The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope

by Josie Brown

  “Exactly,” Ryan replies. “While you’re questioning the managers on how the transmission networks can be sabotaged, Arnie will run a software analysis to assess any discrepancies in the distribution system’s operational code.”

  “Got it.”

  Ryan now turns to Dominic. “Fly up to Stanford. Get a list of the other students in Jonathan’s class. Even if the number of men and women were even, that gives us six names, max, to narrow down to ‘Lilith.’”

  “What would you suggest I use as a cover?” Dominic asks.

  “Since all universities appreciate free publicity, tell them you’re a reporter for Bloomberg and that you’re writing one of those ‘Where Are They Now?’ pieces.”

  Dominic’s brow furrows. “Do you mean Bloomsbury, the literary salon?”

  Ryan hits his forehead with the palm of his hand. “No. I mean the business magazine. Trust me on this.”

  Dominic looks around, puzzled. “By the way, will the illustrious Mr. Craig be joining us this fine morn?”

  “He’s on a solo assignment,” Ryan replies.

  “Ah! Well, I hope I don’t prove to be a disappointing alternate,” Dominic sniffs.

  Chances are that will be the case unless I nip his whiny attitude in the bud post haste.

  I use a backhanded slap—always an effective maneuver.

  Stunned, Dominic reels backward. Rubbing the sting, he sniffs, “I beg your pardon!”

  “As you should!” I exclaim. “Dude, dig it: Russia is blowing up gas lines all over the country, and that’s just the entr’acte! For a finale, they may try to incinerate a major metropolis!”

  “I think what she’s trying to say is that now may not be the best time for a pity party,” Emma points out.

  Dominic nods solemnly. “I see your point.”

  “Battle stations, people!” Ryan waves us off.

  Janet Bender knocks timidly on her boss’s door before peeking in.

  “Jeez Louise, Janet! Didn’t they teach you any manners in Redding?” Spencer Winston shouts. “Next time, wait until I invite you in! What if I’d been, you know, partaking in some hand-to-gland combat? Then the next thing you know, I get one of those calls from HR that you’ve reported Mr. McGoo and me for MeTooing you, or something!”

  By the ruby shade of Janet’s cheeks, I’d guess he was doing precisely that. And, from what I’ve read in Spencer’s personnel file, his MeToo violations have stacked up to the point that he might have considered the surge a welcomed diversion.

  Janet faces away from him, back toward Arnie and me. “But Mr. Spencer—I just wanted to tell you that there are two PUC auditors here to see you!” She points shaking a finger in my direction.

  “Dammit! I thought those people have already been through here!” Spencer’s gruff response is accompanied by some drawer slamming and muffled shuffling.

  When he makes it to the door, his eyes, like heat-seeking missiles, hone in on my breasts.

  To break the spell, I snap my fingers in his face.

  “Well, hello to you too!” I reply brightly. “My colleague and I just have a few follow-up questions about this weekend’s grid surge.” I nod toward his office. “Shall we?”

  I saunter past him.

  Intrigued, he follows.

  After he’s all the way in, I close the door behind us.

  Realizing Arnie hasn’t followed us in, Spencer is doubly intrigued. “Isn’t the nerdy guy joining us? Not that I’m into threesomes or anything. Well, not the kind where I might cross swords, if you get my drift.” He raises his brows three times with a dexterity that would have made Groucho Marx proud.

  “My colleague had to run to the little boys’ room,” I coo in my baby girl voice.

  Not really. Arnie is making a beeline to an empty cubicle. It’s all he needs to hack the system, download all of CA Gas & Electric’s WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED memos on the incident, and run a malware diagnostic. He’ll then look for anomalies in the grid’s code that may have set off the surges.

  Spencer offers me the only guest chair in his office. But instead of sitting behind his desk, he stands directly in front of me and leans in. I guess he wants to make sure I notice the bulge straining against the zipper of his too-tight chinos.

  So yeah, I look at something that resembles a sleeping anaconda.

  Less mesmerized than appalled, I glance around the room. The décor consists of a Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition calendar and some pictures of Spencer on a beach vacation. Some of the women lounging with him are topless. In it, Spencer leers at the camera. His right hand is bent into the Hawaiian shaka sign.

  And yep, the anaconda is there too—stuffed in his Speedo banana hammock.

  “Like what you see?” he asks.

  I guess I’m staring again at the elephant—er, snake—in the room. Even in 2D, it gives me the shivers. “So, tell me, Mr. Winston—”

  “Please, call me Spence.” When he shifts his haunches on the desk, the anaconda seems to come alive. “And what should I call you?”

  A cab.

  Instead, I purr, “Dixie.”

  “I like Southern girls.”

  “I’ll just bet they like you too.” I lick my lips in the hope that it keeps me from upchucking. “So listen, um… Spence. Is there anything you can tell me about the events leading up to the surge? You know, any deviations in the system, any strange emails that may have come in, any—”

  He places his hands on each of my breasts. “Are these real?”

  More so than that snake in your britches.

  There’s only one way to prove it. When my knee hits his nuts, he doubles over.

  On the other hand, I’m groaning from the sharp pain in my knee, which, apparently, slammed against some sort of steel codpiece in Spencer’s pants.

  I bite my tongue to keep from moaning because it may actually turn Spencer on.

  This time when Janet knocks on the door, there isn’t a waiting period. Maybe she really does want to catch him in the act. She’ll have to settle for watching him roll on the floor in agony.

  She’s accompanied by Arnie and two security guards.

  “What the hell do you want?” Spencer shouts.

  “These gentlemen are here to arrest you.” She’s no longer cowering. In fact, she’s jubilant.

  As the security guards lift Spencer off the ground, he sputters, “What the…for what? How did you know I touched her boobs?”

  “Apparently, you, Mr. Winston, were the source of the malware campaign,” Arnie explains. Suddenly, his mouth drops open. “You touched her boobs?” He stares at me, then back to Spencer. “Man, you are so lucky you’re just on the floor! You could be dead.”

  Time to change the subject. “What other trouble has Romeo here gotten himself into?”

  “The malware entered through his computer,” Arnie explains.

  “But—but it couldn’t have been me!” Spencer whines. “Look, I’m no fool. I’ve been very cautious not to open emails—not even from the usual industry groups!”

  “It didn’t come through a mirror of the typical PUC employee watering hole sites,” Arnie explains “It was allowed into the system when you opened PartyCentral.”

  “The hook-up app?” I can’t believe my ears. Okay, considering this guy’s MO, maybe I can.

  “The very one.” Arnie turns to Spencer. “Aren’t you registered under the name, ‘American Pharaoh’?”

  Noting the stares from the security guards, Spencer shrugs. “Okay, yeah, I like to give the ladies a heads-up on what they can expect.”

  Janet and I shudder in unison.

  “From what I can tell, you’re on the site practically your whole shift,” Arnie declares. “This week alone you’ve accessed it over a hundred times from your office computer.”

  A security guard rolls his eyes. “I’ve heard enough,” He mutters. He and his buddy goose-step Spencer out the door.

  Janet turns to us. “What should I do about Mr. Winston’s compute
r?”

  “Don’t touch it,” Arnie advises.

  “At least, not without wearing latex gloves,” I add.

  I follow him out the door.

  Arnie beats me to the car, but only because he wants to slide across its roof, ala Starsky and Hutch.

  He lands on his ass.

  I hold out my hand. “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”

  Arnie knows better than to argue with me. He climbs into the passenger seat. But before I start the engine, he exclaims, “Donna wait! Something just occurred to me.”

  I raise a brow. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”

  “The way the Russians went about the surge-mageddon—this shotgun approach to creating disasters? Well, it wasn’t simply started with that Spencer guy’s dating app password. Which, interestingly enough, is ‘PussyGalore69’.”

  “No surprise there.” I look heavenward. “So, what you’re saying is that Spencer didn’t launch the malware?”

  “The short answer is no. Granted, McHandsy downloaded the trojan that got the malware into CA Gas & Electric’s grid. With all of his unsecured Internet use, it was easy enough to set him up to be the fall guy. But the real mastermind had the equivalent of a backstage pass.”

  “Come again?”

  Exasperated, Arnie sighs loudly. “Whoever set off this system-wide surge-gasm is high enough up the engineering ladder to merit an ID card that gets him beyond the grid’s multi-factor authentication system.”

  “Ah! You think there’s a bigger game afoot,” I reply.

  Arnie nods. “Well said, Watson! No, wait—I’m Watson…but I did come up with the theory, so I guess that does make me Sherlock—”

  “Shut up. You’re driving me crazy.” I start the engine. “So, where are we going?”

  “Marina del Rey.”

  “What’s there?” I ask.

  “Thunderbolt Cloud Services. It’s a private server and secure cloud company. All the utility companies use it because it provides the services needed to share and maintain the grid: operations, maintenance, personnel, energy management, you name it.”

  “But since we already know how the malware got in and we know the code that needs to be pulled out, why stop at Thunderbolt now?” I ask.

  “The number of utilities affected—and the fact that they were hit all at once—took coordination from some sort of command center.”

  “Ergo, Thunderbolt. Sound deduction!” This time it’s me who raises a hand for a high five.

  And it’s Arnie who tickles me under the arm.

  Bad move. He realizes this when my hands go to his throat. “I suggest you stick to the traditional high-five return. Agreed?”

  He nods because no one can talk while they’re choking.

  And we’re off.

  “You’re with the PUC? An audit? Well, in that case, you’ll need to talk to our CEO, Carlton Miller.” Thunderbolt’s receptionist sounds as harried as she looks. Her phone console blinks like a store’s window display during a Christmas sale.

  Thunderbolt is only fourteen stories, but it’s the tallest building in the bedroom community of Marina del Rey. The elevator banks are busy. Employees flow in and out. All have worried scowls on their faces. The lobby is filled with anxious utility executives who wince as they read their phone screens.

  Something’s not right here.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Miller is…well, he’s on the roof,” the receptionist adds. “He’s in the middle of his meditation hour.” She frowns at the thought.

  I don’t blame her. The world is on fire, and this dude has the nerve to take a time-out?

  “We’ll wait,” I assure her. “Hey, can you point me to the girl’s room?”

  She hands me a keycard. But because she’s already fielding calls, she can only nod toward the small hallway where I’ll find the powder room.

  Next to it is the fire exit.

  I take it straight up to the roof.

  Carlton Miller is indeed meditating.

  His eyes are closed, giving me time to study him. He’s in his early forties. It’s a relatively cool day for LA in January, and yet his completely shaved pate is sweating profusely. It may be why he’s stripped off his shirt, too.

  I notice he’s wearing a pendant around his neck. By getting closer, I can make out its design:

  The zodiac sign for Pisces.

  The pendant is sterling silver, just like the one Jonathan left in the book on his desk.

  A tiny tray sits to his left. It holds slivers of something—maybe mushrooms? And a vaping pipe. The necessary accoutrements to mask one’s guilt.

  Carlton opens his eyes. My presence is finally felt.

  Before he can ask me who I am, I come to the point: “You did it for Lilith, didn’t you?”

  His stare is a cauldron of emotions: shock, guilt, shame, grief, and finally, resignation.

  “That’s how it started, yes. But, hey, even after I realized her game, the money was too good to turn down.” Carlton points at the ground beneath him. “It built this. I owed her that.”

  “You’re a software engineer, right? Okay, so yeah—maybe she pointed out that public utilities were a growth industry ready to be cultivated in your field. But Carlton, you were the one with the right skillset, not her. You made Thunderbolt! And you chose to sell out your country.”

  He dropped his head. “I…I had no choice! She put me in front of some foundation that paid off my student loans...and my other debts. I didn’t know the Russians were behind it!”

  “What other debts?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I like to travel. And I like hallucinogenics.” He nods toward the tray.

  “It doesn’t take a billionaire’s bank account to do either of those things,” I point out.

  “And…I like to gamble.”

  That’s where they had him over the barrel.

  “You gambled, all right—and lost. The death toll is over two hundred!”

  “It’s two hundred and eighty-four, to be exact. Or, it was before I headed up here.” He looks up at the clouds, as if that is where he’ll find the souls he’s damned for all eternity.

  “You know, you weren’t the only one she recruited from the horoscope class.”

  “You’re telling me!” His pain heightens his snarl. “There was Tommy and Lawrence…and Howard too. They all fell for her!”

  “How do you know this?”

  Carlton drops his gaze to look at me. “It’s what I do, bitch! I hack—right?”

  “You hacked her emails.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Looooove.” His hands reach up over his head, as if swatting it away. “I had it bad.”

  “What are their last names?”

  Carlton giggles raucously. “What does it matter? They’re all dead!”

  “Dead?” My heart sinks. “How?”

  “Lawrence—he was Capricorn—liked to skydive, so I guess that made it easy for them.” He snickers. “Howie—‘Aries’—choked on something…” He paused to consider this. “That one had to have been harder to pull off.”

  “You think they killed them?”

  He nods.

  “What about the third guy, Tommy?”

  Carlton shakes his head. “Ah, ‘Libra,’ the heart of the class! Disappeared into thin air! Believe me, I’ve tried to find him.” Carlton drops his head again. “I can only imagine what they did to him, and why. And now they’ll kill me too.”

  “I can help you, Carlton! If you give us what we need, we’ll get you into Witness Protection—”

  His giggles propel him to his feet. “No, no, no! You don’t get it! She’s the all-knowing, the all-powerful wizard! She will find me. She will kill me!” He stops cold. “There is one way around her—just one.” He nods to me. “Thank you for sharing my clarity.”

  With that, he runs to the ledge and jumps.

  Cars on Mindanao Way screech to a halt. The shrill screams of startled pedestrians punctuating the air are even louder than steel slamming into steel.r />
  By the time the ambulances show up, Arnie and I are in our car.

  We are drained. I call Ryan. “You caught that?”

  “Yeah. Not to worry. Marina del Rey is covered by the LA County Sheriff’s Department. I’ll clear your involvement with them.” Ryan sighs. “Great work, both of you. Now go home and get a full night’s rest.”

  Even when the clock is ticking, a good boss knows when to back off.

  10

  Negative Forces

  [Donna’s horoscope today]

  * * *

  The negative forces facing you at every turn are now fierce enough to raise your skirt high above your hips, knock you off your Loubies, and make this your worst hair day ever.

  Not to worry—you are not alone! Quickly align yourself with fearless allies who vow to shield you from the dark tsunami that swirls around you.

  Oh, sure, these furious headwinds may leave your pals a little worse for wear. But considering their lack of fashion sense, any rearrangement of their retro boho garbs will actually be an improvement! Later, they may thank you for it.

  Jack did not come home last night.

  Now, as I enter Acme, I contemplate the best way to suggest (okay, to beg) Ryan to keep me abreast of Jack’s mission.

  If Edmonton has some clue as to who Lilith is, why not share it with us so that we can initiate trailing surveillance?

  And if that’s all Jack is doing, it’s a waste of his talents. Even Edmonton knows this—

  Unless he needs Jack’s confirmation of her bad-actor status to justify her extermination.

  If Ryan admits this, I’ll leave well enough alone. The last thing I need him to tell me is that somehow Lilith discovered Jack’s real purpose and set a trap that took his life.

  Killing is not fun. It is not a game. Even when sanctioned by your government, even when you’re driven to avenge an atrocity, it never fails to chip away at your soul.

  Take it from one who knows.

  “—And then I discovered the malware. He downloaded it via his PartyCentral app, of all places! Ha! That’s when I knew we had the dude dead to rights!” I’ve walked into Ryan’s situation room to find Arnie regaling Abu, Emma, and Dominic with our tales of derring-do while we wait for the arrival of our fearless leader.