by a woman named the Governess. Never directly, though we’ve spoken on the phone. Through representatives. And this person—and even I’m unsure who she is—wields unprecedented power. You, your father, Preston, myself, we deal with money and boardrooms and power. But this is power with the strength of the government and FBI behind it—resources I still find amazing.”
Madison tried to follow what Renee was driving at. “Are you saying you work for the government?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. The offer—early release for Preston—came with strings attached. I considered the strings positive, however. I never lost that part of me who was the free-spirited girl in the Peace Corps, determined to do good. The strings involved running a secret organization that reports only to the Governess. With backing and support from the FBI, the CIA and other law-enforcement entities, including Scotland Yard and MI-5, this organization is now embedded in the Gotham Roses. Among you are about fifteen or sixteen handpicked women with talents and ambitions needed to bring down various criminal activities. Undercover.”
“But why the Roses? Why not the FBI or the CIA or…the regular police? Why involve a bunch of—no offense—wealthy young women? What do we—or you—bring to the table?”
“Do you know how to use a lobster fork, Madison?”
Maddie laughed a little. “Sure.”
“And how to use a finger bowl?”
Maddie nodded.
“Can you waltz, fox-trot, discuss the Bauhaus movement in art and converse with a diplomat—in his or her native language usually?”
“Sure.”
“Well, shocking as this may be to you, Madison, this world we live in, this bubble, if you will, isn’t easily penetrated. The society pages, for instance, are concerned with old money. You and I both know how we often feel about the nouveau riche. The Kikis of the world, the women who, despite the wealth they may have married into, wouldn’t know class if it ran them over.”
“So?”
Renee leaned forward. “It would be impossible for the FBI or law enforcement to penetrate the society pages, to blend in with us, to fall into step with our world, if they had to solve a crime in our midst. And with Enron, with the various scandals…Tyco…whomever…we’re talking some crimes that not only top the hundreds of millions of dollars, but also that trickle down to ordinary people who put their faith in the officers of the board. If they claim the company to be financially sound, the public believes it until a scandal breaks and sends the market tumbling, and suddenly Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public lose their life savings.”
“So you’re saying these women have been working as…spies? Cops?”
“Agents. They’re able to blend in and solve major financial and banking cases, even drug dealing among the elite. They can do what the FBI can’t—namely, infiltrate the path of crime among mind-boggling wealth without being perceived as interlopers.”
“I’m…stunned.”
“Well, Madison, I always knew you had talents that would put even the best and brightest to shame, but I also knew the best agents have a passion, a reason, for joining. It’s a tremendous commitment, and it means a duplicitous life. And it’s not something anyone should undertake just because she’s an adrenaline junkie or thinks it might be a lark.”
“And then Claire was murdered,” Maddie whispered.
“Yes. And I wouldn’t wish this crisis on my worst enemy, not even on the bastards in the Sinclair family who framed my beloved Pres. But when I saw the news last night, so did the Governess. Madison, rumors are floating that Claire’s death is less personal than you may think.”
“What do you mean ‘less personal’?”
“She may have been murdered to stop her from revealing financial irregularities at Pruitt & Pruitt. And the administration would like to avoid seeing another Enron. The financial markets are unstable enough as they are.”
“So you think there is something illegal going on at our company and that Claire was murdered for being a whistle-blower? I can’t believe it.”
Renee nodded. “What I, or the FBI, think is immaterial. We need facts—and we need you to get them or we’ll assign the case to someone else.”
“Pruitt & Pruitt is my life. I’m not going to let it be destroyed. If elements in my company are trying to skirt the law, I will find out.”
“If you want to do this, Madison, you need to show up here tomorrow at 1:00 p.m. and meet your handler. If you don’t show, I’ll know that it wasn’t meant to be. Just as I know you will never speak of this to anyone. Ever. And if you show up, you will be trained even further than your father’s private security firm trained you. You’ll be pushed to your limit. And I know, of anyone, you’ll succeed.”
Maddie was still absorbing all Renee had told her. She looked at her watch. “Okay, Renee, I’ll think about it. I should go, though. The police want to interview me.”
“Of course. I hope I see you tomorrow. I learned a long time ago that we can live life in a gilded cage, or we can live life fully using our talents.”
They both stood. Renee clasped Maddie’s hand. Then Maddie left the sunroom and headed for her limo.
Charlie held open the door for her. She settled into the back seat and shut her eyes, her head spinning.
“You okay, Miss Madison?”
“Yeah, Charlie. Just have a lot on my mind.”
“Want to take a drive out to the country? Leaves are in full fall glory about now.”
“No, thanks. I have the police coming at six.”
“Right. Okay. Well, you just call my cell phone if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Charlie.” She smiled, remembering how he sometimes used to sneak her off after school to get ice cream if she’d had a bad day—a direct violation of her mother’s macrobiotic rules.
A short time later, Charlie eased the limo into the parking garage. Maddie got out, leaning over the front seat to give him a peck on the cheek first. Once in the building, she pressed the elevator for up and took it to her floor.
Glancing at her watch, Maddie saw she had an hour before the police arrived. She was dreading the interview. She unlocked the door to her place, and turned to her left to deactivate the alarm—only to be hit on the back of her head with something. She guessed the butt of a gun as she saw stars, but she had, through luck or training, “felt” the presence of someone for a split second before she’d fully even processed the thought in her brain. She’d turned just enough to deflect the blow, and though the pain through her neck and shoulder was severe, she hadn’t blacked out.
Whirling, she saw a man with a black wool ski mask. He froze for a second, surprised, she guessed, that she was still standing. She immediately grabbed the seventeenth-century stone statue of a pagoda that rested atop the desk in her entranceway, and swung it for the head of her assailant. She missed but managed to land a solid hit to his shoulder.
“Bitch!” came his
