Deadly Deals. Fern Michaels

      Myra’s hands flew to the pearls at her neck. “Oh, dear God!”

      “Okay, fun’s over. Time to get to work. Straight faces, everyone,” Kathryn said. “Let’s take the small safe and the digital gizmo, along with the instructions, into the living room and see which one of us is proficient at modern safe-cracking. I can’t believe that schmuck said my fingers are too thick. I think I have nice fingers. Rings look nice on my fingers.”

      “Give it up already,” Nikki snapped. “Do you hear me complaining that he said my fingers were stubby? I think we should push him off the mountain after he teaches us all he knows.”

      As they sat in the kitchen at the Post, Maggie scarfed down pancakes and sausages as she rattled off orders to Ted and Espinosa, who were trying to eat and take notes at the same time. “You can take Carmody with you if you feel you need more manpower. It’s your job to convince the Dawsons and Evanses to go public. I want family pictures, not the ones you had earlier. All new parents take pictures all day long. I want a regular gallery. I want sweet, I want sad, I want devastated. Now, listen to me carefully.” Maggie stopped eating long enough to show how serious she was about what she was about to say. “Only as a last resort are you to mention the vigilantes and their willingness to step in to help. You can mention that there will be financial aid to both families if they agree to go public and their employers terminate them because of the publicity. Take your food in a to-go bag and get on it. I want all this by noon, so get going.”

      “How am I going to eat waffles with syrup in a to-go bag?” Ted grumbled.

      “Get some toast and a banana,” Maggie said as she went back to her hearty breakfast. “Do a good job, and I’ll treat you to dinner at Martin’s in Georgetown. I’ll even call ahead to see if we can get John Kennedy’s favorite booth, the one where he proposed to Jackie. Booth three, or maybe booth one, where he would go to read the Sunday paper after Mass.”

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ted said as he galloped out of the kitchen, Espinosa on his trail.

      Forty minutes later, Maggie was back in her office. She took care of a few housekeeping details and settled down to wait for Lizzie Fox’s call. She took the three-hour time difference as a personal affront to her own busy schedule as she watched the latest happenings coming in over the wires. Her eyes narrowed to a squint as she stared at her computer.

      Santa Claus, aka Baron Bell, and his elves will arrive in his personal antique sleigh, complete with sleigh bells and his eight worthy steeds, on the South Lawn of the White House for the annual children’s Christmas party at the White House, hosted by President Connor and Baron Bell. The date is three days away.

      Maggie’s gaze raced through the news flash. Tree lighting. Tons of gaily wrapped gifts, snowballs.

      The ultimate in photo ops. No mention who would set the sleigh down in the snow on the South Lawn or how they would accomplish this feat. Or how the horses in their Christmas attire would get there. Probably by horse trailer. Security would be worthy of a summit meeting.

      Maggie pressed SEND. Five seconds later the article was on the way to the mountain.

      Maggie reached for her BlackBerry. She sucked in her breath, then let it out in a loud swoosh as she alerted Ted to what she’d just read. Headlines of every size and shape ripped through her mind. It looked to her like it was going to be one hell of a busy week. Gut instinct told her she might get two special editions out of the forthcoming events. “Yesss!”

      Promptly at nine o’clock East Coast time, Lizzie Fox called. They updated each other, made small talk, then got down to business. Maggie read to Lizzie the article that she’d just e-mailed to the mountain. Lizzie burst out laughing, knowing exactly what Maggie was thinking.

      “Maggie, before I keep my appointment with Baron Bell tomorrow, I am going to need written confirmation that the Evanses want me to represent them. I don’t want to give Baron Bell one inch of wiggle room. I also cannot solicit the Evans family. They have to come to me. Rachel Dawson said she would do her best to convince Beth Evans, who in turn would have to convince her husband.”

      “Okay. Ted is probably at the Dawsons’ right now. I’ll text him and tell him what he has to do. The Evanses live in Old Town in Alexandria, right?”

      “Yes. What’s going on, on the mountain?”

      Maggie told her. Lizzie giggled, and they both signed off.

      It was two o’clock when Ted and Espinosa loomed over her desk.

      “Do you have it all?” Maggie asked.

      “We do. That guy Evans was a hard nut to crack, but he went along with it in the end. I hate to admit this, but I think it was the vague promise that Lizzie was going to get their money back. But it could have been the mention of the vigilantes. I just don’t know. They’ve given up on getting the baby back, sad to say. We did our best, Maggie, but that couple is beaten down. They want to believe the paper can help. I did have to throw in the vigilantes, like I said. Mrs. Evans perked right up and said if her husband didn’t agree, she was leaving him. Listen, we’re going down to the cafeteria to get something to eat. It’s all there. Text me if there’s something you don’t understand. The pictures Espinosa got will break your heart. How soon do you need me to write it up?”

      “As soon as you’re done with lunch,” Maggie replied. “I’m not going to run with it just yet, but I want it ready in case I decide to go with a special edition. We’ve done all we can for the moment. Now we wait for Lizzie to see how things shake out. Check the wires while you’re eating, and let me know what you think about the Christmas party at the White House.”

      Maggie went back to her computer and downloaded the photos Espinosa had taken. Ted was right. There was nothing more beautiful than a new baby being held in his mother’s arms. In the case of the Dawsons, two babies. Absolutely nothing.

      Maggie continued downloading the pictures, her eyes misting up from time to time. The babies were beautiful. The two sets of parents looked haunted. Both young mothers looked vulnerable and fragile. The fathers looked bewildered.

      Maggie spread out the photos on her desk. First she lined up the babies. Then she put the pictures of the parents next to the babies. Her hands flew as she moved, shifted as she struggled to come up with a headline that would tell the story in three words or less.

      A sticky pad found its way to her hand. Readers would want names to go with the cherubs’ faces. The parents needed names, too. Mom and Dad? Beth and John? Rachel and Tom? Mom and Dad! Nurse, teacher, doctor, engineer? Robert, Rita, Benjy? What should she go with for her headline?

      Maybe she was going about this all wrong. Maybe she should put Baron Bell’s picture above the fold and go with a headline that applied to him. Like those pictures the New York papers printed about the most hated man in America: Bernie Madoff. Her reporter’s instinct told her people would care, but they’d move on. No, she had to go with the babies and the parents. The headline would come to her. She was sure of it.

      Eating always helped her think more clearly. How weird that she’d worked through her lunch hour. Maybe she needed to remove herself from what she was seeing for a little while. She could go to the cafeteria and get a corned beef on rye and whatever else they had that would complement the corned beef.

      On her way down in the elevator, Maggie’s fist shot in the air. Out of nowhere her headline hit her between the eyes. “You’re toast, Baron Bell!”