by Josie Brown
“Ah! The piece de resistance has arrived!” When he returns to the table, he has a soup tureen with him. “It’s my favorite, turtle. Care for a bowl?”
I tamp down the bile rising in my stomach before murmuring, “I’ll pass. In fact, this little party is over.”
He has different thoughts on the subject. He shoves me onto the table, face down. The soup is hot. He drizzles some up my spine and around my bum and shoulders. When I shudder, he slaps me back down. “You mustn’t move, my dear. Not to worry! Daddy will lap it all up.”
I struggle, but he’s too damn big for me to fight off. And quite frankly, his tongue on my spine is somewhat ticklish and it’s making me giggle.
Is he laughing, too? It sounds as if that may be the case.
No, he’s gagging on something.
Spasming, really. I hear him gurgle, then sigh.
Then…nothing. All three hundred or more pounds of him flop on top of me.
Make that twenty-one stones. At least!
“Baron, wake up and get off! Now!” I try to jerk myself up, but his dead weight is holding me against the table.
“He’s dead?” I hear the dread in Jack’s voice. Then: “Aw, damn, a heart attack? Just our luck! Listen, Donna, shimmy out from under him, and get the hell out of there, now.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks for that.” I squirm to the left, then to the right, but big boy is simply not budging.
“Smear yourself with the mint jelly,” Abu suggests. “It may be slippery enough to get you out from under him.”
At this point, I’ll try anything. I take a handful out of the bowl, and wedge my hand between me and the dead man, then slather it up and down my back.
That does the trick. I inch my way out from under him. I slip back into my dress, which now looks like a Jackson Pollack canvas, and smells like the kitchen sink at an Italian trattoria.
“How the hell are you getting out of there?” Arnie asks.
“Something tells me that many a sugar baby has taken a walk of shame from the baron’s abode. Alas, I’ll be the last.”
“Try to lock the door behind you,” Jack says. “I’m sure his staff knows better than to interrupt him at feeding time. They may lose an arm or something.”
“Then I guess he never sees them at all. Did you see that spread?” Abu’s tone is dripping with sarcasm, unlike me, who is dripping in pesto, mint jelly and turtle soup.
Green has never been my color.
Turns out I’m right about the Baron’s love life. The guards don’t give me a second glance.
I walk, make that run, away from the estate. When I turn the corner, Jack and Abu are already waiting for me.
As I hop in, Jack says, “What? No doggy bag?”
Always the smart ass.
Chapter 8
Is He a Player?
Before you fall in love with the new man in your life, ask yourself: does he have what it takes to be true blue to you?
He doesn’t if these clues ring true:
Clue Number 1: Whenever you call him, you hear women giggling in the background, along with heavy breathing and gasps: either his, or someone he calls “Doll” when he thinks he’s muzzled the phone and you can’t hear him.
Clue Number 2: He takes other women along on your dates, who he claims are his sisters. Not only do they look nothing like him, they take turns snuggling him and sitting on his lap;
Clue Number 3: When you finally permit him to ravish you, he insists this passionate act take place at “his sisters’ home, because they have a bed large enough for some real fun.” The real fun he means comes in the form of the sister act, which is already on said bed, in various states of dishabille.
Clue Number 4: Soon he’s introducing you to another woman, he refers to you as “my little sis.” Um, no. You have a different kind of relationship with your real brother, one in which swapping spit only happened before the age of twelve, and from a distance of six feet, as opposed to in each other’s mouths.
Now, taken together, these clues point to one very important thing: this is not the sort of family you want to marry into, so run away as quick as you can. Take my word for it, he’ll be too busy tongue tussling with his supposed sisters to realize you’re no longer there.
“Donna, I think you need to sit down for this.” Ryan’s voice is calm, but since he walked through the door he’s been pacing my dining room floor, which is not a good sign.
I freeze from tossing crap into the three Welcome to Hilldale baskets I’m making as part of my Penelope penance. “Oh now, did Reynolds find out I’ve been AWOL?
“Thank goodness, no. But—” he pauses to take a deep breath. “The deaths of your Quorum dates weren’t accidents.”
Emma and Arnie both look up. “Well, the first one was a suicide, so technically it wasn’t an accident,” Arnie reminds him. “And the third one was a heart attack, so that doesn’t count either—”
“Arnie, zip it! The point I’m trying to make is that Donna’s dates were murdered.” Ryan shakes his head in despair. “The first man—Benjamin Rooney—was shot with a high-powered air rifle. It hit him broadside, and spun him off the roof. The assassin must have been in one of the high apartment buildings, right across the street from the museum. As for Robert Higginbotham, the assassin took down the horse first, in the same manner. He took a second shot, right to the heart, the moment he fell.”
Emma’s eyes open wide. “But no one could have shot Mayor McCheese—I mean, Maynard McChesney. He and Donna were alone.”
“The soup contained aconite. Unless the coroner suspected otherwise, it looked like a heart attack. Acme’s autopsy picked it up because we specifically tested for it.”
I slump down in my chair. “Well, that certainly explains a lot! I mean, what are the odds that three men would all die on a first date?
“One in 54,302,239, in fact,” Arnie pipes in. “But if it’s any consolation, you’re odds decrease by thirteen percent each year, between now and when you’re eighty-five. Old codgers keeling over on dates are more prevalent.”
“Great to know.” Not. “And after eighty-five?”
Arnie looks perplexed. “I didn’t calculate beyond that, because it’s a long shot that by then any man will even look in your direction.” Instinctively he ducks below my couch.
He’s lucky I’m too upset to bother throwing anything at him.
The truth of the matter is that I’m worried about Jack. On the plane ride home, he was silent, a telltale sign that he’s also concerned about how things have gone down. This morning he left the house before I woke up. His note said he was dropping off two welcome baskets.
But why is it taking him so long to get home?
“I’ve got more bad news.” Ryan puts his hand on my shoulder. “The DOJ refuses to rescind your house arrest order.”
“By that, you mean Reynolds still insists I’m one of the bad guys, right?” I crumple tissue paper and stuff it between a bag of cashews, a Hilldale welcome bear, and some homemade jam. If Reynolds were here now, I’d stuff it where the sun doesn’t shine.
“Well, yes. He’s made an excellent case to his higher-ups that you may in fact be a flight risk.”
“The man is crazy! I’ve got three kids, I’m divorcing Carl, I’m in a loving relationship, and I’ve got high security status. What part of my dossier reads ‘terrorist moll’?”
“Even if that’s the case, you make great bait.” Jack’s voice comes from directly behind me. Arnie, Emma, Ryan, Abu and I turn toward him at the same time.
Emma shrugs. “Jack’s right. If you remember, it’s how we resurrected Carl in the first place.”
By the look on Jack’s face, I imagine Ryan has already given him the bad news about the assassin shadowing our dates with the Quorum. Even before I open my mouth, he knows what I’m going to say, and he shakes his head. “I don't know how or when, but we've picked up a shadow. At the same time we can't forget we've got a serious enemy in Reynolds."
; I’m so angry that I rip a stack of fifty-percent-off local merchant coupons in half. “In other words, I’m the worm in Reynolds’s fish hook?”
Ryan shakes his head. “You’ve wiggled off that hook three times already and he hasn’t noticed, thanks to Emma subbing for you, and Arnie watching the FBI surveillance team.”
“Damn it!” I run to the window and peek out. Yep, there’s one now. Like, a white Ford Fiesta wouldn’t be conspicuous in a neighborhood where the most prevalent car is black BMW sedan? Give me a break. “How long have they been out there?”
“I spotted them the day we got back from the polo match,” Jack says.
“They’ve got three shifts going, twenty-four seven,” Arnie adds. “But I came up with a way to keep them distracted while you were out of town.”
“Oh yeah? How was that?”
“Every night Emma would slap on her ‘Donna’ wig and put on one of your nightgowns in front of the sheers in your master bedroom window.”
Seeing my surprise, Emma turns red as a beet. “Oh, I don’t do anything, you know, lewd…Okay, maybe once I flashed a dude. But that was only because I felt sorry for him. He seemed bored out of his gourd. Besides, he’s kind of cute.”
Arnie frowns. He’s not too happy that his great idea backfired.
“If someone else is after the Quorum, we can’t lead the assassin to another Sugar CEO, because he’ll murder that guy, too,” I say.
Jack smiles. “If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain, perhaps the mountain can come to him.”
Arnie looks at him, clueless. “I don’t get it.”
“Up until now, we’ve been waiting for them to contact Donna,” Jack explains. “Instead, why don’t we contact them and invite them to an event they wouldn’t want to miss?”
Emma snickers. “That should be easy. All we’d have to say is that sex is involved.”
“Wow,” Arnie murmurs. “Talk about the ultimate Quorum-palooza!”
I shake my head. “Nope, I don’t think so! As much as I’d like to get away from all these kinky blind dates, I’ve got to draw the line at an orgy.”
Jack laughs. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. If we word the invitation correctly, they’ll all be expecting an intimate encounter with their dream girls, not some sort of group gang bang.” He shrugs. “At least, not all of them. Okay, I take that back. Maybe that is the ultimate fantasy of some of them. But what they’ll get instead is a one-on-one interrogation by an FBI agent.”
Ryan nods. “Works for me. But the agents will still need reconnaissance to put the screws to our mystery men.”
“That’s where Donna comes in.” Jack puts his hand on my shoulder. “As Sugar CEO’s concierge, she’ll greet each man personally. You know, take his coat, offer him a drink, give him the key to his room and walk him to the elevator, that sort of thing. It will also give her the face time that Arnie and Emma need to ID them. When she looks them in the eye, her lens feeds us video for an iris scan. Every time they open their mouths, we get a chance at voice recognition. Whenever they hit the elevator button or take her up on an offer for a libation, we have their fingerprints.”
I smile at his brilliance. “So, where does this soiree take place?”
“It’ll have to be a secluded venue, one away from any civilians,” Ryan murmurs.
Arnie clicks away on his iPad. “Hey, I think I’ve got just the right place. There’s a posh new hotel, practically next door to LAX. It’s just passed the city inspection, furnishings are already being delivered, and the grand opening is still three weeks off.”
“Great find, Arnie,” Ryan says. Arnie gives him a silent nod, but his gaze falls on Emma to make sure she heard the boss man’s kudos. Apparently not, since she’s too busy combing through my pajama drawer. If Arnie doesn’t make his move before this mission is over, he may lose Emma to his competition. I’ve got to give that boy another pep talk.
“Perfect! Acme will rent it out for an evening prior to the opening. The hotel’s management will love making some pre-opening revenue. They will be told it’s for a private corporate event, and that no onsite personnel will be needed because we’ll be bringing in our own wait staff,” Ryan says. “Sugar CEO will send a limo, courtesy of Abu. That way, there’s no chance of them getting lost, and we can monitor any communication they have in transit.”
“How will you break the news to the DOJ that I’m taking part in the mission?”
Ryan ponders that for a moment. “It was his grand scheme to use you as the canary in the Quorum mine shaft. It he wants to strike gold, it’s time to move you to a different tunnel.”
I’m almost afraid to ask, but someone has to say it. “How can we ensure the assassin won’t get wind of this?”
“Our guess is that he’s also tapped into the Sugar CEO database,” Ryan explains. “If so, Arnie will have to create a sentry to block him from anything that signals future activity on their accounts.”
“With Ryan’s watchdogs out front, won’t I have to pass on all the fun?”
“If he thinks you’re here, he won’t be any wiser to your true whereabouts," Jack says. “Besides Emma’s window dressing—or I should say, undressing—we’ll transmit an audio feed from the house, so that he thinks he’s hearing you talking to the children. Instead, it will be a recording.”
For the first time in quite a while, Ryan graces us with a smile. “Should he show up at the hotel anyway, between the Feds and us he’ll have quite a welcoming committee waiting for him.”
And I’ll finally be off the hook with the DOJ.
Just my luck he’ll be here, watching Emma’s strip tease.
I hope she does me justice.
Chapter 9
When It’s Time to Meet the Parents
He has finally given in to your request to meet his parents. Whereas he’s sullen and anxious, you’re tickled pink, because it’s proof that you’ve reached yet another major milestone in your relationship!
So that you’re just as big a hit with them as you know they’ll be with you, follow these very important courtesies:
Courtesy #1: Always come armed with a compliment! In fact, always come armed. A semi-automatic will do! With the right purse, it makes an elegant fashion statement.
Courtesy #2: No matter how thick it is, do not stare at his mother’s mustache.
Courtesy #3: Should his father cop a feel, resist the urge to break his fingers. Remember, the bones of dirty old men over sixty are more brittle than the bones of your usual maulers, creeps under thirty.
Courtesy #4: Should his mother call you a “whore and a gold digger,” pretend you didn’t hear her. In fact, that is the ideal time to compliment her on her blouse, despite the fact that it is the size of a circus tent.
Courtesy #5: When your boyfriend asks, “So, what did you think of the old farts?” don’t feel any compunction to tell the truth. Being polite is what real ladies do—
Especially ones who are whores and/or gold diggers, and can wait out the final days of two wealthy old farts. Remember, patience is a virtue!
The hotel where the operation is taking place is posh on the inside, gleaming on the outside. It juts eighteen stories above Pershing Avenue, in Playa Del Rey, right behind LAX. Its rooftop party deck is the perfect spot to enjoy a starlit sky.
What a great place to end the Quorum, once and for all.
My so-called concierge outfit is a vision in white, and in tight. It consists of a platinum blond Marilyn Monroe wig, tux tie, a breast-jutting bustier, a bum-hugging leather skirt, a tiny white bellman’s cap, fishnet stockings, and high heels. I wear a beauty mark to the left of my lips.
None of this leaves room to hide a weapon, and yet I’ve never felt safer on a mission. Besides the FBI agents behind Doors One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven and Eight (each on a separate floor starting on the ninth, so that any shouting or crying can’t be overheard) I’ll also have Jack and Ryan out front and close at hand, just in case something goes wrong.
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“Incoming,” Abu murmurs into a mike that can be heard by everyone involved. “Sorry folks, his plane arrived earlier than expected.”
The suspects are scheduled every fifteen minutes, beginning at eight o’clock. That gives Abu just enough time to drop off and turn back around for the next pick-up. Here’s hoping most of these guys aren’t as eager as this one, or our timing may be off. The last thing we need is for them to be bumping into each other in the lobby.
Sugar CEO Number 4 is tall and elegant. He wears a bowler, round spectacles, and a three-piece pinstriped suit. He carries a walking stick under his arm, and he bows slightly when he sees me. As his eyes sweep over me, and his grin shows me he likes what he sees.
“Welcome. Your sugar baby is already waiting for you.” My smile is accompanied with a broad wink. “Here is the key to your room. May I take your hat?”
The man hesitates for moment before nodding.
He won’t need it where he’s going. Gitmo is too hot for anything other than a sun hat.
His hand grazes mine as he hands it over. “Won’t you be joining us?” His tone is hard, as opposed to hopeful.
In his dreams.
“Sorry, no. But trust me, you’ll be captivated by all she has in store for you.”
His eyes linger on mine for just a moment. Finally he sighs. “All the more reason to have you at my side, my dear. You know what they say: the more, the merrier.”
“Perhaps next time,” I say firmly.
The elevator rings its arrival. Saved by the bell. He pushes the button for the ninth floor, where his blind date awaits him.
When Sugar CEO Number 5 arrives, I’ll send him to the ninth floor. The man who arrives after him will go to the eighth floor, and so on. By the eighth man, we’ll be down to the second floor.
“Did you place him?” Arnie hears my question through my audio bug earring.
“Yeah, and I’m transmitting the intel to his FBI interrogator right now. He’s a Swiss banker. Name is Dominic Gerstner.”
I pray all the men aren’t as creepy as this guy, but something tells me that I’ll be in for a lot of this sort of King of the World attitude all evening.