Evil Genius

by Rice, Patricia

  Apparently, I had decided that a guy who looked like Superman couldn’t be a murderer. I probably needed to find Sean and have hot doggie sex to clear that idiocy out of my head, but it was hard to determine if it was sex or the house that had me blind.

  My opinion of Super Spook would change quickly enough once I figured out where he had all the cameras hidden, but I wanted to float on the cloud of success for a little while. It had been a difficult day, and I needed the reward.

  Nick was pacing in the library, impatiently awaiting the outcome of our meeting. I daresay the stunned look on my face was priceless, but he merely raised his eyebrow.

  “Bad address, good information,” I replied to the implied question. “We’re staying until we nab Brashton. I need food.” I plopped down in my chair and fired up the Whiz.

  “Write me a letter and tell me all about it. You can eat it later. You have to pick up EG. I have a job interview.” Nick strode off, apparently more irritated at my lack of communication than happy about my good news. I wanted to be a good sister, and Nick was my best friend, but I was stoked and already absorbed in my mission. We could chat later.

  Wild dreams of becoming Graham’s permanent assistant and never having to leave danced through my head as my fingers flew across the keyboard. I refused to consider the possibility that Sexy Man might be a terrorist, although nutcase was still a possibility.

  If we could just stay until we could buy the house back or Oppenheimer sued and got it back for us...

  Graham wouldn’t be a happy camper about that one. Best not broadcast that hope too loudly. For all I knew, he could pick up brain waves. I needed to start hunting for his cameras.

  All right, back to square one. I wasn’t giving up on finding an address. “Not viable” meant many things. I wasn’t taking Graham’s word for it. I made up a hokey advertisement for computer repairs, and using the phony school for a return address, sent it to Pao’s supposedly non-viable address with Address service requested on the envelope. I did the same with Edu-Pub’s address.

  Next, I found the e-mail from a D.C. virtual assistant who had located Pao’s name after running a search on her boss’s upcoming guest lists. Clever of her. Fundraisers had to attend fundraisers. There he was, Sak Thai Pao, businessman, no address. They had to have his address to send an invitation, didn’t they? I sent a return mail asking for details. My network of VAs was gratifyingly effective.

  I really wanted to dig deeper into Edu-Pub’s finances and owners, but first things first. I began a search of taxi and limo services for Friday evening. It was possible Pao might drive himself, but D.C. traffic was appalling and parking limited. Smart money was on paid transportation.

  Patience is a virtue in my business. With a list of phone numbers in hand, I began calling every transportation company in town.

  Within the hour, I was firmly down from Cloud Nine. Transportation companies took confidentiality to heart. What did they think I would do, blow up the limo?

  Only the large companies had online reservations I could hack into. I was down to asking my network for help again and had to wait for answers. I’d already seen enough violence today, so I wasn’t eager to take on Senator Tex as my next assignment. Blood sugar running low, I slumped in my chair and contemplated my navel.

  I was working for a frightening man who thought he was a god, who was manipulating our lives and probably others, and who seemed to know more about us than we did.

  The man had understood my love of computers enough to bless me with the Cobalt Whiz. He’d understood my psyche enough to give me the kind of difficult task that would most appeal to me. And he’d known my pride would force me to turn myself inside out accomplishing it. He’d set me up for failure and admitted it.

  He’d known where EG was when I didn’t and provided a solution to her problem before I could. He’d offered to let us stay in his home until we found our money. I desperately wanted him to be my grandfather.

  That’s about as stupid as it gets. And also a sad case of denial. I didn’t want Sexy Man to be my grandfather. I wanted him to be available, like Sean. Crippled Psyche, meet Crippled Superman, and make the world go ’round. Right, like that was gonna happen.

  It was time to check out the school he’d arranged for EG. For all I knew, it was a school for budding spies. Nick might be smart and charming, but there wasn’t a suspicious bone in his body. He would only notice what the students wore.

  Confronting school administrations wasn’t one of my specialties, except on a combative basis. Or a punitive one. But I needed to get out of the house, and EG ought to have an escort home. I’d already removed the blazer in the barely air-conditioned heat of the old house. Wearing my unfashionable jumper and sandals, I caught the Metro to EG’s private school.

  The building was all brick and encompassed a city block from the looks of it. I didn’t see any kids cavorting on the strip of green lawn revealed through the iron gates.

  I showed my passport to the guard at the door and marched into the school office as if I had a clue to what I was doing.

  I’d never seen a school office like this one. No modern metal desks, cardboard partitions, and cluttered stacks of paper here. The outer office was carpeted and draped, the furnishings were mahogany, and the wallpaper had been chosen by an interior decorator to elegantly complement the school colors of silver and blue. If any records existed, they were computerized or neatly filed in cabinets behind closet doors because even filing cabinets weren’t visible.

  “May I help you?” the young, very blond secretary inquired. Apparently trained in all the right schools, she held her curiosity well.

  “I am Anastasia Devlin. I wish to speak with the school administration about my sister, Elizabeth Maximillian. I’m her guardian.”

  “Of course, Miss Devlin. I will see if Mr. Appleby is available.” Not a blink of an eyelash at my long skirt and tight braids. She probably couldn’t see my scruffy sandals.

  I checked out all the official-looking accreditation awards on the walls, memorizing them for further study later. Why wasn’t I as paranoid about Graham as I was about everyone else?

  Because he had a voice like thunder-laced whiskey, and I wanted to believe he was looking after us. I hadn’t wasted all those years of therapy. I just didn’t often find them useful.

  Mr. Appleby, to my disappointment, looked like every school official I’d ever seen—stout, balding, rumpled suit, the works. His eyebrows were gray and bushy, his thinning hair had been silvered and trimmed by an expert, and the suit probably cost three fortunes, but eggheads are undisguisable.

  “How lovely to meet you, Miss Devlin. I spoke with your brother this morning. Wonderful gentleman.”

  He held out his hand for me to shake, but I walked past him into his office and took a seat. He followed, leaving the office door slightly parted.

  “I am E...” I halted before using EG’s nickname. She deserved to start fresh in this imposing school. “... Elizabeth’s guardian and responsible for her education. We appreciate the opportunity offered by the scholarship. Her previous education has been private and advanced.”

  “Of course, Mr. Graham explained this to us. It is sometimes difficult for a privately tutored child to be assimilated into the general population...”

  I heard and understood the hesitation in his voice. EG had already brought attention to herself. “Elizabeth is a genius with an extensive education in international affairs. She does not think on the same planes as most children. She needs advanced instruction to keep her active mind occupied.”

  “Yes, yes, I see that now. Excellent. Perhaps we could give her a few tests...” Appleby ruminated, tapping his fingers against his flabby jaw. “I’m glad we had this little talk Ms. Devlin. I had assumed... But one should never assume.”

  He’d assumed EG had been trained by real teachers from government schools who taught one and one were two, not a teacher who had taught her that if you catch the midnight train to Marrakesh you
can sleep for the price of a train ticket and save the cost of a hotel.

  “We’ve just moved into the community,” I informed him. “I will give you our phone numbers as soon as they’re available. In the meantime, if we could correspond by e-mail, I would appreciate it if you would keep in close contact until Elizabeth has found her place here.”

  He rifled through the folder on his desk. “Mr. Graham has given us his private numbers. Will those be sufficient currently?”

  “Of course.” The bastard. He would know everything EG was doing before we did. We had to find our millions and establish our own lines of communication.

  A creepy crawly feeling hit me as a new thought occurred. What if Graham had arranged for Reginald the Thief to elude the cops in exchange for our house? Maybe there were no millions. Just the house and Reggie’s yacht. We would never be able to buy it back.

  On that unhappy thought, I left the school office with a schedule in my hand to canvas classrooms. Checking out the politely behaved students sitting at their desks, I grimaced.

  I had no particular love of fashion, but I was aware of the difference between Wal-Mart cotton and Saks silk. The sturdy outfit we had sent EG to school in today was somewhere in between, but pathetically inadequate in comparison to the designer outfits holding up desks in this place. No jeans and T-shirts here, nosirree. I saw six-year-olds with shoes, purses, and cell phones all matched and costing more than I earned in a year.

  Just the concept of a six-year-old with a purse and cell phone gave me a headache. We would have to go wardrobe shopping.

  I checked the class schedule. I was under the impression that normal fourth graders do not change classes, but this school had specialty teachers for everything. EG was in her last class of the day, social studies.

  Wondering what kind of social studies one taught fourth graders, I slipped down the hallway, trying to appear unobtrusive. The occasional drone of voices emanated from partially opened doors.

  I recognized EG’s voice before I located the classroom.

  “The modern concept of democracy cannot sustain itself without the benefit of an educated voting class. By reducing public schools to wastelands of ignorance, the government has effectively emasculated the constitution, thereby guaranteeing an aristocracy of the wealthy and privately educated.”

  Well done, young grasshopper, I murmured to myself. I was impressed with the quality of a classroom discussing such pertinent topics. I was less impressed with EG spouting Magda dogma, but occasionally, our mother had her head screwed on right.

  “Miss Maximillian, that is not a definition of democracy. You will sit down and write ‘I will not spread communist propaganda in this classroom’ one hundred times.”

  Ouch. I tensed and waited for the explosion.

  When EG didn’t come barreling out, I was really worried. A quiet EG is a dangerous one. She’d bombed her kindgergarten class just before Magda sent her to me a few years ago. Admittedly, it hadn’t been more than a smoke bomb, but they’d been in Saudi Arabia at the time. They had to evacuate the school, and the U. S. Army had parked outside for a month afterward.

  I peeked through the opening of the partially ajar door. She was sitting in the front of the room, dutifully scribbling her sentences across a notebook page. Or writing something anyway. I doubted if it was the prescribed sentence. She’s never that obedient.

  The other kids were sniggering and shooting her curious looks, but that’s nothing unusual. I studied the lot of them. She was the shortest one in there, but there were as many international students as blond-haired all-American sorts, so she didn’t look particularly exotic. Just small and alone.

  I tip-toed down the hall and waited on a bench outside. The smoggy city air suited me more than the rarified oxygen inside. This mothering business was extremely difficult. As a kid growing up, I figured all a mother needed to do was keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. That’s more than Magda had ever done. I’d been the one to clean dirty noses, give baths, and get them into bed, like an unpaid nursemaid.

  I’d listened to their tales of woe, but being as helpless as my younger siblings, I’d shrugged off their whining. Life is tough. You learn. That had been my motto.

  I wasn’t certain that motto was adequate any longer. I had resources now, and I wanted EG to be happy. Foolish of me, I suppose, given her predilection for pessimism, but I felt responsible for making her happy. I would have to talk to her teachers. Shit.

  It occurred to me that Appleby hadn’t agreed to test EG because I’d come in to see him. He’d agreed because he didn’t want to lose Graham’s favor. How could an invisible man wield power and influence? He’d been in the president’s cabinet. In what capacity? In this town, only a man who held the president’s ear would be seen as truly influential, but Mrs. Carstairs had thought him dead.

  I really needed to ask more questions, but I’d been trained to keep eyes and ears open, not my mouth. And now I was obligated to the man.

  A bell rang and kids came tumbling out the front doors while I was lost in plotting. I drew curious stares, but the kids had other things on their mind, like TV and food and the limos waiting for them. EG dragged out at the tail end. Head down, scuffling her shoes, she didn’t even see me until I stepped in front of her. She scowled when she recognized my sandals.

  “I don’t need an escort,” she growled.

  With EG, it was best to ignore the protests. I was beginning to realize she didn’t always mean them any more than I did. I started down the sidewalk. “Did you have to stay after class?”

  “The history teacher is ancient,” she complained. “I bet she belonged to the John Birch Society.”

  I screwed up my brow and tried to recollect who in heck John Birch was. A lot of my education was in foreign schools. I could tell you the monetary differences between rubles, shekels, and drachmas, but I have no memory of any Birch.

  It didn’t matter. She was on a rant.

  “Not one of those mindless clones cares that their gas-guzzling vehicles are destroying the environment and eating up the world’s oil reserves. They think Americans are better than anyone and deserve to have whatever they want, whenever they can take it, and that Europeans are just sore losers.”

  Well, yeah, that’s been the attitude as long as I can remember it. Didn’t they write a book about it ages ago? The Ugly American, I think. Got my nose rubbed in that one. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Fourth graders don’t generally know a great deal,” I assured her.

  “I’m talking about the teachers,” she said with scorn, picking up speed as we headed down to the Metro. “Even the textbooks are as dumb as the ones in public school. They don’t mention that Nazis tried to eradicate an entire race of people in World War Two. They’re so politically correct that they don’t mention most of the wars in history were caused by religion.”

  None of her fellow students followed us down to the subway. A lot of them watched us from the windows of their limos though.

  I had a nasty twist in the pit of my stomach that said a wealthy private school might not be the place for a socialistic atheist like EG.

  Was I doing the wrong thing, just like Magda? Nick had hated some of the schools he’d been locked up in. How did I know when a kid was just complaining and when she was right?

  I had wanted a decent education so badly I had sneaked out of the house to sit in schools in which I wasn’t enrolled. I had even sat in the back of large university classes to learn about subjects no one had taught me. Was I putting my needs and wants on EG’s shoulders?

  Maybe I should just slither back into my dark basement hole and not come out again. What made me think I could be a responsible parent?

  As we climbed out of the Metro and walked down the busy city street toward the substantial mansion grandfather had left us, I felt the same tug of heartstrings I’d suffered the first day we’d arrived. I drew strength from the elegant brick turrets and towering roofline.

 
This was home. This was ours. Regardless of the errors I made, we were going to make it together, come hell or high water.

  I squeezed EG’s shoulders. “Nick and I will stay on top of things at the school. Someday, you’ll teach those kids to think for themselves. Just remember that, and keep your mouth shut until then. You’ll be fine.”

  She stared at me incredulously, then pulled a piece of paper from her backpack. “That’s good, because my homeroom teacher has signed you up to blow balloons for the school festival Friday night. They’re raising funds for new draperies for the auditorium.”

  Oh yeah, that’s gonna work. I’d wear my best capris and Grateful Dead T-shirt. Maybe the balloons would be black, and I’d feel right at home. I’m gonna be so good at this parenting business.

  Friday night was the night Pao was appearing at the fundraiser, and if I needed any more convincing, the thought of balloons did it—I’d rather follow Pao home than go anywhere near a private school festival run by smug, overeducated yuppies. Fine example for EG I made.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Celebration time.

  Nick met us at the front door and gestured for us to turn around and walk back to the street. He had returned from job hunting, evidently to see how EG had fared.

  EG tried to push into the house, but I understood—he didn’t want our resident spy listening. I caught her shoulder and spun her around. “Party time,” I declared.

  That caught her attention. “Whose birthday is it?”

  I will give Magda credit for one thing. She knew how to throw a party. She did her level best to throw the most spectacular birthday parties she could manage in whatever godforsaken hole we were in at the time. And when we were living lavishly, the parties knew no limit.

  I couldn’t hope to match that, but this wasn’t a birthday either. “I’ve decided to create a new tradition,” I declared, marching down the street in the direction of a small Italian ice cream stand I’d noticed in my trips to the Metro. “We party every time we want to celebrate.”