The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale

by Josie Brown

  By the time I’m in the elevator, I’ve decided to go back to my hotel room, call the kids, and order in room service. (If I have to do this talk radio gig for much longer, it'll drive me to a liquid diet similar to Larry’s). But, suddenly, my Acme cell phone buzzes with a text:

  * * *

  ARNIE: Welcome to the Big Apple! Hey, let me buy you dinner! Found a great little hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese joint a few blocks away, so no prying eyes (broad hint).

  DONNA: I AM SO THERE.

  Arnie’s right: the pho is excellent, and the place is too downscale to attract Hart Media’s movers and shakers. Between slurps of noodles and broth, Arnie whispers, “So, I think I’m on to some kind of money trail.”

  As I tear up a basil leaf, I whisper back, “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  He looks over his shoulder. Satisfied the other two patrons are too busy texting, eating, or yapping on their phones, he nods. “One of Hart Media’s biggest advertisers is a firm known as Get Outta Here.”

  “What does it do?”

  “From what I can tell, not very much of anything.”

  “What I meant is, what does it advertise?”

  “Travel deals. It’s supposed to be a travel agency. The ads run in Hart Media’s newspapers. It also buys radio and TV spots. And the company always pays top dollar: no bundles, no deals, no breaks whatsoever.”

  “Why would this be a red flag?”

  “Well, for one thing, the address for the company is a P.O. box.”

  “Yeah, that does sound fishy.”

  A noisy party of college students take the table beside us. They’re chatting up a storm so Arnie fairly shouts, “Also, I had ComInt do SigInt analyses on both its print and radio ads and BINGO!”

  I shush him. “What does that mean?”

  “Emma’s team came up with correlations between the ads’ tour dates and locations and power grid failures.”

  “Seriously?” I drop my chopsticks and lean back in my chair. “Is it happening just in the U.S.?”

  “Nope. All over the world. Mostly NATO countries, but a few less developed democracies too.”

  “So, whoever’s hacking the grids is running tests.”

  Arnie nods vigorously.

  “Can you tell how long Hart Media has had this account?”

  “Several years. It’s been a real cash cow.”

  I give him a thumbs-up. “Great job, Arnie. Dinner is on me!”

  “Yeah, I hear you just got a raise and you’re working with one of my idols, Larry Zorn!”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Heck no! He’s a hoot! Hey, can you get me his autograph?”

  I sigh. “Yeah, I guess.”

  But if that oaf offers to sign a boob or something, I’ll break his fingers.

  I’ve just jumped out of the shower when I notice there’s a new video file in my Acme folder. Emma has uploaded it with a message: “ACTION JACK!”

  Okay, I’m at a loss here…

  I open it on my iPad. Apparently, Emma thought I’d be interested in some of Jack’s security lens footage.

  Um, no…wait: Is he making love to Charlotte?

  She’s apparently on top and in the throes of ecstasy.

  “Darling, if I’m hurting you, let me know.”

  Why that–

  Wait, that’s Dominic’s voice. Yuck!

  Emma’s voiceover is a whisper: “Sorry, Donna! Uploaded the wrong lens footage! Between the street cams, the house cams, Dominic’s and Jack’s lenses…So many intercuts, so little time, right?”

  The correct footage shows Jack walking casually through a street that boasts some of the poshest row houses in London: on Cambridge Terrace, adjacent to Outer Circle, on the southeast side of Regent’s Park. At some point, Jack ducks into an alley and toward the back gate of one particular townhome, where he disarms the silent security alarm before picking the back-door lock.

  Then he stealthily moves into a large hallway. He puts on a portable pair of night vision goggles, which help him find his way through the stately four-story mansion without tripping over the gilt furnishings in its large, well-appointed rooms. However, the one he seeks must be on a different floor. He skips the elevator, choosing the staircase instead. He ends up on the third floor, inside a home office. From the masculine appointments, it must be that of Charlotte’s fiancé, Mikhail Gorev.

  To Jack's obvious relief and mine, the grunts and groans of our mission mate are coming from the floor immediately above him.

  It takes only a minute for Jack to find what he's looking for. The safe is behind an authentic-looking Van Gogh, hung above an intricately carved sideboard.

  The painting slides to one side on bolted casters, revealing a safe.

  Opening it is a delicate and time-consuming process, but the reward is worth it. Dominic’s intel was right. The safe holds property deeds.

  One by one, Jack takes photos of each deed with the camera in his night vision goggles. He has just completed the task when he hears the front door open.

  Yikes.

  The love tussle going on in the master bedroom has quieted down. Apparently, Dominic and Charlotte are onto the fact that the master of the house is home.

  Men’s voices are heard, coming from downstairs. They’re speaking in Russian.

  Emma has given Jack the same feed I’m now seeing, from the house security camera: Mikhail is talking to his chauffeur and his bodyguard. His employees nod, walk off the front stoop, and drive off.

  Slowly and silently, Jack puts the documents back in the safe and shuts it. At the same time, Mikhail is taking the elevator—

  To his third-floor office.

  Jack has just made it to the door. But hearing the elevator, he pauses.

  Until he turns his head toward the door’s near-soundless hiss, indicating that it’s opening.

  Jack ducks behind the door.

  Mikhail saunters to his office. He flips a wall switch, which illuminates the desk and the sideboard with gentle lighting. He walks over to his desk. The top is devoid of papers, file folders, or any other clutter.

  Jack peeks out from behind the door, watching.

  Mikhail doesn’t sit down. Instead, his eyes scan the room. Finally, his gaze stops at the Van Gogh.

  What about it catches his attention? It seems to have slid back into its proper place.

  Or maybe not, because he walks over to it.

  Jack notices this too. He watches as Mikhail stands before it, just staring. Finally, Mikhail reaches out—

  For one of the crystal decanters displayed on a silver tray atop the sideboard. He pours some of the liquid into a glass, turns around, and flops down on the large leather chesterfield.

  Slowly, he sips his drink.

  The minutes tick away in the silent house.

  Until Charlotte lets loose with an orgiastic moan. Apparently, she and Dominic assumed the noises heard earlier weren’t Mikhail’s homecoming after all.

  Mikhail sits up stiffly. His eyes move skyward as if he can see through the ornate ceiling above his head.

  “Eta shlyukha snova v etom!” he growls.

  Emma translates the Russian declaration: “That whore is at it again!”

  Since Jack speaks the language, he knows what comes next, and why. As suspected, Mikhail leaps off the chesterfield. Just in time, Jack slips back behind the door, and not a second too soon because Mikhail walks back over to the desk and pulls out a gun.

  He starts for the door.

  As he passes the door, Jack steps out from behind it. His arm goes around Mikhail’s neck, putting him in a rear-naked choke, bracing his other arm on Mikhail’s shoulder to tighten the headlock. Mikhail, now suffocating, fights for his life. But Jack refuses to let go. Instead, he lifts his captor off his feet with all his might.

  Finally, Mikhail blacks out.

  Jack doesn’t let him go. Instead, with his supporting hand, he presses Mikhail's nostrils. Instinctively, the unconsciou
s man's body fights for air, but his raspy whimpers die in his throat.

  It is over in less than three minutes.

  Jack drags Mikhail’s lifeless body back to the chesterfield and puts it in a sitting position. He then places the glass in Mikhail’s hand.

  The gun goes back in the desk drawer.

  Jack’s last act is to open the safe and pull out the property deeds. He tucks the folded documents into a pouch pocket in the back of his jacket before locking the safe again.

  He leaves the same way he came in.

  Jack's ride, a black Lincoln town car, is parked several blocks away, on Albany Street. He sits in it for a moment before texting Dominic:

  Sir, the car you requested will be at the designated location in five minutes.

  A few minutes later, Jack gets a text back:

  Righto! Thanks!

  Right on time, Jack swings in front of Mikhail and Charlotte’s townhome.

  Dominic saunters out and hops into the back seat.

  “Drive, Jeeves.”

  Dominic is oblivious to Jack’s angry silence. Instead, he babbles on about his studly performance.

  Only when they reach Westminster does Jack stop the car and inform Dominic that, at any moment, he’ll receive a call from Charlotte and that she'll be in hysterics, having just discovered the body of her dead fiancé in his study.

  “My lord! The rumor is true! She is a black widow!” Dominic shudders at the thought. “Ah well, I guess she’ll need a shoulder to cry on as we cross the pond.” He shrugs. “I don't mind hopping a lift back to the States on her Lear, but she’ll be disappointed if she expects a proposal.”

  Jack, as though gobsmacked, stares at him in disbelief.

  The next thing I know, he’s laughing so hard that his hand hits the horn.

  “Get control of yourself, old boy,” Dominic scolds him. “The term is ‘covert,” not ‘overt!’”

  Jack is right. Dominic is undeniably oblivious.

  I guess that’s what makes him such a good honeytrap.

  Someone is in my room.

  I open my eyes. I keep still.

  I can tell it’s the middle of the night, but a sliver of streetlight slips through a slat in the blind.

  The intruder is moving very slowly from the doorway toward me.

  I inch my hand between the mattress and box spring, where I keep my Sig Sauer P229.

  When I have it in my hand, like lightning, I roll off the side of the bed. Crouching, with two hands, I aim it at the intruder. “Stop right there.”

  He has his back to me. Slowly, he raises his arms. Then Jack says, “I know I’m late, but that’s no reason to shoot me.”

  He’s got a point.

  I flick on the bedside light.

  He flops down on the bed.

  I drop beside him.

  “Welcome back,” I offer.

  “Hey, you almost blew my head off! I think you can do better than that.” He rolls over to kiss me.

  Yet another good point.

  And I know just how to make it up to him.

  The sun is rising. We should try to sleep for the few hours that are left before we have to head back to Hart Media, but we’ve still got some catching up to do.

  Verbally, anyway.

  “How was your ‘negotiation’?” I ask.

  “I got what I wanted. I’m here with you.”

  I poke his arm. “Don’t leave me hanging! As every good reporter knows, we’re told to ask, who, what, where, when, why, and most importantly, how much?”

  He laughs. “I like how you paraphrase. Okay, the details: who is moi, as we already know. What is Good Morning Hartland!—”

  “Wow! The mothership of morning shows!” I doff an imaginary hat to him. “So, you’ll be joining the two ‘Queen Bees of Morning TV’! What are their names again? Oh yes, Lolita Jamison and Beverly Manville. So, you’ll be on the celebrated ‘jungle red couch,’ chatting up stars who are pitching their latest movies?”

  Jack looks skyward. “Something like that. But so I’m not completely stripped of my dignity, I’ll also be doing the news breaks.”

  I snicker. “Does that include weather?” I raise my hands, palms open, as if shoving storm fronts around a green screen.

  Jack smacks me with a pillow until I’m laughing so hard that I beg him to stop.

  “The answer to your question is no. That happens to be Lolita’s function. And since it’s the only thing they trust her to do onset by herself, I couldn’t possibly ask the producers to take it away from her.”

  Again, I convulse with giggles. When I finally get ahold of myself, I reply, “That is very kind of you, Mr. Craig—I mean Larkin.” I snuggle next to him until we fit like two spoons in a drawer. “Listen, I’m just happy that we’re in the same town!”

  “I’m happy we’re in the same bed.”

  He spends the next half hour proving it.

  By five-thirty, it’s off to work he goes.

  10

  Stagger Through

  A full rehearsal of a news show is known as a “stagger through.”

  Here are a few reasons why this name is spot on:

  First, the term is a misnomer. It’s more like a read-through, or the time to work out needed camera shots, cutaways to previously recorded footage, and on-air patter.

  Also, because there isn’t enough time for a real rehearsal, news broadcasters keep cheat sheets on their desks and use teleprompters. The cameras’ close-ups are one way to keep TV viewers from seeing these little cheats.

  Finally, even if an anchor or host is smart enough to think on her feet, invariably she will stutter, or say something stupid or silly, just like the rest of us.

  Except that millions of viewers or listeners caught it.

  Hopefully, it won’t be something that makes viewers spew their coffee. Otherwise, the anchor’s next stagger through will take place at her local unemployment office, just like the rest of us who have put our foot in our mouths while at work.

  “Yo, Lady Gwendolyn! Here’s today’s cheat sheet.” Larry slaps a cue card in front of me.

  “Pardon?”

  He taps the card with his index finger. “Cheat sheet…you know, today’s party line.” Placing two fingers vertically above his upper lip, he clicks his heels together.

  I glare at him. “Larry, darling, one can always count on you to make your point in the most distasteful way possible.”

  Still, my eyes scan the card:

  * * *

  1: (Suspiciously:) The big question is, what did the president know about his offshore accounts, and when did he know it?

  2: The president claims his blind trust is handled by a funds manager named Helen Drake. But suddenly she’s disappeared. You can understand why this seems suspicious to the American public.

  3: (Shocked:) If, in fact, he’s colluding with the Russians…well, then Congress must, and should, impeach him.

  4: (Indignantly:) How is it possible that he's sullied the office of the presidency in that way? It’s…unfathomable!

  * * *

  I frown. “Are you seriously telling me that the producers want us to slip this kind of opinionated blather into our conversation?”

  “Of course! We're on talk radio, remember? We’re here to stir the pot! Stuff like this gets the listeners hot and bothered. It keeps them tuned in, which ups our ratings, which brings in more ad dollars, which pays us our salaries, and allows me to pay off my alimonies AND drive a Ferrari! Capisce?” He shakes his head, awed. “Where are you from again?”

  “The news bureau,” I remind him. “There, the goal is to report facts.”

  “Oh…yeah.” He shrugs. “Well, chickie-baby, talk radio is entertainment. So, which would you prefer, odds or evens?”

  I shake my head uncertainly. “Odds, I guess.”

  “Hey, me too!” He closes in with a leer. “Wanna arm wrestle for them?”

  I arch a brow. “Larry, considering your lack of staying power in general�
��—my eyes drop below his belt and the large belly that balloons over it—“do you really want to be beaten, on-air, and by a woman?”

  “Only with a cat-o-nine-tails, babe.”

  I drop my head, ashamed for him. “Okay, so, who’s our first guest today?”

  “It’s a really big get! POTUS’s National Security Council liaison, Todd Courtland.”

  Yikes. Todd and I go way back. I don’t know if he’s always crushed on me, or just wanted to set me up for a fall.

  For that matter, I also go back and forth on whether he crushes on Babette and wants to set up Lee for a fall.

  Gee, relationships are so complicated.

  I get into Gwendolyn mode and pray that, between the accent, the glasses, the colored contact lenses, and wig, he won’t recognize me.

  As it turns out, the chance of Todd recognizing me isn’t a problem. He can’t come to the studio and is doing the interview by phone.

  Larry and our producer are pissed off about it, but I am tremendously relieved. It’s easier to be Gwendolyn if he’s not staring at me while trying to figure out if he knows me. Or, worse yet, blows my cover.

  Larry leaps right in with his take on one of the cheat sheet soundbites:

  “So, Todd, answer the question of the hour without the usual namby-pamby doublespeak and whitewash. What did the president know about his offshore accounts, and when did he know it?”

  Todd chuckles warily. “Hello to you too, Larry—and, if yesterday’s show is any indication, your better half, Gwendolyn.”

  “My pleasure,” I say with proper British elocution.

  “Sheesh! You’ve got her practically curtseying!” Larry crows. “But that doesn’t get you a pass from answering the question that’s on everyone’s lips right now.”

  “Fair enough,” Todd replies blithely. “The president released a statement early this morning, which simply states that he left his blind trust in the hands of a funds manager who came highly recommended by a close advisor. Also, he is fully cooperating with the Special Counsel’s investigation on the one asset in which funds were, without his knowledge, put into an offshore account. If there has been co-mingling of these funds with any foreign power or political actor, he has no knowledge of it.”