The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  “What am I looking for?”

  I shrugged and looked a bit sheepish. “Anything unusual.”

  “Trite.” At least she smiled. “More time.”

  “I know. It’s really important.”

  She looked at me for a tick longer than necessary. “I see that. You got it.”

  “Somehow, that woman got in here and up to the Royal Suite, which even God couldn’t do without the appropriate credentials. Somebody had to let her up there.” I thought about telling Bree about Aziza and my dilemma, but since that cat was not out of the bag with anyone at the club, and, since I had no body and hence no crime, and since the disappearing body would only cement my looney-tune status among the staff, I kept that whole thing to myself. “I’d really like to know how and, while you’re at it, why would be nice.”

  “Piece of cake.” A bit of sarcasm to seal the deal.

  “Could the same folks who hacked into the video feeds also have breached our firewall into the rest of the system?”

  “I would’ve told you nobody could’ve done what I know they’ve already done. Our security is state-of-the-art. Very, very few would have the capabilities.”

  “So, in theory, they could’ve triggered the elevator and disabled a room lock?”

  “Elevator, yes. Room lock, no. That system is sequestered in-house—no internet, no outside access.”

  Through the glass wall of her office, I stared at the video monitors. “Who are these people?” And why did they want Aziza?

  10

  Donna

  “So, what do we want to discuss first—the good news, or the bad?” Ryan asks.

  Arnie and Abu have joined Jack and me in our suite for a conference call we’ve initiated with Ryan and Emma at Acme headquarters. Dominic is A.W.O.L. For his sake, I hope it’s for a very good reason—that being, Mystery Woman.

  “Let’s start with some good news,” I suggest.

  “Great idea,” Ryan exclaims. “Do you want to go first?”

  Hearing Ryan’s hopeful tone, Jack frowns. “Our mission was a mixed bag,” he admits.

  “I’ve got a little of both too,” Arnie admits.

  “Likewise,” Emma weighs in.

  “Shall we draw straws?” I suggest. “That way, we give Ryan something to smile about before breaking his heart again.”

  “Yeah…thanks for that, Donna,” Ryan replies sarcastically. “I’ll draw for you. Emma first, Arnie next, and the Craigs go last. I’ll interject where I see fit.”

  No arguments there.

  “I’ll be happy to share my good news.” Emma’s buoyancy gives me hope. “We now know the name of our mystery lady.”

  “Through Dominic’s reconnaissance?” Abu asks.

  Emma guffaws. “Hardly! And Interpol had nothing on her. However, TSA was a treasure trove. Because she travels all the time, its facial recognition system immediately identified her. Her name is Lucky O’Toole. She’s the scion to the Rothstein family of Chicago—you know, the one that owns casinos all over the world, including the Babylon in Sin City and the London club, which Dominic frequents with such pleasure.”

  “And where Aziza worked,” Jack replies.

  “Until she was murdered today,” I add. “Speaking of Dominic, why isn’t he on the call?”

  “We last heard from him two hours ago,” Ryan barks gruffly. “He was on his way to the club’s casino. Who knows what kind of mischief he’s gotten himself into since then.”

  I try not to laugh as I ask, “Don’t we have eyes and ears on him?”

  “Apparently, he didn’t think it necessary to clue us in on how he was going to accomplish his mission,” Ryan retorts.

  Jack laughs. “In hindsight, maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “I can tap into the club’s security cameras,” Arnie offers.

  Ryan sighs at the thought. “So that we’re not distracted by his shenanigans, do it after this call.”

  Arnie’s eyes open wide at the possibilities. Finally, he chokes out, “Right, Chief.”

  “Now, for my not-so-great news,” Emma says. “Starting with two hours prior to Aziza’s arrival in the Royal Suite and up until the point where Donna left Dominic’s room and ascended to the fifth floor, no one other than Aziza went in and out of it.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, stunned. “Not even the O’Toole woman?”

  “Positive. A few hours before Aziza got there, two elderly housekeepers went in and out together. But that’s it.”

  Jack frowns. “So, despite her suspicious actions, this Lucky person may not have killed Aziza.”

  “Still, the fact that she went to the suite and didn’t report what she saw still makes her a Person of Interest,” Ryan points out. “Since we’re on the subject of Aziza, I’ve got something to report. Her autopsy results have come in from MI6.” He pauses before adding, “Officially, she died of a heart attack.”

  His declaration is met with stunned silence.

  I stammer, “But…she was so young!”

  “You’re right,” Ryan agrees. “She was taken before her time. Someone made sure of that. The marks you found on the back of her neck indicate she was hit with a stun gun. The shock to her heart killed her.”

  “Stun guns don’t usually kill—unless the victim had a heart condition,” I reason.

  “It may not have been diagnosed,” Emma says. “Maybe her perpetrator only wanted to disable her in order to swipe the intel and get out before she could pass it forward.”

  “Or perhaps the killer knew of her condition and used the stun gun to make it look like a heart attack,” Jack argues.

  “If her condition had been diagnosed, it would be in her health record,” I point out. “I would imagine her college would have a copy. It might also be in her personnel record.”

  “If it is in her personnel record, Lucky O’Toole would have had access to it,” Jack replies.

  “Arnie, hack the club’s database to see if it has this information. If so, it certainly keeps Ms. O’Toole in line as our prime suspect,” Ryan commands.

  “No problem, Boss,” Arnie replies. “I planted a trojan backdoor in the Babylon’s database. I’ll lurk around now and see what I can pull up.” We hear him tapping away.

  “By the way, folks: the inscription on the amulet is identical to Aziza’s tattoo, but not entirely so,” Ryan adds. “There is one extra character. SigInt is attempting to decipher the full description. Which brings us to Aziza’s key cards. Arnie, you’re up to bat.”

  Arnie sighs. “Okay, so, my great news is that I hacked both of Aziza’s key cards.”

  “So far, so good,” Ryan replies hopefully. “Go on.”

  “The first one is a master key for all the rooms in the club. Nothing sketchy there, since it’s something she would carry because she’s the manager’s Girl Friday.”

  “Aziza must have used it to get into the Royal Suite, and then left it open for me,” I reply.

  “And the killer,” Jack adds.

  “Unless the killer had his or her own key,” Emma suggests.

  “And if the killer is this Lucky lady who owns the joint, she may have had one anyway—or would have known where to lay her hands on one,” Abu reasons.

  “The second card was encoded with a simple cipher. I had no problem breaking it,” Arnie continues. “Now, for the bad news: the intel Aziza put on the card are video recordings of some Saudi businessmen handing over cash and munitions to the very terrorists the Saudi royal family claims are being supported by Qatar.”

  “I’ve verified that what Aziza claims is matched by the Arabic being spoken on the videos,” Abu adds.

  Jack lets loose with a low whistle. “If it’s true that some Saudi bad actors are trying to undermine UAE citizens’ allegiances to the Saudi royal family, well, that’s a pretty big get!”

  “Yes, that’s what it looks like,” Arnie replies.

  “The Saudi royal family has done everything it can to bring Qatar to its knees,” Ryan adds. “
The FBI has already validated Al Jazeera’s contention that the UAE hacked the Qatar News Organization. It has also restricted Qatar’s airspace, and it’s coerced the international banking community to cut ties with Qatar. Now the UAE is demanding that the U.S. and U.N. sanction Qatar as well.”

  “So, here’s my bad news.” Arnie takes a deep breath. “Aziza’s message stops short of naming the men in the video.”

  “Is it because she doesn’t know who they are?” I ask.

  “No,” Arnie responds. “Not only does she claim that she can identify the bad actors, she also knows how they are funneling the money to the terrorists. She wrote that she’d hand over a cipher key to read the rest of the intel secured on the card, but only after attaining CIA’s written assurance that it would protect her and a few others who have risked their lives to let the truth come to light—no matter who the real culprits turn out to be.”

  “I guess now is a good time to tell you our news,” I add. “When I searched Aziza’s place, I grabbed her computer along with a couple of other items; a photo album, her mail, checkbook, and her Quran. One of those items may hold a key to the missing intel.”

  “Or it may lead us to those she wanted to protect. If we find them, they may also have copies of the intel she wanted to pass forward,” Jack points out.

  “Well, that’s a start,” Ryan replies.

  “Can we meet with Aziza’s handler?” Jack asks. “Maybe he can shed some light on who she was talking about.”

  “I’ll see if I can set up a meeting,” Ryan promises.

  “Okay, yeah, here’s a bit of great news. Slide it into my column, thank you very much!” Arnie exclaims.

  “Tell us first and then I’ll give credit if credit is due,” Ryan retorts.

  “I’m inside the Babylon’s personnel files. Aziza’s dossier does indicate a heart condition.”

  “So, it is possible that Lucky knew about it,” I reason.

  “Speaking of which, I wonder how Dominic is doing with her now?” Emma asks.

  “He’d better be pulling out all the stops,” Ryan grumbles.

  Jack chuckles. “I’m sure he’s doing all he can to pull out something.”

  “Bad choice of words,” I say as I smack his arm.

  Ryan groans. “It’s been too long a day for lousy puns, even at Dominic’s expense. Get some sleep, people. You deserve it.”

  11

  Lucky

  If only the train of life would pull into the next station and let me off.

  I could catch a later one…when I started breathing again.

  With no body, no clues, a ticked off fiancé, a crazy mother, and a father slipping in all aspects of his life, I wandered the casino, trying not to think about any of it. Normally my happy place, the casino didn’t work its magic tonight. Of course, this wasn’t Vegas where magic was everywhere. This was buttoned up and la-dee-da London. Today, its normal charm eluded me.

  But, if I couldn’t be home, I could pull an ET and phone home.

  First, privacy. The front desk directed me to my room. While they’d honored my desire to have a no muss-no fuss kind of room, knowing my love of a good view, they’d given me one at the end of the hall overlooking the street and the small park across the way. I too had a wall of French doors that opened to a tiny balcony large enough for a café table with two chairs. Normally I would throw open the doors no matter the weather. Tonight, I resisted. Only one floor, the fourth, separated my room from Sheik Ben’s and I’d opened a side window in his suite. If I planned to talk about him, I didn’t want an eavesdropper.

  My suitcase had been put away, my things tucked out of sight. I loved that personal butler touch. I wished we could provide it for everyone at the Babylon, but, with over three thousand rooms in our Vegas flagship, that level of service penciled-out only for the Kasbah, our extra-primo, invitation-only, hidden enclave.

  I fluffed the pillows on the bed, kicked off my shoes, then arranged myself so I could drink in the view of lights and the city.

  Miss P answered after two rings. “Problem solved?”

  I’d forgotten she hadn’t been looped in. At a loss as to where to start, I took my mother’s frequent advice and started at the beginning—the only advice I’d ever take from my mother. Miss P listened without comment until I wound down.

  “Wow.” She actually seemed a bit ruffled which was so unlike her. As someone who’d been raised on a farm in Iowa, followed the Grateful Dead sleeping with Jerry Garcia along the way (although she never actually had confirmed that) and then married for the first time at fifty to a hunkalicious Aussie fifteen years her junior, she needed a good shove to be rocked off center.

  “Not helpful and not inspiring confidence.”

  “Give me a moment.”

  While she gathered herself, I perused the room service menu. With my blood sugar at a low ebb and my stomach so empty it had stopped complaining and simply ached, this was probably not a good time for options. Like going to the grocery store hungry, I’d probably end up with all of Aisle Seven, which translated into everything on the menu.

  “What do you need on this end?” Ah, Miss P had returned, her tone back to helpful.

  “Sheik Ben told me he called our office to have someone make his arrangements here.”

  “That’s correct. I took the call.”

  “Anything unusual besides him putting that on us?” Sheik Ben had standing orders at the club as did every member. It would’ve been far easier for him to call London rather than route everything through my office.

  “I thought that odd and mentioned it to your father, when he called to check that I had everything under control. He mentioned in passing that the sheik was in New York. I interpreted that as a reason he called us.”

  Other than he had a sat phone in his plane, but pointless to mention that now. “Okay. Anything else?”

  “The sheik seemed put out he had to relay his normal requests.”

  “And they were?”

  Papers rustled in the background. Miss P wrote everything on spiral-bound pads. “Krug Clos du Mesnil, only the 2000 would do, Beluga, his personal silk sheets, yellow roses, and Gerald, his favorite butler, who must be available 24/7 for the sheik’s entire stay.”

  Funny the sheik had requested him. They hadn’t looked happy to see each other. “I met the butler. Is he one of our full-time staff?”

  “Yes, but only joined us last year.”

  “And you’re sure you ordered yellow flowers?”

  “Yes, yellow roses, Teasing Georgia yellow roses, to be exact.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Who did you talk with? Do you remember?”

  More rustling. “Nigel Ahern. He told me he’d have Julie take care of it.”

  No mention of Aziza. “That’s it? He didn’t tell you to be discreet?”

  “He would never have to. That’s a given.” Her voice puffed up with a bit of huffy.

  “I know that. You know that. He knows that. But he mentioned that specifically, that he had reiterated discretion, so I thought I’d ask.”

  “He didn’t.”

  I’d take Miss P’s word over anyone else’s. Besides, with the Royal Suite being readied with Sheik Ben’s normal requests, everyone would have known he was coming. “Interesting.”

  “You’re sure the young woman was dead?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  I’d asked myself the same question: could I have been mistaken? Had Aziza merely been unconscious, then awakened and walked out of the suite? “I’m sure.” My certainty made my heart heavy. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back on the pillows and pictured the suite, the body, and when I’d found her. I could feel her cooling skin with only a hint of warmth left, the missing pulse under my fingers when I pressed them to her neck. Yes, she’d been dead.

  Both Miss P and I remained silent for a few seconds.

  “How do you think they got the poor young woman’s body out?”

  “I have wracked my brain. There’s
only one elevator to that floor. Security is tight with cameras everywhere. Yes, they could’ve looped the tape, but…” I trailed off.

  “You didn’t clue security in about the missing girl.” Miss P knew me far too well—both a blessing and a curse.

  “Without a body, I got nuthin’.”

  “And they’d start dismissing you as a nut job.”

  “A bit indelicate, but yes. I figure that if somebody just carried a body through the public spaces, someone would say something, even here where pulses are practically non-existent.”

  “Agreed.”

  “That leaves the back of the house. I’ve asked Bree, the security head, to look at those tapes. I don’t know what else to do. I’d love to go prowl around the Royal Suite, but I can’t do that until the sheik goes out.”

  “Even then.”

  “I’ll be careful.” I tapped my chin with a forefinger as I contemplated the world outside my window. The mist had grown thicker, encircling the lights in a halo of white. “I do need you to do one more thing.”

  When the call came in, I’d made it through half of the pasta I’d ordered but had yet to muster any energy to get out of my clothes and into a warm bath, which proved to be a good thing.

  “Ms. O’Toole, this is Julie at the front desk. We have a situation in the casino. Mr. Ahern has gone home for the evening. He suggested you might like to handle it.”

  I couldn’t think of anything nice to say, so, miraculously, I didn’t. Nigel wouldn’t be done out of his pound of flesh, I guessed. Frankly, I was too amped to sleep, so ‘a situation’ was just what the doctor ordered. “What’s going on?”

  “We have a…gentleman…winning big at one of the baccarat tables.”

  “From your hesitation I take it he’s not a gentleman?”

  “I shouldn’t say, Miss.”

  “Got it.” Nothing I hated more than a guest in my establishment making the staff uncomfortable. “Is the dealer crying foul?”