The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale

by Josie Brown

  I nod so that he knows I catch his drift.

  “The video pieces are live, and so is your print piece. You should check it out.”

  I don’t like the sound of concern I hear in his voice.

  Quickly I access the piece via the secure SatCom Internet signal. After opening the final draft of my story, I pull up the version that was distributed through the Hart Media Network.

  I see why he was perplexed. A few paragraphs have been added to the very end of the piece:

  Lawmakers have been publicly expressing their concerns that President Lee Chiffray’s reluctance to ramp up the United States’ nuclear arsenal may have something to do with the recent revelation that a company held in the president’s supposedly blind trust was siphoning funds into Trident Union Bank. Located in the Dutch Antilles, it is one of the offshore accounts managed by Wagner Klein.

  The German law firm also set up accounts in Trident Union Bank for several Russian oligarchs as well as Russia’s president, Mr. Putin.

  This coincidence has already come to the attention of the U.S. Justice Department. Today, Attorney General Timothy Gardiner appointed Blake Reginald Reynolds to serve as special counsel in such a probe.

  In this capacity, Mr. Reynolds will oversee an investigation based on three criteria:

  1: Any links and/or coordination between the terrorist organization known as the Quorum, foreign governments, other terrorist organizations, and individuals associated with the administration of President Lee Chiffray;

  2: Any matters that arose or may arise directly from the investigation; and

  3: Any federal crimes committed in the course of, and with intent, to interfere with the Special Counsel’s investigation, such as perjury, obstruction of justice, destruction of evidence, and intimidation of witnesses.

  * * *

  Blake Reynolds?

  Oh…no.

  I’ve crossed swords with Blake on a couple of occasions, specifically in regard to Carl’s prosecution. Both times Blake was under the impression that I aided and abetted Carl and the Quorum.

  I’ve got to catch the next plane out.

  8

  Remote

  When video footage is shot live from somewhere other than the studio, a satellite truck transmits the image.

  For example, news stations will use this setup when a hurricane is approaching. At that point, a reporter dons a yellow slicker along with a rain hat and boots and stands on a remote pier in pouring rain and, say, a seventy mile-an-hour wind doing its best to toss him into the churning white-capped waters below.

  The point of this sort of news piece is to show viewers that they’ve already blown the opportunity to grab any remaining candy bars and boxes of sugared cereal from the local convenience store’s shelves before the lights go out.

  “Remote” is also how we feel when we are far away from our loved ones. No amount of texting or calling can replace holding a hand, a genuine hug, or a sweet kiss—

  Especially when the lights go out.

  Abu and I left Moscow for Frankfurt without incident. Nikolay drove us to the airport. During the ride, his eyes were as much on me through the rearview mirror as they were on the road. I guess he enjoyed my performance with Luuk.

  Will he play the recording over and over again on lonely nights? Who knows?

  Yikes! Maybe I should ask Emma to search online for it in a couple of days, just in case he posts it on the Internet as audio porn.

  After having landed in Frankfurt, Abu and I have a few hours before our departures, so we sit together in the Lufthansa VIP Passenger lounge before catching our flights, me to New York; Abu, to Washington D.C.

  We take turns reaching out to Ryan by text, but all we get back is a one-word reply:

  INDISPOSED.

  The lounge has television sets perched high in every corner. All of them are tuned to Hart International News. It is indeed the network of choice throughout the world.

  It’s hilarious to watch Blond Jack, a.k.a. Grant Larkin, doing voice-over commentary for the World Nuclear Proliferation Summit, especially since Lee is currently speaking about all the reasons the nations of the world should be disarming as opposed to ramping up their nuclear missiles.

  Now the camera cuts to the empty chair that was to be occupied by the Russian president. It drives home the point that he had better things to do, like basking in the world’s dismay of his show-of-force parade.

  One of the Hart Media cameras cuts to Kim Jung-Un. He scowls. Obviously, he isn’t getting the message.

  Jack shares his camera time with Kimiko, who has lined up interviews with various heads of state. Her English has a British lilt to it.

  After Lee’s speech, she snagged a one-on-one interview with Kim. But because they’ve called the last boarding for my flight, I can’t stay to listen. But from the look on Kim’s face, he’s undoubtedly flattered by her demeanor toward him.

  Let’s hope he sees the benefit in joining other world leaders in negotiating deterrents to war as opposed to instigating them.

  I score a business seat. The pod next to it is empty. I wait until the flight attendants lower the lights so that passengers will nod off. Not me. I've got a few West Coast calls to make.

  Sadly, Jack will still be at the private cocktail reception thrown jointly by Hart Media and Dominic’s banking employer, so my first call goes to the children and Aunt Phyllis because I miss them so darned much.

  Mary squeals when she hears my voice. She puts her cell phone on speaker, so the rest of the family can listen in as well.

  Unfortunately, this also allows them to talk all at once until I say, “Please! Please! One at a time!”

  “Okay, then Trisha will go first,” Aunt Phyllis declares.

  “Mom, guess what?”

  “I give up, sweetie.”

  Exasperated, Jeff sputters, “Just go ahead and tell her!”

  “Madison—you know, the most popular girl in the class—she told everyone that I’m her BFF!”

  “Ah.” I do my best to sound enthusiastic when I’m anything but. I know better than to have a heart-to-heart about her friendship when we’re not face-to-face. “You really like her, don’t you?”

  “Well…yeah…of course!” Why is there such hesitation in her voice? “I mean, our teacher, Ms. Sawyer, calls her ‘an acquired taste, so…I guess she means it as a joke.”

  “I see.” Yikes! Trouble…

  “Hey, Mom, can I quit soccer?”

  Trisha’s request comes out of the blue. “What? Why would you do something like that? Coach Middleton says you’re one of the best forwards she’s ever had the honor to coach!”

  “I just think practice and the games take up too many of my afternoons.”

  “Oh, I don't know, Trisha. It’s a great form of exercise, and you love your teammates. Best of all, you’re a natural athlete in the sport! I’d hate to think that you’d leave the team then regret it later. Besides, other than homework, what would you do with all those free afternoons?”

  “Well…” Trisha takes a deep breath. “I’d hang with Madison and the rest of her girls.”

  “‘Her girls?’” Hmm. Not a good sign. “And what do they do with their afternoons?”

  Trisha goes radio silent. Finally, she mumbles, “Stuff.”

  “Ah, I see. Listen, sweetie, I think you should stay on the team for now. It’s an important enough move to put some serious thought behind it. Dad and I get home this weekend. We’ll discuss it then.”

  “Oh…kay.” By Trisha’s tone, I can tell she’s disappointed with my request.

  Well, too bad.

  I hear Jeff yelp, “Hey! Why did you hit me?”

  Trisha shouts back, “Because I hate it when you say, ‘I told you so!’” I hear her stomp up the stairs.

  I put the phone on mute for just a second so that my family can’t hear me curse.

  “Mary, you’re up to bat!” Aunt Phyllis declares.

  “Why her?” Jeff huffs.
/>   “Ladies first, young man,” my aunt replies primly.

  “Mom, guess what?” Mary’s excitement raises her voice an octave higher.

  “If you’re not quitting something, I’m sure I’ll be pleased with it, so go for it.”

  “I scored the fashion interview of the year for The Signal!” Mary is practically squealing in my ear.

  For a second, I have to take my earbud out. When I put it back in, I ask, “Inside voice, please! Okay, now who? Kendall Jenner?”

  “No, no! Way bigger!”

  “Okay…um…Emma Watson? ScarJo? J Law?”

  “Even better! The First Lady!”

  “Oh…great.” Gag.

  “You don’t sound excited for me.” By Mary’s tone, I can tell she’s disappointed.

  “Well…we’ve had such an uneven acquaintance with Mrs. Chiffray.”

  That’s putting it mildly.

  When Jack and I were planning our wedding, Babette attempted to highjack it to use it as a publicity ploy to show that she was in touch with us common folk. She then had the nerve to declare herself my maid-of-honor although I’d already promised Mary that she’d serve in that capacity.

  When Mary heard about it, she was heartbroken.

  Instead, I gave Babette the heave-ho. No way could I let the mission, or Babette, ruin the most memorable day of my life.

  “Why the change of heart regarding the First Lady?” I ask.

  Mary chuckles deviously. “You can’t guess? I’ll give you a big hint. What impact do you think it’ll have on my college admissions?”

  Point taken.

  “Especially, now that President Chiffray is being investigated,” Jeff explains. “If Mary asks the right question, we may get a scoop! Hey, we may even win a Pulitzer! It would be a first for a high school newspaper!”

  “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I counter. “The investigation has just begun. And the president has a fund manager who handles the blind trust for him. He or she will be the first person called by the special counsel.”

  “It’s a woman,” Jeff replies. “And she’s disappeared.”

  Ouch.

  “Well, we’ll see how the story unfolds,” I say nonchalantly. Time to change the subject. “How are other things going?”

  “We lost our basketball game.” Jeff sounds dismayed.

  “Not my fault!” Aunt Phyllis retorts. “As the official team mom, I’ve done everything I can to keep the morale up since their Number One scorer—COUGH! JEFF!—has taken to skipping a few practices. You're missing out, kiddo! Your teammates certainly enjoy those Maxim magazines I bring them!”

  I roll my eyes at the thought. But what really worries me is Jeff’s absence. “What gives, Jeff?”

  “Mom, the news biz is twenty-four-seven!”

  “But your newspaper goes out only once a week!”

  “Not anymore. I got Mr. Franklin to agree to our expansion. To create more content, we need more staff. The good news is everyone wants to write for the new improved Hilldale High School Signal. The bad news is that half of them don’t know a complete sentence from a dangling participle.”

  “You need to hire an editor or two so that you can have some downtime,” I point out.

  “I’m on it. In fact, I’ve got a couple of candidates applying tomorrow. The one who does the best copy editing gets the job and the title of Copy Director. It’s one way I can sweeten the deal.”

  Titles instead of money. Yep, it’s the newest form of “compensation.”

  “Gotta run, Mom. I’ve still got three articles to clean up.”

  I chuckle. “You’re excused. Now, Aunt Phyllis, how are you?”

  “Tired, but gorgeous! That hot yoga certainly melts away the pounds! I no longer fit into any of my clothes, which is why I’m so happy I found the hidden door in your walk-in closet! You know, the one with all those role-play costumes and the stuff that looks like you stole it off a porn set—”

  “Aunt Phyllis! Oh my God! Are the kids still standing there?”

  Silence. “No, of course not.”

  Thank goodness. “Why are you rummaging in my closet anyway?”

  “Like I said: my clothes practically hang on me!”

  “I permit you to purchase some new clothes, on me. It’s my way of saying thank you for being there while Jack and I are out of town. Mary has an emergency credit card. You can put it on that.”

  “Okay, if you insist.” Aunt Phyllis sighs. “Hand it over, girly! The mall stays open until nine!”

  “Wait! I thought you said the kids weren’t in the room!”

  Phyllis, Mary, and Jeff are laughing so loudly that all I can do is hang up.

  I could throttle my aunt, but then I’d have to figure out where to bury her body.

  I assume Emma is also tied up in whatever is keeping Ryan from calling me back. And, although it’s late in London, I’ve texted Jack a couple of times, but he hasn’t responded.

  When I’m halfway over the Atlantic, I finally get a call from Emma.

  “Hell of a day,” she grunts.

  To lighten her mood, I chuckle then say, “Give, Queenie.”

  “Seriously, words cannot describe it! You’ll have to see for yourself. I left a video in your Acme secure cloud folder. Afterward, feel free to call back. Of course, by then Jack should be around to talk too.” She clicks off.

  I pull out my computer, access the cloud, and open my folder. As promised, a video has been uploaded. I open it.

  The footage intercuts action seen through Jack and Dominic’s lenses as well as the security cameras in and around The Royal Albert Hall in London.

  It starts with Jack, in a tux, running up the hall's steps. Three guards try to stop him, but when he shows his security pass, they wave him into the lobby.

  A string quintet plays in the center of the auditorium floor. Jack looks up toward the second-story gallery that circles above the seats. There, the crowd for the cocktail reception is thick and lively.

  He takes the circular staircase two steps at a time. Emma has coded the video so whenever he passes a dignitary or celebrity their names appear over their heads.

  Of course, Lee is there too, as is Babette, who looks stunning in a form-fitting Tom Ford chain-strap bustier gown with a front slit.

  When Jack strides past her, her pout turns into a simper. She thrusts out her breasts, straining the deep V of her dress.

  Lee follows his wife’s gaze. Finding the object of her interest, he frowns in annoyance.

  Apparently, she doesn’t recognize Jack. Thank goodness, Lee doesn't either.

  At the pace he’s moving, it’s apparent that he doesn’t want to stop and say hello. The way his eyes scan the room gallery, I can tell he’s looking for someone. Who, I wonder?

  Finally, he sees Dominic, who seems enthralled with Randall Hart’s daughter, Charlotte. My guess: It has nothing to do with what she’s saying to him but the fact that she’s tall enough that his eyes are level with this exceptionally endowed woman’s deep-plunging, sequined gown.

  To break her spell over him, Jack waves his hand in front of Dominic’s face. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Fleming! If you have a moment, I’d like to interview you about your bank’s generous sponsorship of the nuclear disarmament summit.”

  Charlotte stares at Jack. “You’re new with Hart Media, aren’t you?”

  Jack nods genially.

  She extends her hand. “I was impressed with the way you handled your interviews with the various dignitaries,” she coos.

  Modestly, Jack smiles as he takes it. “Thank you. It’s an honor and a privilege working at Hart Media.”

  She meets his attempt to let go of her hand with reluctance.

  Dominic frowns. “It's Mr. Larkin, isn't it? Yes, then, let’s get this over with.” He forces a smile for Charlotte. “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Hart.”

  When her gaze turns to him, it moves from head to toe before meeting his eyes. She preens as she declares, “I look f
orward to taking you up on your offer for further, er, discussions, regarding the bank’s private services.”

  As they walk off, she turns to look over the balcony and into the auditorium, where the quintet has begun playing a soulful sonata.

  Dominic follows Jack, who strides to an alcove a few yards away. Seeing that it’s empty, they walk in. “I’m looking for the other Hart Media correspondent, Kimiko Satō. Have you seen her?” Jack’s tone is urgent.

  “You mean the sylph-like, silken-haired goddess who came in on your arm wearing a pearl beaded vee-neck deep cowl-back Naeem Khan gown with a side slit?”

  Jack does a double take. Exasperated, he replies, “Seriously, Dominic, no man should know that much about women’s couture.”

  “You’re wrong, Jack.” He honors my husband with a knowing smile. “It’s the best way to bond with them.”

  “Yeah, I guess…if you plan to borrow their clothes.”

  Dominic’s back stiffens.

  Jack ignores his scowl. “Look, I don’t have time for your dating tips. Where is she?”

  “Sadly, out of view.” Dominic shrugs. “Albeit the last time I saw her, she was regaling North Korea’s Supreme Leader with her knowledge of Italian cuisine, especially that of Tuscany, which seems to be his favorite region. At least, that’s where his personal chef hails from.” He points across the gallery to a small conference room that is being watched by two beefy bodyguards with earbuds.

  “Let’s go. When we pass the guards, keep them busy while I get her away from Kim.”

  Dominic grumbles but does as he’s told.

  As Jack and Dominic walk by, casually, Jack glances into the alcove. “Ah, Kimiko, there you are!”

  Kimiko has Kim Jung-Un enthralled with whatever she is saying. A white-jacketed waiter has just handed them tall champagne flutes.

  Seeing Jack, her smile disappears, and her eyes deaden. Still, Jack holds his smile. “Ah! The Supreme Leader is here as well. Sir, it is truly an honor to meet you finally!”