Payback by Fern Michaels Page A

remember the number. That had to mean he hadn’t called his buddy in a long time. He fumbled for his address book and dialed Mark’s cell phone. The FBI agent picked up on the third ring. Jack identified himself and they talked pleasantries until Mark said, “I hope to hell you aren’t calling me because you want me to get you some information from the FBI database.”
    “Nah. I want you to meet me for a drink. I have a story to tell you and I need your analytical input. Yeah, I’m paying. I invited you, didn’t I? No, Nikki and I are on the outs. Actually, she dumped me. Yeah, yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. She’ll never find anyone half as good as me. Yeah, I’m saying that with a straight face. Seven o’clock at Mc Guire’s. See ya, buddy.”
    Jack spent the next few hours going over his finances. If he sold his skis, his snowboard, his snorkeling gear, took cash advances on his credit cards that were almost to the max, plus what he could wrangle out of his 401K, he should be able to get through the month, pay his rent, his car payment, the minimum on his plastic and eat macaroni and cheese, and peanut butter and jelly, he might squeak by. But, just in case, he went online and applied for a new credit card and then filled out the forms to increase his credit line on his existing cards.
    His mind going full blast, he headed for the shower. He emerged feeling almost like his old self. It was always this way when he was closing in on the tail end of a case.
    With nothing else to occupy his time, Jack went back on the computer to do more searches on the women who played cards at Pinewood.
    Two hours later, Jack walked back to the kitchen, this time for a beer. Alexis Thorne’s case bothered him. Nothing in her background even alluded to the fact that she was dishonest. On the contrary. She’d protested her innocence, said she was set up, but she was convicted anyway. She was from a poor black family but she’d worked her way through college. She belonged to the drama club because she wanted to be an actress but didn’t have the talent, so she’d gone into costume and makeup and learned all the tricks of the trade.
    When she graduated from college she’d gone to work in a small brokerage firm where she was able make use of her education while still pursuing her drama hopes by volunteering her services for Little Theater. Her mentor, a guy named Cyril Therman, had bequeathed his “bag of tricks” to Alexis on his death bed. Or so said the only interview Alexis had ever given after being convicted of securities fraud. Some smart-ass lawyer must have told her a good human interest story would go a long way at her sentencing. It hadn’t.
    Jack went back to his map on the wall and wrote the words makeup, costumes, disguise. It sort of went with Dr. Webster’s specialty, plastic surgery. Underneath he wrote the word “innocent” with a large question mark. His heart started to thump in his chest when he moved down to Isabelle Flanders’s name. She, too, said she was innocent. Said one of her trusted employees was driving the car that killed a family.
    Two women who claimed to be innocent of the crimes they were convicted of.
    Well, what have we here? A lot of loose ends. Maybe Mark would see something he wasn’t seeing. Maybe.
    Seven o’clock couldn’t come soon enough for him.

     

    It was like every other bar in D.C. All mahogany, brass, and sawdust on the floor. A local watering hole for the young hipsters and government workers. The only problem was you couldn’t hear yourself think, much less carry on a conversation. However, it was a good place to ogle the sleek young female lawyers with their tight suits and roving eyes. With no interest in ogling anyone, Jack had chosen seven o’clock to meet up with Mark because the five o’clock crowd was starting to leave and the evening customers hadn’t arrived yet. He figured he had a forty-five minute window to tell Mark his story and get his