad she wanted to cry.
Big girls don't cry,
she told herself. And then she cried. When she was done sniffling and chastising herself for the tears, she hauled out her laptop, which she'd wedged between the sofa cushions, and powered up.
Drown yourself in work,
she told herself.
That way you don't have to think.
Maggie Spritzer, you are so stupid. Just because Gus Sullivan mentioned your friends doesn't mean he was referring to your relationship with the vigilantes. Yes, it does,
she argued with herself.
He was making a point. You got too close, too quick. You acted like a ninny when you ran out of there. Now what are you going to do?
Maggie craned her neck to look into her kitchen. She could see the bright red bread box. All she had to do was get up and go into the kitchen, take her cell phone out of the bread box, and listen to Gus's messages or read his texts. That was all she had to do. It seemed like a monumental task. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
Gus Sullivan was not Ted Robinson. She could not treat Gus the way she treated Ted and Abner. Not that she mistreated Ted and Abner, she sniffed. No, she just took advantage of them. She told herself it was apples and oranges, but she knew it wasn't true.
As much as she hated to admit it, she knew she had to work on her emotions and her attitude. Maybe if she slept on what she considered her situation, she'd have a plan in the morning. Then again, maybe she wouldn't. Tears in her eyes, she stared at the beautiful Christmas tree. Sometimes, life was such a bitch. She needed a hug. She leaned back into the softness of the sofa she was sitting on and closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly. The dream came just as quickly.
“Why are we standing in a straight line, and why are we sporting these gold shields?” Nikki Quinn asked. “No one is supposed to know we have them.”
“The president gave them to us for a reason. She didn't tell us what the reason is or was. So, I suggest that we make them work for us,” Annie said.
“How?” the ever-combative and verbal Kathryn barked.
Charles Martin stepped out of the straight line and turned to face the group like a bandleader. In his hand, instead of a baton, he held his gold shield. “The names on Maggie's list, that's how. Pay the men a visit, flash your shields, and then do what you all do best.”
“That's brilliant, Charles,” Myra said happily as she blew him an air kiss.
Charles beamed as he stepped back into line.
“But they'll know who we are,” Alexis said fretfully.
“And who are we, dear? Today we are ordinary citizens who have been entrusted with these exquisite shields by the president of the United States. I see absolutely no reason why we can't use an assumed identity or go with our own identities,” Myra said. “But first and foremost, we need a plan.”
“What's wrong with making an appointment with these people and keeping the appointment? And then, when we gain entry to their offices, we flash the shields and get them to talk. We should have the reports on what Ted and Abner have been able to dig up for us. There's bound to be information that will point us in the right direction and tell us who we should lean on. The only problem that I see is, do we go as a group or do we split up, and do each of us take one of those politicians?” Isabelle said.
The straight line scattered as the group milled about.
“What are you writing, Maggie?” Annie asked.
“Just that the CIA is the one who controls all that money no one is supposed to know about. It isn't Adam Daniels who controls it, either. It's someone with the initials JJ.”