Eyes Only (8 page)

Maggie related the past day's events, with Ted and Dennis adding bits and pieces. She ended with, “The trip was a success, but we don't really have that much more than we did before. Ted and I both agree that Zack Phillips didn't give us the full skinny on the biological father. Here's the thing, though. Ted and I both feel—and I admit, it's our reporter's gut instinct here—that we are missing something. Can't put my finger on it, but it is nagging me.”

The women at the table laughed.

“We know what it is. Nikki came up with it earlier. We all missed it, too,” Yoko said.

“What?” the four new arrivals asked as one.

All eyes turned to Nikki. “You ready for this?” she asked.

The four new arrivals nodded.

“Think Hank Jellicoe!” Nikki exclaimed.

“Oh my God!” The words ripped out of Maggie's mouth like gunshots.

“Son of a bitch!” Ted blurted.

Espinosa was befuddled enough to take his hand out of Alexis's and throw his arms up in the air at the fact that he, too, had missed it.

“Who is Hank Jellicoe?” Dennis demanded.

“Before your time, kid. A really bad dude,” Ted responded. “Just follow along, and you'll catch up.”

The conversation ramped up, with everyone throwing out ideas and suggestions. Observations that might or might not mean something were offered up at the speed of light. Then they all wound down at the same time, with Alexis saying, “Now we wait.”

Ted decided to move on to his article in the morning paper and Annie's take on it.

“I thought you did a super job. It would be nice if we knew if Angus Spyder reads the
Post.
I'm not sure about my becoming a household name, however,” Annie said, laughing.

“Types like Angus Spyder read every newspaper on the market. That's how they stay ahead of the game, or at least that is what they want us to believe. The object of the five-day series of articles is to let him know how rich you are and that your wealth exceeds his. The philanthropic part will make him nuts because his type doesn't believe in giving or sharing. All they believe in is ‘Gimme more, more, more' and how to accumulate even greater wealth. I think it's safe to say the man doesn't have a generous bone in his body,” Ted said.

Maggie's cell chirped to life. She clicked it on, announced herself, then mouthed the word “Abner.” She listened as she scribbled notes on a pad next to Myra's phone on the counter. The others could hear her say, “Uh-huh. Yep. Sure. Oh. Good work, Abby. Thanks.”

“What?” the group asked as one.

“We now have the name of the orthopedic surgeon who worked on Gretchen Spyder. He's in Miami. Abner's hacking also gave him the name of the ob-gyn who delivered the twins. Abby said there is a note on Gretchen's chart that the surgeon didn't want Gretchen transported out of the hospital. Seems that the four people who came to get her convinced him otherwise, and he did sign off on her being moved, but only under protest. The hospital lawyers got involved and made the four men, each and every one of them, take full responsibility for Gretchen and agree that if something went awry, they could not come back and retaliate against Miami General. They all signed off on the agreement, and Gretchen Spyder was taken to one of those medical planes, never to be seen or heard from again. End of that story right there.”

“I don't think there's any point in going to Miami to talk with the surgeon. He won't tell us anything, because of the privacy laws. Keep his name and phone number, just in case. Also the ob-gyn's,” Myra said.

The others agreed.

“Now what?” Yoko asked.

“Like I said before, now we wait,” Alexis intoned as she reached for Espinosa's hand under the table.

Chapter 7

I
sabelle Flanders stood at the window of her London flat and looked out at the heavy spring rain. Normally, she liked a nice rainy day, but that was back in the day when her life was normal, which it decidedly was not anymore. She wanted to cry at her circumstances, but she bit down on her bottom lip so she wouldn't. Big girls didn't cry, especially when the reason they were crying in the first place was their own fault.

She was
sooo
done with England. She hoped she would never have to set foot on these shores again. What had seemed like a dream come true had turned into a nightmare. Not that the nightmare was her own fault. She should have bailed out months ago, gone home, and begged Abner's forgiveness—and the girls', too. But, no, stubborn mule that she was, she'd had to hunker down and not give in. Giving in was a sign of weakness.
Crap!

Like it was her fault the financial people behind the building of the new age city ran out of money. Or so they said. Was it her fault they didn't pay their contractors? How could all this happen when the consortium responsible said they had the queen's backing? The queen's backing to her meant the queen's money was being used. Unless it was all a lie, and she couldn't prove whether it was or it wasn't. And then there were those weird new people who had marched in and taken over. Just like that. The Brits were a tight-lipped lot, for sure, especially when it came to confiding in a Yank from across the pond.

Two months ago, her paycheck had been returned for insufficient funds. She was told to resubmit it. It was paid, and it was the last check she'd gotten. The very next day, when she reported to work, the building site was deserted, and a barricade was set in place. There was no way she could even get onto the site. She'd called every name she had stored in her phone, but no one had answered. Even if she were stupid, which she wasn't, she should have known that it was the end of the road, and that the new age city, her dream, was already crumbling to ashes as far as she was concerned.

Why she'd stayed on in this tiny London flat was beyond her. She turned when she heard the cell phone on the table, where she'd left it, ring. She walked over, but before she could answer it, the call went to voice mail. She waited, then clicked it on.
Maggie! Well, damn!
She listened to the message five times before she flopped down on a worn sofa that came with the rented flat. The ad in the paper had said elegant furnished flat. It was so far from elegant, she wanted to cry all over again.

Isabelle walked over to the tiny foyer, where her five bags were waiting to be taken down to her rental car for her trip home. Going home with her tail between her legs.
How humiliating.
As she stared at her bags, she wondered if her husband, Abner, would ever forgive her. Would the girls forgive her? She rather thought she would fare better with the girls than with her husband. She wondered if she was capable of begging her husband to take her back. She winced at the thought. Better to think about the message Maggie had left for her. She headed back to the living room to call Maggie.

A needle in a haystack. Didn't Maggie know how big the English countryside was? How was she going to find an American who bought a cottage four years ago in the English countryside? How? Maybe . . . She had made some contacts while she'd been here, like . . . Arnold Biberman. One of the biggest Realtors in London. She'd even had dinner with him, because he'd wanted to pick her brain on the new age city and to see if he could get an exclusive rental agreement. Now that the entire project was down the drain, she wondered if he would even talk to her. She hadn't exactly given a promise, but she had alluded to the fact that she would do her best to help him out because she liked him. Well, it was worth a try. If she struck pay dirt by some wild stretch of the imagination, she wouldn't be going back home empty-handed.

Isabelle scrolled through her contact list and pressed in the digits for Biberman's number. She was surprised when he answered the phone himself. She identified herself, said why she was calling.

“It's kind of urgent, Arnold. I'm leaving for the States tomorrow. By the way, this flat will be available for rental at noon tomorrow. I've cleaned it up, and it looks better than the day I moved in. So, can you help me or not?” She listened. “That's fine, Arnold. I'm not leaving till tomorrow. Like you said, it might be easier than we think, since not that many Americans buy cottages in the English countryside. Call me when and if you find something.” She listened again and then said, “Of course I'll miss all of you. I won't miss your weather, though.” She forced a laugh she didn't feel and broke the connection.

Back in the foyer, Isabelle rummaged in one of her bags for her laptop, yanked it out, and carried it over to the small table in the living room. She booted it up and typed in the name Greg Albright. Two hours later, she closed up the laptop and walked out to the mini kitchen to make a pot of coffee that she didn't really want or even need. She almost dropped the wire basket when her cell phone buzzed to life.

“You actually found the needle in the haystack?” Isabelle said in wonder. “Amazing. And you have a phone number! Glory be! Of course I want it. And directions to the cottage. Arnold, you never cease to amaze me. The next time I find myself on your shores, I will spring for the biggest dinner you have ever had in your life. Seriously, thank you.”

“Ah!” Did she dare call Greg Albright, or should she head out to the cottage? Even with the bad weather, it shouldn't take her more than an hour each way. She didn't have anything else to do to while away the hours until the crack of dawn, when she would leave for the airport. She ran to her bags and rummaged again for her rain gear. Five minutes later, she was out of the flat and down at the parking area, map in hand. She closed her eyes and relished the adrenaline rush seeping through her. Damn if she wasn't excited. Very excited.

Ninety minutes later, Isabelle pulled onto the gravel driveway of a small cottage. She opened the car door and stepped out onto the driveway. It was hard to see details through the rain, but it looked enticing. A smattering of spring flowers were already blooming; others, just poking through the soft, loamy earth. The shade trees were starting to bud, and a few were already in full leaf. She peered through the rain to see that the cottage looked to be in good repair. It looked quaint, with its Dutch doors and heavy black hardware in the back, probably the kitchen area. She particularly liked the diamond-paned windows. From where she was standing, she could see that the porch was tiny, just barely big enough to hold two caned rocking chairs.

She ambled along a well-manicured walkway of colored flagstones bordered by bright yellow daffodils to a pristine white front door. She gave the knocker a resounding bang and stood back. When there was no response, she banged it again, then a third time. Finally, the door opened to reveal a tall, muscular man with a deep frown on his face.

Before Isabelle could utter a word, he said, “Whatever you're selling, I don't want or need. I didn't invite you here, so please turn around and leave.”

“Will you please listen to me, Mr. Albright? Please. Then if you don't like what I'm telling you, I'll walk away, but at least listen. I'm an American, like you. In fact, I'm returning to the States tomorrow morning. A friend asked me to check on you. It's rather complicated, and you really need to speak to the people who asked me to find you. It's about . . . Gretchen Spyder.”

The man's face lit up like a football field at night. “Gretchen! Why didn't you say so? Come in, come in.”

“I thought I just did. Tell you about Gretchen, that is.”

“Right, right. Please come into the parlor and sit. Tea, coffee?”

“Thank you, no. I hate tea, and I'm coffeed out.”

Isabelle looked around. It was a pretty little place, with chintz-covered furniture, a wood-burning fireplace. The tables looked like they were handmade and sturdy. There was no clutter. A man's place. But definitely homey. And yet it felt empty to Isabelle. It smelled good, though, like he had cooked something earlier or something was baking.

“Tell me about Gretchen,” Albright said with a catch in his voice.

“I can't tell you anything. But I can call the person who asked me to find you, and she can answer all your questions.”

Albright rubbed his hands through his thick hair, his eyes alight with something Isabelle couldn't define. Love maybe.

Isabelle punched in the numbers for Maggie, and when Maggie came on the phone, Isabelle grinned at the exuberant greeting. “Whoa! Listen, I'm sitting in Mr. Albright's living room, as we speak. He has questions that I can't answer. I'm going to turn him over to you.” Isabelle handed the phone to Albright, who walked away toward his kitchen. She could hear him talking, but not distinctly. She walked over to the window to stare out at the rain. It hadn't let up at all.

Isabelle felt twitchy, nervous. Maybe she should have eaten something. What was Maggie telling Albright? She knew enough background now to worry that things were going to escalate fast. If she had found this guy, someone else could find him just as easily, if all that Maggie had said was spot-on. She clenched her fists and unclenched them.

Isabelle felt his presence before he spoke. She whirled around and was stunned at the tortured look on the young man's face. He returned her cell phone to her. She waited.

Albright rubbed his hands across his face, then through his hair. “I don't know what to say. I feel like I've been kicked in the gut by a mule. I just recently learned that I'm a father, the father of twins. I had no idea, no clue. I hadn't even known Gretchen was pregnant until a friend, Zack back in the States, told me. I don't understand why she didn't tell me. It all makes sense now.

“I don't know what to do. The lady on the phone—she said her name was Maggie Spritzer—suggested I return to the States tomorrow with you. She said if you found me, then Gretchen's father's people will find me. She explained as much as she knew about what's going on. Jesus, all this time I've been sitting here like an idiot, waiting for Gretchen to come and knock on my door. Talk about being a fool!”

“I'm just the messenger, Mr. Albright. I know Maggie very well. If her advice is for you to return with me, it would be wise to do just that. From what I'm told about him, Mr. Spyder, Gretchen's father is . . . an unsavory character, to put it mildly. And that despite the fact, or maybe because, he is either the richest or at least one of the richest people in the world. He wants those children. And from what I understand, when that man wants something, he's going to get it, no matter what. Nothing will stand in his way. Your children are safe, with parents who love them. I get it that you didn't know until very recently, and that alone might give you grounds to fight for them on your own, but do you really want to disrupt those children's lives and rip them away from the only parents they've ever known?

“Gretchen herself is the one you need to speak with. I don't know how you can make that happen. I truly don't. If her father finds you, he will dangle you as bait for his daughter and use you for his own ends, getting possession of those children. And that is exactly what they would become, his possessions. You know her better than I do. What will she do?”

Albright shrugged. “I thought I knew her. I loved her. I still love her. I never understood why she didn't get in touch or join me, the way she promised. Now that you and Zack have told me about her accident, I don't feel quite as much a fool. She loved me. She did. She never talked much about her family. She did say one time that she wanted to get as far away from her father as she could. But then she went on to say there was no place on earth that he couldn't find her. I hate to admit this, but I thought she was being overly dramatic.

“She did tell me to buy this place under an assumed name, but things didn't work out with that plan. The Brits are a cautious lot. So I guess you are right in that respect. Buying it under my own name with Gretchen's money was a mistake. Since Zack called, I have been trying to adjust to the fact that I have two children, twins.”

“You really don't, Mr. Albright. The children are no longer yours or Gretchen's. I suppose a case might be made for you since you did not know about them and did not agree to their being adopted, but I'm no lawyer. Right now, the children are all that matter. The Domingos have your children, and it was all done legally. The fact that their mother lied is going to be a problem, and you are now part of that problem. I'm sure, considering the circumstances, that if things can be worked out, the Domingos would let you be part of the twins' life. Gretchen, too, if she wants. Not so Gretchen's father. So, what are you going to do?”

“I don't know. Sit here and think. That Maggie person gave me her number to call if I decide to head back to the States. She warned me that the airports are probably on alert, should my name pop up. She said that's how much clout Gretchen's father has. I don't know the first thing about how to go about getting a bogus identity. Do you?”

Isabelle laughed. She couldn't remember when she had last laughed. “As a matter of fact, I do. Let me make a phone call.”

Albright stared at Isabelle like she'd sprouted horns, then shook his head and shrugged.

Isabelle walked over to the window and made her call to Avery Snowden. She talked quickly, explaining the situation, then motioned that she needed a pen and paper. Albright tripped over his own feet in his haste to get them to her. Isabelle scribbled furiously. “And the amount?” She listened and nodded before she broke the connection.

“Do you have a car, Mr. Albright? If you do, is it in your name?”