Free Game Over by Fern Michaels

years ago, when you needed her, she pulled it together for you and didn’t take a fee. At least that’s the story I heard at the time. She said—correct me if I’m wrong—‘I might need a favor someday, and I expect you to come through for me.’ We both know she’d never ask, so it’s up to you to honor that favor, don’t you think?”
    â€œYou son of a bitch! Where do you get off telling me I would even think about not honoring the favor, and I know she’d never ask? Do you hear me? I know that, Charlie.”
    â€œNo need to get your knickers in a twist, Hank. I’m just saying. Do you still walk in and out of the White House like it’s your summer home?”
    â€œWell, yeah, when I’m in town,” Jellicoe drawled. “I like the new president. We get along just fine. She told me to call her Marti. I’m Henry to her. She likes biblical names for some reason. But she did say Hank suits me. Yep, we get along just fine.”
    â€œNow why doesn’t that surprise me, you old reprobate?”
    Jellicoe grinned from ear to ear. “Back to business. But first off, did you ever sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom? I did, and it sucked. But the company more than made up for it.”
    â€œThat’s more than I needed to know, Hank.”
    â€œNo. You needed to know that.” Jellicoe was all business now. “Game over, Charlie. You want Lizzie on the Supreme Court, she’s there. Anything else?”
    â€œWell, I think I might want to know what the fallout is going to be.”
    Jellicoe pretended horror at the statement. “And what makes you think there will be fallout? Have you ever heard of any fallout from anything I’ve ever done over the years?” Not bothering to wait for a reply, Jellicoe said, “No, you have not, and there will be none this time, either.”
    It was a guarantee, pure and simple. Charles accepted it.
    â€œNo sense in letting this fine brandy sit in the bottle. We might as well finish it and head for bed. Tomorrow is another day. Actually,” Jellicoe said so quietly, Charles had to strain to hear the words, “there is one other thing, Charlie. I personally saw the pardons on the president’s desk. I just wanted you to know that. Now, when and how she’s going to handle it, I don’t know. Let me clarify that. At this precise moment I do not know how she’s going to handle it. Tomorrow or the day after might be a different story.”
    Charles nodded and got up. He tossed his cigar into the fireplace. “Cosmo will come out of this intact?”
    â€œBetter than ever. He’ll be a household name. What? You doubt me, Sir Malcolm?”
    â€œNot for a minute.”
    Both men slapped each other on the back as they made their way out to the hall, where there was a moving sidewalk that would take them to the west wing, which housed the bedrooms.
    â€œWere you drunk when you designed this house, Hank?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking. I was thinking more of my declining years and bad knees and the like. Got four elevators, three moving sidewalks. Works for me.”
    Two moving sidewalks and one elevator ride later, Jellicoe opened the door to a massive suite of rooms. “When I had this room designed, I had Myra in mind. I always hoped she would come to visit someday.”
    â€œAll you have to do is invite her, Hank, and she’ll find a way to make the trip. This is just a wild guess on my part, Hank, but Myra is the one you should talk to about—”
    â€œGood night, Charlie.”
    â€œGood night, Hank.”

Chapter 8
    S tuffed to the gills, Maggie tossed and turned in Lizzie’s guest room, the cell phone that was live—with Abner Tookus on the other end—clutched in her hand. “You there, sweet cheeks?”
    Maggie strained to hear a mumbled response. “Where do you think I’d be at this hour of the night? Why