Kiss and Tell (17 page)

“Oh, and one other thing that might or might not be important: she said he had some mysterious rental that she can't account for. We'll get Abner on it and see what he can come up with.”

“Do you think she will alert her son or her ex-husband that you were there raising questions?” Dennis asked.

Annie shook her head. “I don't think so. Myra and I talked about it on the way over here after we left her home. She's made a new life for herself, and I don't think she is going to put that in harm's way. We did point out to her—nicely, of course—that she could be held culpable because she knew, or at the very least suspected, what her husband was doing and did nothing to stop him. She'll keep quiet and just go on as she has in the past. Manny Macklin is someone she used to know. It's that simple. As for her children . . . if they did wrong, she will think they have to be punished. She won't lose any sleep over it. That's my take on it, and it goes without saying I could be wrong, but I don't think I am.”

“I agree with Annie 100 percent. Mrs. Macklin, who took her half brother's last name, Carmichael, did tell us something interesting. She said her ex-husband talked early in their marriage about his two friends from the orphanage. She said she always thought he had special feelings for the little one, meaning Marie or Ms. Sara Overton as we knew her, your new granny, Dennis.”

“Well, then, where does that leave us?”

“Waiting for our invitation to dinner,” Annie said, laughing.

T
he minute Myra and Annie were out of sight, Dennis whirled around and ran back to the Cajun restaurant. He stiff-armed his way into the restaurant and raced to the back room, where the guys were chowing down on po' boys.

“We ordered for you, kid,” Ted said. “Sit!” Dennis sat and looked at a mixed shrimp and lobster po' boy. If this kept up, he'd be eating po' boys for the rest of the week.

“Talk, kid, while we eat. We'll fill you in with what we have when we're done eating. By the way, how's the weather out there?”

“Snowing. Just flurries right now. Okay, here we go . . .”

“Perfect timing,” Jack said ten minutes later as he wadded up his napkin. Dennis gulped, sighed heavily, and leaned back in his chair.

Jack finished the beer in his bottle. He set it down with a loud
thump
. “Weird as this is going to sound, we also have something to report. It dovetails nicely with what you just told us, and I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest—I say suggest—it might have something to do with Charles's going off to Merry Old England like a bat out of hell. Who wants to go first?”

Abner waved a lazy hand. “I'm up. First things first. I was all alone for the past three days because . . . Isabelle flew to England. She's been hired to build a whole community just outside London. She's being given the opportunity to create a whole city. She says this will put her at the top of the pack and definitely on the map. I'm telling you this because I want you to know why I lived on the computer for seventy-two hours, and it's why and how I came up with the information I plan on sharing with you.”

Ted held up his hand. “Hold the results till we all share our last seventy-two hours because, as Jack said, it all dovetails. Joe and I,” he said, pointing to Espinosa, “were on the horn all weekend with calls from sources and snitches. It was hard to run some of them down, but we did our best, and let me be the first to tell you the dark stuff is about to hit the fan.”

Jack waved his arm for attention. “Bert called me and told me that things are heating up with the Fibbies. They're on to Macklin but are going to play it close to the vest. Jack Sparrow is on his way here on Bert's orders, and Bert gave me an inside tip, which is that Mr. Sparrow does not like to be called Jack. He prefers to be called Jay. So, all of you, make a note of that for the future. It makes it simpler, anyway, since two Jacks can be confusing. Remember that Sparrow has an in with the good guys in the FBI since we got him cleared. He also has a few old grudges to settle.”

Harry smiled and said, “I just came for lunch. And to listen. But I can tell you how the FBI got involved.” Harry laughed when he saw that he had everyone's attention. He loved it when he was able to make Jack's jaw drop.

“And . . .” Dennis demanded.

“Saturday night was the homicide playoff at the dojo. That's when all the precincts go up against each other. Every detective in the District participated. They were like a swarm of pissed-off bees. They went at each other like nothing I've ever seen from those guys. Come to find out the reason they were so pissed was that their pension fund is in the Dumpster because the fund was invested with Macklin Investments. They had their union rep go to the FBI and file a complaint. So that must be what Bert was talking about and why he sent Sparrow back here. At least that's my take on it.”

“Where does all of that leave us?” Ted asked.

“Back with me,” Abner said.

“Let's hear it,” Harry said.

“First things first. I won't even pretend I'm in the same . . . league as you guys when it comes to . . . to what it is you all do. What I'm going to volunteer now to you all is my opinion.
My opinion
based on being married to Isabelle and skirting the edges of... her other, ah, job. Back in September, right after Labor Day, she got a letter from the Architectural Board asking her if she wanted to bid on a job in England. Nothing else at that time. She thought about it and decided she didn't want to move to England even if it was on a temporary basis. She wrote back a week later and declined. A few days later, she got another letter, and this time there were specs included along with the proposal, and they intrigued her. They asked her to reconsider. So she did.

“At the end of September, she got a prepaid first-class plane ticket to fly to England for a meeting. She was told there were six other contenders. She went, was interviewed, and came home convinced that she was out of the running. The other architects were all well-known and had more notches in their belts. She said she felt like the poor relation at the grand ball, that kind of thing.

“Then, ten days later, she got another prepaid airline ticket and was told they wanted her to come for a second interview. She was a little excited but was going to decline. I actually talked her into going, so she went.

“When she came back, she said she wasn't allowed to talk about anything, that she and all the other architects had to sign a confidentiality agreement not to discuss anything that went on. She signed it and honored it. I don't know a thing for sure. But Isabelle changed right there. By the way, she got the job. She's the top gun. The project will allow her two assistants. Kind of like lawyers when they go to trial, one sits first chair, second chair, that kind of thing. Are you guys following me here?”

“Well, yeah, but what does any of that have to do with what we're discussing?” Ted demanded.

“Well, for one thing, Charles Martin was the one who was responsible for getting Isabelle's license restored after the Vigilantes sort of disbanded. I'm sure you all know that. Isabelle told me over the years how tight Charles was with the Queen. Then, at Thanksgiving, Charles just up and leaves, with no explanation whatsoever. I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but something isn't ringing right in my ears as of now.”

“Where are you going with this, Abner?” Jack demanded.

“I think Isabelle's new employers are the Queen and her husband, Prince Philip. I think they are the ones building the new-age city and using their personal funds to do it. Perhaps not them personally but their money people. Funds the money people invested with Manny Macklin. I don't have a clue what it would cost to build a new-age city, but my guess would be billions, with a B. Think about it, guys. Charles, the Queen's childhood buddy, is suddenly whisked back to England. Isabelle flew over there on a chartered flight a month ahead of schedule. Charles. Isabelle. What the hell would you think, Jack?”

“Holy shit!” was what Jack had to say. The others at the table echoed his outburst.

Abner held up his hand. “Hold on here, don't get carried away. I said that's just my opinion. However, it makes sense. You guys tell me if you think it has any teeth.”

“I think ‘fangs' might be a better term,” Ted said.

“Are you telling us you can't get your wife to confide in you?” Dennis asked, his face red with excitement and outrage at what he was hearing.

“That's exactly what I'm telling you,” Abner said. “Weren't you listening? My wife signed a confidentiality agreement, one she intends to honor. I have to respect and honor that.”

“But she's your wife!” Dennis sputtered. “I thought spouses didn't keep secrets from each other. This is like . . . learning there's no Santa Claus.”

“Lawyers don't reveal their clients' secrets and problems to their spouses, so why should this surprise you, Dennis,” Abner said irritably.

“Do you think Isabelle confided in the sisters? They were huddling at Thanksgiving in the kitchen,” Jack observed. “I hate to say this, but with those girls, husbands don't really count for too much. They have a special bond we guys can never ever crack. I think we all know that, right.” Jack's voice had a degree of frustration in his tone.

“I don't know. It wouldn't surprise me if she did,” Abner admitted.

“Well, I know one thing. If Charles is involved in this, Myra will not allow any of us to touch it with a ten-foot pole. She's viewing Charles's going AWOL, without so much as a by-your-leave, as the ultimate personal betrayal. And I can't say that I blame her either. Is it any wonder that the girls are as close as they are, closer even than with their husbands? If anything, Myra will want to go after Charles and let the devil take the hindmost, or whatever the hell that saying is,” Jack mumbled. “This is going to take on a life of its own and grow legs.”

“This is not good. Definitely not good,” Espinosa chimed in.

“Where's Maggie in all of this?” Jack asked suspiciously.

“Cleaning house, buying snow equipment, and stocking the larder. Why?” Ted asked.

“Does she know what you were doing over the weekend? You did say you guys stayed at her house to help out because of the weather.”

“Nah. She was busy. We were all doing our own thing. What's up with all these Maggie questions anyway?” Ted demanded.

“Did you sleep?” Jack barked.

“Of course I slept. Oh shit!”

“Then she knows,” Harry said solemnly.

“Yep, she knows,” Jack said. “She's probably outside spying on us as we speak, or she's with Myra and Annie.”

“I told you not to sleep,” Espinosa groused.

“Where does that leave us?” Dennis asked nervously.

“That's a good question, and one whose answer is not on the tip of my tongue,” Jack said. “What do we do here? Do we band with Myra and Annie, pool all of our information, and go after that skunk Macklin? Or do we leave it to the SEC and the FBI? I think I can safely say that Myra and Annie are working toward a snatch and grab. What do you think, Dennis?”

All eyes zeroed in on the cub reporter. “The snatch and grab would get my vote.”

“By the way,” Abner said, “there have been at least a dozen complaints filed with the SEC about Macklin over the years. Complaints that never got off the ground. Someone even went so far as to show the impossibility under any scenario of his returning 20 percent to his investors year after year, in up markets and down markets.

“But no one at the SEC would step in given his reputation as the man with the magic touch who cared so much about his investors, big and little. But someone or some ones outside the SEC were and probably still are watching him. He was just too smart, always two steps ahead of everyone else. Until now.”

“Something is bothering me. If what Abner is saying is true, and I tend to agree that it is, why would the Queen and Prince Philip order Charles back to England? Wouldn't he be more help over here? I think we must be missing something,” Jack stated.

“I was able to go back five years,” Abner said, “and I discovered that Macklin opened a branch office in London. While it was separate from Macklin Investments, he had remote cameras set up that allowed his people to monitor things in New York and here in DC. There are twenty-some employees in London. Here in the States, he would have the world believe he was a one-man operation, three if you count his two kids. Yet in England, he needs more than twenty. It doesn't make sense.

“True, it's been reported that the London office handles his personal investments. I'm sorry, but I'm not buying that. I think his personal investments were really the Queen and Prince Philip's money. Their Royal Highnesses would want to keep their money on their side of the pond, and Macklin would keep his on this side. That part makes sense to me since we're talking about at least a cool billion dollars, possibly more. My take on this, and I could be wrong, is that Macklin somehow snowed the royals and convinced them to build this new-age city that would rival his crown jewel, otherwise known as Olympic Ridge, here in the States. In all the articles I sifted through, that alone seems to be what Macklin is most proud of. It's right up there with being called the Wizard of Wall Street. Olympic Ridge is something you can see with the naked eye. Investment returns and statements . . . are not something people wave around to be seen. Talked about, yes, so being the Wizard of Wall Street is all well and good, but I think that to his way of thinking, it comes in no better than a distant second to Olympic Ridge.

“One other thing. Do you think the royals know about the Vigilantes and that Charles was the backbone of them? Because if they do know, then that is all the more reason to keep him here and enlist the aid of the sisters. Anyone got any ideas?”

“Only that the waitress is eyeing us and wants us to leave. People are waiting for our table,” Dennis said.

“The kid's right,” Jack said. “We can move on down the street to the Squire's Pub and continue this conversation, or we can split up and think about this and meet up tomorrow. Let's take a vote. Lunch is on Dennis since he just came into a fortune.” Jack placed the bills under the saltshaker.

“I vote to adjourn to the Squire's Pub,” Ted said. “I sent Tom Murphy a text to fill in for me. Espinosa has Chuck Harris standing in for him. No news other than snow, so the two of us are good to go. Dennis goes wherever we go. What about you, Jack?”

“I had appointments with only two clients today, and both canceled because of the weather, so I'm good.”

“Harry?”

“Same here; my classes were canceled.”

“Abner?”

“Being self-employed gives me all the leeway I want. Let's hit the pub and do some serious talking.”

The waitress smiled tightly when she saw her party get up to leave. The smile took on real meaning when she saw her tip. She waved good-bye.

It was still flurrying when the group hit the sidewalk. “We'll be frozen by the time we walk three blocks since we're walking into the wind. A nice hot toddy will fix us right up, don't you think?” Ted said.

“I'll just have hot chocolate with those little marshmallows,” Dennis said. “You guys go ahead and drink, and I'll be the designated driver. And I can take notes.”