Eyes Only (12 page)

Jellicoe's cell phone buzzed. He clicked it on, listened, then frowned. What the hell difference did it make if Gretchen Spyder was reading about Countess Anna de Silva's visit to the island or not? Obviously, his overexuberant operative thought it was worth mentioning. Because all snitches were rewarded with bonuses at the end of the month. Rule number one with Angus Spyder. “What is she looking at now?” he asked with a bite to his tone.

“She's checking a sale at Nordstrom on shoes that are called Crocs.”

“And you think this is noteworthy, Minnelli?”

“The man himself said he wants everything. No matter how silly or inane. You backed it up, boss. She's moved on now to some waitress who was given a hundred-dollar tip by some patron who liked the way she served his table.”

“Say good night, Gracie,” Jellicoe said, clicking off his cell phone. Why couldn't that ugly bastard just lie down and die?
Only the good die young.
Now where had he heard that old tried-and-true saying? He rather thought there was a song by that title. He slammed his fist down on the table with such force, the ashtray, filled to the brim, dumped its contents out over the table. Another mess to clean up.

Jellicoe reached for his baseball cap, which said
SPYDER ISLAND SECURITY
on the brim, and mashed it down over his head. He reached for his specially tinted sunglasses, fixed them in place, and left his spartan house. A ten-thousand-square-foot house that had one bed, one footlocker, one easy chair, one seventy-two-inch television, plus a kitchen table with four chairs. Plus all the monitoring equipment that was a requirement of the job. But that was just the first floor. He hated the place, called it a rat hole in his mind. Hated it almost as much as he hated Angus Spyder.

Outside, in the hot, humid air, Jellicoe let his thoughts go once again to the imminent arrival of Countess Anna de Silva. Then he threw his head back and laughed until he was breathless when he remembered how Angus Spyder had hit the ceiling the morning he'd read in the
Post
that de Silva had more money than he did. He'd screamed at the top of his lungs for his lackeys to explain how that was possible. Shivering and quaking, almost in tears, the team of grown men hired to account for his fortune had suffered through the tirade with the only answer they could give, which was that it was true and that numbers didn't lie. Thirteen minutes later, the nine-man forensic team was being ferried off the island. The following day, a new set of number crunchers arrived. Angus Spyder had not been the same ever since.

He now knew without a shadow of a doubt that the only way to get to Angus Spyder was money. Now, if he could make a plan that worked, he'd be home free, and Spyder's ugly, evil body would be at the deep end of the ocean. And the Domingo family would remain safe and sound.

Hank Jellicoe now had a new mission in his life.

Chapter 11

G
reg Albright, aka Stephen Wolansky, looked around Myra's kitchen at the gaggle of people staring at him. Who were these people? Was he supposed to say something? What? He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and plunged right in. “I think you people just kidnapped me. I know what that lady . . . What's her name? Oh, yeah, Isabelle something or other . . . I know what she said to me back in England, but I'm not buying into that crap. Kidnapping is kidnapping, and we're on American soil now. Look at me!” he barked. “I'm not even Greg Albright anymore. I'm some dude named Stephen Wolansky, and I have a badge that says I'm an FBI agent. Okay, folks, you're all under arrest, and I'm outta here!” he said dramatically as he crouched into a shooter's stance, pretending he had a gun.

When no one moved or said anything. Albright sat down hard on one of the kitchen chairs. But he wasn't finished quite yet. He reared back up and barked a second time. “Oh, yeah, now another thing you're telling me is I'm going on yet another vacation, to some goddamn island I never even heard of, where the very rich and famous frolic, and where I might, that's as in might, get to see the woman I love. But that's only if her crazy-ass father doesn't find me first and kill me if I don't sign my kids over to him, kids I didn't even know I had until a few days ago. How am I doing so far, folks?”

“That's pretty accurate up to a point,” Annie said. “Knowledge is a powerful thing, Mr. Wolansky. But knowledge that you do not need can also get you into a peck of trouble. It can even get you killed. How'm
I
doing so far?”

“Why do I feel like I just fell through the rabbit hole?”

“In a manner of speaking, you just did, dear,” Myra said. “I know we came at you out of the blue, but someday we're all hoping you will thank us for saving . . .”

“Your sorry ass,” said Kathryn, always the most outspoken of the group, finishing what Myra was in the middle of saying.

“You're the
only ones
who are saying my sorry ass needs to be saved. I want to see some
proof.
Another thing, I could go to jail for impersonating an FBI agent. Did any of you think of
that?
Oh, I get it. It's my sorry ass, so it isn't your problem.”

Nikki stood up, then leaned over the table to stare at Albright. “I would think you would be a little more grateful to us. You have no idea what could have happened to you without our intervention. You want proof? Okay, here's your proof.” She nodded to Myra to produce the proof Albright had requested.

Myra walked over to the little kitchen cubby where she kept her laptop computer, and reached up to the shelf above to remove a cardboard box loaded with all the information they'd gathered to date on Gretchen Spyder, the Domingos, the twins, the lawsuit, and Angus Spyder himself. She plopped it down in front of Albright. “Take your time. The rest of us will be in the dining room, having lunch. Feel free to join us when and if you feel like it.”

“He's a wild card,” Ted said, after they were all seated around the dining room table.

Always a defender of the underdog, Dennis reached for a ham on rye. “Try putting yourself in his place, Ted. First off the bat, he didn't even know he was a father, much less a father of a set of twins who were given up for adoption without his even knowing about it. So he's in love with a woman who did him dirty. He's still loyal to that love, so how can you blame him for that? In the end, I believe that Gretchen Spyder was trying to protect him and the twins from her evil father. I do believe she would have found a way somehow to join him at some point. Unfortunately, fate intervened, just the way it did with Marie and Sally when they left me their Welmed fortune. If nothing else, I am a believer in faith. You should try it sometime.

“Not only that, the guy is just a regular guy. He's not into all this spook stuff. I bet the closest he's ever been to a cop is for maybe a speeding ticket, and I even doubt that. He strikes me as the kind of guy who obeys the rules and got caught up in something beyond his control. So, let's all ease up on him, okay?”

Dennis looked around when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. “Well said, kid,” Harry murmured loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Let's move on here,” Maggie said just as she bit into a pastrami sandwich loaded with so much spicy brown mustard, it oozed out of the sandwich. “Ted and I attacked the infrastructure, what we could find of it for Angus Spyder. The guy wasn't hatched from an egg. Nor was he flown here on a UFO.”

While Maggie chewed her way through her sandwich, Ted picked up where she left off. “With Abner's help, we hit cyberland running. Using the word
spy,
we ran through millions of possibilities. But, with Abner's skill, we managed to center on Russia, and that's where we think Angus Spyder was hatched. We found a family named Spyovich that had a boy child named Feodor, who would be around Angus Spyder's age. At some point, Feodor lit out on his own, but we found some pictures a relative posted on Russia's version of Facebook, and I can believe that that guy is as physically ugly as everyone says he is, since the picture we found of him as a kid is even uglier. Obviously, he changed his name along the way. We are still tracking him. We found nothing on the wife, but Russian women are not named Felicia. Nor are Russian men named Angus. Those are Anglo names.”

“That's good work,” Jack said.

“And we have the sleepless hours to prove it,” Maggie snapped. “One thing is for certain. The guy knows how to make a buck and how to hang on to it.”

“There is also that little business Jellicoe bragged to Charles about starting up,” Ted said. “We have to factor that into this whole mess. Then, when Snowden got lax, Jellicoe just flew the coop and went on the run. We all know about Spyder's Internet launch called Spy Trap. It's the world's largest Internet security firm. I can't prove this, but a thug like Spyder strong-arms his way in the world. He's his own Russian mob. There is no way that Angus Spyder, or Feodor Spyovich, could come up with something as sophisticated as Spy Trap.

“Someone like Jellicoe would have to have been the brains behind that outfit. My personal opinion is that when Jellicoe took off, he went straight to Spyder Island and offered up Spy Trap to Angus Spyder for safety reasons. It was a trade-off, his life for the Internet security firm. Which, by the way, is worth billions upon billions. It's the only thing that makes sense, if we all truly believe Jellicoe is living on Spyder Island.”

“I'd stake my life on the premise that that's where Jellicoe is,” Nikki announced, venom ringing in her voice.

The others seconded her declaration.

Greg Albright appeared in the doorway, a newspaper clipping in his hand. His eyes were moist; his voice shaky. “These are my children?”

“Yes, they are, Mr. Wolansky,” Myra said gently. “Please sit down. Join us for lunch.”

His eyes on the clipping, Albright managed to croak out the words, “I'm not hungry. Just like that, she gave them away, my flesh and blood. Her flesh and blood, and she just handed them over to . . . to strangers?”

In a voice as gentle as Myra's, Jack said, “Yes, it would seem so. At first. But the more we learn, the more convinced we are that she did it to protect the children, you, and herself. This is all still a work in progress. Even though you don't believe us right now, we are trying to help you.”

Albright looked around at the group seated at the huge dining-room table. “If Gretchen's father is as evil and ruthless as you say he is, what do you”—he waved his arm about to indicate the lot of them—“think you can do? Look at you! A bunch of women, a couple of guys with good intentions. You plan on taking him out? Is that what you're saying? If that's your intention, I applaud your guts.”

The women as one stood up and glared at Albright.

“Did you just say, ‘A bunch of women'?” Nikki said in a voice that would have frozen milk.

“Yeah, and a couple of guys who want to play cowboys and Indians. None of you are instilling any confidence in me. Plus, I don't want to die. I'm too young to die.”

Abner, silent until then, rose very slowly from his seat at the table and said, “Do you know who these women are, Mr. Wolansky? They are not just a
bunch of women.
They're the
bunch of women
who virtually everyone in this country knew as the vigilantes. We, the guys with good intentions who want to play cowboys and Indians, are their backup.” Abner eyeballed the man in front of him and waited for the dawn to break in his eyes. When it did, he almost laughed out loud.

“Holy shit! Gretchen and I used to talk about . . . you . . . I guess. She donated a huge sum of money for something or other that would help you all. I even remember her saying she wished she could hire you. Holy shit! Okayyy, I'm good with all this now. Why didn't you say so in the beginning?”

“You see, here's the thing,” Yoko said sweetly. “We don't like to brag.” Albright gulped as she flopped down on a chair and reached for a sandwich. “I doubt you have any input, but if you do, we'd like to hear it. Give us the skinny on Gretchen, anything you remember, no matter if it's important or not. We need every scrap of information locked inside your head.”

“Well, lady, here's the thing,” Albright said, mimicking Yoko. “Gretchen did not talk about her family, other than to say how rich her father was. And she said that only because of her bodyguards and how she had to pay them to look the other way so we could see each other. There was only one time when I really pressed her to talk about her life growing up, her family, and what the future held for us. She got this faraway look in her eye, and she said that if I was going to persist in asking questions, then we would have to break it off. I didn't want that, because I loved her, and I never asked anything again.

“Gretchen wanted so badly to fit in with people, but she knew she didn't. This might sound corny, but she always looked fearful to me. The only time she was ever . . . a free spirit, for want of a better term, was when she was dancing. She was a really good dancer.”

“Didn't she ever talk about her mother, the lack of siblings?” Kathryn asked.

“She said her mother was beautiful, like a model. Said she went to Europe, to all the fashion shows, and then she laughed, telling me how her mother changed her clothes three times a day, complete with different jewelry, because she had so much. She also said no one ever saw her in all her designer duds except her father, Gretchen herself, and the servants.”

“Did you get the feeling there was any kind of closeness, family solidarity, that kind of thing?” Kathryn asked.

Albright rubbed at his temples as he struggled with his memories. Finally, he shook his head. “There was no love in that family, but I think, and this is just my own opinion, there was a lot of fear for both her mother and Gretchen herself.”

“And yet Gretchen was allowed to leave the island and attend college in Florida. That does not make sense,” Annie said.

“Yes, it does make sense. Gretchen had bodyguards around the clock, two shifts, two men each. Big guys, and they packed heat. They carried their guns in the back of their pants. I saw it myself. When I pointed it out to Gretchen, she said it was her father's paranoia because he was so rich. He thought she might be kidnapped. Now, that's a hoot, isn't it? I'm the one who got kidnapped,” Albright said, bitterness ringing in his voice.

“Even with all that, you two managed to carry on an affair right under their noses,” Isabelle said skeptically.

“Because Gretchen cut a deal with one of the guards. She paid him a lot of money to look the other way. I don't know about his partner. My guess would be he shared a part of his bribe with him. I do not know that for a fact. What I do know for a fact is I got to see Gretchen only when that one guy was on duty. Between times, we would each go to the library, log on to our computers, and e-mail each other back and forth for hours while we pretended to study. As far as I know, they, her guards, never caught on. Plus, they didn't sit anywhere near either one of us, because they stood out like bumps on a log. We made it work the best we could.”

“Did she ever say what nationality she was? Or where all her father's money came from?” Myra asked.

“No, as to nationality, but I think, and this is just a guess on my part, she understood Russian. At least I think it was Russian. Actually, she spoke several languages, because I heard her from time to time cussing in a foreign language when the guards got the best of her. As to the money, I did ask, and she said her father had his fingers into everything. Actually, she didn't refer to him as her father at all. She referred to him as SD. Finally, one day I asked her what the initials stood for, and she laughed till she cried. Sperm donor. She said all he had to do was touch something, and he made billions. She said she suspected most of it was illegal. I kind of laughed at that, but she was serious. She did say that he hit the jackpot, and those were her exact words, when he came out with his Spy Trap cyberthing.

“That's all I know. You can keep me here forever, and I won't be able to tell you another thing. I'm not lying. I'm telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“All right then. I'm sure you're tired from your trip across the pond. Jack, will you show Mr. Wolansky his room upstairs while we finish our preparations for our trip to Spyder Island the day after tomorrow?” Myra said.

“Sure thing. Let's go, Mr. Wolansky.”

“I hate that name. Why can't you call me Greg?”