Naughty

by J. A. Konrath

  “Careful, Sis,” Hammett said. “Remember, I’m doing you next.”

  Clancy stiffened, no doubt imagining the ramifications. Then she nodded and went back to work, her hands having developed a slight tremor.

  Hammett hid her smile. If she couldn’t bond with her sisters, she’d at least enjoy terrifying them.

  “All good plans anticipate factors down to the smallest detail,” The Instructor said. “But even the best laid plans go astray.”

  Clancy drove the quartet half a kilometer away from Burling’s estate, and dropped Hammett and Ludlum off alongside a copse of trees that lined the private street. Then she continued to take the stolen taxi cab up to the front gate, dropped Forsyth off, and did a U-turn to come back around.

  The night was cool, dark, quiet. It smelled like the Midwest suburbs, a unique mix of woodsy and urban.

  Ludlum set up her scancorder, the Doppler radar part similar to a handheld bullhorn, and pointed it at Hammett to get a base reading on her heartrate.

  Hammett logged into the encrypted WiFi on her laptop, and three video images came up, each taking a third of the screen. Besides the suppressed 9mm Beretta ankle carries, each of her sisters wore a silver brooch on her Anne Klein jacket. The brooches hid pinhole cameras and microphones, battery powered and transceiving via a dongle. Coupled with the earpiece she wore, Hammett could see what they saw and hear what they heard. They began to walk toward the guard house, moving close to the fence and out of sight, Hammett keeping one eye on the road, the other on the laptop.

  “Hey, I know you.” Forsyth played drunk like a pro as she stumbled up to the guard’s gate. “You in the mood to party, cowboy?”

  Forsyth held a half-full whiskey bottle out to the guard. They’d watched the shift change two minutes ago, using field glasses from a hilly vantage point a kilometer away, and it was unlikely the guard had even settled in yet. He was a young guy, under thirty, fit and trim in his rent-a-cop uniform. One of Burling’s private troops, not Secret Service.

  “You know I can’t drink on duty.”

  The man shrugged and smiled, and in the light of the guard post Hammett noticed a gold wedding band on his left hand.

  “I’ve had plenty to drink,” Forsyth slurred and leaned against the booth’s open window.

  “I can see that.”

  “I’m not really in the mood for more. You want to know what I am in the mood for?” Forsyth opened her coat and started fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. The lapel of her jacket blocked the camera’s view, leaving Hammett with nothing but audio.

  “I’m in the mood to get naked, that’s what I’m in the mood for.” Forsyth said, answering her own question.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but you need to keep your clothes on.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Looks like I broke it.” She giggled. “And look at this. I broke it again!”

  “Please, put your clothes…”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a stick in the –” Forsyth giggled, and judging from the bobble of the camera, she stumbled. “Oh, no.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh….”

  Hammett heard the sound of a door opening, then more ruffling of Forsyth’s jacket and a flash of a uniformed chest.

  “Oh, wow,” Forsyth cooed. “You really are a stick. But not in the mud.”

  “Ma’am, I’m…”

  “I’ll say.”

  “…married.”

  The sound of a zipper and jingle of a belt buckle.

  “Does your wife do this to you?”

  “Ma’am, please.”

  “Oh, I aim to please.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Oh, no. You can. Trust me. Look at the size of this thing.”

  Another flash of an image, this time a bare, hairy thigh.

  “Let me just….”

  “Uhh…umm…oh my God.”

  “Want me to stop?”

  “What? No. God, no.”

  “Worried someone will see?”

  “Uh, yeah. Come here.”

  The sound of a door opening and closing came over the mic, then a flurry of movement and the camera’s view cleared, Forsyth having slipped out of the coat. She laid it down inside the guard house, the camera showing not only her nudity from the waist up and the guard’s from the waist down, but a nice view of the security monitors behind him.

  With a wink directly into the camera lens, Forsyth turned back to her work.

  “Nice view,” Hammett said into Forsyth’s earpiece. Looking past the impressively-endowed guard, she focused on the three screens behind him. Each split to show a dozen different feeds, for a total of thirty six camera views. With this vantage point, Hammett knew where every exterior guard and camera was located.

  Things got more complicated inside, one room looking pretty much like another. Although Hammett had committed the mansion’s floor plan to her eidetic memory, the rooms on the monitors were labeled only with numbers, and as a result, she could place only the kitchen, dining room and other distinctive rooms into the map in her head. No matter. With the scancoder, they should be able to sort things out.

  The only problem she could see was that Forsyth seemed to be enjoying her work a little too much.

  “Make it last,” Hammett warned. “He’s young.”

  “Oh, yes,” Forsyth said around a full mouth.

  Hammett glanced at her other two sisters. “Let’s move.”

  Guided by the guard house security monitor, the three chose a spot along the fence partially obscured by the branches of a large oak. They were over in seconds, landing amidst a garden on the other side.

  One obstacle down.

  At least twenty to go.

  She nodded to her sisters, who took position behind her, then reached into her pocket and pulled out the dog whistle. She blew it, the sound silent to the human ear, and then waited.

  Seconds later, the sound of running and panting reached them in the darkness.

  “Remember, ignore him, don’t look him in the eye. We might smell enough like Follett that he’ll accept us.”

  The dog came into view. Even in the shadows, Hammett could see he was a beauty. Black, with a white throat and chest, he looked elegant yet powerful. Not one of the many pit bulls half maimed and scarred by dog fights, but a well-cared-for animal with perfectly formed ears and a beautiful dished face that reminded her of an Arabian horse.

  He stepped close, sniffing the air.

  Hammett smiled, radiating control and calm, not showing her teeth. Dogs took that as a sign of aggression.

  Good dog. Maybe she’d take him with her after they did away with Isaac. Her lifestyle wasn’t any more conducive to owning a pet than it had been when she’d dropped Rod’s kitty off at the shelter, but she toyed with the idea often. Her sisters could have each other. All she needed was woman’s best friend.

  The pit bull sniffed, then growled, low in his throat. His body went stiff.

  “Everyone stay still. He’s going to attack.”

  Then the animal lunged.

  But as fast as the dog was, Hammett was faster.

  She grabbed for him, instinctively going for his lower jaw, sticking her hand into his mouth holding tight, forcing it downward to keep him from biting.

  He settled back on his haunches, ready to give his muscled body a shake. If he did, she wouldn’t be able to hold him, not even her strength and practice would save her from his teeth.

  He didn’t get the chance. Her sisters closed in around the animal, as they’d planned. Each grasping a back leg, they lifted the solid mass of canine muscle into the air, rendering him powerless to do anything but writhe and growl.

  “Quiiiiitttttt,” Hammett said, her voice quiet and firm. “Settle down.”

  In her experience, dogs responded best to calm strength. Except for a rare few, dogs didn’t prefer being in charge. A confident pack leader relieved them of the respons
ibility and made them feel secure. As luck would have it, Hammett was a natural alpha, and dogs seemed to sense it.

  This beautiful creature was no exception.

  Slowly he stopped struggling. Then he relaxed. And when Hammett nodded for her sisters to lower him to the ground, he rolled onto his back, offering his belly.

  Releasing his jaw, Hammett pulled a dog treat from her pocket, one of those smelly ones canines adored, and fed it to him. Then she rubbed his chest and scratched behind his ears.

  So far, so good.

  When Hammett checked the laptop, she was relieved to see that Forsyth still had the guard occupied, and she had to admit, a little impressed to see how flexible and inventive her sister was. She could also see the exterior guards were clear for the moment.

  Ludlum gave Hammett the scancorder, then awaited her order.

  “All right, go,” she told Ludlum and Clancy.

  The pair bounded through the garden, staying among the trees. When they reached the edge, Hammett gave them another all clear, and they dashed for a small retaining wall near the house.

  Hunkering down beside the dog, Hammett swept the house with the scancoder and compared the findings with the security camera images from Forsyth’s sex booth.

  Hammett opened her audio feed to both Clancy and Ludlum. “Burling is in the master bedroom and a single Secret Service agent is outside his door.”

  “Check.” Ludlum whispered.

  Clancy echoed.

  “Follett is in the next suite, door to the right of the master bedroom. She’s lying down, maybe sleeping. Lights are out and I can’t tell. I’m also picking up three guards. One in the kitchen, same uniform as two outside. Guy must be getting a snack. No one is in the room with the security camera feeds.” Hammett double checked all the guards’ positions. “Move. Now.”

  “Affirmative,” both sisters said in unison, creating a strange, stereo effect in Hammett’s ears.

  Christ, they even all sounded exactly the same.

  The two ran for the house, the video feeds from their jackets bouncing with each stride. Clancy made for a patio door on the first floor, just outside a spacious living room area. Ludlum dashed to the front door. Then both of them set about picking the locks.

  Hammett looked back to her view of the guard house security monitor where Forsyth straddled the guard, her feet propped on either side of the L shaped desk. Head thrown back and hands gripping his shoulders, she raised and lowered herself over him, one knee blocking Hammett’s view of the screen where she’d last seen the exterior guards.

  Hammett opened Forsyth’s audio channel. “Hey, Jenna Jameson, move your damn knee.”

  A whistle trilled from somewhere near the house. The dog responded, perking his head toward the sound and whining.

  Hammett glanced back at the video from Clancy and Ludlum’s camera brooches. Neither was yet inside.

  What was taking them so long? Hammett would have been able to pick those locks five times over by now.

  “Sorry,” she told the dog, and held his collar. Better to have the guards’ attention focused on the garden than the house.

  When she checked the laptop again, Forsyth was leaning forward, the stud muffin guard taking care of her from behind, the monitors free and clear.

  Back on the lawn, the two guards stood together, probably trying to figure out what might have happened to the dog.

  Clancy slipped inside, then Ludlum.

  Hammett dug into the dirt of the garden with one hand and gently wiped the moist loam on the dog’s white snout and front paws. “Sorry, buddy. But I have to give them an explanation of what you’ve been up to. Now not a word, okay?”

  He looked at her as if he understood.

  She released his collar, and when the next whistle came from the guards, he bounded off.

  Hammett returned her attention to the laptop. Clancy was visible on the security monitor. She sat with her legs stretched out on a sofa, a book in her hands. Her own video feed revealed she was reading The Hunt for Red October.

  Funny girl.

  Ludlum, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen on the security monitor. Her own monitor showed a powder room decorated in burgundy, ivory, and gold.

  “Ready for you,” Hammett told Forsyth.

  Forsyth was now standing in front of the guard, one ankle braced on his shoulder. She leaned to the side, peering around him. “That’s weird.”

  The guard continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word.

  “I said, that’s really weird,” she shouted. “I’m on the security cameras, I’m in bed and reading. Those images had to be taken earlier today.”

  Blood apparently returned to the head on top of his shoulders, and the guard untangled himself from Forsyth and spun around to look at the monitors. “Holy shit. Someone must have replaced the feed with prerecorded video, like they do in all those bank robber movies.”

  Hammett had to smile at the movie reference. Any security system worth its money had safeguards against that. But she’d been counting on the guard’s inexperience for her plan to work. Good to know she’d gambled well.

  “I’ll bet something is just wonky with the system,” Forsyth said.

  He picked up a radio and hit the call button. On the security monitors, the guard snacking in the kitchen and the two outside simultaneously grabbed their radios.

  Hammett gave Clancy and Ludlum each a quiet, “go,” and then keeping an eye on her laptop, she headed closer to the house, reaching the spot she’d chosen earlier, a greenhouse sheltered from the rest of the property by fragrant vines of Japanese hydrangea. She entered through the plastic door, the temperature inside at least fifteen degrees warmer, Hammett’s nose assaulted by dozens of flower scents; roses, peonies, freesia, lavender, lilies. Less prominent were onions, garlic, peppers, mint, thyme, parsley, basil. And over everything, the smells of mulch and organic fertilizer. She placed her equipment on a tray of geraniums, and dug out her sat phone and voice modulator as she checked the others’ progress.

  Forsyth was holding the guard’s cock as if it was a leash, keeping him from leaving the booth. “Oh, come on. They can handle it. Look how close you are. It won’t take long to finish.”

  She dropped to her knees, took him into her mouth, and the guard groaned.

  Good answer.

  Clancy approached the master bedroom, the Secret Service agent giving her a nod as if he clearly recognized her as Follett. “I need to see him,” she said, a slight whine in her voice.

  “I can’t let you in.”

  “Why don’t we let Mr. Burling decide that?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “I hear a television.”

  The agent paused, as if listening.

  “He’s not going to like it if you keep me out. Trust me on that.” Clancy played with the buttons on her blouse, clearly suggesting the reason she was there.

  The agent sighed, apparently knowing enough about his charge to know she was likely right about the trouble turning her away would cause. “Okay, I’ll check.”

  Easy peasy. Her sisters were damn good. Not quite in Hammett’s league, but close enough for government work.

  She smiled at her own joke.

  Ludlum was meeting the two exterior guards at the kitchen door. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Someone might have spliced into the security camera cables with video of you from earlier in the day.”

  “What? Like some caper movie?”

  “Yeah. We might have a breach.”

  “Should be easy enough to tell,” Ludlum said. “Let’s go take a look.”

  The three made their way down the hall where the midnight snacking guard was about to enter a code on a keypad in a reinforced steel door.

  “It would be tough to breach that,” Ludlum said.

  Hammett watched the guard punch in the numbers, automatically committing them to memory. Ludlum probably had a photographic memory as well, so she could handle it if needed, but
there was nothing wrong with having a back-up just in case something went wrong.

  They opened the door, and Ludlum and the three guards filed inside.

  Checking Clancy, Hammett made sure she’d gotten inside Burling’s suite before she made her move. Clancy had, and she was already kissing and teasing a very interested Burling, leading him toward the bathroom.

  Show time.

  She pulled out an encrypted cell phone equipped with voice modulator, similar to the one Isaac probably used, and punched in the number The Instructor had provided.

  One ring.

  On the computer screen, Follett’s dark form jolted into a sitting position. Switching on the bedside lamp with one hand, she grabbed her phone with the other and held it to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Mary Novak there?” Hammett said, using one of Isaac’s codes, the modulator lending her voice a robotic sound almost identical to his.

  “I’m sorry, she’s driving to Nashville for the weekend. Visiting the Opry.”

  “The Opry is nice. My friend Paula loves it.”

  “You have something for me?” Follett asked.

  “I’ve left a package for you.”

  “Location?”

  “You’ll find it in the greenhouse in the east garden. You need to pick it up now. Don’t let anyone see you leave. Understand?”

  “Affirmative. But won’t the security cameras pick me up?”

  “I’ve taken care of that problem. But you have to leave now. Use the window to avoid the Secret Service agent in the hall.”

  “On my way.”

  Hammett disconnected the call, figured she had at least two minutes before she needed to prepare for Follett’s arrival, and then she checked her sisters’ progress on the laptop.

  The guard with Forsyth was on top of her and already grunting his climax. Not good.

  “You have to keep him there longer,” Hammett said in her sister’s ear.

  Forsyth nodded. “That’s right. That’s right.”

  If need be, Forsyth could always force the issue, knocking him unconscious, then convincing him he’d hit his head. But coupled with Burling’s death, the odds of anyone believing this kid happened to have that kind of an accident on the same night were astronomical. This would be a tough enough sell as it was.