Truth and Justice Read online

  “And, of course, we need someone to talk to the ex-husband. I’m thinking he is going to be a gold mine of information. Who’s up for that? I can’t go because I have to update and replenish my red bag. I’m dangerously low right now, and that’s not good when we’re just about to start a mission.”

  “I’ll take the ex-husband,” Nikki said, smacking her hands together in gleeful anticipation. “Maggie, you want to partner up with me?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Maggie said smartly. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Myra scribbled some notes on a legal pad. It was how she kept track of what she called “all the little and also the big details,” because she hated using her laptop. More often than not, at least once a day, she professed her deep hatred for all things electronic. One of her favorite sayings was, “Just give me a piece of paper and a pencil with an eraser, and I’ll see you at the finish line.” Most times, her boast was on the money.

  Annie held her hand up. “Yoko, how about if you and Kathryn take on the Samaritan Clinic. I think you two look the part of prospective clients. Don’t make an appointment. Go in unannounced and catch them all by surprise. You’ll get a feel as to whether they’re hiding something or not. Don’t tell them who you represent until you are satisfied you’ve gotten all you can get by way of information from them. If you get the feeling you’re giving off vibes, then don’t admit to why you’re there. I personally don’t think the staff deliberately or knowingly did anything wrong. They were sloppy, yes. So, unless and until we come up with something different, I’ll assume that to be the case.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Yoko looked over at Kathryn, whose head was bobbing up and down just as fast as Maggie’s fingers were flying over the mini keyboard.

  “All right then, that’s settled.” Myra scribbled on her pad. “I thought, if you all have no objections, Annie and I will take on Walter Reed, the hospital where Major Nolan was cared for, and see what we can come up with?”

  “Are we voting?” Nikki queried. “I vote yes to everything.” The others seconded Nikki. Myra scribbled some more.

  * * *

  The morning passed quickly. At noon, Annie called a halt to announce that it was time for lunch. “I hear Lady barking, so that has to mean Avery is at the gate, just in time for lunch. Let’s hop to it, girls, I’m anxious to get this mission underway.”

  The greeting over, Myra ushered Avery to a seat at the counter while the Sisters set the table and warmed up lunch. By the time Kathryn removed the crusty bread from the oven, Avery had been brought up to date. He was busy tapping out instructions to his operatives as the girls set his plate in front of him.

  “I hate to eat and run, but I just got a booking on a two o’clock flight to Tulsa. I’ll be back in touch sometime late tonight. Does that work for everyone?” Avery asked. The Sisters said they were good with his decision.

  “Then let’s eat!” Maggie said, as she dived into her spaghetti and meatballs. “Eat hearty, Nikki, because when we’re finished here, we are heading off to Baltimore. I’ll sign out the Post van and we hit the road. I can’t wait to meet Mr. Steven Conover.”

  Annie looked at Myra and smiled. “I think that means we are officially on the case. Everyone has an assignment, including you and me, so I say we all split up and do what we have to do. We report back here tonight. I realize dinner will be whenever anyone wants to eat. Nikki, if you and Maggie feel the need to stay in Baltimore, by all means do so. Just check in.”

  The gang ate with gusto, then tidied up with their usual thoroughness. They all said goodbye to Avery and split off to do their own thing.

  And then it was just Myra and Annie.

  “I think we need to dress up a little more, don’t you, Annie? I don’t think these schmata dresses will work at Walter Reed. A little makeup, too. Fifteen minutes, and I’m driving.”

  Both women literally flew up the stairs, Lady and her pups hot on their heels, to do Myra’s bidding. They recognized a mission was about to commence, and they were scheduled to go on guard duty.

  Just another exciting day at Pinewood.

  Chapter 8

  Maggie typed Steven Conover’s address into the GPS before she drove out of the underground garage at the Post. “Forty-seven minutes to Baltimore once we hit I-95, if we do it nonstop. Then we have to find Steven Conover’s place, and that could take us a little time. I feel safe in saying we’ll need another thirty minutes, so, technically, we’re looking at an hour and a half until we lay our eyes on Mr. Steven Conover.”

  Nikki nodded as she settled herself more comfortably by adjusting the seat belt across her chest. “Maggie, do you remember Bella’s telling us, or maybe you weren’t there yet, but she said something was bothering her that she couldn’t remember. She said it was something she either heard or read, and she couldn’t remember what it was. I have that same feeling. It’s something I must have read in the paper or something I saw on the Internet. Whatever it was, it had to do with the military. I must have glanced at it or skimmed through it, but because it was of no particular interest to me at the time, I just forgot it. You’re in the newspaper business. Do you recall anything about the military? It was recent, I’m thinking. Something in the last six months that’s ringing a bell in my head. For the life of me, I can’t think what it is. Now, wouldn’t it be something, and lucky for us, if Bella and I are on the same page and neither one of us can remember the same thing. Crazy flukes like that happen all the time,” Nikki said fretfully, her brow furrowed in thought as she struggled with her memory.

  “Nothing comes to mind, Nikki. Do you have anything else to go on? If I did see it, I probably did what you did, glossed over it since I don’t know anyone in the military these days.”

  Nikki slapped at her forehead. “Actually, I do, Maggie. I think it was something about signing a petition. I just can’t remember if I did or not, but if I was thinking about it, it must have seemed important at the time. Damn. I hate when I can’t remember something.” Agitation rang in Nikki’s voice as she yanked at her seat belt in frustration.

  Maggie took her eyes off the road for a second to look at Nikki. “In your opinion, in your gut, do you think it’s important to this mission?”

  Nikki didn’t have to think about the question. “Yes, I think so, but if you ask me why, I can’t tell you. This is my gut talking, but my gut has served me well both in and out of court all these many years. I always pay attention to my gut feelings. Jack says I scare him because, as he put it, it’s uncanny how I’m right ninety percent of the time.”

  “Ted says that about me, too.” Maggie laughed. “I think it’s a female thing, to be honest with you. Probably has to do with our hormones.” She looked over at Nikki, wiggled her eyebrows, and giggled.

  “Okay, then.” Maggie waited for a break in traffic before she moved into the right lane and steered off the road to the shoulder. “You drive, and I’ll see what I can dig up on my laptop. No sense wasting time gabbing or gossiping when I might be able to figure out what it is you cannot remember. Who knows, we might have some answers by the time we get to Steven Conover’s house. I know my way around the military archives, so it will be easier for me to do it. Might as well make use of our time on the road. I need to do something, accomplish something of value today. Everyone needs to do that, don’t you think? I try to make it a goal every day. See, see, if I’m not working, I’m babbling. Just ignore me, Nikki.”

  Seven minutes later, Nikki inched her way back into traffic. “Have at it, Miz Reporter. I’ll just pay attention to the road and all the crazy drivers out here.”

  “Hmmmn,” was Maggie’s only comment, as she tapped away a mile a minute.

  Fifteen miles down the road, Maggie’s fist shot in the air. “I think this might be it. Tell me if it rings any bells. I’m going to read it to you just the way it is here. Some club or organization called Change.org posted it. There is a bill called HR 553 that military widows and widowers want Congress to enact into legis
lation. It seems that over 65,000 military spouses are being denied their full military insurance due to an archaic law dating back to 1972. In today’s time, that is forty-eight years during which Congress has failed to change this for men and women who have given up their lives for their country. That’s if I’m reading this correctly. It says here that the amount is $1,000 a month for the survivor. That’s some serious money, Nikki, for a spouse to lose. Especially if there are children involved. Simply put, these men and women are being denied survivor benefits because of this archaic law. There’s an address here for an Offset Facebook group and, of course, instructions on contacting your member of Congress.

  “There are all kinds of stories here about families and their hardships. This one lady said they handed her a folded flag and said on behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation, she was to accept the flag. That was when she realized the Department of Defense wasn’t grateful at all. She said she sacrificed her husband, her children’s father, her best friend, her sole provider, then they expected her to sacrifice financially again, and giving her that flag was going to make it all right.” There’s a ton of stories like this. It’s really sad. I had no idea about this, I know you didn’t either, and I’m sure outside of military circles, no one else knows either. I won’t go as far as to say they don’t care. I’m sure they do and would care, and would help if they knew. If is the operative word here. I guess the organization is trying to get the word out to the public. I’m going to locate the petition, and I’m going to sign it. I think I’ll do an article on it when we get back. I’ll run it by Annie, but I know she’ll agree and sign on, too. The written word, as we know, is one of the most powerful tools in the world. Once it’s printed, it’s there forever. That’s just my opinion,” Maggie added hastily.

  Nikki could feel the excitement building in her voice. “That’s it, that’s what I read! Damn, you’re good, Maggie. I remember the 65,000 number, but what I can’t remember is if I signed the petition. I want to believe I did because that is just so wrong. I am assuming Bella isn’t getting that $1,000 a month. The sister got whatever the military was handing out at the time by way of insurance. I wonder why she never turned it over to Bella. I sure hope Isabelle comes up with some good records that we can run with. What’s it say about why the survivors are being denied?”

  “This article says there are spouses who were eligible to receive the Dependency and Indemnity Compensation, an entitlement paid from the VA to indemnify or hold the government harmless for causing the death of the spouse. It also says that there are 65,000 such spouses, of which Bella is one, who will have their Survivor Benefit Program annuity insurance benefits offset dollar for dollar by the DIC. Full SBP payment is unfairly denied to those surviving spouses. They call it SBP-DIC offset, and these spouses in this article want to fight to end that. They say it is a purchased insurance. It is not normal for one’s insurance to not be paid just because the beneficiary has another policy.

  “Some of these spouses lost seventy-eight percent of their income. The article goes on to quote some senators who have opinions and aren’t afraid to voice them. And then people can reply to an e-mail and sign the petition, is what I’m getting out of this. I’m going to send this off to Myra and Annie, and have them call Bella to see if this is what she couldn’t remember. Having said that, I don’t know how a person could forget something like this, and in her case, how she’s involved with how everything went down with her husband’s death. This is her dead husband we’re talking about here.”

  “Shock would be my guess,” Nikki said. “She was traumatized. Anything else?”

  “Just the names of some of the congressmen and senators asking them to pass HR 553 to change the law. By the way, they’re up to 175,663 supporters now. Their goal is 200,000 signatures. I just signed the petition myself.”

  Nikki held up her hand for Maggie to be quiet. “Shhh, what’s she saying?” she asked, referring to the robotic voice offering directions.

  Maggie listened intently, then repeated the instructions. “Go to the next traffic light, make a right. Go five blocks and make a left turn on Westminster Avenue. Stay on Westminster for seven miles and you’ll come to a cobblestone road with a sign with an arrow that says, SCULPTURES BY STEVEN CONOVER. From that point, it’s three quarters of a mile to his showroom. I read on the Internet that he lives in an apartment over the showroom. The whole thing—the apartment, the showroom, and, of course, his workroom—was originally an old barn that he renovated. The barn or the showroom sits on eleven acres. I saw pictures on his website of animals he’s sculpted. The grounds are like a natural habitat. Oh, you turn here, Nikki. This is what happens when you talk and don’t pay attention. My bad. Sorry.”

  The rest of the ride to Steven Conover’s sanctuary was made in silence.

  “Twenty-seven minutes,” Nikki said, looking at her watch. “We’re here. How do you want to handle this, Maggie? Do we go in as who we are and give it all up, or do we pose as possible clients in the hope he gives up something? Why he would give up anything at all to two strangers is anyone’s guess. So, I say we play it straight and hope for the best. You have your Post credentials, so that will help. You okay with that, Maggie?” Nikki said, as she parked the Post van in one of the six designated parking spots in the small parking lot. The only other vehicle in sight was a high-dollar shiny new silver Range Rover parked in the number one spot. Both women assumed the Range Rover belonged to Steven Conover.

  Maggie led the way up a paved walkway surrounded by colorful, late-fall chrysanthemums. She looked around at the manicured grounds. Steven Conover had a good eye for color, style, and uniformity. It was all very pleasing to the eye. “It’s nice here, but off the beaten track so to speak. You’d really have to know this place is here to get here. Too far from town for me. I’m a convenience kind of gal myself.”

  “Me too.” Nikki giggled. “You do realize, don’t you, Maggie, that’s just an excuse we use for being lazy?”

  Maggie didn’t agree or disagree, but she did laugh out loud.

  A bell tinkled over the door when Nikki opened it. Soft music, golden oldies, could be heard coming from the back of the building.

  Nikki looked at Maggie. Both women shrugged at the same time. “Do we whistle, do we yell, hey you! What?”

  The air moved and swirled all at the same time as a whirling swarm of Yorkshire terriers descended on the floor of the showroom. They came from all directions, yapping, barking, and yelping, stubby tails swinging furiously back and forth.

  “They’re my welcoming committee,” a tall man with a bushy beard said, laughing at the expressions on Nikki’s and Maggie’s faces. “They’re all from the same litter. When it was time to find them a home, I just couldn’t part with them. By way of introduction,” he said, pointing to each dog. “Meet Jam, Jelly, Flash, Rosie, Maxine, Charlie, Gus, and Harvey. They were the litter. The mom is Lily, and the dad is Lenny. Yep, ten dogs. Love each and every one of them. But you didn’t drive all the way out here to hear about my dogs. What can I do for you? And the next question I always ask anyone who walks through that door behind you is, how did you hear about me?”

  “For starters, we aren’t customers. I’m not adverse to buying something if it screams my name. My name is Maggie Spritzer. I’m a reporter for the Washington Post. My friend is Nikki Quinn. She’s an attorney with the Quinn Law Firm in Georgetown. We’re here to ask for your help. The only thing I can offer you in return for said help is some free advertising in the paper and an interview or article if you prefer. In answer to your second question, I searched you out.”

  “Since this appears to be more social than business, let’s go upstairs to my apartment and have a cup of coffee. I was about to do that when you arrived. I pretty much live by a schedule, and I tend to get a little cranky when I get behind.”

  “I’m kind of like that myself,” Maggie said, as she tiptoed around a cluster of little dogs who were bent on sniffing her
feet. “I think they smell my cat on my shoes,” she said, and giggled.

  Steven laughed. “For sure, those little rascals can smell a cat or a squirrel a mile away. So what’s it gonna be, ladies, coffee, tea, soft drinks, or something stronger?” Steven asked, as he prepared the coffeepot. “By the way, this is Kona coffee, straight from Hawaii. Nothing better in my opinion if that will help you make a decision.”

  “We’ll take it!” Nikki said. Maggie nodded.

  “This is very nice,” Maggie said, looking around the lived-in beautiful kitchen. It was full of antique Alabama red brick, a monster fieldstone fireplace big enough to roast an ox, green plants hanging from the beams and over the windows. What looked like handcrafted chairs and a table were covered in bright red tartan plaid cushions, while matching place mats decorated the rough-hewn table.

  “I inherited all of this,” Steven said, waving his arms about, “from my parents when they passed away. Both my parents were world-renowned sculptors, so they pretty much paved the way for me to take over their business once they were gone. I didn’t change a thing—the plants were my mom’s. They were my biggest challenge, but I persevered. My dad had rigged up a watering system because Mom wasn’t tall enough to reach up to water them. I just turn on the water and voilà, the plants are watered. The cushions and place mats were made by my mother. She used to sew and craft things at night during the long winter months. All these dogs I just introduced you to are descendants of my parents’ dogs, the dogs I grew up with. The prize, though, is the fireplace. I like sitting here in the winter with the dogs, having my dinner and watching the evening news in front of a blazing fire. In my opinion, it doesn’t get any better than that. Now, having said that, my ex-wife hated this place. She did her best to get me to go all glass and shiny stainless steel and silk flowers, to which, of course, I said no. I don’t have that wife anymore.” He chuckled.