by Josie Brown
He is so distracted that I’m surprised he hasn’t mowed over his own foot.
Okay, enough of this. I pull the blinds. “Let’s get one thing straight between us, Mr. Craig: everyone in this house does chores. Is this the way you live at home?”
“I don’t have ‘a home’.” No, I take that back: the Georges Cinq is my crash pad. By the way, they bring me my meals on a tray. Since I’m persona non grata here, feel free to do the same.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me! Listen here, you lazy son-of-a-bitch, if you can’t be a gentleman and eat with the rest of us, I’ll give your plate to someone who’ll appreciate it: Lassie.”
“Yeah, well, from what I saw while she and I were out and about, that dog will eat anything. Oh, and lady, while we’re on the topic: not to rub it in or anything, but let me burst any bubble you may have that you’re some sort of Martha Stewart fembot. The pot roast at the Cinq makes yours taste like a reject from the Chef Boy-R-Dee test kitchen.”
“If you don’t like my cooking, feel free to eat at McDonald’s. And by the way, the washing machine is in the basement. If you can assemble an AK-47 in under thirty seconds, then I’m guessing can figure out the settings on a Maytag washer. Otherwise, your expensive dress shirts can share the wash with Jeff’s grass-stained, muddied baseball uniform.”
To make my point, I shove the laundry basket into his gut.
He lets it fall on the floor.
That’s it for me. I fling one of the messy plates at him like a Frisbee, but he ducks. It skims over his head and shatters as it hits the wall.
For just a moment, the smirk on his face drops into a frown. His eyes darken with anger. He grabs me so fast with both hands that I don’t have time to react—
What would that reaction have been, anyway? If it were to match Jack’s, my eyes would reflect the turmoil of emotions that are causing my heart to beat so loud and so fast. I know this, because my hand is now on his chest, trying hard to push him away—
But for some reason, I’m not at all upset that he’s too strong for me to do so.
Like Jack, I should be pursing my lips to keep from giving into the urge to press them against his. And I certainly shouldn’t be gazing into his eyes, which are that same shade of green as Carl’s. It’s a hue that refuses to fade from my memory. Even after all these years, it leaves me mesmerized.
Slowly he lets go of me. He seems angrier at himself than at me.
“Acme will spring for another day of maid service.” He is muttering so slow that I can barely hear him. “I’m not here to ‘play house,’ remember? I’ve got a job to do. And she—“ he stabs a thumb toward Nola “—will make it easier. She’s got a wandering eye and a big mouth.”
It takes one to know one, I think to myself. But I have to ask: “How would you happen to know that?”
“I ran into her last night—while we were walking our dogs.”
“Oh? How convenient.” So, that’s where he really was last night. Figures. “By the way, Lassie is my dog, not yours.”
He lifts the binoculars back into position. “Hey, isn’t there someone you should be torturing besides me?”
He’s right. So many gangbangers, so little time.
“When Emma gets here, tell her to set up in the room over the garage. The key is on the hook beside the back door. I should be back in time to pick up the kids from school.”
As if Jack gives a hoot. He’s too enthralled with Nola.
I can’t wait for this mission to be over.
Only when Xie Tong’s hard-on goes limp, and his hand slips from my breast (a club no-no, but there’s no one there to enforce the so-called rules) am I assured that the truth serum has finally entered his bloodstream.
About damn time.
The injection was as noticeable as a pinprick. I nibbled playfully on his ear at the same time. Which do you think caught his attention?
Go to the head of the class.
The club’s hidden security camera is viewing a digital loop of the lap dance I just gave Xie. This six-minute feat of creative choreography buys me enough time to ask him the questions we need answered:
Where did he get the plutonium? Who did he give it to? What are they going to do with it? Where and when will this disaster take place?
No matter how I ask him (with promises and threats, both in English and Chinese), there isn’t much he can tell me. Apparently the plutonium was brought in by a Chinese diplomat. Yeah, okay, that was to be expected. In exchange for getting his drug lord cousin—now on Death Row in San Quentin—released and returned to his homeland under some sort of international immunity, Xie handed it off to a tall Anglo he called “Broken Leg.”
But the where and the when Broken Leg was to use it wasn’t divulged to him.
His cousin may have avoided a heart attack in a needle—for now, anyway—but not Xie. My next injection, Sodium Thiopental, kills him instantly.
By the time they discover his body, my gloves, wig, and G-string will have been tossed into the Pacific Ocean, along with anything else that would indicate I had anything to do with his demise.
Congestion on the I-10 sets me back half an hour for afternoon pick-up.
I go speeding up to the house, only to find no one there: not Emma, not the kids, and not Jack.
Where the heck is everyone?
I cruise by the park, when I see Emma and Mary standing by Abu’s ice cream truck. They look up as I swerve to a stop. “Sorry I’m late,” I say breathlessly as I give Mary a kiss. I almost don’t recognize Emma. Her naturally brown hair is dyed platinum blond. Yes, she can certainly pass for a Swede.
In keeping with mission protocol, I put my hand out to Emma. “So, you must be—”
“Inga Larsson.” By the way in which Emma rolls her eyes, I gather that she’s not pleased with her cover.
“Well, nice to finally meet you. I take it you’re all moved in?”
“Ja.” She shrugs her shoulders. So that neither of us catches him laughing, Abu sticks his head into the freezer of his truck. Mary gives me an annoyed sigh. “Mom, she barely speaks English. What are we going to do with her?”
“That’s just the point. She’s here to experience the American way of life. So we’ll just leave her be. That way, she can explore on her own. Ja, Inga?”
“Ja. Um . . . I mean, no. I mean—” Listening to Emma figure out her accent was painful. “I vill mostly stay in my room. I vill vatch American TV to learn your language.”
It’s Mary’s turn to roll her eyes. “Whatev.”
“Mary, where’s Trisha and Jeff?”
She nodded toward the ball field. “Jeff has a game, remember? And Trisha is there, with . . . Dad.” This endearment doesn’t roll off her tongue easily.
Not that I expected it would. It was still a little too early for that.
As I pay Abu, I also hand him my grocery list. Really, it was a breakdown of Xie’s information, in code. I doubt anyone would ever suspect that cantaloupe translates into lethal injection.
We get to the ballfield bleachers just in time to see Jeff strike out the player up at bat. “Way to go, son,” Jack yells. Trisha is beside him, snuggling in tight. She looks as if she’s in heaven.
Jeff looks up, smiles, and touches his hat, then his ear, then repeats these moves. Jack does the same.
I hand him one of the Sundae Cones, and Trisha the other. “Thanks for picking up the kids.”
Tiffy, Penelope, and Hayley are sitting on the first base bleachers. Penelope, who has been licking her lips as if Jack was dipped in chocolate as opposed to her Brown Bonnet cone, drops her jaw almost to her surgically inflated chest when she sees me sit down beside them.
For once, his sly grin is welcomed. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave them there, at school. Somebody’s got to clean up your rep as a bad mommy.” He gives a sl
ight nod toward the Bitches, whose mouths have fallen open in unison at the sight of me sitting beside their new crush.
I smile lovingly as I stroke his cheek. Only he can hear me murmur, “Well, then, this is for the benefit of your new fan club.”
“No, darling—”
Before I know what he’s doing, Jack cradles my face between his large, strong hands. As he leans in, his tongue parts my lips, tantalizing them with the memory of that very first kiss . . .
When, finally I remember to breathe again, I open my eyes to find him suppressing a smile. “—Now that was for my new fan club.”
He’s got that right. All three women are gazing at us, stunned. Tiffy’s orgasmic groan is so loud that yet another batter swings and misses. Penelope comes to her senses just in time to smack Hayley so that she closes her mouth before she swallows a fly.
To hush Trisha’s giggling and pointing, I tap her hat down over her eyes. “I presume you’re proud of yourself,” I hiss to Jack.
“Very much so. And I presume that your errand went well?”
“Yes, for the most part. I’ll fill you in—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence because the umpire has just called the last strike of the game, and the place is in an uproar. Jack sweeps Trisha up into his arms and together they join Mary and me as we run onto the field to congratulate Jeff, who’s jumping up and down, he’s so happy.
I guess Jeff owes Tiffy some thanks for her assist.
“You were right, Dad! You were right!”
I stare at Jack. “Right about what?”
He shrugs, but Jeff is bubbling over with pride. “My new slider technique! Dad taught it to me, and it’s awesome!”
Whitey Haskell, Jeff’s coach, is now slapping Jack on the back. “Dude, how about assisting me in coaching the team through the SoCal finals? If you work with the pitchers, I can focus on our batters and fielders, and we may make it all the way. What do you say?”
Jack is shaking his head, and Jeff is begging while Trisha is doing cartwheels. But what stops me cold is the look in Mary’s eyes—
Hope.
Jack sees it, too.
He looks over at me. I know he’s waiting for me to get him off the hook.
Instead, I turn away.
I can’t let him see the tears in my eyes, or he’ll break his promise to me.
Instead, I have to let him break my children’s hearts.
For dinner, I make my special spaghetti. It’s a perfect evening to eat it outside.
While I drain the noodles, I watch from the kitchen window the pantomime of Mary bringing Jack a beer, and his thanking her. This is accompanied with a pat on the arm.
That’s all the encouragement she needs. By her stance—sideways, with one hand nervously pushing aside her bangs—I can tell that the moment of her big ask has come—
Oh, no . . .
I close my eyes. I have to prepare myself for her pain.
When, finally, I open them again, I see that Mary is still making her case. Jack has been listening thoughtfully, but his smile has disappeared. When Mary looks away, he glances over at me—
Can he read my face?
Does he see that I want him to break his promise to me: that no matter what happens afterward, we can deal with it because this is truly worth it?
His eyes hold mine for what seems like an eternity . . .
Finally he turns to Mary. Her smile, too, is gone now. The tears falling catch the last rays of the sun—
Oh, Jack, no . . .
But then she whoops with joy and grabs him around the neck in a tight hug, then squeals as she runs into the house—
“Mom! He said yes! HE SAID YES!” In a flash she is twirling me around, and then, like a whirling dervish she flies up the stairs. She’s got to call her friends, plan what she will wear . . .
I’m crying too hard to see that Jack has followed her in.
He stands there for a minute, just looking at me. Then he turns off the hot water, which has been running over the noodles all this time. “Fix your face, Betty Crocker,” he says. “That way I can take the family out for pizza, and the neighbors won’t think it’s my penance for insulting your cooking.”
I nod and head up the stairs.
On the way back down, I grab his laundry and start a gentle wash cycle for it.
Chapter 6
Father’s Day
Make special memories on this day to honor the father of your children by asking the kids to prepare a special meal. (Note: save the rat poison for another time).
Remember: Their homemade gifts make wonderful keepsakes. And of course, your own gift to him should be more intimate, if you catch my drift. For example, if he’s into role playing, why not let him hold the whip this time? Or at the very least, allow him to come up with the safety word…
I can’t believe I’m writing this: I may have been wrong about Jack.
Sure he’s a slob. But he’s also a superlative operative. He’s only been here forty-eight hours, and already he’s mapped Hilldale into quadrants, and created preliminary profiles on everyone living here: not a small feat, considering it encompasses over seven hundred households.
“Emma, I’d like you to start by gathering intel on which houses in Hilldale have sold in the past two years, and to whom. Do the same with homes that are being rented. Our initial focus are those who have been tenants at least since then. No spouse or no kids is a red flag.”
“What about having Emma tapping into the credit check agencies?” I ask.
Jack shrugs. “That’s a waste of time. The Quorum builds back stops that are as tight as a gnat’s ass—”
Well, excuse me for asking . . .
“—But certainly these suspects merit satellite surveillances and GPS tracking. We may have to stoop to some dumpster diving. What they don’t put out in their trash is just as telling as what they do dump out there.” He frowns. “If we draw blanks, then we’ll have to assume that they’ve been planted for several years now.”
I shake my head at the thought that I may have been living within a few hundred feet of my nemesis.
“Yes, boss,” Emma answers him reverentially. Obviously they’ve worked together before. Well, whatever he’s done has impressed her enough for her to tamp down her usually snarky wit in Jack’s presence.
“We’ll also need a complete rundown on all the businesses here in Hilldale. By my calculation, there are sixty-two of them. Don’t just profile the employers and shop owners. Include all employees, even those who come in from the outside. It’s a tedious process, I know. But unfortunately it’s the only way to eliminate all possible suspects.”
A faint tingle goes up my arm as Jack touches it as he shifts past me in order to click onto a different file on Emma’s computer screen. To shrug it off, I add, “Emma will have to tap into SafeTek, the security company that services Hilldale. Any business within these walls has to register both the name, telephone number, and DMV licenses and auto registrations of its staffers.”
Emma gives a slight nod. “Piece of cake. I’ll also need to hack into the employee and vendor databases of Hilldale’s schools. I’m presuming not all the teachers can afford to live here in Xanadu, and there are a few transfer students, too.”
“All parents can log onto the school’s server, in order to track their children’s class grades and text a teacher or principal, as needed. By using mine, I imagine you can hack into the server to get what you need?”
“Yep, no problem.” Emma smiles confidently. “And don’t worry; I won’t need your code to do it.”
“That’s my girl,” murmurs Jack.
So, it’s a mutual admiration society.
I’m not jealous. I’d just like to know a little background on their relationship. It’s not easy being odd man out, especially on your home turf . .
.
Seriously, I’m not jealous.
Okay, maybe just a little.
“I just love what you’ve done with that bunting, Donna! It’s so creative!”
Penelope’s gushing praise of my party decorating talents is making me ill. She’s been doing it all morning long as we turn Hilldale Middle School’s gym into a crepe paper fantasy of a tropical paradise in tones of aquamarine and sunset sherbet for the Father-Daughter dance tonight.
Who does she think she’s kidding? As if I don’t know why she’s sucking up to me—
Because I’ve got something she’d like to get her hands on.
At least, she thinks I’ve got him.
Instead of twisting tissue paper into a turquoise wave of pom-poms that will line the stage under the dance band, I should be out scouring the neighborhood for clues to the whereabouts of the Quorum.
“You’ll still be doing your bit,” Jack assures me. “You never know. All those middle-aged gossip girls may be the key to cracking this case. Use the time to question some of the other womenfolk about any strange neighbors. Keep their jaws flapping.”
“You’d probably get more out of them than I will,” I retorted.
His smirk gets even wider. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
So here I am, twisting pipe cleaners around squeezably soft Charmin as I eavesdrop on Hayley’s gripes about her new neighbors, the Kelseys, who always keep their windows drawn, day and night.
“Is their house the one with the magnolia tree in the front?” I ask casually.
“No, they’re in the stucco on the other side of mine. You know, the one with that puke-ugly green door.” She sticks her finger down her throat to make her point. Little known fact: Hayley has had practice barfing. She’s a binge eater who considers purging a form of weight control.
She turns to me suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”