The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  “I couldn’t find any personal detail—the lady wore sunglasses and a headscarf. The only thing showing were blond bangs. And her bag was red leather, Michael Kors. It matched her luggage.”

  I folded the photo and put it in my pocket. “Thanks.” I cinched my Burberry tight and grabbed an umbrella from the bellman who huddled in his thick red wool coat, rubbing his hands against the cold. The walk took me across Piccadilly, a street I loved. The urge to detour through Piccadilly Circus to enjoy the shops and their offerings, from first edition books to leaded miniature soldiers—a bit of purely British retail magic—proved almost irresistible. But I found the resolve somewhere and forged on.

  Christeby’s occupied a building much like the one that housed the Babylon London Club, on a similar block. These buildings had been here long before we showed up and would still be here long after I was nothing but a faded notation in a yellowed birth register in Nye County, Nevada. Something about that made me feel good as I trudged up the steps thinking about all who had done the same before me.

  Sharon had left a credential for me. No sooner than I’d been ushered through security, then I found myself sitting in front of her after a quick hug. Her office walls were home to various prints and paintings, most vaguely recognizable and all a testament to her taste.

  Stylish, with an ash-blonde bob and heavy large purple eyeglass frames that owled her brown eyes, she gave me a warm smile. “Lucky, it’s been too long. May I offer you some tea?” At my look she laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a soft breeze. “I forgot. Coffee then?”

  “No thanks. I’ve had enough to keep me alert into next week.” Through the years, Sharon and her firm had made millions off my family’s penchant for art, both buying and selling. I was hoping that would be enough to get some info on who bought that Hermès bag. “I’m here about a Hermès Kelly bag you sold last week.”

  She leaned back and crossed her legs. “Crème and gold?”

  “Went for a lot more than anticipated.” She had to remember—her fee was based on the take.

  “Yes, there was a lot of interest in that bag. The Russians. The Americans. The Koreans. Everybody jumped in.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “On the QT?” I wondered how much I could trust her.

  “Understood.”

  “A lady, a person of interest in a major crime, carried that purse as she left the scene.” I fudged as much as I could. News of a murder at the club would race through London despite the promised discretion.

  “I see. You want to know who bought that bag.” Her posture tensed.

  “No. It would cost you your job to share that info with me—I’d never put you on the spot like that. But, any help you can give me would be most appreciated. She was heavily disguised, and I couldn’t get a good look at her—not even enough to be able to pick her out of a line-up.”

  She relaxed, and I could see my approach had the desired effect—she wanted to help. “I can’t look up any contact information, but I can give you a description not only of her but of who she was with.” She settled back to tell her story.

  I listened, imagining the scene, the fevered bidding, multiple countries joining the fray, all checking with someone remotely before raising their bids.

  Government. The word popped into my head as if sent directly up the vagus nerve from my gut.

  That old gut instinct. Could it be right?

  Bree had said the video looping at the club was very sophisticated—government-agency-sophisticated.

  I fiddled with my Birkin—silently thanking the Big Boss for providing me with the right calling card. If you want to talk with the ducks, you have to look like a duck…or something like that. “So, the mystery lady was brunette, shoulder-length hair, not short, not tall, nice figure?”

  “Rather ordinary. Pretty, not ravishing.” A woman’s take on another woman. “She did the bidding.”

  “Interesting.” Her description was perfect for someone who wanted to fit in, go unnoticed, unrecognized. Not much but at least it gave me something to go on. “And the gentleman with her?”

  “There were two, one beside her and another patrolling the room, watching the action.”

  “That’s allowed?”

  “No one complained. Everything is done out in the open at an auction.”

  “Tell me about the man with our mystery bidder.”

  “He was more memorable. Talk, dark, wicked smile…you know.” She trailed off holding onto a note of dreamy. “Green eyes, dark curls and one of those things in his chin.” She made an up-down motion on her chin with her index finger.

  “A cleft?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “And the other gentleman? Blond, blue eyes, dapper with an air of over-inflated ego?”

  A frown pinched the skin between her perfectly arched brows. “And a bit touchy.”

  Dominic Fleming.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  I stood and extended my hand. “You’ve been a great help, thank you.”

  While she hadn’t told me how to find her, she’d told me what to look for.

  It had started to snow lightly. The fog had frosted the few trees lining the street, freezing to the bare branches. That, coupled with the foreign architecture and the odd sirens bleating in the distance, transported me—right into a snow globe. I turned up my collar and ducked my head against the pelting of the soft flakes. Never one to travel the same bit of real estate if I could avoid it, I chose a different route back to the club. I’d spent an hour or so perusing the galleries at Christeby’s and was enjoying the lingering. The stores on Bruton would be equally diverting. I always loved the Stella McCartney windows. And the street ended in a nice park, Berkeley Square Gardens. Plant life wasn’t plentiful in Vegas, so I deviated to walk through it whenever possible.

  Several blocks of life flowing past pretty windows filled with beautiful things I would never pay retail for, and pretty people enjoying the post-holiday flurries and the blood stopped pounding in my ears.

  The park loomed ahead, making me choose either right or left to follow the road around. I don’t know what made me look, but I took a glance into the gardens. A figure, trim in a perfectly tailored overcoat, his fedora pulled low, the brim obscuring half his face. Something about him sparked a memory—six pack abs, a nice flare to his lats, warm skin, the heat of his lips pressed to the back of my hand, his arrogance… evident even now in his choice to follow me and not even try to hide.

  He hadn’t glanced my way, but I had the sense he knew I was there. My anger seeped in through the cold…and a prickle of fear. He’d been with the mystery woman—she’d been in his room. Aziza had died. I needed to know what game they were playing. Right now, it struck me as best to not let him know I was onto him.

  I stood for a moment as if caught in the net of indecision. Which way should I go? I pretended to be focused on the poster hanging from the lamppost, announcing the next auction at Christeby’s—Andy Warhol. I’d like that. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dominic turn to move in my direction. I glanced at my wrist as if looking at a watch—a completely superfluous bit of extravagance in Vegas where time didn’t matter. Tapping my chin, I pretended to be weighing options, then I took a left, heading toward Piccadilly. At the first alley, I ducked in.

  Out of Dominic’s sight, I flattened myself against the building, counted to three, then risked a peek. Dominic strode in my direction. Perhaps I should let him catch me. His story alone would be worth the irritation at being followed. Or I could simply break his nose. I was leaning toward the second option, when a voice called out, drawing Dominic up short.

  A woman, holding her coat closed, rushed toward him. Brown hair, medium height. Her small beanie provided little cover against the cold. I could see her face clearly. Could she be our mystery woman?

  I couldn’t take them both. Besides, I thought it best to not let them know I was onto them.
Thinking they still operated in the clear, maybe they’d make a mistake.

  I pulled out my phone. Holding it around the corner, but using the building to shield myself, I started snapping photos. After checking I’d gotten some good full-face shots of the mystery woman, and several acceptable ones of Mr. Fleming, I dropped the phone in my coat pocket and stepped out from the alley. Keeping close to the building, I headed toward the club.

  Foot traffic was light, so I didn’t need to dodge as I ate up concrete with long strides—one of the advantages to being six feet tall. My focus elsewhere as I churned on what I knew, what I didn’t, and who I wanted to kill first, I was surprised when my shoulder connected rather solidly with a gentleman walking the opposite way.

  I staggered slightly.

  He grabbed my shoulders to steady me. “I’m terribly sorry.” He let go, letting his hands trail lightly down my arms until sure I had regained equilibrium.

  I glanced into dark eyes. “No worries. My fault as well.”

  Without a backward glance, I hurried on.

  Nigel stood at the front desk, his back to me, when I rode in on a broomstick of pissed off and gotcha. “Mr. Ahern, a moment of your time.”

  He jumped at my voice probably thinking the hint of pissed off was for him. He needn’t have worried—I had bigger fish. I reached into my pocket for my phone. Odd—the pocket was empty. Pretty sure I put it there, I checked the other pocket to be sure. Empty as well. “What the hell?”

  “Is something amiss?” Nigel asked in a bored voice.

  I wanted to start yelling, “You mean besides Aziza being murdered, Dominic Fleming playing a dangerous game right under my nose with some female chameleon, a sheik who is salivating to shish-kebob me, a very irritating mother, and, to top it off, a future former fiancé who was probably the catch of a lifetime? You mean, other than that?” Instead, I took a deep breath and said simply, “My phone. I can’t find my phone.”

  “Should I ping it?”

  Pinging him held some appeal. Pinging my phone, not so much. It must be on my person. I thought back. I had it by the gardens—I’d taken the photos I wanted to show Nigel. Then I put it in my pocket…

  The man who’d bumped into me!

  He’d lifted it!

  Damn. “Nigel, have the nearest Apple store send over a new phone.”

  “An eight or a ten?”

  At my glare, he wilted. “Yes, Ms. O’Toole. Is that all?”

  “No, I want to know if you’ve seen someone in the club. I had her photo in my phone. She’s an acquaintance of Mr. Fleming’s.” I described the mystery woman as Sharon had described her to me. The woman I’d seen in the gardens.

  “And where did you see her?”

  “I saw them together in Berkeley Gardens. And she’s been to Mr. Fleming’s room.”

  “You know that how?”

  “I saw her purse in his room.” Why was I letting the pinhead grill me? “Answer the question, please.”

  Nigel looked at me a smidge too long making me desperate to wipe the manners he hid behind right off his smug little rat face. But, today I decided to be a grown up.

  She’d been in my club. Someone would know her or at least have seen her.

  I needed a name.

  Nigel stepped back, distancing himself from me. “No, I’ve not seen her.”

  “Really?” My heart sank. “But she carried a one-of-a-kind Hermès bag when I saw her. Later I saw the same bag tucked under Mr. Fleming’s bed.”

  “But I must ask, why are you following Mr. Fleming? He might object.”

  My eyes went slitty. “And what are you implying?”

  He retreated even further. “You saw her with Mr. Fleming, you said so yourself.”

  “Yes,” my tone turned venomous. “There are three possible conclusions and you have leaped to the wrong one. I suspect the lady he came in with had something to do with the disappearance of Sheik Ben’s niece.”

  “Aziza is missing?” He seemed surprised, but not overmuch. “Why have I not been alerted? And you think Mr. Fleming had something to do with Aziza?”

  I’d said too much. I took a step, closing the distance. “What is it between you and Mr. Fleming? And what do you know that you’re not telling me?”

  He leaned back slightly but held his ground. “I…I…I don’t know what you mean.”

  The front desk and bell staff was all ears. This was not the place to dress-down their boss. “Interesting accommodations have been made for him. We’ll discuss his special treatment later. Have you seen the woman or not?”

  “No, I’ve not seen her.”

  “She hasn’t been in the company of Mr. Fleming?”

  Nigel crossed his hands in front of himself, protecting his privates. A reflex, I had no doubt, but a telling one.

  Was he lying?

  “No, Mr. Fleming came in with a Swedish princess. The princess bears no resemblance to the lady you describe.”

  “Unless the lady I saw is hiding skin-tight red leather under her over coat.”

  “They are not the same. I would not be untruthful.”

  Now I was sure he would be.

  14

  Donna

  We’ve only been back at the Ritz a few minutes when we hear a knock on our door.

  Jack looks through the peephole. “It’s Abu and Arnie.”

  When he opens it, Arnie peeks in first. On the other hand, Abu saunters in as if he owns the joint. Catching my eye, he pulls something out of his pocket—a cell phone. “Smile! You’re on Candid Camera,” he says, as he tosses it to me.

  I catch it one-handed.

  “It belongs to Lucky O’Toole,” Abu explains. “Arnie has already unlocked it.”

  With Jack looking over my shoulder, I tap the photo app. Low and behold the most recent pictures are of Dominic and me, standing together on Bruton Street.

  “So, she wasn’t just a figment of his imagination!” Jack declares. “This confirms our suspicions that Dominic is on her radar—and not in a good way.”

  I frown. “And now I am too, thanks to our lovelorn colleague’s failure to catch her tailing him. Arnie, what else did you grab from this device?”

  “Everything—contacts, emails, texts. Just scanning it, nothing jumped out in regard to Aziza. However, Lucky’s father was quite insistent that she make this sudden trip to Babylon Club London. I’ve forwarded it to Acme ComInt for more in-depth analysis. Oh, and I erased the photos of Dominic and you from her cloud storage. But if you want to keep these as a souvenir—”

  “Not necessary.” I roll my eyes.

  Arnie leans in, as if he’s got a secret to share. “I also perused her upcoming travel itinerary. She’s due in Paris in less than forty-eight hours. Her fiancé isn’t too happy that she rushed here to take care of some emergency instead of leaving Vegas with him for the City of Lights. The dude wasn’t above a couple of passive-aggressive digs.”

  I snicker. “Maybe we should mention that to Dominic. From the way he reacted about the Frenchman’s existence, it may give him the confidence to get what we need out of her.”

  “After the ultimatum we gave him, he should already have enough incentive,” Jack retorts. “But just in case he doesn’t, the fact that she tailed him should put him on high alert.” He punches in Dominic’s telephone number. After three minutes, Jack mutters, “Why the hell doesn’t he pick up?”

  Arnie pipes up, “He’s probably in the middle of the ritual he does before a covert ops.”

  I raise a brow. “Pardon?” I asked in my best British accent.

  “I heard him discussing it on the ‘Spooklandia’ podcast,” Arnie admits. “Dominic does this twelve-point mind-over-matter regime that he swears makes him irresistible to women.” Smugly, he adds, “I have to admit, I tried it and it certainly made a few ladies smile.”

  Jack, confounded, shakes his head. “You’re joking, right?”

  Arnie blushes. “Well…okay just one lady. Emma.”

  “Was s
he smiling or laughing?” I ask.

  Perplexed, Arnie frowns. “Well…now that you mention it…”

  A text pops on my phone. It’s from Ryan and it reads:

  VULTURE. NOW. GPug. JL. N

  Jack has received it too. “Well, we know by Nigel’s code name that Ryan is telling us that Nigel needs to meet again. It must be an emergency.”

  “Since we met in Green Park, obviously he wants to do so again,” I reason.

  “But what do you think ‘ug’ stands for?” Jack asks.

  “Underground station,” Abu deduces.

  “The fact that he asks to meet at the underground stop closest to us must mean that he doesn’t want us anywhere near the club,” I reason.

  “Makes sense,” Jack replies. “He wants to keep you as far away as possible. And the underground is crowded enough that we’ll be hiding in plain sight.”

  Arnie pulls up the station’s internal map. “Three trains go into the station. ‘One is the Jubilee Line.”

  “That’s the ‘JL.’” I reason. “Does it go north to south?”

  Arnie nods.

  “So, we’ve now got our ‘N,’” Jack declares.

  He and I grab our coats again and we’re gone.

  Nigel stands by himself at the far end of the northbound platform of Green Park Station’s Jubilee line. By leaning against the tiled wall, this already slight man is in the shadows, which obscures him even more. Once again he’s got on the dark reefer coat and the bowler snug to his head. He must have been in such a rush to get here that he’s not wearing the paste-on goatee.

  Jack takes a subway map from a small wall kiosk. Arm in arm we walk past Nigel, chatting as if we’re oblivious to his existence. When we get a few feet beyond him, we stop and open the map, as if perusing it, Jack keeps his back to Nigel, who stares out onto the track. Because I turn to face Jack, I can glance over at Nigel.

  “Thank you for getting here so promptly,” Nigel hisses. “I’d just returned from our rendezvous when Ms. O’Toole stormed back into the lobby.”