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  “She must have a lot of money,” Celeste murmured. “Either that, or she’s going to write a book the way all presidents do, and make a fortune. On the face of it, it means nothing other than a real-estate deal being consummated and a party going down that we were not invited to. I’m not actually seeing red flags here, Nessie.”

  Nessie raised her glass. “I notice you left the best for last, and the last is also a fact, Cee. Are you going to tell me those reporters from Washington going out to the camp to see and talk to Szmansky is a fluke, a coincidence? Citing charges of brutality. By the way, I think they’re still at the Inn. Explain to me as a fact, how that can be, Cee, unless this is all one big . . . conspiracy? The president and her people took over the whole Inn, yet those reporters are still there. I could hear Szmansky because you put him on speakerphone. He was nervous. When guys like that knucklehead get nervous, you know there’s trouble coming down the road.”

  “He got rid of them.”

  “They’ll go back. And I also notice you haven’t mentioned that twit reporter who was with the three stars from the Post, the one who wrote that story for the Baywater Weekly. Szmansky said he saw his credentials, and he now works for the Post, too. I’m sure that’s how that all came about. He went up to Washington, told his story to those reporters, and they think there’s a story here. And guess what? Here they are. Oh, and one other thing—no reporters from our daily paper are permitted anywhere near the Inn, on the president’s orders. The Post has it buttoned down tight. They get the story. They’re Pulitzer Prize-winning reporters, Cee. We have to pay attention to that.”

  “And you know this . . . how?”

  “You are out of it, Cee. I made as many phone calls as you did when we got home. People tell me things. While you were so damn busy calling the Health Department to shut down the salon, I was ferreting out all the information I could gather. People in this town dearly love to spread gossip, and today there is plenty to spread around.”

  Celeste raised her brimming glass of wine to her lips. When she set the glass back down, without spilling a drop, she’d consumed half the wine. “We have to pay attention to everything, Nessie. I’m glad you did what you did. I was angry with those people for making you wait. They’ll be closed for close to a month. No revenue for a month will hurt their bank accounts. They’ll think twice about making you wait the next time you go there. We have to dissect everything you found out, separate fact from gossip and wishful thinking, and go on from there. We should eat something.”

  Nessie opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl of grapes and a block of cheese and set them on the table. She rummaged in the cabinets and finally found a box of crackers. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Neither am I. I just said we should eat something,” Celeste said, popping a grape into her mouth. “What do you think we should do, Nessie?”

  “My first thought when I panicked was to cut and run. You’re right, though. If we do that, it will look like we’re guilty of something. I don’t know, and I’m being honest here, if I have the stomach to try and brazen this out if it grows legs. And then there’s Peter. What are your thoughts, Cee?”

  “My thoughts are all over the place. Why now? Why is this all happening now? Did something happen we don’t know about? If it really is Peter, and he’s back for real, is it possible he set all this in motion? We can’t even factor in Judge Rhodes’s retirement. That’s been in the works for the past six months. Rhodes isn’t even a catalyst, he’s a prop. The question is, a prop for what?”

  “We let ourselves get too complacent, Cee. Don’t even try to deny it. And this is where we are right now. What’s our next move?”

  “You are so right, Nessie. Now what we’re going to do is sober up, make some coffee, eat something, and settle down to figure things out. It will be okay, Nessie. You’ll see.”

  Nessie forced a smile. She didn’t believe one word her twin said. Not one word.

  Chapter 18

  The lobby of the Harbor Inn was quiet. There were no new guests registering, no activity in the dining room, no housekeeping maids bustling about. It was like a tomb even though the television in the corner was turned low. Ellie Stephens, the daytime desk clerk of the Harbor Inn for the past eight years, personally watered the lush plants just to have something to do. She’d finished the novel she was reading, skimmed through the old magazines on the rack, and completed three crossword puzzles. All she could do was sit behind the counter and watch the Secret Service agents outside the plate-glass window.

  She thought they were very unfriendly, never smiling, never making small talk. All in all, a mean-looking, tight-lipped group of people who made her nervous. The tall, barrel-chested agent stationed at the front door had warned her even before the president arrived that they would be monitoring the switchboard, and she was not to give out one iota of information concerning the president or any members of her party. When she’d gotten up the nerve to ask why the reporters from Washington were being permitted to stay in the hotel, the agent had glared at her and said it was a matter of national security and none of her business, and if she liked her job, she was not to mention the matter again. Ellie took that to mean the president okayed the reporters’ stay. Big-time reporters. Not like Sara Kingston or Abe Martin, who worked at the Sentinel, Baywater’s daily paper, and who called every fifteen minutes to ask if they could at least come by to talk to the Secret Service. She made short work of the calls and dutifully reported each and every one to the agent standing at the door.

  Ellie knew that when this was all over, and the president and her people left, she herself would be friendless. All the calls she’d ended, made short work of, were local people expecting her to part with juicy tidbits. Yes, she would be a pariah, and probably lose her job in the bargain.

  Ellie sensed the activity before she saw the small cluster of people by the front door. The big-time reporters were back from wherever they had gone and were now huddling with the Secret Service. She wondered if they were friends. She scribbled a note on a registration card along with the date and the time that the big-time reporters arrived. Maybe when this was all over, and she lost her job, she could sell her notes to one of the tabloids and make enough money to tide her over until she got a new job. She looked up at the wall clock, a jagged gilt sunburst affair that was part of the decor. Her shift would end in half an hour. Manny Salas would relieve her and work through the night. Next week, it would be her turn on the night shift. If she still had a job, that is. She kept scribbling, her head bent over her task.

  Maggie Spitzer took that moment to look through the plate-glass window. She knew in her gut that the desk clerk was making notes. She just knew it. She tapped one of the bogus Secret Service agents, then jerked her head in the direction of the desk clerk. To his credit, he understood exactly what she was saying. She looked over at Ted, jerked her head again, then whispered, “The girl is making notes, I guarantee it. Let’s pretend we’re having an argument, and one of you go around the back and come in from the side and catch her red-handed.”

  It worked like clockwork because Maggie and Ted were so in tune with one another. The bogus agent held up a card, while a tearful, jittery desk clerk wrung her hands as Maggie and her little band swept through the lobby. They stopped at the desk and stared at the quaking woman. “You want to give us your side?” Ted asked.

  “No, she doesn’t want to do that. Do you, Miss Stephens?” the bogus agent said.

  “Stephens? That’s your name?” Ted said, scribbling in the notebook he was never without. “First name?”

  “Ellie. Ellen. People call me Ellen, I mean Ellie,” she blubbered. “Oh, God, are you going to publish my name? I’m sorry. Please don’t do that. I need this job. I’m getting married in December. This isn’t . . . my family . . . Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

  “Treason is a terrible thing,” Dennis West said solemnly. “Who were you going to sell your information to? Spit it out! Now!”

  Maggie and
Ted gaped at Dennis, their jaws dropping.

  “Treason!” The single word was like a gunshot. “No one! I don’t know. Whoever would pay for it. That’s not treason.” Ellie took a sobbing breath and started to babble. “This isn’t treason. I’m not a terrorist. All I did was write down what time you all left and got here and how many phone calls came in through the switchboard. What’s treasonous about that? I WANT A LAWYER!” she cried suddenly, her voice rising to the point that her face turned red.

  Avery Snowden’s bogus agent stepped forward. “I bet you do. Think about this, Miss Stephens. If you didn’t do anything wrong, why do you need a lawyer? Lawyers cost a lot of money. You said you needed money. How can you afford a lawyer?”

  “I could make time payments. Because . . . because . . . that guy,” she said, pointing to Dennis West, “said I was committing treason. All I did was make some notes.”

  “This is what we’re going to do, Miss Stephens. You said you gave me all your notes. Is that a true and accurate statement?”

  “God, yes. I did. Search the desk if you don’t believe me.”

  “If I let this slide . . . and I said if, do you promise never to mention this to anyone, and that means your family and your boyfriend?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I will never ever mention this to anyone. I swear on the Bible. I could go to one of the rooms and get one if you want me to. We have Gideon Bibles in all the rooms here at the Inn. I’m sorry, really sorry. I like the president. I even voted for her. Honest,” Ellie continued to babble hysterically.

  The bogus agent looked at the reporters, and asked, “You guys okay with letting this slide? Ask yourself what does it do for your reporting when it comes right down to it. A line in the paper, and her life is ruined.”

  “A hell of a lot, that’s what!” Dennis said. “She looks guilty to me. Who’s to say she won’t do it again? Huh? Who’s to say? Just tell me that.”

  “Me. I say we quit while we’re ahead and give Miss Stephens time to calm down and see the error of her ways. She knows the power of the press, especially the power of the Post. Don’t you, Miss Stephens?” Ted said.

  “I do. I absolutely do. Oh, God, thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “All right then; no harm, no foul,” the agent said as he stuffed the two registration cards with the desk clerk’s scribbled notes into his pocket. “Go about your business now, folks.”

  Ellie Stephens collapsed onto her stool and dropped her head between her knees.

  The reporters scattered to the elevator. The moment the door closed, Ted grabbed Dennis West by the scruff of his neck, and said, “Do you have any idea what would have happened if she’d insisted on a lawyer? Well, do you, Dennis?”

  “I got carried away,” Dennis bleated. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “See that it never happens again. You need a muzzle,” Maggie said. “From now on, you don’t talk unless we tell you to talk. You got that, Mr. Newbie Reporter? Treason! Good God!” Espinosa burst out laughing. Ted openly guffawed.

  “Yes, I got it, and my lip is zipped. What’s so damn funny?”

  “You, you idiot!” Maggie said.

  “What’s our game plan?” Ted asked.

  “I’m going to shower and change. You guys call Myra and see what they want to do. Call me on my cell and tell me wherever we’re to meet.”

  Ninety minutes later, Martine Connor’s suite was full of people all talking at once. It took another forty minutes to bring everyone up to speed on the day’s activities and what had just transpired in the lobby with the desk clerk.

  “Do we have any kind of dollar figure where the twin judges are concerned?” Pearl asked. “I’m referring to the camps and the revenue they bring in.”

  “This is what we know for a fact,” Ted said, referring to his little tattered notebook. “The boot camp properties are like twenty to twenty-five acres each and are owned by the Ciprani judges. The properties came to them upon the death of their brother, Peter. At one time, the Ciprani family owned a goodly part of the state of Maryland. Those four parcels of land plus several up on the Bay, along with the family home, were all that was left after they fell on hard financial times. The twins lease the boot camp properties to the state for an astronomical sum of money. Call it rent. The twin judges paid for the actual structures themselves. The state has five-year leases that have been renewed three times. I don’t have the exact amounts as yet but I do know it’s in the millions. High millions. Plus the state pays for every person incarcerated at the camps. We’re all working on getting precise amounts. I think by tomorrow we should have something concrete.”

  “The camps are solid, at least the one we saw. Log-cabin style. The bedrooms are dormitory style. Each bunk has a foot locker for personal items. There are six dormitories and four communal bathrooms. The place is very clean and neat. The kitchen was clean; I saw plenty of food, and I also looked at the menu tacked on the wall. Good solid, nutritional food. Vitamins are given to the kids. At least that’s what one of the signs on the bulletin board says. There’s a pool, a tennis court, a gym. Appearance-wise, it looks like a perfect place to send kids. Almost like a summer camp. Except for the fence and the razor wire,” Maggie said.

  “And the commandant with the rifle,” Espinosa said. “Of the one hundred and sixty kids at that camp, Dennis West spoke to a hundred and twenty of the families. When you read the files, you can readily see that not one of those hundred and twenty kids should have been sent to that camp or any other. I’m sure that if Dennis had had the time to interview the other forty families, he would have come up with the same results. Those kids simply did nothing serious enough to be ripped from their parents and sent to a boot camp. This is all about greed and money.”

  The ever-practical Nellie asked what the expenditures were per month.

  “We’re working on that, too, Your Honor. We’ll have it down to the penny, trust me on that,” Ted said. “I know you’re working on it, too, so whoever gets it first speak up, so we don’t duplicate the effort.”

  “And this has been going on for how long?” Annie asked.

  “Almost twenty years as far as we can tell. You need to factor in the age of the twins as well as the brother. Some of the info is on the fuzzy side. The five-year leases have been renewed three times, so whenever the current lease is up, that will be twenty years. One of them is up in February. We haven’t been able to find out the incorporation date as yet. Another thing we haven’t been able to get the details on is when Peter Ciprani disappeared. He traveled a lot and was back and forth, then he just never returned. We do know the year the twins had Peter declared dead. That’s the year they probably incorporated. We just aren’t sure.”

  “These camps . . . Are just children from Maryland sent there or do they take children from other states?” Myra asked.

  Dennis West raised his hand, his lips clenched tight.

  Ted tried to hide his smile. The kid did listen. “Go ahead, Dennis.”

  “There are some kids there from Virginia and Delaware. As soon as there is an opening, someone makes sure the spot is filled. They actively recruit agencies in Virginia and Delaware, but the vast majority of the enrollment is from Maryland.”

  “Why hasn’t someone done something before now?” Annie asked. “How did they get away with this for so long?”

  “Fear,” Dennis said.

  “I understand the fear factor, but once a kid leaves, serves his sentence, why didn’t the parents do something then?”

  “Same answer—fear,” Dennis responded. “The judges are powerful and have a lock on things, and no one wanted to go up against them.”

  “What about the brother, Peter?” Myra asked.

  “We have a picture of him, and we’re working with an age-progression program to see what he would look like today.”

  “I think Peter is alive, and what’s more, I think he’s right here in Baywater,” Maggie said, as she related her conversations with Jon Eberly, Pe
ter’s best friend from years past. “He knows more than he’s saying, which is basically nothing. I admire loyalty, I really do, but I could not convince him to give up anything. He’s lying; I’m sure of it.”

  “Just out of curiosity, who runs this place?”

  “There is a hotel manager named Franklin Pervis, but he’s on a medical leave due to a hernia operation. He’s due back in ten days. It’s off-season, and the employees have all been here for years and years, so they’re taking care of things. It’s not like there’s an influx of guests in October. Actually, we’re the only guests, and there are no reservations on the books until Thanksgiving. Avery told me that.

  “And the Inn is owned by an elderly lady named Martha Eisendorf, who resides in Chula Vista, California, and just uses the Inn for a tax write-off. Avery told me that, too. We’re good to go here if you’re thinking there’s a problem or that one might crop up. The reservation clerk jumped at the chance to rent out the entire Inn even for a short period of time. That the reservation is in the name of the president is even better.”

  Annie nodded. “When we are on a mission, I like to know all the facts, and I do mean all, even if they are mundane and picayune.” The others nodded in agreement.

  With that said, laptops and iPhones came out, and the group got down to work.

  Myra moved away from the group and called Charles, who picked up on the first ring. She spoke quietly, not for secrecy but not to disturb the others’ concentration. “Which one of Avery’s people can get us into the judges’ condo? Annie and I are going to want to go through it to see what if anything we can come up with. We’re going to need the same person when we head up to Waterton to the old family home. There have to be records, and we need to see them. Another thing, Charles. Are you going to be able to get us everything we asked for?”