by Josie Brown
Okay, yeah, she has a point.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from snatching the flowers out of her lap.
“You gave those to me!” She grabs them back.
“Buy yourself a dozen with whatever money you’ve made by making my life miserable.” I yank back as hard as I can—
The buds come off in my hands. Worse yet, the thorns have shredded my palms to bits.
I’ll survive. Besides, she’s left holding nothing but the stems.
Her involuntary reflex—to roll away from me—deposits her left wheel in a rain grate. Every attempt to maneuver out of it only secures her right wheel even deeper into a crack.
Hopefully, she’ll be stuck there until the next Great Flood.
For a moment, her rage reddens her face. But then her lip quivers. “You can’t just leave me here! I’m a defenseless old lady!”
“Oh, no? Watch me.”
I turn to leave—
Only to bump into the small crowd that has gathered around us. I guess I should be concerned that everyone thinks I’m some sort of bully, but quite honestly, I’m so angry right now, I can’t see straight.
As I rush by my neighbors, I hear Tiffy Swift, one of my carpool partners, mutter to Mitzi, “How could anyone be so cruel to that poor thing?”
If only she knew.
I guess she will, and soon. She and the rest of her coven—Hayley Coxhead and the all-time queen of mean, Penelope Bing—will have yet one more reason to snicker when I’m in view.
By now, sheets of rain are falling. Soaked, I toss the crushed buds into the bucket with the rest of the cut flowers and make a run for the house. Now, besides making Jack’s cake, I’ve got another task:
Telling my children that the man I love is not their father.
First things first: I’ve got to see my divorce attorney.
I am nothing like the three other women in Alan Shore’s waiting room.
I don’t accessorize cropped razorback running tees and ass-lifting yoga pants with precious diamond tennis bracelets worth more than my home mortgage.
I’m not on my third, fourth, or fifth husband—and trying to get away from him.
And I don’t bring my maid to my appointment with my divorce attorney so that she can take notes for me.
In fact, I don’t have a maid.
Admittedly, it’s the one thing I covet from these ladies.
Okay, that and the tennis bracelet.
I may have walked in last, but my name gets called next. The twenty-dollar bill I palmed to Alan’s receptionist buys me VIP status.
At the same time, it earns me laser-sharp glares from the other women. Well, too bad. My children’s wellbeing is at stake, so, hell yeah, baby, I’m jumping the line.
Besides, it’s cocktail hour in Paris. At least, that will be Alan’s excuse for tippling even this early in the day. And let’s face it: he may be a conniving bastard genius, but he’s less lucid when he’s too far into his cups.
So, yes, I’m next in line for some of his sage, if cockeyed, advice.
I wouldn’t trade that for a million tennis bracelets.
Alan doesn’t rise when I enter. For that matter, he doesn’t even look up.
Maybe that’s a good thing, since his personal barber has a straight razor at his throat.
“Joanie, long time no see! January, two years ago, right? Wasn’t that the big shakedown for Husband Number Three? Gee, how time flies when you’re having fun.”
By the way I open a spare straight razor with a flick of my wrist and trim Alan’s cowlick into a Mohawk without him feeling it, the barber knows I’m serious about getting Alan’s undivided attention and does the smart thing: He grabs his gear and scurries out the door.
“Alan, it’s not Joanie.” Of course, he knows my voice.
Slowly, he peeks out from under the warm towel wrapped around his face. Seeing me, he practically falls out of his chair. “Donna! I—I wasn’t expecting you—”
“That’s quite alright. Your receptionist understood the severity of my emergency and slipped me in.” My voice oozes peaches and cream, but by the way I hold the razor—next to his neck—he knows I’m not a happy camper.
He frowns. “Yeah, okay, what can I do for you?”
I snort. “According to your billable hours—over a hundred, to date, and counting—you should have done it already! Don’t you remember? You’re supposed to be my first line of defense in my divorce from Carl Stone, lately of the District of Columbia! Or have you forgotten it’s why I pay you such a princely sum?”
“If I remember correctly, I’ve got you on the ‘practically pro bono plan,’ which, frankly, makes me a gentleman, considering nothing about this divorce is easy.”
“Pro bono? Is that what you call it?” Oops, my bad, I’ve pricked his neck.
He yelps, but only after I lift the razor so that he can see the droplet of blood on its blade.
He leaps out of the chair and backs away. “On top of driving a hard bargain with me, and considering that you refuse to take a dime from him, yes, that’s exactly the right word for it.”
“Of course I won’t take money from him! If I do, it validates his role in my children’s lives, even after he deserted them—and me.” I’m trying hard to keep my eyes from clouding up with tears. “Not to mention the lies he’ll tell them—about himself, about Jack…and about me.”
“Believe what you want, but if this goes his way, you’ve only yourself to blame,” he mutters.
“Oh? How so?”
“Since you won’t take alimony or child support, Carl doesn’t believe you’re willing to play hardball.” He dabs the towel to his neck. When he sees a spot of blood, he gulps hard and backs away from me. I can tell by the worried look in his eyes that he’s wondering if he should say what he really thinks.
To encourage him to do so, I toss the blade to one side.
Relieved, he sighs. “Look, Donna, I’m doing the best I can. But to tell you the truth—I know, rare in my profession—my people have had a hell of a time getting anywhere near Carl to subpoena him for a deposition, because he’s surrounded by his personal storm trooper battalion…twenty-four seven. Not only that, he’s got everyone but the justices of the Supreme Court offering themselves up as character witnesses as to why he should share custody with you. Let me put it this way, my dear Mrs. Stone: you can’t fight city hall, let alone Capitol Hill. He won. You lost. Suck it up.”
I brush away a tear. “I can’t do it, Alan! I can’t allow him near them!”
“If that’s the way you feel, keep doing what you do best—dodging the summons server. Maybe Carl will get tired of all these shenanigans and blow it off.”
“I…well…” I hand him the subpoena. “Unfortunately, a process server got to me.”
Alan’s eyes narrow. “Part of your ‘pro bono’ fees went to buying off—I mean, retaining—every process server in the LA metro area, so that they could pass on the honor of serving you. So, what did this guy look like?”
“It wasn’t a guy. It was a little old lady—in a wheelchair, no less! And it wasn’t a prop either, because she couldn’t get out of it when she accidentally fell into a ditch.”
Alan snorts. “Yeah, those kinds of accidents happen—around you, anyway.” He walks over to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a stack of cards.
Glancing over his shoulder, I see that someone’s picture is pasted on each one. “What are those, sports trading cards?”
“Something like that—and even more valuable if you’ve got a reason to stay just out of reach of the long arm of the law. I should have had you look at these when this case heated up.” He flips through the stack until he finds the one he seeks: a front-on shot of the woman who served my summons. He holds it up. “Let me guess. It was this woman—Greta Larkin.”
I grab it out of his hand for a better look. “Yes! How did you know?”
“Your Carl is a sly dog! He hired the best process server in the San Francis
co Bay area. Let me put it this way: if she were a trading card, she’d be the Babe Ruth of the deck. Her record is nine-eighty-nine and oh.” Alan shakes his head in awe. “Don’t feel bad. One way or another, she would have gotten you.”
“Oh, really? Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.” I’m tempted to pick up the razor again and do a little manscaping—around his heart—only I’m afraid it’ll be a waste of time, since he doesn’t seem to have one. “Okay, genius, what’s our next step?”
He shrugs. “If you don’t give in, you’ll be in contempt of court—and he may be able to convince the judge to take your kids away from you.”
Adamantly, I shake my head. “Nope. That will never happen.”
Seeing me pick up the blade again and fiddle with it, he backs up as far as he can go without falling out his third story window. “You’ve always had excellent powers of persuasion. Maybe you can use them to come to some sort of agreement that you both can live with.” He gives me a knowing wink.
If he’s suggesting I sleep with Carl, I’ll make his third-story fall look like a successful suicide attempt.
However, if he’s suggesting that I kill Carl, well, duh. That niggling little task has been on my to-do list for quite some time now.
Not that he needs to know this. Despite attorney-client privilege, a lady must always keep an air of mystery about her—not to mention any and all incriminating evidence.
I shrug nonchalantly. “Maybe you’re right. I should at least attempt a meeting of the minds—for old time’s sake.”
“That’s my girl!” He nudges me toward the door with one hand. With the other, he towels off the rest of the shaving cream. “In the meantime, I’ll stall on the actual meet-and-greet. But the judge has already warned us that it should happen in a timely fashion, so whatever you have in mind, make it happen—quick.”
That’s the plan—quick.
Although not necessarily painlessly.
For Carl, anyway.
Chapter 4
Hardware
Your brand spanking new laptop computer comes out of its box so pretty and so shiny—and loaded with tons of bells and whistles that will have you moving at warp speed through the Etherworld!
Which bring us to the three things that should never be allowed near it:
Forbidden Item Number 1: A can of soda.
Nothing mucks up a keyboard faster than heavily sugared seltzer water. For that matter, when it seeps into your hard drive, you can forget your computer’s memory too. (But, hopefully, you remembered to buy a warranty plan.)
Forbidden Item Number 2: Your child.
He may like the fact that your computer doesn’t freeze while he plays his favorite video games, but the last thing you need is for him to erase any emails from your boss (by mistake), or the latest email from his teacher (on purpose).
More than likely, he will also be the one who spills the soda on your keyboard.
Forbidden Item Number 3: Your significant other.
Porn may look better on your large, hi-def screen with 200x zoom, but since you’re less interested in counting the moles on some naked nympho’s breasts than he is, tell him to stay away from it.
Or to get his own computer.
Should his porn obsession get out of hand, spill a little soda on the problem.
I’m icing all three cooled layers of cake when Jack, Jeff and Trisha get home from the game.
Despite the fact the he’s soaked to the bone, Jeff gives me a peck on the cheek. “We would have won by three if the game hadn’t been rained out.”
I give him a hug. “Did you pitch?”
“Give me a break! What do you think?” He flexes a muscle.
Like his father, he’s not exactly the modest type.
By that, I mean Carl.
The thought that he’ll soon know the truth makes me want to throw up.
Jack takes my left hand and holds it up, so that he can examine my bandaged palm. “Don’t tell me you cut yourself with the shears.”
I flinch—not because my wounds are still tender, but because I don’t want to tell him the truth. That is, not yet, anyway. “No, I…had a run-in with some…rose thorns.”
He sticks a finger in the icing bowl and licks it. “So, now, you’re drowning your sorrows in chocolate cake?”
I slide the bowl away from him. “How dare you!”
He frowns. “What’s wrong? You told me to remind you whenever you’re tempted to go off your diet.”
I shove the whole cake in his direction. “I’m not making it for me. It’s for you! Remember?”
“Since when?”
“Since ten-thirty this morning, when you texted me.” I grab my cell phone off the counter and thrust it in his direction. “See?”
He takes it and reads the message. Then he stares at me, shaking his head. “Donna, I swear I didn’t send this.” He takes his phone from his pocket and hands it to me, so that I can see his list of recent texts for myself.
“But then…who?”
He shrugs. “I guess your phone has been hacked.”
“That’s impossible! At least, if you’re to believe Arnie.”
“Even Arnie isn’t infallible. In any event, he needs to know as soon as possible.” He’s about to punch Arnie’s number into his phone when it rings. Caller ID shows that it’s Ryan. I can’t hear what our boss is saying, but Jack’s face has a curious look on it. “Will do, boss. We’ll leave immediately,” he mutters.
“What did Ryan want?” My heart is pounding. My guess is that the call is about what I heard from Lee last night. Still, I have to pretend that I don’t know what it’s about.
Jack shrugs. “He wouldn’t say, but he wants us in the office, pronto. Do you think Aunt Phyllis can cover for us?”
I nod nonchalantly. “I’ll see if I can rustle her up.”
I text Aunt Phyllis:
Calling in a chit. Can you watch the kids for the rest of the afternoon?
A minute later, she texts back:
Hola! I’ll head over as soon as my samba class is over. Besos!
Jack is reading my cell screen over my shoulder. He winces. “Couldn’t she throw out a hip?”
“After thirty-some years of yoga, I’d say the odds are good that she’ll outlive us both.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but then realizes it’s something I already know: In our line of work, longevity is questionable anyway.
I look over at Jeff. “I’ll need you to watch your sister until Aunt Phyllis gets here. It should be an hour, tops.”
“No problem.” He licks his lips. “Can we have cake?”
“Yes, but after dinner. I’ll text Mary now, so that she knows to make spaghetti if we’re not home by seven.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Her noodles are too soft. She never hears the timer, because she’s always on her cell phone.”
“With Trevor,” Trisha says with a knowing grin.
The last thing I need to worry about is Mary and Trevor’s raging hormones. “Her noodles will be just fine for tonight,” I assure him.
To guarantee it, I text Mary: Need you at home.
She texts back: Still with BFFs, studying.
The library closed a half hour ago. My next text tells her I know it: WITH TREVOR????
A moment later, she texts back: B home in 5
Relieved, I smile. “Jeff, afterward, you’ll help Mary with the dishes. Trisha will set the table. For lunch, there’s chicken salad in the fridge, with organic greens.” I grab my purse. “Until Aunt Phyllis gets here, don’t let anyone in the house except for Mary.”
“Not even Trevor?” Jeff asks slyly.
“Especially not Trevor,” I say, as I follow Jack out the door. “And please stay inside.”
Not that they’d want to go out, anyway.
There’s a storm brewing.
By the time we get to the office, the rest of the mission team is already assembled in the conference room with Ryan. There are at least
twenty tech-ops personnel, as well as their fearless leader—Arnie Locklear, who personally provides tech-ops for Mission Quorum, which is headed up by Jack.
Emma Honeycutt, my mission team’s communications intelligence specialist, is also here. She’s engaged to Arnie, and is now well into her seventh month of pregnancy. I wish I could say that things have been smooth sailing for those two, but after the initial proposal euphoria, reality has set in.
They must be in the midst of some new battle, because they’re sitting on opposite sides of the room. They haven’t even tied the knot, but already they fight like an old married couple.
Other members of the Quorum mission team have also been summoned. Abu Nagashahi, a field operative who is our mission’s cut-out and cleaner, is sitting behind Emma. And, finally, there is Dominic, who, like Jack and me, is an F3—he finds, fixes, and finishes—on black-ops missions.
For the majority of these operations, we’re naked—and by that, I don’t mean we aren’t wearing clothes (albeit in some cases, we aren’t), but that we go solo.
When it’s Jack’s turn to go naked, I hold my breath until he walks back through the door.
He does the same for me. Too much can go wrong. We know this from experience.
Frankly, when it comes to my dealings with Lee, I’m totally naked—figuratively, that is.
No doubt he wouldn’t mind if I were in the literal sense either.
But that ain’t happening. I think I’ve given him that message loud and clear. At the same time, I’ll be honest: I don’t mind being the pawn—make that the queen—in some deadly chess game of wits and power with Carl.
I have a vested interest to keep Carl in check.
Now that everyone is here, Ryan gets right to the point. “Acme has been called in to do an audit of the U.S. Intelligence Community’s main database. Apparently, the IC’s intrusion software is less than stellar. Security vulnerabilities have been found in our most highly classified files concerning terrorism, both foreign and domestic.”