The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  I would’ve seen the insurance claim on that, but none had hit my desk.

  A tingle of fear prickled my skin.

  “Aziza?” My voice held an edge now. “Aziza, where are you?”

  Light leaked from the crack under the door closing off the hallway to the master suite. I followed it, more careful now. It came from the bedroom. I eased down the hallway, pausing to look in before I charged ahead.

  The body of a woman, face down, arms and legs akimbo, her short skirt riding up to show a tattoo on the back of her thigh, so new the skin around the symbol was still pink.

  Her long black hair fanned to the side, exposed her neck and a sliver of her face. Two marks, angry and red, marred the flawless olive skin of the back of her neck.

  I knelt beside her, pressing two fingers to the hollow above her clavicle. Her skin still warm, but no pulse.

  “Fuck.” I rocked back on my heels then pushed to my feet. I took in the room as I pulled my phone from my purse.

  What the hell should I do now?

  Out of my comfort zone, I’d wandered into the deep end and needed someone to give me a hand. But who? I scanned the room, looking for anything out of place.

  Nothing.

  I backed out of the room, then ran for the door. I had called the Club from the car, so I hit redial. The front desk picked up before it even rang on my end. “This is Ms. O’Toole.” I worked calm into my voice, which held steady. “May I have Security please?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  A female voice answered, announcing I’d actually reached the extension I’d asked for. Without letting her finish announcing her identity, I started shouting…well, muted shouting. More like demands in a you-may-not-ignore-me tone. “I need everyone in this whole place looking for a woman in a cream and gold Chanel suit—short pencil skirt, lovely tapered jacket. Her hair is…”

  I paused. Because of her hat, I had no idea what color it is.

  “She’s wearing a…a matching hat,” I stuttered. Then I remembered the purse. “She’s carrying a vintage Hermès Kelly bag, bronze and white with gold embellishments. Find her—now!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t alarm the guests but find her. It’s crucial. Do you understand? Do not let her get away.” At the front door, I illuminated the Do Not Disturb light then pulled the door behind me, making sure it locked.

  Then I turned. Stifling the urge to run, I strode toward the elevator.

  6

  Donna

  “Move Hummingbird’s body?” I’m stunned at Ryan’s suggestion. “But…why?”

  “This wasn’t just any asset,” Ryan explains. “The dead woman—Aziza Halabi—is the daughter of a Saudi Arabian crown prince: Sheik Muhammad bin Al Saud. We’re trying to stop an international incident, not start one! MI6’s report will soften the blow for the royal family.”

  “By that, you mean, her espionage role?” Jack asks.

  “Yes—and the fact that she was working in the first place—in a private club, of all places.”

  Emma snorts. “Because women in her country and of her position are practically imprisoned.”

  “To her credit, Aziza was able to convince the Crown Prince to loosen the tether to some extent,” Ryan counters. “She was in England for university. She is—was— an International Studies major at Oxford.” He sighs. “If what we have is her intel and it’s correct, her country will mourn her as a true patriot.”

  “We’ll have to move fast,” I reply. “Unfortunately, when I summoned the elevator, a woman was just coming out of it. She seemed worried—and she was surprised to run into me. Since the Royal Suite is the only guest accommodations on the floor, by now she’ll have realized I was in there, especially since I left the door as I found it: cracked open. Needless to say, I didn’t stick around to see if the woman actually walked into the suite. Even if she did, I found Aziza’s body in the master bedroom.”

  “If this woman didn’t immediately see the poor girl, she may have just called out her name, gotten no response, then turned around and left,” Dominic suggests.

  “This may be why we aren’t hearing an ambulance or police sirens,” Jack points out.

  “Not as of the last few minutes. But, eventually, someone will find her,” Ryan replies. “When they do, all hell will break loose. All the more reason to get Donna out—now.”

  “Arnie, as soon as possible, I’ll need you to wipe me from the security feeds throughout the club,” I say. “I left Dominic’s room around 20:05 and took the vintage elevator to the penthouse level—fifth floor. There were security cams in the elevator and in the halls.”

  “On it,” Arnie murmurs.

  “You can’t do a simple loop,” Ryan reminds him. “Since Donna ran into someone, you’ll have to erase Donna but leave the woman.”

  Arnie sighs. “I’ll do my best with the time I have.” I hear him clicking away on his computer keyboard.

  “I’ll give you a hand by looping Dominic’s floor,” Emma adds.

  “Thanks, Em.” The relief is obvious in Arnie’s voice. “Ah, hell! The mystery woman is leaving the Royal Suite now! Strange. She doesn’t seem scared. More like, angry.”

  Ryan sighs. “She was in there long enough to have found Aziza.”

  “That’s odd. The usual response to a dead body is fear or tears,” I exclaim.

  “Not if she was in on the murder,” Dominic replies.

  “And if so, we have to find out who she is, and who she works for,” Jack declares.

  “As of now, this woman is certainly our prime suspect,” I agree. “On the other hand, Aziza’s killer may have arrived before her as opposed to after her and most certainly left the suite before Donna arrived for the pickup.”

  “Good point,” Ryan says. “Emma, after you’ve finished looping Dominic’s floor, pull up the security footage for the hallway leading to the Royal Suite. Begin an hour prior to Aziza’s arrival and up until Donna’s ETA for the pickup.”

  “Will do, Chief,” Emma replies.

  “Also, run the mystery woman through facial recognition analysis. We need to know who we’re dealing with.”

  “On it,” she assures him.

  “Jack and Abu, you’ll do the wet work,” Ryan adds.

  “Getting a dead body out of there won’t be easy,” Jack mutters.

  “From what I can see of the activity taking place in the club, one of its reception areas is preparing for some sort of event,” Dominic chimes in. “Maybe that will help.”

  “Checking the security feed now…” Emma adds. “You’re right. A few workmen, dressed in coveralls, are going in and out…In fact, I’m following two guys who are carrying some rolled-up carpets…They’re taking them down a side hall. It goes to a service area just beyond the kitchen.” She pauses for a few moments. Finally: “They went out a door that leads to a loading dock on the back alley. They’ve dropped the carpets there.”

  “That’s where we’ll start,” Abu declares.

  “You’ll have to get the carpet up to the Royal Suite without being seen,” I remind them. “It won’t be easy since the elevators are for guests and staff only.”

  “Crikey! I’ve got the perfect solution!” Dominic exclaims. “The suite’s kitchen happens to have a dumbwaiter.”

  I give him a sideways gaze. “How would you know that?”

  “I discovered it quite by necessity—sadly, during an aborted tryst with the wife of an Argentine diplomat whose skeet shooting skill is renowned the world over.” Dominic shrugs. “Considering my proximity to his wife, I saw no need to test his claim to fame.”

  “What a shame,” Jack mumbles.

  Ryan sighs loudly—a warning to all to keep on task.

  “What about the kitchen staff?” I ask.

  “The dumbwaiter is located in a butler’s pantry,” Dominic adds. “And since the Royal Suite is the only one with a formal dining room, the pantry isn’t currently in use until the suite is occupied again.”

&
nbsp; “Then we’d better hurry, since readying it for the next guest was Aziza’s excuse for being up there in the first place,” I reply.

  “I see the pantry,” Emma says. “In fact, it is accessed from the same service hall that leads to the loading dock.”

  “Perhaps Jack and Abu should raid the catering staff’s lockers in order to get upstairs,” Dominic suggests.

  “Easily done,” Emma replies. “From what I’m seeing, the employee dressing room can also be accessed from that corridor. I’m in the room now…For the time being, it’s empty. And from what I can see, it contains personnel lockers. There’s a door marked ‘Uniform Closet.’”

  “That makes life easier. Wear your eyes and ears, everyone,” Ryan warns.

  “Will do,” Jack assures him. “Abu and I are over and out.” We hear him ring off.

  “If the mystery woman was the killer, she may consider you a witness,” Dominic points out to me.

  “Dominic, all the more reason you have to get Donna out of the club immediately,” Ryan declares. “But hang around in case Jack and Abu need you to create a diversion. You’re also to tail the mystery woman. If necessary, intercept and interrogate.”

  “With pleasure,” Dominic purrs.

  “Donna, you’d better move fast—and safe journey.” I’m touched by the concern in Ryan’s voice.

  I run to the bedroom closet in Dominic’s suite, pull out the red leather dress suit, and toss it on the bed: a heart-shaped monstrosity that undulates under the merest touch.

  Ugh!

  I can’t let my disgust slow me down. Quickly, I unbutton my jacket and blouse. Finally, I step out of my skirt and toss the discarded Chanel outfit into my suitcase. It deserves better treatment, but I haven’t the time. Still, I grumble, “Dominic, really! A waterbed? That’s…so…”

  “I know, hard to resist, isn’t it?” From his joyous tone, he actually means that.

  As I slip the dress over my hips, I retort, “This doesn’t look like the kind of joint that caters to…to…well, you know—”

  Dominic chuckles. “Rumpy-pumpy shenanigans? I’ve come to learn that if you spend enough money in any club, their world is your pleasure palace.”

  His voice sounds too close for comfort. I look around to see him leaning against the wall. Frowning, I growl, “May I have some privacy? I’ve got to get back into your fantasy fuck suit if I’m going to make it out of this supposedly hoity-toity club without drawing attention to myself.” Talk about a misnomer!

  “You’ll need someone to help you zip it up,” he reminds me.

  “At least, turn around until I do.” I pull up the dress, then grab my Princess Maja wig in one hand and the outfit’s red stiletto heels in the other. Scanning the room for a mirror, I realize Dominic could see me all along because he’s staring up at the ceiling—

  Which has a mirror over the bed.

  He rewards my blush with a wink—

  But then curses when the shoe I throw at him hits its mark.

  We descend into the lobby at arm’s length, but by the time the elevator door opens Dominic has once again draped his arm around my waist.

  In fact, I now find myself in a lip-lock.

  Why, that son of a bitch…

  Okay, admittedly, he isn’t a half-bad kisser.

  Yeah, okay, I’ll survive.

  For the sake of Babylon London’s staff, Dominic and I exchange subtle smiles and lust-filled gazes. Dominic’s pat on my ass is a step too far, but breaking his hand in the club’s lobby would defeat the prime objective: getting me out of here without incident.

  At that moment, I see Jack and Abu on the far side of the lobby, walking out of a room with large double doors. Between them, they’ve hoisted a carpet onto their shoulders.

  Thank goodness they’re already here.

  “Yo, Jack—Mystery Woman is waiting for the Royal Suite’s service elevator, so grab the public one instead,” Emma insists.

  Instead, they head toward the one public elevator that ascends to the Royal Suite.

  It’s only after the doorman summons one of London’s iconic black cabs that I breathe easy again. Just for show, Dominic gives me a searing kiss before ushering me into it.

  “I’m rather enjoying this,” he whispers as he nuzzles my neck.

  “Don’t tell Jack,” I warn him.

  Dominic glances skyward. “Not to worry. Mum’s the word, Ducky.” He shrugs. “He’s a very lucky man.”

  That bit of sweetness earns him a stroke on the cheek. Still, to change the subject, I urge him, “I don’t know if our mystery woman is still here, but if so, intercept her.”

  He waves me off, but his ear-to-ear grin is his vow that he plans on doing exactly that.

  As a precaution, in a Scandinavian drawl I ask the cab to take me only as far as Selfridges, as if I haven’t a care in the world. He drops me off on the Oxford Street side. I walk through the store with the goal of exiting on the Orchard Street side.

  As I pass the Hermès concession, it hits me: I left my handbag in Dominic’s room.

  Damn it!

  Considering his predilection for cozy company, I’ll make him promise to place it deep into a suitcase. I’d hate for one of his many conquests to pilfer it, like some sort of trophy.

  If they do, he owes me—okay, make that Acme—it’s one hundred and ten thousand Euros!

  By now, I’m safely ensconced in a second cab instructed to drop me off a few blocks from the Ritz. We’re inching our way through Park Lane’s stop-and-go traffic, giving me plenty of time to tune into the real-time machinations of my team.

  While Arnie takes on the meticulous task of erasing me from the floor’s archival footage, Emma furtively whispers that the elevator’s security camera is now on a loop that shows it as empty. The same goes for the cameras on the Royal Suite’s hallway, the service hall, the butler’s pantry, and the loading dock.

  Jack and Abu, now liveried as club waiters with aproned food carts, enter the empty vintage elevator.

  And, as Arnie previously did for me, the second they step onto the fifth floor, Emma hacks the code that keeps it from going beyond the fourth floor.

  They reach the suite’s front door. Since they don’t have a properly coded RFID keycard, Jack pulls something from his pocket that works just as well: a little gadget that spoofs the suite’s Vingcard Vision lock.

  As Abu and Jack enter the suite, I relay in a whisper, “The master bedroom is down the hall to the left.”

  The moment they enter it, they unroll the carpet beside the dead woman’s body. The frowns on their faces confirm that rigor mortis has set in. This means they’ll have to be very careful. Gently, they place Aziza onto the carpet and roll it up. Lifting it evenly, they take it into the dining room.

  The dumbwaiter is in an alcove. Thank goodness, it is wide enough. While Jack maneuvers the carpet into it, Abu lowers the dumbwaiter slowly until the carpet is vertical within the chute.

  They press the button that sends it descending five stories.

  Immediately, they are out the suite’s front door. Jack locks it behind them.

  It takes the vintage elevator two minutes, tops, to descend. Still, each passing second seems like a year.

  Luckily, by the time the elevator opens again in the lobby, no one is waiting for it. As previously planned, Jack and Abu walk quickly to the service hall.

  Just as they enter the pantry, the dumbwaiter groans to a stop.

  “Talk about perfect timing,” Emma mutters.

  With immense care, Abu and Jack pull the rolled carpet from the dumbwaiter.

  “You’re clear to go down the service hall to the loading dock,” Emma hisses.

  They’re out the door with the carpet.

  Two minutes later, their white, unmarked, paneled van veers away from the dock.

  My taxi has just pulled up to my destination—the corner of Piccadilly and Bolton—when I hear Ryan say, “Good work, boys.”

  Arnie exclaims, “Donna
is now a ghost. But, Princess Maja lives on.”

  “Lucky lady,” I mutter.

  7

  Lucky

  With the vise of panic squeezing my chest, I chose the service elevator. With a dead woman rapidly cooling in the Royal Suite, the refined one servicing this floor was much too slow. Talk about keeping someone on ice.

  How many laws was I breaking? Probably enough to be a permanent ward of the state.

  I swallowed a nervous giggle—murder always made me twitchy. Running the risk of being accused of it made it impossible to breathe.

  The elevator took way longer than usual—I was almost apoplectic by the time it arrived. As soon as I could, I eased sideways through the opening then began pummeling the door-close button. The door didn’t shut as fast as I wanted, and left me waiting, alone with my heart pounding in my ears.

  I didn’t want time to think. Thinking wasn’t going to help. The young woman was a Saudi citizen. Her uncle our most important partner and client. Who could help? MI5? The local police? The Queen? The American Embassy?

  Of course, no American was involved…except me.

  I needed help in the worst way. But I had no idea who to call.

  But, at least I knew who to blame. I called my father.

  As the elevator spit me out in the hallway behind the lobby, he answered with a cheery, “How’s everything?” Thankfully, no one waited or lurked within earshot—January wasn’t exactly high season in London.