Fern Michaels - Deja Vu (The Sisterhood)

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Copyright 2010 by MRK Productions
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eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-2249-7
eISBN-10: 1-4201-2249-5

First Kensington Books Hardcover Printing: October 2010
First Zebra Books Mass-Market Paperback Printing: January 2011

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

M aggie Spritzer entered her office, turned on the lights, closed the door, kicked off her high heels, tossed her backpack in a chair, and sat down behind her desk. She wiggled her feet into a pair of scuffed sneakers without heels and settled down to do what she had done at 5:45 in the morning every day since becoming the EICread the current edition of the Post just as it hit the streets.

She could have read or skimmed through the online edition, but she was a newspaper person with every bone in her body. She was one of those people who needed to hold the paper in her hands and get black newsprint on her fingers. She was also the kind of person who would never, ever read a book on a Kindle or any of those other electronic devices. In her opinion, there was something bordering on the sacrilegious about doing that.

As she scanned the front page, her left hand was fumbling in the bag of sugary donuts shed stopped to purchase on her way to the office. As her eyes followed the printed columns, her right hand was removing the lid of one of the two coffees shed purchased at the donut shop.

Speed reader that she was, Maggie ripped through the paper, then went back and started over. The second time, she picked out a column, a tidbit, or a story that had caught her eye on the first go-round.

An hour from now, if given a quiz, Maggie would ace it, right down to the page and size of the article she was being quizzed on. Its why they pay me the big bucks, she muttered to herself.

She frowned when she saw it on the Police Beat page. She read through the two-inch notice, then read it a second time. She saw notices like this every day. Why was this one bothering her? It was not until the third time she read it that she made the connection. Upscale medical building torched. Four offices burned beyond repair. Everything destroyed, including the medical files of the patients in each of the offices. Dermatology, OB-GYN, Plastic Surgery, Podiatry. Okayyy.

Building owned by the four doctors, who had been partners since 1983. Thriving practices. So what was it that was bothering her? She read the names of the doctors again and again, then one final time before it jumped out at her. Dr. Laura Valentine. Yesssss! Julia Webster, one of the original vigilantes, had worked with Dr. Valentine Julia had been a well-known plastic surgeon before her death.

The fire marshal was going to hold a press conference later that afternoon. Maggie made a mental note to tune in.

Maggie stared down at the address, her mind racing. She swept everything aside, turned on her computer, and hit the Google search button. She typed in Julia Websters name and waited. She read slowly, then clicked link after link until she had the full story on Julia Webster. Tears burned her eyes at what she remembered that had never been printed.

Scissors in hand, Maggie went back to the paper. She clipped the article on the fire, feeling sure that it meant something. What, she didnt know. Yet. But the prestigious address in Georgetown was now engraved in her brain. Sooner or later, shed figure it out. She always did.

Maggie peeled the skin off a banana and sat back in her swivel chair as she wondered how long it would take before she figured it out.

She bolted upright in the chair. Backup! Surely the doctors had a backup system in place in case something like this happened. Computers crashed. Viruses appeared out of nowhere. And then there was the patient confidentiality problem to deal with. About a year ago, Ted had done a lengthy article on how businesses used outside backup systems just in case something like the fire happened. But if memory served her right, it was mostly small businesses and not medical offices because of the patient-doctor confidentiality thing. In the unlikely event the doctors didnt have outside backup, it might mean they had their own personal software in place if something just like this took place.

Julia Webster.

H e was a kind man with kind eyes and ever so professional in his sterile white coat, a stethoscope hanging out of his pocket. His battered medical bag spoke of years of use. His name was Alfred Montrose, and he was President Martine Connors personal physician.

There was no formality in Connors private quarters. They were doctor and patient, who were also old friends. The good news, Marti, is youre going to live. The bad news is you are going to be a lot more miserable than you are right now for the next three or four days. I dont like that youre running a fever of 103, but its to be expected when you get the flu. Yes, I know, you never get sick, but youre sick now, so suck it up. Lots of chicken soup, gallons of liquids, and bed rest. Let the vice president and your chief of staff take over for a few days. Both seem fairly competent. They are, arent they? Montrose asked, a tinge of anxiety in his voice.

The president nodded. Do the media have me dead and buried?

Montrose laughed. What I heard on the drive over here was that you had taken to your bed with some mysterious ailment. I suppose theyll grill me when I leave here. Half your staff has it, Marti. I know its springtime, but these things dont really go by the month of the year. They hit when they hit, and when they do, they spread like wildfire. Just because youre the president doesnt mean you are immune to catching a bug or two along the way.