Undercover Genius

by Rice, Patricia

  Sean accompanied me and made sure I got on the train. I wasn’t about to linger with DeLuca’s goons hanging around. If they’d shoot DeLuca’s old pal, then they’d happily go after me, if they knew who I was. So far, they really didn’t — which was why grandstanding was seldom my modus operandi. I was still furious with Patra.

  I texted Patra and Nick to see where they were. We needed a family confab. And after today’s events, I wanted to make certain they were still alive.

  Patra called back, her voice brimming with excitement and laughter. She was already at Sean’s office, downloading info into his computer with his permission. It sounded like she had Sam with her, and they were hosting a Pulitzer party.

  “Is someone singing ding-dong, the witch is dead?” I asked in suspicion.

  “Broderick is about to have a house dumped on him,” she explained. “My exposé today was only the tip of a very large iceberg. We have Archie so nailed that the FBI is hunting for him right now. Apparently only Homeland Security gets to hack phones in this country, not media, and they’re totally ticked. Besides, Archie’s connection with a crime boss bears a lot more scrutiny. We shouldn’t be having this much fun without drugs and alcohol.”

  “I take it you’ll be dining on carry-out and won’t be home tonight,” I translated.

  “Will I still be allowed in the house?” she asked, with just enough trepidation in her voice to be believed.

  “I may strangle you, but the house is as much yours as anyone else’s, for now. I kind of provoked Graham, so he may have changed the locks. We all need to get together and talk sometime, though. The repercussions from today’s events could be . . .”

  “Entertaining?” she suggested.

  “Not precisely the word I had in mind. We need to protect EG from the wrath of our enemies, and we may have created one or two today,” I reminded her.

  “Why do you think Magda keeps moving around? But I don’t think anyone will touch us after we’re finished here. I’ll be there tomorrow. Any word on that CNN job?”

  “Not yet. That’s on the agenda. Just let me know you’re alive. I need to find Nick.”

  Nick answered with a weird mixture of resignation and awe. “I’m with the FBI. I may still have a job, maybe. I’ll get back to you.” He clicked off.

  Okay, that was interesting. I couldn’t decide if the day was improving, but I wanted to think positively. With everyone but EG accounted for, I headed home.

  Home, I hoped, if Graham hadn’t locked the doors or criminal gangs hadn’t burned it down or the media raided it.

  It had been a lot quieter when I’d lived in my Atlanta basement. But quiet had its limitations.

  I got off at Dupont. The sun had set and the street lights were just coming on as I discreetly slipped up the alley behind the house. I kept a sharp eye out for vagrants or footsteps following me, but instead I heard odd screams and . . . cackles? . . . echoing off the old mansions. I couldn’t resist checking the front. Easing through the vine-covered archway, I lingered in the shadows between houses and studied the situation.

  The worst of the traffic snarl had been cleared, but the BM story was still ripe and juicy, and a lot of news vans hung around. Or had been hanging around.

  As I watched in amusement, men with microphones shouted and ran for their trucks. Women shrieked and covered their heads. Even as I poked my head out to see better, one of the remaining news vans screeched away from the curb — with a colony of bats? swarming after it. I stared in disbelief at the black cloud of flapping wings swooping and swirling in the twilight beneath the street lamps.

  A loud, crackling cackle split the air, and another van hit the gas, careening down the street and out of sight. Mesmerized, I slipped through the gate and leaned against the corner of the house to watch as van after van hit the road. The mob that had spent the afternoon watching the news trucks was running for cover.

  I glanced up toward EG’s tower. I was pretty certain that was Mallard in her open window, waving a towel to set our resident bat colony free.

  But the cackling loudspeaker . . . Only one person that I knew of controlled the mechanical equipment.

  A spooky wail emanated overhead as I entered through the front door. All we needed was a skeleton dropping from the sky and tombstones in the yard and we’d be ready for Halloween.

  Sounding more like a little girl than her usual Wednesday Adams self, EG flung her arms around me when I entered. “Mallard says we’re having a party! Thank you, thank you! I want skeletons and spooks. Can we have it in the basement, please, pretty please?”

  Maniacal laughter rang through the house.

  * * *

  EG and I enjoyed lasagna and peach pie in lonely splendor on Wednesday night. Fairly oblivious to all the commotion her half-siblings had created throughout the city, EG happily discussed Halloween preparations. The candelabra didn’t once offer a protest.

  I’m the one who raised an objection to EG’s suggestion of live bats in the basement.

  “Mallard chased them all away, anyway,” EG said mournfully. “He’s calling pest control in the morning.”

  “If only pest control eliminated two-legged pests,” I murmured, but if EG heard, she ignored me. The candelabra might have snorted.

  I sent EG to do her homework after dinner, but I was too wound up to concentrate. I went to my room and called up news websites on my laptop. A passing reference to one of the Hollywood stars I’d warned last night caught my interest, and I linked to an entertainment page.

  The whole site was furious rants and threats of lawsuits regarding Broderick Media’s tapping of telephones and insidious slanting of the news. Hollywood was forming a lynch mob. I clicked on one or two familiar names, but they all just said they’d received an anonymous warning and had taken their phones to their computer people and discovered the spyware. I’d warned them it was probably Broderick’s minions. They could find their own proof.

  I looked but couldn’t find any interviews with Archie proclaiming his innocence, and if anyone knew to talk to Smedbetter, I didn’t find evidence of it. The media was having too much fun smearing Archie’s stupid TV stations and gossip rags to dig into the real story behind the story.

  I just wanted to know that my family was safe. I waited until midnight and finally gave up and went to bed.

  * * *

  No news vans littered the street on Thursday morning when I walked EG to the Metro. Apparently the breaking stories over Broderick and DeLuca were more appealing than chasing maniacs with bats and dead lawyers. I was good with that.

  Construction crews swarmed over the house across the street, and not one of them carried an assault weapon that I could see. Given the crushed fences and rutted lawns along my path of destruction, I was kind of relieved not to meet any neighbors.

  Both Nick and Patra texted to say they’d be home by dinner. No word of what they were doing. Once I was back in my office, I emailed Graham to ask if the CNN job was still open in Atlanta. He emailed back an application form, smartass.

  I called Oppenheimer. His assistant said he was down at the courthouse and would get back to me. I didn’t know if it was necessary any longer, but I checked on Lemuel, the witness against Smythe. He was talking to the FBI, too. Fine, then, everyone was safe. I could get back to work.

  I didn’t know what my work was. We’d broken Broderick Media wide open, which probably ought to be the end of Graham’s research, not that he was saying so.

  Out of idle curiosity, I fed Patra’s stolen archieleaks files into the Whiz and began searching for names from other suspected Top Hat members. No surprise, Paul Rose was a Broderick investor. The Righteous and Proud — theoretically the umbrella group for the humble religious types who knew nothing about investing in mega-corporations — had also privately funded their mouthpiece. Probably with Smythe’s blackmail money.

  I hoped the FBI was smart enough to start putting pieces together, but I had my doubts. Once this latest scandal blew past,
Senator Rose and his cronies would be back with boatloads of cash to invest in more media to spin pretty stories so the politicians would look good in front of cameras. It was the American way.

  Nick came home and collapsed in bed. Patra sent me a photo of Sean sleeping on his desk. There might be a decade difference in their ages, but not necessarily in their maturity. I wasn’t touching whatever happened between them. I texted back and asked for a photo of Sam Adams, my hero. She sent me a shot of a skinny, long-haired nerd hunched over a keyboard.

  I resisted going upstairs and hunting Graham down. The ball was in his court, as they said in the gym I’d once attended. Maybe I should find another public gym instead of hiding out in Graham’s. I’d learn more about the outside world, but it was really hard to resist the temptation of running into Graham again.

  I dug into a couple of cases from other clients that I’d been neglecting. I have some very good international contacts who help me with translations. That side of my business had been growing lately. I wouldn’t see replies until tomorrow. Not everyone can be a night owl.

  Mallard brought me gumbo for lunch, and a newspaper. I almost dropped my teeth, but I remembered my manners.

  “Join me?” I asked.

  “Another time, thank you,” he said gravely. “I’m preparing a repast for this evening. Please dress for dinner.”

  I blinked and stared after him as he departed to his hideaway. A repast? Dress for dinner? Had hell frozen over? Only a few weeks ago he’d been chasing us out of his kitchen with a kitchen ax when we’d tried to make our own meals.

  I ate my gumbo and returned to my computer. Broderick’s dirty deeds had made headline news, naturally. I scanned the article. It concentrated on phone tapping and bribery and not the real skullduggery like chasing employees off cliffs and killing people who knew too much, like Patra’s dad and Bill. But this was only part one of the series, so I could hope for more — so could Archie and his cronies.

  A small paragraph said Sir Archie was out of the country and unavailable for comment. Yeah, I’d bet.

  To keep me entertained, I received an email from Sam Adams with an audio file attached. His message just said from the boy’s room.

  The file quality was bad. I could hear a toilet flush, so he meant a real boy’s room. A voice echoed against hard walls, and I strained to make out the words.

  “I’ve got a place in Cambodia. Weather is good, servants are cheap.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice under these conditions, but the speaker’s clipped accent sounded like General Smedbetter.

  “Offshore account?” a plummy voice with a British accent asked. “Cambodia won’t do you any good without money, and I’m not counting on collecting my pension.”

  Smedbetter and Whitehead smoking in the boy’s room. Fascinating. What was the British attaché doing in Broderick offices? Cohorts in crime was my guess.

  “Several accounts,” Smedbetter agreed. “You’ll be taken care of. Take the keys in the desk. The house in Mali will be ready. Better get out tonight and use your other ID.”

  The voices trailed off as they left to collect keys and fake passports and plane tickets. Crap, just what I’d figured.

  This had probably been recorded yesterday. I hoped Sam had sent the file to the cops. Just in case, I sent it to Graham. I’d played Lone Ranger for as long as I cared to and didn’t want to get involved again. I was pretty sure the cops were already looking for General Smedbetter after Leonard’s confessions, but they wouldn’t understand yet how dangerous the man was. He was an American military hero, after all. Not going there.

  Instead, I met EG at the Metro and took her clothes shopping so we could dress for our repast.

  I hate malls, so I’d done my research. The boutique consignment store I’d located was all that I’d hoped. EG went wild in the children’s section, and I found a dinner dress that I could live with — just a sleek, knee-length silk in deep vibrant Microsoft blue. I added some imitation sapphires set in silver and a matching clasp to keep my mass of hair out of my face if I got brave enough to let it down.

  I was daring fate, and I knew it.

  EG went for purple everything, including a pair of cowboy boots. I allowed her the purple lace tank top atrocity but not the mini-skirt that went with it unless she bought leggings. She agreed to leggings if she could wear the cowboy boots. I was no fashion arbiter. If that was her idea of dinner wear, I was fine with it as long as she was decent.

  We also added to her school clothes with purple jeans and a purple sweater. I hoped that was an improvement over black.

  We could hear Nick and Patra in their rooms, rummaging about, as we carried our treasures up the stairs. Had Mallard told them to dress for dinner too?

  “What are we celebrating?” EG whispered, understanding the implications of everyone being home and getting dressed.

  “Patra getting fired?” I suggested.

  She snorted with laughter and ran down the hall to her cave.

  I dislike the fussiness of silk and stockings and heels, but I’d learned from the best, and could appreciate the need to celebrate occasionally. Life is dangerous and often dreary and survival ought to be recognized with good cheer. We’d certainly survived a hurricane this past week.

  I opted to twist my long black hair into a loose stack on top of my head and clip it with my fake sapphires. With more hope than good sense, I added just enough eyeliner and mascara to emphasize the exotic tilt inherited from my mother’s Hungarian ancestors. I wanted to look good — just in case.

  My gown had long sleeves but not much back. I probably needed a shawl or some such flummery. I wore the fake jewels and turned up the heat instead.

  I met Nick emerging from his Ali Baba cave. He’d spiffed up in a tailored navy suit and designer tie. He offered his arm. I accepted.

  “Do we know what we’re celebrating?” he asked as we descended.

  “Your deployment to Outer Mongolia?” I suggested.

  “No such luck,” he said cheerfully. “Seems the ambassador has been suspicious of his chief attaché for some while. Patra’s archieleaks files provided the ammunition he needed to turn Whitehead in to Brit intelligence. I’ll be assistant to the replacement attaché.”

  “Very good placement,” I said, squeezing his arm. “I don’t suppose the Brit equivalent of Homeland Security can nail Whitehead for anything, can they? Do we even know what he did beyond encourage Archie’s minions in their cover-ups?”

  “Phone hacking, providing information warning BM of events that might have proved detrimental to Broderick interests overseas, the usual chicanery as far as I know. He was on retainer to Broderick Media in the UK and acted in their interests when necessary. Stupid stuff.”

  “And the walls come tumbling down,” I said in delight.

  We entered the dining room to discover five place settings prepared — Waterford crystal, the Lenox china, and the best silver, with enough pieces to feed two armies.

  Patra and EG were staring at the name cards placed at one end of the table.

  Thirty-two

  The antique dining room table was large enough to hold a dozen people, easily. We usually sprawled up and down it with our computers and newspapers and books. Mallard had set all the name cards near the head of the table, where Nick normally sat.

  A fabulous bouquet of hothouse flowers replaced the bugged candelabra. Mallard had truly gone all out.

  “Do I have to sit here?” EG asked, indicating the card across the table from where Patra stood.

  I circled around next to her. My place card was on her right. The head of the table was to my right. Nick was directly across from me. We both looked for a card at the fifth setting, but there was none. I wasn’t holding my breath, but I did offer a smug smile and check to make certain my blue gown showed what little I had in the way of curves when I sat down.

  Mallard arrived carrying a silver platter of dazzling appetizers. We took our seats across from each other without
quarrel. He poured wine and offered EG sparkling water. Even EG quit whining and politely placed her hands in her lap and waited instead of diving into the mouth-watering creations in front of us.

  We waited some more. I wanted the candelabra back so I could smack it and tell it the food was getting cold. Fortunately for our resident spider, Mallard’s appetizers were already cold. Otherwise, I would have said to heck with manners and dug in.

  Mallard returned, solemnly bearing a wide-screen laptop as if it were the pièce de résistance. He removed the china and silver at the head of the table, opened the laptop, and stepped back, as if awaiting more orders.

  The screen lit up. Graham, wearing white tie and a tux, filled the center, looking like some really ripped version of James Bond. In the background wasn’t his usual spider’s lair but what appeared to be gold tapestries and a polished desk. Not that anyone else at the table but me would recognize his image. They might recognize Graham’s voice from his intrusive habits though.

  “I regret that current events prevent me from joining you at dinner as planned,” he intoned. “Elizabeth Georgiana, your purple plume is very fetching.”

  We all stared at EG. She was definitely wearing a plume in her purple-streaked hair. The damned man could see us!

  “I thought as long as you were dressed for a celebratory occasion, I might offer a little information that may or may not please you to add to the festivities.”

  He didn’t smile. With his dark hair properly combed, the scar along his hairline was barely visible. Nick and Patra were gaping. I scowled and forked an appetizer off the plate.

  “Please, go ahead and eat,” he said dryly.

  “Darn right I will,” I told him. “And don’t think this counts for anything.”

  His eyes crinkled as if he almost smiled. “Of course not. Heaven forbid. To feed your insatiable curiosity, I provide this.” He switched the screen from him to a video but we could still hear him. “This came in from the coast of South Africa.”