Chapter 16
Lionel Marks, the owner of District Management LLC, glared at the morning edition of the Post as he watched e-mail after e-mail ping to life on his computer. Just minutes ago he’d slammed into his plush offices and bellowed to his secretary to hold all his calls and to lock the office doors. He’d made a stupid mistake coming into the office, one he now regretted.
The staff, which numbered nine altogether, looked at one another and knew instinctively to keep their heads down and do as instructed. The boss was in an uproar. Rightly so, they all thought smugly. Lionel Marks was not a beloved boss—he was a hated boss, but he paid well, and his benefits package was for the most part worth the aggravation.
Marks looked at the stack of pink message slips, his insides crunching into a tight knot. Landlords—the most hated people on earth next to the people who managed the landlords’ properties—were right up there with used-car salesmen and insurance agents, and their agents, who were responsible for keeping their names out of the public eye. Today’s edition of the Post stared up at him like a large, square, benevolent eye.
Marks let his thoughts go to his beloved Mercedes, which was nothing but a shell sitting at the curb in SE Washington. Damn scavengers. Should he report it or suck up the loss? Well, he had another Mercedes, so it really didn’t matter all that much in the scheme of things. Then again, it did matter. He looked down at the printed page of the newspaper, which had a full frontal shot of himself, his lips drawn back in a snarl. Christ! He looked like a rabid dog.
As Marks read the article under his picture, he had to marvel at how the reporters had gathered so much information in such a short period of time; unless, of course, they had this all planned and were just waiting to spring a trap on him. His gut told him that this was just the tip of the iceberg. He tore his eyes away and started to finger through the stack of pink message slips. Nine from Fiona Sandford. Who else. Like her politician husband could be bothered even to comment on ownership of all his properties in SE Washington. Keep the secret at all costs. It’s all about the P&L sheets. “Bastard!” He wondered how long it would be before all the alphabet agencies in town started crawling up his ass. Days, he decided if those two reporters had anything to do with it. He could see this being front-page fodder for weeks to come. And right before Christmas, too, when news was usually slow here in the nation’s capital. He’d get a full-court press for sure.
Marks turned on the TV and watched in horror as the local station showed its viewers all the activity going on in the SE. He saw his car and winced. He turned up the volume and listened to a shivering reporter as she tried to keep the hair out of her eyes. “All this,” she said, waving her arms to indicate the power-company trucks, water-company trucks, civilian contractors, three different exterminating companies, and people clotting the streets, “is the result of an unknown benefactor who has pledged to give the people living here a decent home. The benefactor, who chooses to remain anonymous at this time, has vowed to go after the slum landlords and the management company that has allowed these deplorable conditions to exist. If you all remember, it was exactly a year ago when three children died here on this same street. Until today . . .”
Sick to his stomach, Marks turned off the TV and slumped back in his chair. No way in hell was this going to go away. He picked up the phone and dialed Fiona Sandford’s private, unlisted number. She snarled a greeting after only one ring. “What do you have to say for yourself, Lionel?”
Marks bolted upright in his special ergonomic chair. There was plenty he wanted to say to the bitch talking to him and to her highfalutin lieutenant governor husband. He took a deep breath and marveled at how steady he felt, how much in control of himself. “I think you should be more worried about what you and your husband are going to say, not me. I’m just a hired gun following orders, so you and your husband can remain lily-white. I’m rather busy right now, so I’m sure you can understand if I cut this conversation short. So, if you have nothing else to say to me, I’m hanging up. Oh, wait just one minute. If I’m forced to, I will give you up. You do realize that, don’t you?” Whatever retort was hanging off Fiona Sandford’s collagen-enhanced lips went unsaid because Marks broke the connection. She’d call back—she always did—because she was relentless.
A knock sounded softly, hesitant. “What?” Marks bellowed.
His secretary, a dumb blonde if there ever was one, in his opinion, poked her head in the door and announced that three different reporters were in the lobby asking for comments, and no, none of the three were from the Post. “Tell them I have no comment at this time and do not bother me again. If you do, you’re on the unemployment line.” The door made no sound when it closed.
A monster headache was brewing behind Lionel Marks’s eyes. He knew what he was experiencing was the beginning of the end. Time to pack up and head for the hills. In his case, Hong Kong, where he could get lost among the millions of people who lived there. He owned multiple properties in the New Territories, where he could hide out for the rest of his life if need be. He just wasn’t sure he could live in that culture. Still, when he’d made his plans for a getaway years ago, he’d convinced himself it would work. If it didn’t, then he’d go to Plan B, which was to relocate to Dubai. Now that the time was here, suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Especially if reporters were going to start to dog him.
Marks thought about his wife then and his three children, who were grown and off on their own for the most part. He gave little thought to his four grandchildren. He wouldn’t miss any of them. They, on the other hand, needed his money to keep up their lifestyles, especially his wife, who thought money grew on trees. If he left, he’d just simply walk away, no baggage, and head for the airport. He wouldn’t look back, either. But he was going to need a foolproof disguise if any of it was to happen. He had long ago invested in an alias, complete with a full set of credentials in case a hasty departure was called for. His long, manicured fingers drummed the top of his shiny desk. Christmas. Maybe he could hold out, bluff it through till after the holidays to try to keep things as normal as possible. Then again, maybe he should start putting his exit plans into gear right now.
Marks still kept an old-fashioned Rolodex on his desk. He fingered the cards, mentally cataloging how much money he made a year off each client. If even one of them thought they could make him their scapegoat, he’d throw their sorry asses under the bus so fast, they wouldn’t know what hit them.
Time, he thought, to bring out his Rosetta Stone to brush up on his Chinese.
While Lionel Marks was rummaging for his Rosetta Stone disks, Annie de Silva was showing that morning’s edition of the Post to Myra. “The kids did a great job on the article, don’t you think, Myra? I see Ted and Dennis playing this out for a Pulitzer, and that’s a plus for the paper. I saw on the news this morning that the tenants in the article have an anonymous benefactor. I have to assume it’s young Dennis, and that’s a good thing from where I’m standing. I just love it when right wins out. Maggie is rather upset that Ted has moved on and is doing his own thing. She called me last night, I think in the hopes that I would reel him in so that she could control what he does. I hated to do it, Myra, but I had to tell her it was hands off where he is concerned because I know that if she baits him too much, he’ll up and leave. And if he goes, so will Joseph and Dennis. I can’t have that. Tell me what you think. Was I wrong?”
“Good heavens no, Annie. You are the boss. Sometimes, you seem to forget that. Ted is exemplary, and so is Dennis. I’ve yet to meet a photographer who can hold a candle to Joseph. The paper would falter without them. Maggie has to learn to put her personal feelings aside. Although I do understand what she is going through. You know what they say, business is business, and there is no room for personal vendettas.”
Annie got up to pour more coffee in their cups. “She’s also upset that the private detectives have come up with nothing, which is rather strange in itself.”
Annie eyed the long, narrow length of yarn Myra was working on. “Isn’t it time to give that up?” she said, pointing to the pile of messy yarn at Myra’s feet.
“Are you serious, Annie? If I did that, how would my friend Claudeen out in Arizona—your friend, too, I might remind you—who spent hours on Skype teaching me how to knit, feel. I can’t just quit. I’m getting better, and you know it. I would never want her to think I wasn’t trying. I know I’ll never be able to knit like she does for the terminally ill at hospice. She loves that yarn ministry we put together. My goal is to help out as soon as I get good enough.
“Hopefully, sooner or later, I’ll improve. We need to recruit more knitters for the ministry. When I think about all those gorgeous afghans Claudeen makes for terminally ill patients, I get all choked up. She’s a really good person, as you know. Swear to me, Annie, that you won’t tell her what a messy knitter I am. It would break her heart.”
“I’m not going to tell her. Why don’t you tie it off or whatever you have to do to finish it and let the dogs lie on it by the fire?”
Myra sighed as she packed up her knitting. “I tried that, but they get their nails caught in the stitches because they’re too loose or something. Let’s not talk about this anymore, all right?”
“What do you want to talk about, Myra? Christmas?”
Myra let loose with another long sigh. “It is fast approaching. We could get in the car and drive to Yoko’s nursery and pick up the Christmas wreaths that she’s holding for us. I’m not sure anyone will be joining us this year, and I guess that’s why I didn’t really make any plans for a party or a get-together. It might be just you and me. How sad is that, my friend? And we have to help Nellie with Elias. We promised. It’s just one Christmas, Annie. Elias has to come first.”
“I haven’t heard from anyone in quite a while; well, there was that disastrous luncheon, but no one has called to check in. It’s like we’re forgotten. I don’t like the feeling, Myra. You’re absolutely right about Nellie and Elias—they have to come first. Nellie didn’t say it out loud, but I don’t believe she thinks that Elias will be around for another Christmas.”
Myra fingered her pearls, which adorned her neck, her lifeline to life. “I don’t either, but there’s not much we can do about that. I suppose we could go to Vegas, so you can stir up some trouble. But even that has lost its allure.”
“Myra, look at me. What’s your feeling on our going to the FBI and asking them to initiate a search for Charles? I’ll even throw Fergus into the mix if we can make it work for us. The papers have been full lately about Jack Sparrow taking over the directorship of the Bureau. Of course, that would have to wait till January if he takes office, which I’m sure will come to pass. That would still mean from now to then, we are sitting here doing absolutely nothing.”
“Okay, we’ll think about it. Get dressed, and let’s go to see Yoko. She might have some kind of news. We could even pop in at Nikki’s firm to see how she and Alexis are doing. What do you say?”
“I say let’s go. I’m driving because I want to get us there today, not tonight, the way you drive.”
“You’re such a critic, Annie, but I love you anyway.”