Undercover Genius

by Rice, Patricia

  We watched an enormous yacht bucking waves in a torrential rainstorm. It was hard to make out anything through the gray waves of wind and rain. An unidentifiable newscaster began speaking.

  “It’s been reported that Sir Archibald Broderick has been washed overboard from his yacht, the Titan3. The reports are as yet unconfirmed. SOS signals have been received and the ship’s crew are reporting they’re taking on water. Navy ships are on their way.”

  EG was clueless and happy with her cheese puff, but Nick and Patra gasped in horror.

  “Convenient,” I said dismissively. “He’s probably meeting Smedbetter in Cambodia. Broderick has homes scattered around the world. They won’t find him, even if they’re looking, which I assume this video will prevent.”

  “Perceptive,” Graham said, flashing back to himself. A shadow crossed behind him, so he wasn’t alone. I memorized the background so I could search for it later. “Tying up another loose end . . .” He changed the image again.

  This time, we saw a large group of people with candles kneeling outside the prison where Brashton had died. The news announcer intoned, “Members of the Righteous and Proud are praying tonight for the health of their leader, Dr. Charles Smythe, who is said to have suffered a heart attack while awaiting trial for murdering Reginald Brashton.”

  Graham silenced the announcer to interrupt. “He was offering to hand over all his audio files in exchange for a manslaughter charge. The authorities are considering it, should he survive. I’ve advocated a witness protection program.”

  “What are the chances it wasn’t a heart attack?” I asked, reaching for another of the pesto bruschettas. The platter had almost been wiped clean already. This was better than popcorn but the entertainment left a bit to be desired. EG was glancing down at her lap. I suspected a hidden tablet.

  “Tests are being run,” Graham agreed. “Smythe has been removed to an undisclosed location. Nicholas, there is a bug in the attaché’s desk lamp. The feed goes to security and is filtered for sending to the ambassador. Use it wisely.”

  Nick flicked a finger to his forehead in an informal salute, not offering a single snarky comment. I sent him a glare.

  “Patra, the CNN job is yours, if you want it,” Graham continued. “It involves travel, which I understand isn’t a problem for you.”

  “I’m in,” she said cheerfully, tipping her wine to the screen. “Do I have you to thank?”

  “Your intrepid reporting has been noticed,” Graham said dryly. “Although expect your Hollywood connections to be more important than your father’s revelations.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Hollywood was a safe place for Patra. Politics was not.

  “He’s hooking you,” I whispered in warning. “You’re going to owe him.”

  Patra and Nick shrugged. Graham continued smoothly, “I’ll leave you with one final note.”

  The screen flashed to an image of Oppenheimer filing a motion before a judge. How the devil did Graham get his spy cameras inside a courtroom? The damned man knew exactly what our lawyer was doing despite my efforts to keep our inheritance battle undercover.

  The judge pushed a file across his desk. “I find judgment in favor of your client in the case of the yacht, counselor. It’s apparent the funds to purchase it came directly from your client’s inheritance. We still cannot rule on the remainder of the monies until the audit has been completed.”

  I gaped, then remembered to cover my mouth as the judge banged his gavel and handed over a legal-looking document potentially gaining us another half million dollars. We’d done it! We were millionaires!

  “Enjoy your dinner,” Graham intoned, shutting off the courtroom.

  Before I could respond, he lifted his arm to close his laptop — and flashed his diamond cufflinks.

  I lifted my wine glass in toast. Patra shrieked in excitement. Nick straightened his tie and clinked his glass to mine.

  A million dollars wouldn’t buy back our house, but our landlord had become our ally. Almost. I could live with that for a while longer.

  Author’s Note

  The Family Genius mysteries were conceived in the tradition of tall tales with a soupçon of satire and a dash of wicked humor. Do not expect reality, or even CSI.

  The timeline for Ana’s stories takes place over a period of roughly a year — an election year. Unfortunately, I’m not capable of writing fast enough to produce an entire series of books within that same interval. So the series will not take place in real time. Current events and technology will remain static even though changes have multiplied since I conceived the original concept — and occur rapidly every day that I write. Anyone with a modicum of political knowledge will realize that ten years after 9/11/01 does not correspond with a Senator Paul Rose — or anyone similar — running for office. All characters are fictional and entirely the product of my warped imagination.

  Copyright & Credits

  UNDERCOVER GENIUS

  A Family Genius Mystery, Book 2

  Patricia Rice

  Copyright © 2014 Patricia Rice

  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

  February 11, 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-344-7

  Production team: Beta Readers: Mindy Klasky, Jennifer Stevenson, Elisabeth Waters

  Proofreader: Phyllis Irene Radford

  Cover Designer: Pati Nagle/Mandala

  Ebook Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  v20131201

  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative PO Box 1624 Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  About the Author

  With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today’s bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is now tackling the mystery genre. Her romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA finalists.

  Patricia Rice is married and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina and Missouri, she currently resides in Southern California, and now does accounting only for herself.

  About Book View Café

  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative is a professional authors’ publishing cooperative offering DRM-free ebooks in multiple formats to readers around the world. With authors in a variety of genres including mystery, romance, fantasy, and science fiction, Book View Café has something for everyone.

  Book View Café is good for readers because you can enjoy high-quality DRM-free ebooks from your favorite authors at a reasonable price.

  Book View Café is good for writers because 95% of the profit goes directly to the book’s author.

  Book View Café authors include New York Times and USA Today bestsellers, Nebula, Hugo, Campbell, and Philip K. Dick Award winners, World Fantasy and Rita Award nominees, and winners and nominees of many other publishing awards.

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  EVIL GENIUS

  Family Genius Mystery Book 1

  Sample Chapter

  Patricia Rice

  Chapter One

  In which EG and Nick arrive bearing trouble.

  My name is Ana, and I’m a doormat.

  I’m also one of the best virtual assistants in the world, if you’ll pardon my modesty. Being a virtual assistant and a wuss often go hand in hand. Most of us are introverts who prefer to work in cyberspace because human nature is messy and unpredictable and computers aren’t. My excuse is that my family is messier than most and so far beyond volatile as to establish whole new spec
trums of the definition, so being their doormat involves a great deal of mud and muddle that I couldn’t take anymore.

  So four years ago, I left my family half way around the world, and I never had reason to believe they had interest in finding me until the day my doorbell rang. At the time, I lived and worked in the basement of a Victorian tenement in Atlanta. Expecting the usual FedEx or UPS delivery, I ran up to the foyer, blinking to adjust to the sun filtering through the dirty transom before opening the door. Even though she stood right before me, I still couldn’t believe my eyes.

  The last time I had seen EG, she was only five. I had fiercely missed my eccentric half-siblings, but once I developed the gumption to quit enabling my mother’s dysfunctional lifestyle, I had no choice but to walk out on them.

  Since escaping, I’ve been practicing hard to overcome my doormat tendencies. Granted, it may not seem that way since I’m small and dark and work at blending in, but in my world, invisibility is a defensive position. After twenty years with my flamboyant, nomadic, mother and half-siblings, I treasured the anonymity I’d achieved since my declaration of independence. Invisibility allows me to be myself, giving me hope of establishing a normal life, with a real home someday.

  I’m not angling for sympathy, but growing up as the responsible eldest of a family of drama queens, I felt responsible for their welfare, which required more assertiveness and the best therapists my mother’s government health plan could afford. It took me twenty-six years to conquer my need to act as mother-hen. And apparently, four for my family to find me again.

  If I was as good a virtual assistant as I thought, I wouldn’t have been so surprised when EG appeared like a raven of doom that late August afternoon.

  “I’ve brought my own bed,” she announced the second I opened the basement door.

  In the gloom of the boarded up sidelites, I stared down at her shiny black hair. Since she was only nine, she was still shorter than me.

  “EG?” My reaction times were a little off due to lack of use. “How did you get here?”

  As far as I was aware, my mother never crossed the Atlantic. Panicked questions like How long were you on an airplane alone? and Who died? ran rampant, but expressing weakness was not a wise idea when it came to my family.

  EG favored me to some extent, with long, straight black hair, slender build, and a mind like a steel trap. Unlike me, she wore her hair in bangs that hid her Irish-green eyes, although EG might be the only one of us who is pure American. I smothered an unexpected urge to hug her, except EG wouldn’t have understood a genuine demonstration of love. We’d been raised to be detached citizens of the world. We air-kissed but never hugged.

  From beneath the long fringe, EG regarded me incredulously. “Lost a few IQ points since last we met?” she asked, proving my point. She dragged in a wheeled Pullman nearly as big as she was. “The Hungarian Princess gave me her credit card to buy schoolbooks, and whoops, I guess I accidentally booked a plane ticket instead. You know, if you rented that empty apartment upstairs, we wouldn’t have to share the coal cellar.”

  My family was used to EG’s ability to answer questions before they’re asked and solve problems before we know we have them. Unfortunately, the rest of the world found it a little disconcerting. Our mother, Magda—referred to as the Hungarian Princess for her fairy tales about our background— once had a boyfriend who invented the Evil Genius sobriquet after EG nailed him as a gambling addict just before he ran off with Magda’s last divorce settlement. EG’s real name is Elizabeth Georgiana.

  “I didn’t know another apartment was available or that I needed a new one,” I said, letting her roll her own bag. “Did anyone come with you?”

  There hadn’t been anyone on the sidewalk. I checked. Brought up as we had been, we learned to take precautions—and not necessarily against bad guys. Lost nannies, unpaid taxi drivers, even a camel could have waited on my doorstep.

  “Nick will be here shortly.” Sidestepping my question, she shoved her bag down the stairs and let it explode on the antique Persian carpet I’d spent a month’s wages on at a flea market. It was the genuine thing, centuries old, frayed, worn, and I’d had high hopes of one day having a real home to put it in. I may as well have hoped the carpet would fly.

  As promised, EG’s suitcase explosion produced an inflatable mattress and air pump along with her horde of books, two pairs of shorts, a silk robe that looked like a cast-off of our mother’s, and some T-shirts.

  “I figured you’d need my help when Nick got here,” EG continued, gathering up her books and neatly arranging them in a stack beside the textbooks on my computer table. The textbooks were left over from an assignment that was as yet unfinished—mainly because my client had disappeared. At least he’d had the decency to pay his bill in advance.

  I surveyed the clutter rearranging my neat cave. Her books were old hardcovers with faded writing that I’d probably have to explore to make certain none of them said something like Sorcery Made Easy.

  “Nick hasn’t the attention span to find me,” I told her, although it came out more question than statement.

  EG, like me, had led a nomadic life, never knowing whether we’d be stationed in mud huts or palaces from one day to the next. Loosely speaking, our mother was part of the government diplomatic core, a foreign correspondent, and/or a camp follower, depending on what man she was with that year. All of us were well versed in the cheapest way to travel to Marakesh. Still, that a nine-year-old had taken the time and found the resources to locate me when my mother had not made me very, very uneasy.

  I gathered up EG’s clothes and heaved them back in the suitcase that would have to serve as her dresser. “Nick disapproves of my lifestyle,” I told her. Or lack thereof. As a VA, I stayed safely inside four walls. I communicated with fascinating people who lived exciting lives, without the necessity of bandaging bleeding torsos or chasing baboons out of the kitchen—services my family had been known to require. “I can’t imagine why Nick would want to find me.”

  “Because his latest lover stole his car and ran off with his hair stylist, and he’s depressed and has nowhere else to go.” EG plopped her skinny, jeans-encased rear in my computer chair and began accessing her e-mail. All in black, she looked like a miniature me. I even recognized her avoidance technique. She was hiding something. My insides knotted as I imagined all the disasters my brilliant half-siblings could incur.

  Magda had named us after royalty. I assume Magda was on a Russian kick when she named her two eldest. I’m Anastasia. Nicholas is four years younger than me. Nick was named after the late czar, rather appropriately as it turned out. He possesses the royal savoir-faire Prince Charles lacks.

  I didn’t ask how EG knew he was on the way here. It’s a waste of time asking. She just knew and the sooner one accepted it, the easier it was to move forward.

  To outsiders, it might sound as if my family is totally weird, but look at the statistics. Most families end in divorce these days. Single-parent homes are the rule, not the exception. It’s just that in our family, we’re all overachievers, and we had our exceptional mother to thank for that. Had we actually possessed the wealth of royalty—or at least the American equivalent—we would have been lauded as the next generation of Kennedys, capable of running the country or corporate boardrooms. Instead, Magda expressed her ambition and overcompensated with powerful men and numerous offspring.

  I was already hyperventilating, imagining the disasters that would divert EG and Nick to my doorstep. Having my most lucrative client disappear leaving a mysterious e-mail message about envelopes, poison, top hats, and pow was as much insanity as I was willing to tolerate.

  “Look, this area crawls with drug dealers. It isn’t safe for either of you,” I said, as if EG needed to be told what she no doubt already knew. “What did her Highness do to set you off?”

  Pecking away at my keyboard, EG hit the Send button and probably notified the entire planet of my whereabouts. “I’m out for summer vacation, a
nd she wants to visit the ski slopes of Switzerland with the sheik. Since we’re temporarily homeless. . .”

  She didn’t have to finish. I knew the routine by heart. Our mother loved to live like the royalty she claimed to be, but the crown jewels were long since pawned, and nannies could only be paid by men with better-paying positions than Magda’s. Not that we ever knew precisely what her position was. I gave up asking long ago.

  “Set up your bed,” I agreed in resignation, once more returning to the role of family doormat. I didn’t want to talk to Magda, but even I realized I’d have to let her know EG was safe. “The cupboard is bare. I have to run to the grocery if you’re staying.”

  EG shrugged and waved me off.

  None of this was really the kid’s fault. The schism had always been between my mother and me. I believed in homes, security, and routines. Magda was a staunch advocate of chaos.

  In rusty caretaking mode, I tugged on my running shoes, grabbed my shoulder bag, and jogged up the stairs and out the tall front door, making mental grocery lists.

  Another sister would have felt guilty for leaving a nine-year-old in a run-down apartment house riddled with druggies and psychotics. I was confident EG would have erected an elaborate security system and conned, coerced, or otherwise convinced an alarm company to arm it before I returned. That wasn’t just EG’s genius. It’s what our family’s lifestyle had trained us to do. We are the future—prepared for any event from nuclear holocaust to Martian invasion. Of course, the commonplace, like going to the supermarket or living in houses, eluded the rest of my family. That had always been my job.

  I longed to pound out my frustration on the punching bag at my favorite gym down the street, but I didn’t trust EG alone in my apartment that long. A good run would have to suffice.