Undercover Genius

by Rice, Patricia

  Graham had warned me about Patra’s friends. Patra’s apartment had been burgled and burnt. And that was her contact’s phone at the site of a possible crime scene. One and one often equates two.

  I blocked her path as she rushed toward the front door. Yanking her phone from her grip, I swung her around. “Take them out the rear exit,” I warned. “Let me handle this.”

  The childhood habit of obedience in times of terror must have kicked in. She didn’t argue but hurried back to Nick and EG, following Nick’s steward friend to another exit and safety.

  I hurried out in my long skirt and braids — looking small, wide-eyed, and innocuous — to meet the policeman waiting for Patra. “What’s wrong?” I asked anxiously, not having to work too hard at appearing worried. “Where’s Mr. Bloom? Why do you have his phone?”

  Three cop cars and an ambulance blocked the street. I knew the news wasn’t good. I was too short to see past the crowd and the medics crowding around a stretcher, so I focused on the officer who was stepping up to replace the traffic cop.

  “I’m Sergeant Cobb, miss. Your name?”

  If the phone was Bill’s, he’d have Patra’s name in it. I took a chance. “Llewellyn,” I replied, looking more anxious and straining to see the ambulance. “I was supposed to meet Mr. Bloom here. Why did you answer his phone?”

  “How well did you know Mr. Bloom?” the sergeant asked, still not answering my questions.

  “Not at all.” That wasn’t lying. “He was to meet me here about some speech work I’d requested. Why?” This time I focused on the cop and donned my suspicious expression.

  “Would you be able to identify him?”

  There it was, the news I didn’t want to hear. But I maintained my impatient business mode. “Of course not. I’ve only spoken to him on the phone.” I should be an actress. I opened my eyes wide as if I’d just understood his implication and asked in horror, “Oh, you don’t mean… Has he been in an accident?”

  “Hit and run. Your name and address?” The sergeant had his notebook out.

  I didn’t want my family dragged into whatever Patra was doing, and Graham would most definitely go ballistic if the police started invading his private hideaway. The authorities needed to believe this was just an accident, even if I thought otherwise.

  “Oh, my.” I held a hand to my heart as if I might pass out any minute. “How is he? Where are they taking him? This is terrible! We just spoke. He said he was running late, and oh my…”

  Don’t get the wrong idea. I detest dramatics, but I’d grown up with drama queens. At this point, Magda would faint, and some striking gentleman would rush up to carry her away. I refused to faint, and I had no striking gentleman in my ballpark, although now that I thought about it, we weren’t too far from Mallard’s favorite pub where a certain reporter hung out.

  I glanced up, and sure enough, there was Sean O’Herlihy, God’s gift to the Irish and snoopier than I am. While I can admire his curly-haired good looks, I had no desire to be carried off in his arms. He was just ever too conveniently around when I didn’t need him.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Llewellyn,” the officer said sympathetically. I must have looked appropriately pale — not difficult since I seldom see the sun. “Mr. Bloom apparently jaywalked across a busy street. In these cases, it’s often a drunk who hasn’t the reflexes to stop quickly and flees for fear of being charged with driving under the influence.”

  I didn’t agree. This narrow road was packed with traffic all night long. No way could anyone speed or flee while drunk. It would take impeccable timing and an oddly convenient opening to build up enough speed to kill, and then get away. I concealed a shudder. What had Patra got herself into?

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” I managed to gasp. “Did anyone catch a license plate or describe the car? His poor family! I’m so sorry.” I had to slip away before he asked my address again, but I’d rather collect information now than hack it from computers later.

  Sean was pushing his way through the throng. I wasn’t in a mood for explaining Patra or her problems.

  “We have partial plates and a description. We’ll find him,” the officer said confidently. “Now if — ”

  No, they wouldn’t. My bet was that the car had already been reported stolen. Just call me cynical. I interrupted his request. “This is dreadful. I’m feeling faint. I have a small heart problem…” I held my hand to my chest. “I need a glass of water.”

  I retreated into the restaurant and out the back exit. I had a notion it was time to circle the wagons around Patra.

  Five

  My family had scampered for home, leaving me to deal with the cops, then find my own way back alone. Since I’d been known to maim armed bandits with my feet, this wasn’t carelessness on their part.

  I circled the block first, keeping an eye out for loiterers or other suspicious characters. Our Victorian home has a lovely landscaped backyard with a wall around it. A sprawling carriage-house-like structure surrounded by a security fence occupied the lot behind the wall, providing additional protection beyond Graham’s security cameras.

  Not detecting anyone more dangerous than the drug dealers on the corner, I slipped down into the basement entrance, then upstairs into the antique-furnished fortress I called home. I adored the scent of wax and flowers that always greeted me. After years of living in musty basements and malodorous tents and tenements, I wanted this place just for the aroma.

  Nick and EG were nonchalantly playing chess in the front room. They didn’t fool me. They hated chess. Patra was nowhere in sight, and she was the one I needed to talk to.

  “Is Patra in her room?” I demanded from the doorway.

  “What happened?” EG asked. She’s still young enough to be straightforward and blunt.

  “Hit and run, drunken driver.” I didn’t want her involved in the family business. But I wasn’t giving her any fairy tales either.

  Nick frowned, but maybe he was learning a few maternal instincts because he didn’t argue. “Patra said she had to go out. I gave her my phone since you have hers.”

  Crap. In our earlier days, when Magda was still finding her feet, Nick and I had to learn self-defense the hard way. Our younger siblings, on the other hand, had grown up with the security of nannies and bodyguards. Patra was naive enough to think the guys on the corner were hanging out, looking for girls.

  EG, unfortunately, was much too perceptive. I didn’t want her seeing how worried I was. I nodded in recognition of Nick’s generosity in loaning his phone. I transferred family numbers from my new toy to the one Patra had given me, and handed Nick my phone so he could hit the streets or whatever he had planned for the evening. I called Nick’s phone as I headed for my office.

  Patra answered instantly. “How is he?”

  One thing about my family, we didn’t waste time with niceties like polite greetings. “Dead. The cops think a drunk. I’m not buying it. Get your rear back here before you end up the same way.”

  “Why not a drunk?” she asked defensively.

  “Let me count the ways — after you haul your tail back here.” I shut her down and turned off the phone. If she was out playing kissy face with a waiter, I was heaving her out. I was not assuming the role of mother hen again.

  I unlocked my office, turned on the Whiz, and checked my email. Only my immediate family had my phone number so I never had voice mail. Since leaving Magda and my siblings behind, I’d narrowed my world to a computer monitor. EG’s arrival was changing that, but not completely. I had access to the entire planet at my fingertips, so I wasn’t lonely.

  No work orders from Graham awaited. Only a few documents from my researchers. I started sneezing half way through my mail. By the time I’d read it all, my eyes were streaming. Confound it, Graham knew not to let his damned cat loose.

  I could never figure out how the creature got through locked doors. Maybe this was our host’s idea of revenge for the bats. I’d have to hunt for allergy pills. As I stood up, my usual
sensitivity to my environment belatedly checked in. I’d felt safe in my basement hideaway and didn’t usually bother with extra precautions. But something was wrong.

  It took me a minute of careful analysis of what was on my work table now and what had been there when I’d left, but I worked it out — Patra’s DVD was no longer in the stack of library microfiche where I’d stuck it.

  I’m pretty good at two and two, even if there’s a big old minus in between like how a man who never leaves the third floor had broken through my locked barriers and how a cat with no opposable thumb had opened doors. I saw no reason to beat the walls hunting for hidden elevators and secret passages when I could simply go straight to the source.

  The problem, of course, was that we were here on Graham’s charity. He claimed he owed our grandfather a lot, and as long as I helped his research in lieu of rent, he’d tolerate us. But until we could buy the house back, we were one temper tantrum short of the door.

  Most of the time, that kept my fury and frustration from pushing him out a window. Oh, and the fabulous gym on the third floor really helped me express my hostilities. But cats, theft, and chicanery breeched all my barriers. I was in need of a face-to-face showdown with the sneaky bastard.

  I’d installed Patra’s information on the computer so Graham could see it. He had no good reason to steal the disk. Or send Mallard to steal it. I marched back up the stairs and noted Nick had already departed. EG was in my study, on the laptop, and I ordered her to bed.

  “There’s still a bat in my room,” she said, looking for a way around my orders.

  “Then don’t expect Mallard to clean your room until it’s gone. It’s a school night. You’re going to bed.” Because of her brain, it’s hard to think of EG as a child, but nine-year-olds need their sleep. I watched her drag to her room at the end of the hall. Once she closed the door, I continued up to the next floor.

  I wasn’t sneezing anymore. In my mood, I took that to mean the cat hadn’t come down by way of the main staircase. Somewhere, the house had hidden stairs — which would explain a lot.

  Graham’s office door was open. He’d been expecting me. I stopped in the doorway to let my eyes adjust to the darkened room lined with wall-to-wall computer monitors.

  The screen Graham sat in front of displayed grainy video footage from the street outside the Cajun restaurant. I’d have admired his ingenuity if I hadn’t wanted to bash him over his handsome head. I’d never seen him out of his chair, so I tended to think of Graham in terms of Christopher Reeve, the broken Superman, with his dark hair, massive shoulders, and strong, cleft jaw. But Graham wasn’t a patient, kind-hearted Superman by any means.

  “They set up a roadblock at the intersection,” he said without preamble. He scrolled the grainy footage backward to show a Hummer stalled in a turn beneath a stoplight, blocking the one-way street in front of the restaurant.

  He expected me to know what he was talking about without explanation. He knew me too well. The appalling video drew me in like a crocodile to water. Instead of dumping fish guts over his head, I edged closer, straining to make out details. “How did you get this? Do the police have it?”

  “Of course not,” he said impatiently. “They’re looking for a drunk driving a black Cadillac.”

  The aforesaid black Cadillac sedan appeared down a side street, lingering at a stop sign until a chubby, long-haired male in jeans took advantage of the temporary break in traffic to jaywalk in front of the restaurant. At which point the sedan accelerated from zero to sixty in race car seconds.

  “How could they humanly plot this?” I asked. “It couldn’t have been more than an hour between the time Patra told him where we were and the accident.”

  “The murder,” he corrected. We watched the sedan ram the chubby geek, flinging him into painful backflips like a broken doll. As he crumpled to the blacktop, the Caddy vanished down a different side street. The Hummer miraculously came unstalled and rumbled off out of sight of the camera. The pent up traffic at the intersection didn’t have time to get up to speed before screeching to a halt near the bloody victim. At least they hadn’t run over the body a second time. Graham halted the footage as Good Samaritans ran to the victim’s aid. “I suggest you ship your sister back to the BBC.”

  I didn’t ask a second time where he’d stolen the video. He never revealed his sources. I’d learned he was former CIA with presidential affiliations, so he could have taken it from spy satellites for all I knew. Although hacking a security company’s cameras was more likely. “I need a copy of this to show her.”

  “Would you return to England after seeing this?” he asked dryly.

  He had a point. It didn’t matter. “Patra deserves the truth. She needs to know what she’s up against. It took one impressive organization to pull together an operation like that so swiftly. How could they have known Bill was on to anything? We need to search his office to find out what he learned.”

  He clicked the screen one shot forward. The Good Samaritan was rifling Bill’s pockets.

  “Crap,” I muttered. “They have his evidence, address, and keys to clear out any backup. I repeat, what kind of organization is this well prepared? Besides you,” I added snidely.

  “Top Hat.”

  Had I not known better, I could have taken this as an enigmatic brush-off and crowned him with his keyboard. But Top Hat was burned into my synapses. My grandfather had been allegedly poisoned by a mysterious cabal of power brokers that called themselves by the code name Top Hat. Allegedly being the key word here. We had nothing but my grandfather’s last message to me and the admission of a scam artist murderer to base our theories on.

  I tried out-waiting him in hopes my silence would force him to say more. Stupid ploy, but it gave me a chance to process a few facts.

  When Graham continued playing his computers as if I weren’t there, I pushed harder. “Broderick is part of Top Hat, isn’t he? He’s a Brit, but his media network over here supports Senator Paul Rose.” As did the senators behind the now-defunct textbook propaganda scheme. Everyone in politics has an agenda. My agenda was to steer well clear of megalomaniacs who think they can rule the world. They inevitably cause a lot of grief and come to a bad end. The world is seldom improved in the process.

  If I had believed in the devil, I’d have made him a politician.

  “Send your sister home,” was all Graham said.

  “Stay out of my office,” was my retort. “You had no right to steal her DVD. And if that blamed cat gets near me again, I’ll start ripping out walls to find your sneaky passage.”

  He gave me a middle finger salute, hit his keyboard, and zoomed in on some Mideast carnage.

  Really, if I wasn’t worried that he might actually be a cripple, I’d turn Graham over in his chair.

  If he hadn’t smelled so damned good, I might have lingered to torment him more. The sad fact was that Graham tortured my hormones as much as he messed with my mind. I really should have returned the favor. Oh, wait, I already had. I was just too lazy to dress up to do it often.

  I stalked out in no better mood than I had arrived, but with vital information in exchange for the stolen disk. Graham had weird ideas of fair trade, but at some base level, we understood each other. A very base level. You will notice we did not discuss anything normal like the million dollars and the lawsuit pending to get our house back.

  Patra still wasn’t home. I vowed to learn to track GPS chips in phones.

  Patra’s perspective

  Patra was standing outside Bill Bloom’s apartment, watching a thug systematically work the place over. She had a cozy dark corner of the doorway across the street and one of the best zoom lens cameras on the market. Every time the thug passed Bill’s curtainless front window, she snapped. She’d called 911 and reported a burglary in progress. She needed to make friends with someone on the force. She wanted inside that apartment. Only she knew what her father’s enemies sounded like or what to look for. The cops sure as hell wouldn’t. />
  A long black Escalade limo pulled up to the curb in front of her. Patra realized the drawback of her hiding place immediately. The door behind her was locked. She had no escape.

  Six

  When Patra didn’t return as ordered, I had no choice but to hack into Graham’s GPS network and track Nick’s phone. The coordinates led me to the address I’d already ascertained as Bill Bloom’s. Stupid idiot. That was the first place the bad guys would look. If Patra persisted in this investigative nonsense — and in our family, it’s really hard to avoid — she would have to learn a few basics.

  I changed into black leggings and knee high boots — better for kicking than sandals — and grabbed a Metro to the exit nearest Bloom’s crappy tenement. His neighborhood was quite a few Metro stops from ours, but a taxi would have made me a rich target.

  Flashing cop strobes caught me as I rounded the corner to Bloom’s front door. I picked up my pace. I didn’t want to find any more abandoned phones in the gutter, especially not my sister’s. I was counting on this being a different precinct and a different set of cops, but if anyone started putting together the hit-and-run with this address, we’d have officialdom breathing down our necks.

  At this point, I was more concerned about Patra.

  I breathed easier when I saw her leaning against the building, chatting with a familiar figure. Damn O’Herlihy. He either had a Sir Galahad complex when it came to our family, or he thought he would learn more about Graham by spying on us.

  “Graham is still off topic,” I told Sean before he could speak. I turned to Patra, biting back my big-sisterly fear, and sticking to business. “Unless you have a way into that apartment, you should not be here.”

  “I could have got in, but someone beat me here,” Patra protested.