Blindsided (13 page)

“I have nothing else to do, so I can wait. All afternoon if necessary.”
Tied up, my foot,
she thought. She settled herself in one of the uncomfortable chairs and whipped out a tattered paperback novel she carried with her for just such occasions. She'd been reading chapter seven for the past ten years, and if asked what the novel was about, she would have said she didn't have a clue.

The receptionist cleared her throat to get Maggie's attention. “Mr. Eberly said he can spare fifteen minutes. If you need more time, he suggests we arrange an appointment.”

“Fifteen minutes is fine,” Maggie said, jamming the paperback back into her backpack.

Maggie's first thought was that she had been right. Eberly, Peter Ciprani's best friend, wasn't busy and had probably been playing on the Internet. There wasn't a file, a folder, or any kind of paper on the man's desk. She couldn't see what was on the computer because it was angled away from her line of sight.

Jon Eberly was an ordinary-looking man with a receding hairline. He was pale and had liver spots on his cheeks and chin. He had soft brown eyes, a pleasant smile, and was dressed casually, his button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, his tie loose at his neck. He walked around the desk and held out his hand. A tall man, wearing pressed khakis and boat shoes. Definitely casual.

“Jon Eberly.”

Maggie was surprised at the firmness of his handshake. She exerted pressure of her own and saw the man wince. Strike one for her side. I am not a helpless little woman. “Maggie Spitzer. I'm from the
Post
in Washington.”

“Well, that's not exactly around the corner now, is it? Did one of my clients get into some kind of trouble in the District, and you need verification of their insurance? Glad to help if that's the case. Please, sit down. Coffee, soft drink?”

“No thanks, I'm fine. None of the above, Mr. Eberly. I'm here, as are several of my colleagues, but they're off doing other things right now. We're planning an in-depth story on Peter Ciprani. Supposedly deceased. Turns out he isn't deceased at all. He's very much alive,” she lied, hoping to see some kind of reaction. “He's the brother of two judges here in Baywater. But then I suspect you know that since you and Mr. Ciprani were best friends growing up and through college. It's wonderful to have such a long-lasting friendship.”

Maggie had always prided herself on not only her reporter's instinct but also on being able to read people, especially when you blasted in like some avenging bird and hit your quarry with a broad assault. To his credit, the only thing that changed on Jon Eberly's face was a slight tightening of his lips.

“Wherever did you come by such a statement? It's cruel. Peter has been . . . dead for many, many years. Why would the
Post
be looking into something like this? I'm sorry, but this is in such bad taste. I don't think I want to discuss this any further.”

“Well, that's entirely up to you, Mr. Eberly. It's not just Peter Ciprani we're writing about. We're actually planning an . . . exposé of his twin sisters. I'm told he plans to cooperate. It doesn't matter to me right now one way or the other if you talk to me today or not. People saw me come here. I and my crew are registered at the Harbor Inn. Tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, there will be more of us descending on this quaint little town. We at the
Post
think the good citizens here in Baywater have lived under the Ciprani-style rule of law way too long. I always like to lay my cards out on the table, so all parties know exactly what's going on. Do you still want me to leave?”

Jon Eberly ran his hands through his thinning hair. Suddenly, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He sucked in his breath and let it out with a loud swoosh.

“You up for a little walk in this crazy weather we're having right now, Miz Spitzer?”

The last thing Maggie wanted was to take a walk, but if a walk was what it took to get Jon Eberly to say something, she'd gallop down the street. “I'd love to go for a walk, Mr. Eberly.”

M
yra Rutledge paced the kitchen, the dogs doing their best to keep up with her frantic movements. What she really wanted to do was go down to the War Room and shake Charles until his teeth rattled. What
was
taking so long? In the past, when a mission came up, he had a fairly good plan within hours, and usually a Plan B also, and everything laid out, meaning
everything
was covered six ways to Sunday. What
was
he doing down there in his lair? They'd done other missions far more complicated than this one. A small, hateful thought crept into her mind. Charles was losing it. Charles was getting older. Charles didn't really care anymore.
What?
In her heart of hearts, she knew none of that was true.

Myra thought about all the phone calls she'd gotten during the course of the day. Annie chomping at the bit. Nellie expressing the same doubts she'd just thought of. Marti wanting to know when they were going to
move.
And the last phone call, just minutes ago, from Pearl, who sounded as mean and nasty as a scalded cat. Like this was all her fault. Maybe she did need to go down to the War Room and rattle Charles's cage, figuratively speaking.

The antique grandfather clock chimed in the living room. Six o'clock. Annie said she would be over at six. The clock on the range read 6:02. Myra wondered which one was right. Annie was always prompt if not early. The dogs ran to the door, which meant Annie had arrived, which then meant the grandfather clock had the real time. The kitchen clock was two minutes fast. She needed to remember that and adjust it at some point. Charles was a stickler for the correct time. Hence the clocks in the War Room that gave the time all over the world.

Anyone, anywhere, could set their clock by Annie. She said it had to do with Las Vegas because there were no clocks in the casinos.
Whatever
... she thought as she opened the door to admit her lifelong friend. They hugged because they always hugged.

“You look as frustrated and antsy as I feel, Myra. I think it's time to take Charles by the ear and lead him somewhere or make him do something. Oh, my, how stupid did that just sound? I'm just not good at sitting around twiddling my thumbs.

“By the way, Pearl called me a while ago. She said she had tried to call you but the call went to voice mail. You were probably out with the dogs. Then she tried to call Nellie, but Nellie had to drive Elias to the eye doctor because they were going to dilate his eyes. Pearl told me something very interesting. Listen to this, Myra. She, Pearl, was at home waiting for . . . whatever Mr. Sparrow's next move was going to be, and she was reading the paper. She said on page three there was an article about Judge Henry Rhodes retiring after serving fifty years on the bench.”

“I never heard of him,” Myra said.

“Me either. But, Myra, here's the kicker. Judge Rhodes sits on the bench in the town of Baywater. Pearl and Nellie both know him. Pearl said he came to both her and Nellie's retirement parties. They have a history of sorts going back to law school although Pearl was quick to point out that Judge Rhodes was a lot older than both of them. She said he also did not come from a life of privilege. She went on to say he was the youngest judge ever to sit in Baywater. An accomplishment in itself. Think about it, Myra. Fifty years sitting on a bench and rendering decisions day after day after day.”

Myra frowned as her fingers worked at the pearls around her neck. “And this means what, Annie?”

Annie sighed. “I think it means what Pearl didn't want to say on the phone knowing we'd figure it out. Mr. Sparrow called yesterday to say Pearl's house, car, and phone are bugged. Think Baywater. I'm thinking now because she said I should tell the girls and maybe we could help her and Nellie plan a surprise retirement party of our own for Judge Rhodes. Damn, now I can't remember if she said it or I said we should plan a party. It doesn't matter who said it, it's a good idea. Don't you think, Myra?”

“I do. I do. Do you know any more about what's going on with Pearl?”

“No, other than she's tired. She tried to say things, but they were so vague, I couldn't make heads or tails of the conversation.”

“Coffee, Annie? How about a ham sandwich?”

“Yes to both. Do you think we should tell Charles? He might be able to incorporate this new development into whatever he's working up.”

“I think so,” Myra said as she bustled about the kitchen. “We can go down to the War Room after we eat. Anything else?”

Annie shook her head.

“Charles did come up to the kitchen for a late lunch,” Myra said, “and reported in on Maggie and the boys. The boys are just confirming the interviews Dennis West did and setting eyes on the kinds of people affected by the twin judges. It appears that Maggie may have hit pay dirt—those were Charles's words, not mine—in regard to Mr. Eberly, who was Peter Ciprani's best friend. Charles said Maggie went at him full bore. That was the last I heard. What's Marti up to?”

“Not much. Loving her private-citizen role and chomping at the bit to do something. I'm supposed to call her this evening. I am so ready to get into the swing of things, Myra. If we don't get moving we're going to start to atrophy.”

Myra handed Annie the plate with the ham sandwich. She poured coffee, then sat down across from Annie at the table.

“I feel the same way, but we both know there is no point to hassling Charles. Do you think Pearl meant to plan a party for all the judges except for the twins? Or do you think she meant to plan and include them so we can get their measure?”

“I think she meant to
exclude
them. Can you imagine having the ex-president of the United States, a retired justice of the Supreme Court, and Nellie, who was a federal judge, all attending your retirement party, and the guest list is so exclusive that the twins are not invited. Of course,” Annie said, chomping down on her sandwich, “that would just tick them off royally, I'm thinking. The daily paper would be sure to play that up, and Maggie could do a bang-up job at the
Post
. The AP would pick it up, and those two would be out in the cold. I have to say, I really like the idea. You know, we could Google Judge Henry Rhodes. I meant to do that at home but got sidetracked. Good sandwich, Myra.”

Myra preened. She rarely, if ever, got compliments where food was concerned. She did, however, get many comments—complaints—when her culinary expertise came into question. Not that she cared. Well, sometimes she cared, she corrected the thought. “Thank you. I do like coleslaw on a sandwich. Nellie is the one who said if you fix a sandwich that way, you'll never go back to mustard. She's right.”

“We're done eating, Myra. We don't smoke, so there is no reason to sit here and . . . and do nothing when we can bedevil Charles. I say we go down to the War Room
NOW.
We can clean up later.”

“That works for me,” Myra said. “You do know he's going to be like a wet hen, don't you? He hates to be interrupted.”

“Ask me if I care, Myra. I do not. We can be just as cantankerous as he can. And do not overlook the fact that there are
two
of us to
one
of him. I rest my case.”

“I do like the way you think sometimes, Annie.”

Myra looked down at the dogs, knowing they thought they were going out for a run. “Later, guys. Here's a chew for each of you. When we get back, we'll go for a long run in the yard. You know how you like making Annie run after the ball! Especially in the moonlight!”

Annie burst out laughing. “Myra, do you remember the night of your birthday years ago, when you and I got really tanked after the official party and everyone went home? We ran naked through the sprinklers, and Charles caught us!”

“Lord, how could I ever forget
that!
That was the first time Charles saw the tattoos on our butts that you said we needed because we were going to invest in ink. He didn't speak to me for two whole weeks! As I recall, it was two very peaceful weeks. He thinks you're a bad influence on me, my dear.”

Annie leaned against the wall until she stopped laughing.

“Okay, okay, we have to get serious now so we can ream him out. Stone-faced. We don't give him an inch, and we demand, yes, demand, a progress report. You got that, Annie?”

“I do, Myra. I got it. The big question is do
you
get it? You always weasel out when it comes to Charles, and I end up having to play the heavy.”

“Not this time. I choose my battles wisely. You taught me that, Annie.”

“Showtime!” Annie hissed in Myra's ear as she led the way down to the War Room. Tiny bells could be heard with the movements they made as the air circulated. Bells that Myra and Annie had strung when their daughters played down here as children. She felt a lump rise in her throat, and she knew Myra was feeling the same emotions she was. Amazing how all these years later, the bells sounded crystal clear.

“Ladies! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company at this hour?” Charles chirped happily from his position behind the row of high-tech computers that looked like they belonged at NASA.

Myra blinked. Annie's jaw dropped.

“Would you believe we got lonesome, dear?”

“Not for a minute, Myra, my love. I'm thinking you came down here to prod me, to chastise me for not working faster. Well, I have good news. Shall we go upstairs? I'm rather hungry right now.”

“Only if you rescind that silly rule of not discussing business while eating,” Myra snapped. “We want to know
now!
”

“Of course you do. Come along, ladies,” Charles said, tongue-in-cheek. Annie just rolled her eyes. Myra shrugged her shoulders, satisfied that they'd won this round.

In the kitchen, Myra literally shoved Charles onto one of the kitchen chairs. Annie clamped her hands on his shoulders while Myra slapped together a sandwich any which way, then plopped it in front of her husband. “Talk and eat, and neither Annie nor I care if it's bad manners.”

“Testy, aren't we, ladies? Ah . . . this is . . .”

“
Delicious
is the word you're looking for, darling, but we already know that. Talk.” Myra looked over at Annie, who still had Charles's shoulders in a vise grip, and winked.

“Yes, yes, I'm ready. Listen carefully,
girls.
”

“You cannot sweet-talk us. Get to the point, Charles. We've waited long enough,” Annie all but snarled.

“The Ciprani homestead on the bay where the twins go every weekend is where I concentrated my efforts. The homestead, which was refurbished and has been written up several times in
Architectural Digest,
is quite beautiful. There are only three houses on the lane. I just outright bought the Matthews house because it's been standing empty for almost four years and is sadly in need of repairs. Unfortunately, I grossly overpaid for it, but time was of the essence. The heirs were quite impressed that the ex-president of the United States wanted their house. They snapped up my offer. How we will ever unload it later on is still a mystery that is plaguing me. The paperwork is in process, but the heirs agreed that we could take possession immediately.

“The Donaldson house at the end of the lane proved a little more difficult to negotiate. The couple are elderly and have a nurse/companion to see to their needs. I had my people offer a three-month cruise around the world if they would temporarily let us use their property to film what we led them to believe was the next
Gone With the Wind.
I was told by my people that the nurse/companion talked them into it. I think I should be congratulated on getting all this done in just a few days. The Donaldsons were on their way as of three this afternoon. The lane now only has one resident: the Ciprani twins.

“As far as the world knows, Marti still has her Secret Service detail. No reason to alert anyone otherwise. Avery's people can fill that hole quite nicely. What that means is that, by the weekend, there will be so many people on that little lane that the twins will be pulling out their hair. We may be moving a contingent of partying college boys, rowdy college boys, into the house sometime on Friday, where they will party nonstop. It's one possible plan, but we might not have to resort to it. Things might move faster, take a different turn, and we'll scrap it. I was also able to find out that the authorities in that little town of Waterton are not enamored of the Ciprani twins any more than the people in Baywater appear to be. I say ‘appear. ' ”

“What good will the Donaldsons' house do us since college is in session?” Myra asked.

“Myra, Myra, Myra! College students party on the weekends. They'll descend in droves come Friday. Secluded beachfront mansion, waterfront, two sailboats, well-stocked pantry, and no one will be driving anywhere. It's not carved in stone. We can resort to it if need be. Avery's people or the new bogus Secret Service detail will see to that. We set down the rules for the fraternity, and they all signed off on them. Now, if it doesn't go off, those college youngsters have three months to use the house. Tell me you are impressed,” Charles said, stuffing the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.

“Let me make sure we have this right, Charles. Setting this all up gives us the time, the opportunity, and the wherewithal to take over the Ciprani household. What about their security? I'm sure it's state-of-the-art. How do we circumvent that?” Annie demanded. To Charles's relief, she relaxed her hold on his shoulders.

Charles clucked his tongue. “One of Aver y's men knows the company that installed the system. He said he can dismantle it so it will just appear to be a glitch that the company will get to . . . eventually. Which in our case is never. Are you still impressed?” He twinkled.