Game Over (10 page)

“This certainly beats chicken soup for five straight days,” Nellie said, digging into her lasagna.

As if by some unheard signal, both women switched their conversation to mundane things, the weather, the rising temperatures, the flooding, when precisely spring would arrive, and plans for the summer.

“Elias wants to go on a cruise. I do not. All you do is eat on cruises and play shuffleboard. I'd rather go to Wyoming and some ranch. We'll argue it out, I'm sure. What about you, Lizzie? Do you and Cosmo have plans?”

“Not really. I hope to be out of the White House by the end of June. I gave the president only six months. I don't even know why I agreed to do it to begin with.” Lizzie dropped her voice, her fork poised in midair as she leaned forward. “I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that Martine is not going to honor her promise to the vigilantes.”

Nellie stopped chewing and said, “Please tell me you didn't just say what you just said.”

“I wish I could, Nellie, but it's out there. I spoke to her COS late this morning, and he said she was like a cat on a hot griddle. She's at war with her advisors. I played it cool and didn't ask any questions, but I'm certain that's what it's all about.”

“I don't think I want to go there right now with this,” Nellie said. “And suddenly I've lost my appetite.”

Lizzie laid down her fork. “I don't know what to do, Nellie.”

“When I don't know what to do, dear, I do nothing and watch it play out.”

“Would you do that if it involved the vigilantes, Nellie?”

Two words exploded from Nellie's mouth like gunshots. “Hell, no!”

The other diners raised their heads and looked around, then went back to their meals.

“My point exactly,” Lizzie said.

 

Just as Ted Robinson and Joe Espinosa were unbuckling their seat belts and waiting to disembark, Maggie Spritzer was on the phone with Charles Martin to bring him up to date on Abner Tookus's latest reports and Ted and Espinosa's visit to interview Florence Leonard. She signed off by saying, “See ya in a few hours.”

Charles peered over his glasses at the women, who were arguing loudly among themselves. Even from where he was standing, he could see the hackles rising on the backs of Murphy and Grady. Annie was sputtering now; Myra, trying her best to defuse whatever was going on.

Charles let loose with a sharp whistle. The dogs looked at him, then lay down, their coats smooth once more. The girls looked embarrassed, even Annie, who started to apologize for what she called her “attitude.”

“Everyone needs to calm down,” Charles said soothingly. “I have a small amount of news to share, compliments of Maggie.” He ran through the report quickly.

“So that just confirms what Yoko and Harry said earlier. I'm not liking this at all. How could the president do that to Lizzie and to us after all we've done for her? How? Someone tell me how?” Nikki bellowed.

“Dear, it isn't going to do any good to get agitated,” Myra said quietly.

Annie felt like beating her breast in frustration. She eyed Myra and said, “Nikki has the right to express her displeasure over all of this. I'm about to express my own. But since you are so calm and collected, Myra, tell us right now what you would have us do to correct this…this shitful problem.”

“Yeah, Myra, tell us,” Kathryn snarled. “She promised the pardons. She's going to kick Lizzie in the gut? There's something wrong here. She used us, and that is totally unacceptable.”

Myra fingered the ever-present pearls at her neck; then she sat upright and looked around the table. “I thought it was obvious, girls. We will have to invade the White House and snatch our pardons right from under the eyes of everyone present.”

“Myra, you damn well rock!” Annie chortled happily. She clapped Myra so hard on the back, Myra's chair lurched forward, and she almost fell off.

“All we need is a plan,” Isabelle said, excitement ringing in her voice.

“I think Harry has a plan. He's going to talk to us this evening, when he gets here. I think we can do it!” Yoko said.

Charles, his mouth open, stared at his chicks, as he thought of them. “No! You are out of your minds. You cannot just march into the White House and…and steal your pardons. No!”

“Why not, Charles? The pardons belong to us. If your intel is correct, they are signed. Technically, that means they now belong to us. And while we're on such a roll, we'll make sure that Justice Leonard really does retire and Lizzie steps into his place, providing that's what she wants. We can do this,” Nikki said.

Charles replied, “I'd like to see you get that past the sniff test in a court of law.
No!
”

“Yes,”
the Sisters chorused in unison.

Both dogs slithered on their bellies closer to the Sisters and as far from Charles as they could get without being obvious.

“Traitors,” Charles grumbled as he made his way back to his workstation. He knew without seeing them that the Sisters were high-fiving one another. There was no doubt in his mind, none at all, that the Sisters could come up with something that would indeed gain them access to the most powerful address in the world. But would they be able to leave, pardons in hand?

Charles closed his eyes. He hated to admit it, but he simply didn't know the answer to that question.

T
ed strained to see the mailbox numbers in the waning light. He was glad he'd chosen a Toyota SUV at the car rental agency to travel the country lanes he'd been driving for the past two hours.

“I hate this place,” Espinosa said as he struggled to see if there was any sign of a mailbox in the high drifts of snow. “The Leonards must be the only people who live on this godforsaken road.”

“It's not a road. It's a lane. Lanes are quaint, which means no traffic. Roads carry cars, and there is always traffic on a road,” Ted said.

“Shut up, Ted. There are no mailboxes. You know what I'm thinking? Maybe they have to go into town to pick up their mail, like at a post office. This is rural, as in
rural.
What is the GPS saying?”

“That we're right on top of it. When we started down this lane, the GPS said it was three and three-tenths of a mile. So that has to mean we're here, wherever the hell
here
is. Look! There's a house!”

“Yippeeeee!” Espinosa shouted. “Damn, would you look at all that snow! Guess it snowed since the Leonards left to go back to Washington. Looks like over a foot to me. What do you think, Ted?”

“Easily a foot.” Ted turned off the ignition and climbed out of the truck. “I hope to hell we don't get stuck. There's no shovel in this vehicle. You waiting for a bus, Espinosa? Chop-chop. It's almost dark out.”

“Is that your way of telling me we have to do a little breaking and entering?”

“Unless you can think of another way to find out if the antiques were moved back here, like old Florence said. The only good thing about all this is, there are no neighbors who might get a little too curious.”

“Have you given any thought to a possible alarm system?” Espinosa asked as he struggled through the thigh-high snow.

“And that would be hooked up to…what? A tree? I didn't see any electrical wires. They use generators out here. In case you haven't noticed, this is
rustic.
”

“Maybe this isn't the real house. Maybe this is the vacation home. Would people of the Leonards' stature live like this? Jesus, the guy is a justice of the Supreme Court, Ted.”

“Maybe they like to commune with nature. Maybe they're simple people. The guy is really brainy, so maybe he lives in his own world, that kind of thing, and old Flo had to fend for herself, hence the gambling. I'm making this up as I go along,” Ted said.

“I already figured that out. Now what,
Kemo Sabe?
” Espinosa asked as they both stomped snow off their boots on the plank front porch.

“Now we pick the lock. It's not a good one, so it shouldn't be a problem.”

Ted whipped out one of his credit cards and went to work. Three minutes later the huge pine door groaned inward. A blast of cold air hit both men when they stepped indoors.

“Look for a thermostat, and crank that baby up, or we'll freeze in here. I'll look for a light switch. Well, shit, they must use twenty-five-watt bulbs!” Espinosa said when he clicked on the lamp, which cast a dim yellow pool of light over a maple end table.

“They probably think they're being frugal. Nice place, though,” Ted said, looking around.

“I don't see any antiques,” Espinosa said fretfully as he pushed the dial on the thermostat to high. “I'm no decorator, but this looks like flea market junk to me.”

Ted upended a cushion on the sofa and grunted. “I knew it. Sears, Roebuck. Maggie and I did an exposé about five years ago on bogus antiques dealers. I learned a few things along the way. Even at first glance, I can tell that none of this stuff is even remotely an antique. Check out the upstairs while I look in the rest of the rooms,” he said.

“Nothing up here but four bedrooms, all sparsely furnished. No antiques that I can see. Just regulation maple furniture. There is an old computer up here in one of the bedrooms, but that's it,” Espinosa called from the second floor. “It's like Iceland up here.”

“Nothing down here, either,” Ted said as he bounded up the steps to join Espinosa. “Dining-room furniture is just six chairs, a table, a credenza of some kind. There's a sunroom with wicker furniture, but that's it. The appliances in the kitchen are old, but they work.”

“I think this computer is frozen. Nothing is happening. Maybe we should take it with us and get Maggie's guy to pore over it.”

Ted looked properly outraged for all of five seconds. “That's stealing. Yeah, pack it up. In for a nickel, out for a nickel, or whatever that phrase is. You taking pictures, Joe?”

“Out the wazoo. It is forever captured on film. We might have a little difficulty in explaining how we got all this. You realize that, right?”

“That's Maggie's problem. We just do what we're told.
Capisce?
”

“Yeah, well, I hope that will hold up when our asses are behind bars,” Espinosa said as he snapped several pictures of the outdated computer before unplugging it and carrying it down to the first floor.

“Let me voice a question here. Who are you more afraid of? Maggie or the cops? What's wrong, Joe? I don't like that look I'm seeing on your face.”

“Stop being so damn stupid. I'm more afraid of Maggie, just like you. On top of that, you're marrying her. What's wrong is that this is all wrong. It's not computing. Leonard is a justice on the Supreme Court. And yet he lives like this! You need to look at those papers again. Is there a mortgage on this house? What about the one on Connecticut Avenue? I'm all for comfort and casual, but I think a justice should have some class, for want of a better word. This is not computing for me, Ted. You know what Judge Judy says. ‘If it doesn't compute, then it's a lie.'”

Ted sat down on a burgundy plaid couch that had seen years of wear and tear. It was a little warmer than when they first entered the house, but not by much. He riffled through the papers Maggie had given him. “This property consists of sixty-seven acres and is paid in full, no mortgage. The last assessment was seven years ago, and it assessed at nine hundred thousand dollars. Justice Leonard inherited it. He was an only child. The house on Connecticut Avenue is valued at one million seven hundred fifty thousand dollars, and there is no mortgage. Real-estate-wise, the Leonards are solvent. The justice drives a ten-year-old Audi, and Flo drives an eight-year-old Volvo. Both are ultraconservative cars. They have ninety grand in a money market account at Wachovia Securities. That's all they have, plus the justice's salary. So, in summary, yeah, I'd say the justice could be ripe for a little bribe by someone in the White House.”

“Now what?” Espinosa said, settling down on the couch, next to Ted. “I guess we could bunk here and head out in the morning to grab the first flight, or we could head back to town and go to a hotel. Makes no never mind to me either way, but I am tired, Ted. I say we build a fire and sleep here. We can get up around five and head out. There should be a seven o'clock flight to somewhere. What do you think?”

“Food. We didn't think to bring any, but I did see some canned stuff in the pantry and a box of unopened cornflakes. We won't starve if we stay. Let's figure out fair and square what this stay costs so we can leave the money on the table. What's that stupid computer worth?”

“You kidding me! You couldn't
give
this hunk of junk away. Five bucks, tops.”

“I say we leave a hundred bucks. We're using the heat. We're going to eat whatever we can find and burn a few logs. We're not messing anything up, and we didn't break anything.”

“No, you said fair and square, so make it two hundred. You can't get a hotel room for under two hundred,” Espinosa said.

In the end they pooled their money and left three hundred dollars on the kitchen table. Ted plopped a salt shaker on top of the bills to hold them in place. Espinosa snapped a picture of the fanned-out hundred-dollar bills.

Fifteen minutes later both men were snuggled into the two ratty-looking chairs by the fire and wrapped in quilts they'd found on the second floor. It was warm, and the fire was burning down, but they didn't want to add any logs, so that when they left in the morning, the fire would be completely out.

“I'm getting married, Joe. Do you believe that?”

“Not till I see you standing at the altar. You sound funny, Ted. Somehow I expected something a little more romantic where you're concerned. A text? What really boggles my mind is that Maggie said yes.”

Ted sat upright, his eyes wild. “Yeah, I know. You're going to be my best man, right?”

Espinosa thought about the question for a minute. “I thought Jack Emery was your best friend.”

“No more a best friend than you are, Joe. I've known you longer. I want you. So, will you do it?”

“Well, yeah, since you put it like that. You sure you're ready to get married, Ted?”

“I thought I was. The minute I saw that Maggie said yes, I kind of put it out of my mind. I have to think about it now. Marrying your sweetheart is one thing. That kind of makes you…you know, even somehow. But I'm going to be marrying my boss. Our boss, Joe. What if she carries that relationship over into the marriage?”

“You can back out right up until it's time to say ‘I do.'”

“Jesus, we'll have to buy a house. And get a car. A van, you know, the kind that has sliding doors so you can pile the kids and animals in it before you take off for…wherever the hell married people take off for. I'm not the van type. I'd like a sporty car, maybe a convertible.”

“Uh-huh,” Espinosa said.

“She makes more money than I do. That means she'll want to make all the financial decisions. I might have a problem with that. And Maggie doesn't cook. Wherever we end up, there might not be take-out joints. I'm not a soup-and-sandwich kind of guy. Another thing. Who is going to do all that grocery shopping? You know how Maggie eats. Nonstop.”

“That could be a problem,” Espinosa muttered.

“And because she's my boss, she could fire me if I do something in our married life that she doesn't like. I'm not going to like living in fear.”

“Yeah, that could really be a problem,” Espinosa muttered again.

“Now I have the pressure of thinking about and paying for an engagement ring. Christmas was a walk in the park compared to picking out an engagement ring. Listen, Joe, I don't think I'm ready to get married. Help me out here, buddy. How can I get out of it gracefully? Come on, Joe, say something. I'm dying here, can't you tell?”

Espinosa stirred; then a deep snore permeated the room.

“Shit!”

 

While Ted was cursing and Espinosa was snoring, Lizzie Fox was taking several deep, calming breaths before she dialed the number that would connect her with ex-Justice Pearl Barnes.

Pearl picked up on the first ring, almost like she was waiting for the call, which came through precisely at ten o'clock. Her greeting was cursory. “Talk to me, dear.”

Lizzie took another deep breath. “I need to ask you some questions, but I can't tell you at this time why I need the answers. Will it suffice to say that it involves a lot of our mutual friends?”

“It will. Ask away.”

“Tell me what you know about Justice Leonard.”

“He was, of course, a colleague, but you know that. If ever a person was born to the court, it was Douglas Leonard. His world is the law. The man could never converse on mundane things or contribute to a conversation. But if it was a matter of law or a discussion on something pending before the court, you couldn't shut him up. He is brilliant, and I thought he had the makings of a chief justice, and I thought when they appointed Notola to that exalted position instead of Leonard, it was because the man has absolutely no personality. In secret we used to refer to him as the DF. Meaning ‘dead fish.' I neither liked nor disliked him, and I feel safe in saying the other justices felt the same way.”

“The others say you keep up with what's going on in your old bailiwick. Have you heard any rumors, anything at all out of the ordinary?”

“Not a thing, dear. Perhaps if you give me a clue, I might come up with something.”

“Do you think he might be retiring anytime soon?”

“Douglas? That man will have to be wheeled out on a stretcher. He's there for life, and he's only sixty-nine. He's got a good many years left to serve on the bench. I think he would die if he had to leave for whatever reason. I mean that.”

“What about his wife? If she was ill and needed care, would he retire?”

“Never! He'd hire round-the-clock care for her and pitch a tent somewhere. I never had the impression he was much of a family man. The law and the court are his family. That man is going nowhere. Now you have whetted my curiosity. What have you heard?”

“That his wife has Alzheimer's, and he's going to step down and take care of her.”

Pearl Barnes let loose with a loud guffaw, so loud, Lizzie had to hold the phone away from her ear. “Florence with Alzheimer's! That's an absolute riot. First of all, the woman is sharp as a tack. She never quite fit in, always appeared uncomfortable around the other wives. Not that we socialized much on a personal level, but the few times I was in her company, it was like pulling teeth to get her to talk. I do know she's a numbers person. I can't even tell you how I know that. Someone once said her life was reduced to numbers. I'm sorry I can't clarify that any better.

“Florence doesn't really like living in Washington. I think they have a farm or something in New England. Douglas inherited it a long time ago. Maple syrup comes to mind, but it's fallow now. There are several children. Very successful, I seem to recall. Grandchildren, too. I always had the impression that the extended family was not close. Is it a rumor, or is there some juice to what you're hearing, dear?”