Here we go. She was going to ask if I was Finn Czrygy, the spy famously outed by the US vice president. Little by little, the word had been getting out about me, but I hadn't had any fans screaming my name. Iowans are far too reserved for that. We just aren't starstruck easily. I remember overhearing a little old lady who went up to a very famous anchorwoman. While the celebrity waited for the usual I'm a big fan! what she got was That red dress you wear on TV makes you look fat. You're welcome.
Jane looked at me curiously. "Are you Senator Czrygy's daughter?"
I hadn't expected that. I should've. My parents both came from Who's There, even though they lived in DC now.
"Yes. Mike Czrygy is my father. Do you know him?"
Jane broke into a big grin. "I worked on his first campaign for senator when I was in law school at the University of Iowa. He's a great guy."
I relaxed. Anyone who knew my dad was okay in my book. "That's great. You know, I was afraid you were going to ask if I was Finn Czrygy, the ex-spy."
She laughed. "Actually, that was my next question."
"I am. But I go by Merry Wrath now."
"Ah, took your mother's maiden name to go incognito." She nodded. "Smart."
I liked Jane Monaghan. She knew about my parents and liked them. And more importantly, she didn't give me a strange look as I slurped my shake.
"So let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?" She began writing on her pad. "You are hiring me to represent two defendants, with possible terrorist backgrounds, for allegedly murdering their boss. Is that right?"
"Yes. That's right. Except for the fact that they do, in fact, have terrorist backgrounds," I blurted out. Maybe I should've kept that to myself. I should've eased her into that information.
The woman didn't bat an eye. "Why don't you fill me in?"
I told her about my past in Chechnya. The CIA would probably have a serious problem with me giving away all this classified material, but I couldn't care less. What had the Agency done for me besides put me out to pasture and laugh at my escape video? Besides, those bastards had sent Bitsy to spy on me in Chechnya. Screw them.
Our burgers came, and we dug in. Should I tell her about Wally's true purpose here? Obviously, Jane was too smart not to ask. So I set down my fries and explained Wally's arrival, his threats, and his demise.
"You are the alibi for"—she checked her notes—"Ron and Ivan?"
"That's right," I said.
Jane thought about this for a moment as I waited for her to thank me for lunch and explain why this wasn't a case she didn't want to take on. And who would?
"This will be an easy case," she said at last.
Once I recovered from choking on my shake (it's easier to do than you'd think), I asked, "How so?"
Jane shrugged as if she had to defend terrorists every day in central Iowa. "These three came here to threaten you. And in spite of that, you are doing what's right by telling the truth and stepping forward as their alibi. You have no real motivation to do so. In fact, it's probably in your best interests not to help them."
"That's good news?" I said it, but it came out more like a question.
"Well, it may be the only good news. If there's a trial, or someone informs ICE, they'll probably get deported."
I expected that. "That's okay. I'm sure they miss Larry the alligator."
Jane nodded as if she heard this every day. "I'm going to try to get them released with no chance for a trial. With you as their alibi, it should be a piece of cake. So tell me about Hilly Vinton? The last person to see Wally alive?"
"Oh." I paused in eating. "That's a little trickier. That's where the CIA might get involved."
She nodded. "I figured that would be a problem. But you should tell me everything so I can help you."
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. "Have you had experience going up against the Feds or the government before?"
"The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives," the lawyer responded. "And while it was a nightmare, I won, if that helps."
"Before I give out classified intel," I said, "could you tell me about that case?"
She nodded. "I can't tell you much. My client and I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement in order to get the settlement. But I can tell you what was in the papers. Did you ever hear about Finley Brewster?"
I sat up straight. "Of course! That was you?"
The case was legendary. My dad talked about it for a whole year. He was bursting with pride and had said the defense attorney crushed it. He didn't give me any particulars, but considering that Jane was a sort of protégé, it makes sense why he was so proud.
About seven or eight years ago, while I was still in the CIA, between field assignments with Carlos the Armadillo's cartel and with the Yakuza in Japan, chaos broke out in my home county when a man named Finley Brewster was arrested by the Bureau with a truckload of handguns.
Finley protested that the guns weren't really guns—that they were actually made of chocolate. In hindsight, it didn't help his case any that the parts worked and the guns fired chocolate bullets. Well, it was more like the "bullets" fell out of the gun.
Still, the Bureau seized on the fact that they operated like a firearm and wanted to put Finley away. It was looking grim until the attorney introduced the client the guns were made for, the Iowa chapter of the NRA. Turned out, not only did they order them to spec, but each and every member had legit permits for the candy guns. The client had been tough to find because he'd been in Turkmenistan for six months. And since cell service is terrible in Turkmenistan, the guy had no idea what was going on. When he heard that his members' chocolate gun rights were being violated, he raced home and vouched for the candymaker.
The judge threw the case out of court. All seemed well until a few years later when Finley Brewster was arrested for killing his brother with a chocolate sword. From what I'd heard then, his original lawyer had turned him down for representation because, unlike just making weapons out of candy, this was actually murder. I guess that lawyer was Jane Monaghan. Smart woman.
I ate in silence as Jane wrote on her legal pad. She was quiet for a very long time. I took that as a good sign. I was doing my bit for Ron and Ivan, and that made me feel better.
"Okay." The lawyer put her pad and pen away and picked up her burger. "I've got a little research to do, but I think we've got a strong case."
"Seriously?" I asked through a mouthful of fries.
She nodded and chewed thoughtfully. "The only trouble we might run into is if these guys have a record of criminal activity against Americans. The FBI could take custody in that case, and the whole thing would turn into a mess."
I gave this some thought. Most of their activities had been against the Russians. Hopefully, the US government shouldn't have a problem with that.
"I'm not sure about that, but I don't think so. And to tell the truth, while they were heavies, they weren't very good at being terrorists." I stared off into space. "The fact is, they're not too bad. In a way, we were kind of like a little extremely dysfunctional family with terroristic tendencies."
Jane shook her head. "No problem. I've got this. I'll talk to the sheriff and see if we can't keep this quiet."
I relaxed a bit. Now that the guys were taken care of, I could go home. When my husband asked me questions, I could answer them. My only problem was Hilly. She was definitely going to need some legal help. Was it possible that Jane could represent her too?
"Tell me about Hilly," Jane asked. "What's her story?"
I shifted in my seat. "That's complicated. Hilly works for the CIA in clandestine black ops, specializing in wet work."
Jane looked me straight in the eye. "You're saying she's an assassin?"
"No," I said slowly. "Because the CIA doesn't have assassins…"
The lawyer finished my sentence for me, "Because that would be illegal. I get it. She's an assassin who isn't an assassin, but really is."
"Exactly," I answered.
This attorney
was very, very smart. I usually had to explain that about five or ten times to anyone else.
"And she's the witness." Jane began scribbling on her notepad.
"Yes," I replied. "It certainly complicates things."
She thought about this for a moment. "I don't think her line of work is necessary to the case. She might get in trouble for filing a false statement, but I doubt that will go far, considering she works for the CIA."
We chatted amiably for a little while longer. When lunch was over, Jane Monaghan shook my hand and said she'd be in touch soon. I decided to head to Riley's to find out what he knew, wondering if I should stop by my old house for a rubber hose and some nipple clamps. Rusty nipple clamps.
Riley's private investigation office was dark. The doors were locked, and nobody answered when I banged on the door for five minutes straight. When a church van full of Methodists stopped to ask if I needed help, since I kept knocking on the door of an obviously closed business, I decided to head for his house.
Riley's house was a small, Craftsman-style cottage, not too different from Soo Jin's house. The only difference was that my former handler probably had a revolving door of hot women coming and going at all hours. A lady killer at heart, Riley was never in danger of being lonely.
No answer there either. In fact, his car wasn't in the garage—a fact I knew because I let myself in. I'd made a duplicate key to his place a while back. Oh, he had no idea. Like I was going to let him know that.
The house was silent and irritatingly spotless. There wouldn't be any need to rummage through his stuff. I mostly looked through the garbage inside and out to see if he'd hidden a murder weapon. Nothing got my attention. So before he could discover I had a key to his house, I figured I'd better check out his study.
Riley's home office looked like something you'd see in an old English manor, except for the fact that it was maybe one-tenth the size, and well, it was in Iowa. I rummaged through his wastebasket and was about to tackle his desk when I heard a door open and close.
"Merry?" Riley's voice rang out from the back door.
Dammit. And I'd left the nipple clamps in the car.
"Merry, I know you're in here. Your van's in the driveway."
"Wow," I deadpanned. "Great detective work." I met him in the kitchen and sat down at the table.
He ignored the dig, set down his keys, and took the other chair. "You broke into my house?"
I shook my head. "It's not breaking and entering if you have a key."
"Yes, it is. Because you didn't have permission to enter. Or to have a key." Riley grinned.
To my surprise, he didn't ask for it back.
There was nothing to do but ask him point blank, "Did you kill Wally?"
He ran his perpetually tan hands through his sun-kissed, wavy blond hair, giving him a sexy, vulnerable vibe that was a total lie. He was stalling. He'd melted the panties off many women over the years with that trick. I was immune to his charms, and it irritated me that he didn't know that.
"No," he said at last. "I didn't kill Wally."
I slammed my hand on the table. "I'm not buying it. You knew where the crime scene was. I couldn't even find it. How would you know that if you weren't involved? In fact, you were probably there because you killed him and hung around, waiting for the police to leave and Soo Jin to arrive."
Riley flashed his dazzling smile. He'd turned his charm all the way up to eleven. "Coincidence, I assure you. I happened to be drinking at the bar when it happened."
"You? You're telling me you were drinking at the Cornhole—the biggest dive bar in the state?"
He nodded. "I slum it on occasion."
"You never slum it." If he went to the Cornhole, I was a vegetarian aardvark. "What were you wearing?"
Riley's cocky demeanor dropped for a split second, but I spotted it. "The usual. A black silk short-sleeved shirt and khakis."
"Impossible. It's an Iowa Hawkeyes only place. If you weren't wearing black and gold, or overalls, they'd have beat the crap out of you."
That was true. Hilly and I once witnessed a near attack on a wedding party that had stopped by there. If the men hadn't flashed black and gold vests as the crowd surrounded them, even the women would've been taken down. Not that we would've let that happen, of course.
"What is this all about?" Riley hedged. "You think I killed Wally? Why?"
"Because he was a threat to you."
Riley waved me off. "He wouldn't have killed me."
"That's right," I snapped. "Because he'd ordered me to do it."
The Bastard smiled, but I thought I detected a glimmer of fear. "Yes, but you weren't going to do that, were you?"
I said nothing. Just because.
"Riley?" A woman's voice was accompanied by the opening of the front door. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. But since he'd probably slept with half the county, it made sense that I'd know the voice.
Riley went pale. That made me wonder. Riley never hid his womanizing.
"I got the massage oil and candle wax, but I have no idea what we're going to do with the Frisbee…" The woman entered the kitchen. When she saw me, the blood drained from her face.
My hands were clenched into fists, and I was visibly vibrating with potential violence.
"Bitsy?" I shrieked. And then I lunged.
Riley grabbed me just before I made contact and pulled me hard against him, his arms wrapped around me as I struggled. I dropped my chin to my chest then reared back, my skull connecting with his face. He grunted but didn't let go.
"You!" I shouted at the woman. "You!" Words were bouncing all over my brain as I scrambled for something to say.
She held up her hands in front of her. When she'd been Wally's cleaning woman, she'd obviously been in disguise as a middle-aged woman. But here in Riley's kitchen, with a red bottle of massage oil, I could see that she was a gorgeous brunette in her late twenties. But I knew who she was alright.
"Finn? Oh my God! What are you doing here?"
"I live here!" I shouted. "This is my hometown! What? You're going to infiltrate here too and find some other way to humiliate me?" I kicked Riley in the shin, but he still wouldn't let go. "And you did not score those Russian plans! I did that!"
Bitsy looked at me in horror. "Um…I…"
"And that video! It must have come from you! You were the only one around! You filmed my most terrifying and humiliating moment and gave it to Riley!" My breathing was starting to slow down a little, and Riley started loosening his grip—just a smidge.
She looked behind me to Riley for help, but he didn't say anything.
Finally, Bitsy realized she was on her own. "I'm sorry. When you were outed, we decided that it would be better for me to take credit for the Russian plans, to make you look more…"
I finished her sentence for her. "Useless? Incompetent?"
"Yes." She nodded. "So the Chechens wouldn't think you'd gotten any intel. We didn't want them to think you'd succeeded."
It made me angry that what she was saying made sense. "And the video? That was just plain mean!"
Bitsy didn't respond. She just set the bottle of massage oil and the plastic bag on the table. Riley still held on to me. He wasn't letting me go anytime soon.
The adrenaline dipped. The fight was draining from me, and I relaxed. Riley let me go, and I turned to see a bruise starting up on his left cheek. How did I miss breaking his nose? My skills were getting rusty.
"Can we just sit down and discuss this calmly?" Bitsy asked.
"Like adults?" Riley added, massaging his cheek.
"You mean like the very mature behavior of filming someone in a moment of life and death and then circulating it around Langley for fun? That kind of adult behavior?"
I straightened my shirt and stood there, still seething but less furious.
"It wasn't exactly like that," Riley hedged. But he didn't finish his sentence.
"Is someone going to apologize to me?" I glowered.
No one made a move to do or say anything.
"I suppose you're sticking with your story about Wally's murder, then?"
Bitsy's jaw dropped. "Wally's been murdered?"
It took all of my self-restraint not to break that bottle of massage oil over her head. "Don't act like you don't know! Do you think it looks like it's a coincidence that you're here when Wally is in town? Yeah, right!"
I stormed to the fridge and opened it. Inside was a very, very expensive bottle of champagne. That's when I noticed the ice bucket and two champagne flutes on the counter. I pulled the bottle out and stuck it under my arm.
"I'm taking this!" I stormed toward the door. As the screen door slammed shut behind me, I added, "And I'm keeping the key to your house too!"
As I squealed out of the driveway and drove off, I knew what I was going to do. I was going straight to Sheriff Carnack's tomorrow morning, and I was going to give the guys my alibi and insist that he arrest Riley and Bitsy for murder. And I was going to volunteer to put the handcuffs on them. Myself.
CHAPTER NINE
My heart was pounding and my head throbbing as I drove aimlessly through town. Where the hell was I going this time? I pulled over on Main Street, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.
When I opened them, I discovered four little girls standing on the curb next to the van, studying me.
"What are you guys doing here?" I opened the door and joined Betty, Lauren, Inez, and Ava on the sidewalk.
"We've been following you," Lauren said. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Four." I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
Lauren looked at the others. "Well, she's not hallucinating."
"You thought I was hallucinating?"
Ava ticked off her fingers. "One, you've been running around town like a crazy person ever since that dude was in your front yard. Two, Kaitlyn said she saw you with a lawyer at Oleo's…"
"Kaitlyn was there?" I frowned. "Which Kaitlyn?" I don't know why I asked that since I had no idea how to tell them apart.
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