Authors: Fern Michaels
B
ert Navarro climbed out of his car and headed toward the building housing the field office. He chewed on his lower lip, knowing he was walking into a hornets’ nest. Not that he was worried, but he hated confrontations with his men.
Special Agent in Charge Duncan Wright and Special Agent John Clawson were busy on their respective computers. A newbie named Chuck Symon was sticking colored pins on a wall map. All three Special Agents snapped to attention when Bert walked into the office.
“Let’s hear it,” Bert said, not bothering with amenities. “It’s been over twenty-four hours since you sent out the artist’s sketch. What’s the feedback?”
“Sorry, sir, nothing worth a hill of beans. Every loony tune within a fifty-mile radius has called in. Nothing,” he said again succinctly.
Bert was tempted to say something cutting, but Wright looked too miserable. “Don’t beat yourself up, Agent Wright. You gave it a shot.”
Agent Wright nodded. “A fax came in for you early this morning, Director.” He plucked it off his desk and handed it to Bert. “Begging your pardon, Director, but since when, and I know I asked this before but I’m asking again, since when does the White House interfere with FBI business?”
Bert scanned the White House communiqué and shrugged. It didn’t get any better than the White House telling one to cease and desist—even though the message was a fake.
“Elias Cummings, my predecessor, developed a good rapport with the past administration, and it’s carried over to this presidency. It’s called sharing and not withholding information that the White House deems important. Obviously, they are on top of what’s going on. In the end it’s my decision; but, like Director Cummings, I want to keep relations open and aboveboard with 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—even though I’m not exactly keen on the whole deal. One learns to pick one’s battles, Special Agent Wright.”
“I’m getting it, Director, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. So, we file it away as a case closed?”
Bert grinned. “That’s what it means. I see you’re a fast learner, Wright.” He looked over at John Clawson, whose gaze was disconcerting. Bert had always prided himself on being able to read people, and Clawson wasn’t buying the whole drill, for some reason, but he was too good of an agent to go up against Bert or the White House. Bert felt a chill run up the back of his neck.
He opened his briefcase and was about to slip the directive from the White House into it when Agent Clawson asked, “Shouldn’t we have a copy for our files here?”
Clawson had his answer when Bert snapped his briefcase shut. “File a detailed report to my office, Agent Wright. List every lead that has come in and every call that came in once the artist’s sketch went public. I’ll be in touch. I’ll call when I get to the airport to let you know where I parked the car.” Hands were shaken, then Bert was outside. He heaved a sigh of relief.
Once Bert settled himself behind the wheel and turned on the engine, he ran the short meeting over and over in his mind until he was sure there would be no repercussions from it. Since the buck stopped with him, he now felt confident enough to shift gears and pull out into traffic. He keyed in Cosmo Cricket’s office phone number and settled back, his eyes on the road, the Bluetooth headset secure in his ear allowing him to talk and keep his hands on the wheel. “I’m on my way to your office. Please wait for me.” He ended the call, then shifted his thoughts to a neutral zone so he could travel mentally to Big Pine Mountain and Kathryn Lucas.
Forty minutes later, Cosmo Cricket greeted Bert at the door to his office, Lizzie Fox at his side.
Bert grinned. “Case closed on the Vegas madam. I’m taking a seven o’clock flight back to D.C. I just stopped by to see if I could take you both to a very late lunch or a very early dinner.”
Cosmo looked adoringly at his new wife and smiled. “She’s the boss.”
Lizzie, to Bert’s eye, looked so happy he thought she was going to burst out singing. She nodded. “That would be nice, Bert. We accept.”
Cosmo beamed his pleasure. “Just let me shut down and we’ll be good to go. My secretary had to leave early for a parent-teacher conference after school hours. I won’t be long.”
Lizzie motioned for Bert to take a seat in one of the soft, buttery leather chairs. She looked at him questioningly, but she didn’t say anything.
“Under control, Lizzie. You look happy.”
Lizzie leaned forward. “I’ve never been happier, Bert. Never. I don’t want to go back to D.C. I guess I don’t have to tell you how that is. The pardons will come, I just don’t know when. This latest incident makes the president even more indebted to the Vigilantes. She’s a woman of her word. But patience is not something any of us is known for. I just want you to know that.”
The phone in Cosmo’s office rang three times before it was picked up. Whoever it was, Lizzie knew Cosmo would cut the call short. She continued to expound on Martine Connor’s capabilities. Suddenly, Lizzie frowned as she looked toward Cosmo’s private office. Bert sat up straighter, alert to the change in the tone he was hearing coming from the inner office, even though neither he nor Lizzie could distinguish the words. Lizzie got up and made her way to the doorway, Bert on her heels. They both stared at Cosmo, who looked to be in a state of shock. They were just in time to see him set the phone back into its base.
Cosmo cleared his throat. “That was…that was the Vegas madam, Lily Flowers.”
Lizzie blinked.
Bert’s jaw dropped.
“She’s alive,” Cosmo said.
Lizzie, who was never at a loss for words, couldn’t think of a thing to say. Bert seemed to be suffering from the same problem.
“I cremated someone who wasn’t Lily Flowers.”
Lizzie rushed to her husband. “Cosmo, you didn’t know. Don’t blame yourself for that. Did Ms. Flowers say who it was? What happened?”
Cosmo’s eyes glazed over. He threw his hands in the air to show he was having trouble trying to understand what was going on. “Miss Flowers, who is now Caroline Summers, said that the night she left, she stopped on the Strip to say good-bye to an old friend. When she came back out of the building, her car was gone. She had her purse with her, but she’d left one of those folding wallets with her Lily Flowers’s driver’s license, insurance card, and the car registration with about twenty dollars in the console, along with a copy of the receipt for a hotel reservation in San Bernardino. It goes without saying she was suddenly suspicious, so she had her friend rent her a car under the friend’s name, and she drove to where she was going, and, no, she didn’t tell me where that was, and took a plane to where she is now, and I don’t know that location either. She said she just today logged onto the Internet and read the obituary for Lily Flowers. She called to tell me she was alive, well, and safe. She also said she had had the car checked from top to bottom and even had the tires rotated and checked before she set out for her trip.”
Bert finally found his tongue. “The case is closed officially.”
“Who was driving Ms. Flowers’s car that night?” Lizzie asked. “Was it planned, or was ‘Lily Flowers’ just at the wrong place at the wrong time? Whom did
we
cremate, Cosmo?”
“And I just violated my attorney-client privilege by divulging it all in the presence of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Bert waved his hands in dismissal. “Case closed, remember? Pay me a dollar and my lips are sealed.”
Cosmo’s hand moved so fast Lizzie and Bert both thought it was magic. Bert pocketed the dollar and grinned. He stretched out his hand, and the two men shook on it.
“So, Cosmo, do we think the madam was set up? If we go with that theory, it doesn’t make sense. No one knew she was going to make a stop on the Strip that night. So, was the tire tampered with? Was it just a car heist? I’m having a little trouble with the idea that a woman who matches Lily Flowers’s description heists a car, then heads, we think, to where Ms. Flowers was going to go. None of it makes sense,” Lizzie said.
“Maybe someone did something to the tire so that when it was driven at a higher speed, it would blow. It’s been known to happen,” Bert said. “Maybe Flowers was the intended victim but things got derailed when her car was stolen. The case is closed, ‘terrible car crash’ is the final word by the locals. Can’t argue with the locals. I can see you’re going to beat yourself up over this, Cosmo. Don’t. No one claimed the body. The victim had no prints on file. No dental or medical records, no ID on the body or in the vehicle, other than Lily Flowers’s billfold in the console. The woman would have stayed at the morgue for two weeks, then the State of Nevada would have buried her in a potter’s field as a Jane Doe.”
“I think there was some kind of plan being implemented either by Hunter Pryce or someone he hired,” Lizzie said. “It was dark. Perhaps the person who stole the car resembled Ms. Flowers. Or, the car’s tires were tampered with earlier, and the person responsible just sat back and waited, knowing sooner or later there would be an accident. It’s the best I can come up with.”
“The case is officially closed by the locals and now by the FBI. It’s time to move on. There’s nothing we can do at this point unless the Vigilantes come up with something when they take over. The case can be reopened at any time. As you know we call it a ‘cold case’ if and when we go back to take a second look.”
“This is going to haunt me,” Cosmo said.
“All the cases haunt me to varying degrees. You learn to shelve it and compartmentalize. And, no, it doesn’t get better, it seems to get worse because the bad guys keep coming up with new shit to terrorize us. Just when you think you have a lock on an MO, they throw you a curve. You deal with it the best way you can and hope you win a few along the way. The ones you don’t win go on the shelf. That’s the way it is, Cosmo. Welcome to our world.”
“Come on, Cricket, we’re going out to eat. We are not going to talk shop, and we are not going to moan and groan about would haves, should haves, could haves. Besides, the FBI is picking up the tab.”
Lizzie’s laugh tinkled around the office as Cosmo turned off his computer and the lights. Being the last one out, he locked the door and followed his dinner companions to the elevator. He felt lower than a snake’s belly when he stepped into the elevator.
Maybe Bert was right. Maybe.
Jack Emery walked out of the courthouse. He broke into a full sprint to get to the lot where his car was parked. By the time he got to his car, he was soaked to the skin. Only then did he realize that the headache, which had plagued him all day, was gone. It was already late, 4:50, according to his watch and the clock in the car. No point in going back to the office. He could go in a half hour early in the morning and do what he had to do. He debated all of two minutes as to whether he should go home or stop at Harry’s
dojo.
For some reason he always felt better when he was with good old Harry. Someday he was going to take the time to try to figure it out. He kept a change of casual clothes in his locker there, so that was another reason to stop by. The
dojo
was a good place to play catch-up on the day’s events. For all he knew, all kinds of things that he wasn’t privy to might have gone on while he was in court.
With the rush hour traffic and the rain, it took fifty minutes to get to Harry’s place. He swung into the narrow alley that led to one of the four parking spots allotted to the
dojo.
The small lot was empty except for Harry’s motorcycle with its plastic cover. Harry babied his wheels the way a mother protected a newborn.
Jack was drenched to the skin a second time even though he ran at the speed of light to the back door of the
dojo.
He fished around in his wet pocket for the key Harry had given him a long time ago. To his knowledge, he was the only one other than Harry who had a key. He remembered how honored he’d felt at the time, how choked up he was. Then Harry had called him a shithead, and the warm, cozy feeling was gone. Harry was never comfortable when other people said nice things to him or about him. Jack knew if Harry ever needed an organ transplant, he’d be first in line to donate one of his, assuming he had two of whatever Harry needed.
Jack opened the door. His jaw dropped, then he squeezed his eyes shut, blinked, and blinked again. His voice was so shocked, he couldn’t believe it was his own when he said, “Harry! Is that you? Holy shit, talk to me, Harry! Who died?” he asked desperately.
“Eat shit, Jack. It’s me. You know it’s me.”
“Harry! You’re wearing a suit! You don’t own a suit! And it’s an Armani!”
“No one died. I bought it. I have a personal shopper at Nordstrom who picked it out. What do you think? He said this is a power tie. Is it a power tie, Jack? The shirt is raw silk.”
“Hell, yes! Raw silk? What the hell is raw silk? I think you’re lying to me. Someone must have died. How much did that outfit cost?”
“I told you, no one died. It cost…none of your damn business. Why do you care anyway?”
“I care because…because I care. Are you planning on getting married? What’s with the fancy duds! By the way, you planning on wearing that getup on your motorcycle?”
Harry was already ripping at his power tie and raw silk shirt. “Not that it’s any of your business, but next week I have an appointment at the bank to apply for a loan to remodel this place. You happy now that you know my business?”
“Yeah. Put me down for a character reference. I’ll do you proud, buddy. I bet you could use Maggie, too. And Judge Easter and Elias Cummings. See what a ray of sunshine I am on this miserable, wet day? Anything else going on?”
Harry’s voice was muffled as he undressed behind a rice paper screen. It sounded to Jack like he said that nothing was going on.
“I see you didn’t get around to opening this box of mail. Guess you were too busy shopping.” Jack guffawed. “Let’s call Maggie and have her and the
Post
buy us some dinner. If anything went on today, she’ll have the latest. We’ll go in my car, though. And we need umbrellas.”
Harry walked around from behind the screen. “You plan on wearing those wet clothes or what?”