by Josie Brown
But the minute I hit the front stoop, I am cuffed, and my Miranda rights are shouted to me by the SWAT team’s bootjacked flack-jacketed squad leader.
My perp walk is met by the slack-jawed stares of Jeff, Trisha, Mary and her sleepover friends, not to mention those of my now wide awake neighbors.
Penelope and her posse are among them.
This is how all of Hilldale learns that the woman married to the neighborhood DILF does not beckon him to bed in some lace teddy or a sheer baby doll peignoir, let alone a satin bustier and garter, but in his flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved moth-eaten tee shirt touting the 1986 Metallica tour for Master of the Puppets.
Jack is talking to the SWAT team leader, but by the look on his face, I can tell he’s not getting through to whatever lies within the stormtrooper helmet.
Just as my head is shoved down into the squad car, some brave soul yells out, “Right on! Thrash metal rocks!”
The agent driving the car looks back at me and frowns. I guess he thinks I’m some sort of political agitator.
I could explain to him I dig great guitar solos, but I don’t think he’d believe me. In his eyes, I’m not normal. I’m not even human.
I’m a traitor to my country, just like Carl.
Chapter 11
Your Mr. Right: Is He Housebroken?
By now, he’s always hanging at your place. And he’s sleeping in your bed. He even borrows your toothbrush.
Yes, certainly you can get him his own toothbrush. Or you can allow him to park the one he already uses in your bathroom, along with his other toiletries.
You can also give him a drawer for his clothes, and point out that there are a few empty hangers in the closet for him.
If he’s okay with all of this, maybe it’s time to have the talk. You know the one: about moving in together.
This conversation has to be subtle, on so many levels. It is akin to bringing a pet into your home. In other words, you have to lay down some ground rules. Show him who’s boss. Forget “If he were a tree, what kind of tree would he be?” The more important question is “If he were a pet, what kind of animal would he be?”
By recognizing these traits, you’ll then know the best way to housebreak your new boyfriend:
He’s a monkey if he: gives you backtalk and is stubborn.
To housebreak him, you must: practice rote commands, and reward him with little pieces of banana. Or sex. Something tells me he’ll respond best to the sex.
He’s a dog if he: pees everywhere but in the toilet bowl.
To housebreak him, you must: put him in a crate, with paper. Let him out only after he begs to hit water, as opposed to on, or around, porcelain. Make sure he also promises to put the seat down.
He’s a pig if he: eats in bed, farts in bed, and won’t get out of bed.
To housebreak him, you must: put him in a crate and leave him there. Forever.
He’s a cat if he: doesn’t come home at night.
To housebreak him, you must: Neuter him. That’s right, cut off his balls.
It’s morning, in America.
At least, I think it’s yet another morning.
And I pray I’m still on American soil. But any and all requests to see a lawyer are met with a blank stare or a guffaw, so I guess not.
It’s hard to tell where I am, since there are no windows in my jail cell, and the glaring florescent lights over my head have been on since I got here, what, two, three days ago?
My interrogators come at me in around-the-clock shifts. I’m asked the same damn questions over and over again:
“How long have you been a Quorum double agent?”
“I have not, and never have been, affiliated with the Quorum,” I declare firmly.
“Did you in any way know about, or participate, in the murder of the suspects and agents in the Quorum sting?”
“No, of course not.”
“Where is Carl Stone?”
“I don’t know,” I insist.
“When did he last contact you?”
That one always makes me laugh. “What, you think he calls, or texts or something? He just shows up!” The fifteenth time I was asked this, I added, “Didn’t they cover that in Terroism 101, or did you skip class that day?”
My backtalk earned me four hours of head-banging rock and roll, played at ear-piercing decibles.
Had it been Metallica, I probably wouldn’t be so grumpy now. I’m sorry, but Manowar just isn’t in the same league.
Oh great, Reynolds is here. Carl may be the bane of my existence, but this jerk is certainly a close second.
He flops down in the chair on the opposite side of the table. After running through the playbook of his cohorts and hearing my stock answers to them, he hits the table with his fist. “Do you protect him because you still love him?”
At first, I’m too shocked to answer him. “He left me and our children. He allowed me to think he’d died. And whenever he reappears, my life goes to hell. If that’s your idea of marriage, I’m not surprised that you’re still single, Major Reynolds.”
Reynolds is towering over me now. Anger narrows his eyes into mean, gleaming slits. “Don’t you get it, Donna Stone? Game over! We’ve got what we need to put you away forever!”
“Oh yeah? What’s your evidence, exactly?”
“Maybe these will refresh your memory.” He tosses some photos onto the table. They fan out so that I don’t have to move them with my hands. Not that I could, since they’re cuffed to the arms of my chair.
The first picture shows me yanking the assassin’s knife out of the FBI agent posted on the second floor. Another shows me stabbing Huang Zitong, the Chinese general whom Carl shoved onto me. The photo is cropped in such a way that you don’t see Carl doing it, let alone that the man is already dead.
“This isn’t what you think! How did these conveniently come into your possession, anyway?”
“They’re digital stills taken from the hotel’s security webcam system.”
“Then you should also have video footage of me manning the front desk between seven-thirty and nine-fifty that evening.”
“Unfortunately, the feed was inconsistent. I guess the hotel hadn’t tested it prior to Acme’s rental, or they felt the price you paid for your party also bought you total discretion.” He shrugs. “By the way, your prints are the only ones on the knife.”
“That picture was taken as I was pulling the knife out, not sticking it in.” Disgusted, I shake my head. “Don’t you get it? Carl did this!”
“We have no proof that Carl was even there, let alone that he’s stateside. We do have proof, however, that the banker who fled in the helicopter, Dominic Gerstner, put fifty million dollars in a Swiss bank account in your name. We also have proof that he secured a safety deposit box in your name, which holds fake IDs for you and your children, along with a letter from a private Swiss school, accepting your children for admission under their new identities.”
“That’s ridiculous! I’m one of the good guys. I would never run.”
“I beg to differ, Mrs. Stone. Granted, I’m impressed with how cool you’ve played it. Every answer you’ve given each of our agents has been well-practiced.” He shrugs. “But they’ve also been lies. When asked if you’ve ever been a Quorum double agent, you have emphatically denied any affiliation.” He leans in. “Your role in the Gitmo break out will be your downfall, madam. From the beginning, the facts never added up. Despite your claim that you were drugged, none were found in your system. Two innocent men were murdered, including the plane’s pilot. Not to mention Carl got away. Again, you were found with walk-away money and a fake passports.”
“Whether you believe me or not, I was set up.”
“I don’t believe you, Donna. And I can’t believe you, because your actions speak louder than your words. Case in point: when Carl Stone first resurfaced in your life, you neglected to mention this to your superiors at Acme.”
“Well…yes. I mean, technically.
But at that point, no one had told me that Carl was a terrorist suspect.”
His pause is accompanied with a smirk. “Is that why you passed him a detonator which could have set off the nanobomb at the World Little League game, costing tens of thousands of parents and children their lives?”
“Let’s not forget I also got the detenator back from him, and shot him before he got away.” My hands are shaking, I’m so angry. “I guess now you’re going to blame his escape from the ambulance on me, too.”
“I’m sure if I looked hard enough, I’d find a connection.” He leans back.“If I remember correctly, you were arrested for killing Jonah Breck.”
I nod. “Who turned out to be the titular head of the Quorum, remember?”
Reynolds shrugs. “At this point, I wouldn’t doubt he was set up by you and your husband.”
That has me snorting. “Again, for the record, Carl and I are separated. And speaking of Carl, thanks to Russian President Asimov’s diplomatic strings, yes, the known terrorist in question was allowed back onto US soil, and within a hairs’ breath of the president. Maybe that’s something you should take up with your BFFs at the State Department.”
“As we all now know, the assassination attempt on Asimov was merely a ploy: one that could have been suggested by Carl to the Russians, giving him the immunity he needed while getting close enough to assassinate the real target: the soon-to-be-appointed Russian ambassador, Jonah Breck.” He smiles. “Having you there as back-up and an alibi was brilliant. Ryan Clancy’s report on that particular mission states quite clearly that both you and your husband stayed in Breck’s home, and that you had ‘intimate encounters’ with both men.”
“If by ‘intimate relationships’ you mean I played honeypot, I readily admit to doing so, in order to stop what we were told was to be an assassination attempt on President Asimov, as per the instructions of my employer, Acme Industries, and it’s client—who, by the way, also happens to be your boss, Mr. Reynolds.”
“Acting as Breck’s slut also gave you and Carl access to his computer.”
Being handcuffed to my chair may be the only thing keeping me from grabbing the table and breaking it over Reynolds’ head. If he come close enough, I’ll still be able to kick out his teeth.
“And both of you tracked him to his private island,” he continues. “How do we know that killing him there wasn’t a scheme hatched by you and your husband, to stop him from proving his innocence?”
“If that were the case, then why am I working so hard to take down Carl?”
“I’m not a marriage counselor, Mrs. Stone. But if you ask me, I’d say you have jealousy issues. Your husband runs off with Valentina Petrescu, so you get back at him by partnering, both professionally and intimately, with her ex-husband. At the same time, you pretend to do everything in your power to see that Carl hangs. And yet, you still love him.”
“No I don’t! I hate him.”
“According to this, you don’t.” He tosses another file in front of me. Its caption reads
D. Stone - Sessions with Bob Hartley, MD, PsyD
“I can’t believe you stole my file from my shrink!” I try to snatch it back, but Reynolds jerks it out of reach of my tethered hands.
He laughs. “Nothing is private when national security is at stake, let alone the heartsick ramblings of a jilted stay-at-home mom who fancies herself a player in the game of espionage. I guess that’s why you jump into his arms whenever he’s within reach.”
“What? I hate it when he touches me!”
He stares at me in mock shock. Then slowly he pulls a folded note from his inside jacket pocket. “Really? You mean to say that you don’t, and I quote, ‘moan during our love play’? Or that your nipples don’t, quote, harden at the sight of him? Tell me Mrs. Stone, are you damp right now, thinking about him?”
He’s got Carl’s letter. “You son of a bitch! Where the hell did you get that?”
Reynolds’ lips are stretched wide in a victorious smile. “Your neighbor, Mrs. Bing, was kind enough to pass it forward. She presumed, rightly so, that anything showing your—how did she put it? Oh yes, ‘depraved nature’—might shed some light on the charges against you. And by the way, she asked me to break the news to you that you’ve been kicked off the Hilldale Welcoming Committee. Apparently being greeted by a terrorist suspect sends the wrong kind of message about the ’hood, not to mention what it does for property values. Case in point: Abbotabad.”
He turns to leave, still chuckling as he reads the letter.
He doesn’t realize I’ve stood up behind him. And that I’ve flipped the chair over my head so that I can hold it, upside down, despite being chained to it.
I’m just about to bring it down over his head when I see Jack and Ryan, standing in the doorway. They stare at me, eyes open wide. Jack warns me with an adamant shake of his head.
Slowly I drop the chair back behind me as Ryan holds up a computer thumb drive. “Major Reynolds, we have some evidence that proves Ms. Stone is telling the truth.”
Disgusted, Reynolds’ eyes roll skyward. “Bullshit! I’ve got an air-tight case against her.”
“You’re wrong,” Ryan says firmly. “I’m sure you’re aware that the footage you received wasn’t complete. That’s because these images were edited. In fact, we found a splinter feed across the street from the hotel, in an abandoned warehouse.” He points to the pictures on the table in front of me. “Mrs. Stone’s actions were altered after she encountered the dead men. For example, you’ll notice the stills were cropped in such a way that you can’t see everything going on in the hallway, which would certainly verify Mrs. Stone’s contention that the real assassin was there, too.” He points to the bottom of one photo, where the time stamp is visible. “Take note of the time, because it comes into play later.”
“Give me a break,” Reynolds mutters.
I’d like to break him, alright: across his skull, with this chair.
“On the other hand, Acme’s feed, as seen through Mrs. Stone’s contact lenses, show her downstairs from as early as seven-forty to nine-fifty,” Jack explains. “After greeting the Quorum suspects and handing them the keys to the rooms where the FBI interrogators were stationed, she ushers them to the elevator. See for yourself.”
He swipes the screen on his iPad. Instantly, a video showing the hotel’s lobby appears on it. I sit at the front desk. A time stamp appears on the bottom left hand corner of the screen, showing that it is seven-forty, which was when Carl, disguised as Dominic Gerstner, comes through the front door. Granted, my demeanor changes slightly. It’s obvious I’m uncomfortable in his presence, but at no time do I look as if I recognize him.
Each subsequent guest encounter is documented just as I remembered it. Reynolds can also hear Jack’s, Abu’s, Ryan’s and my comments on what they witness through my eyes.
Reynolds shakes his head in disgust. “Even if this feed is legit and Carl was there, do you think I believe for a moment that she didn’t know what kind of carnage was happening in the floors above that pretty little head of hers?”
Jack bristles. “I don’t care what you believe. You say you want facts. Now you have them, even if you don’t want to believe them. And they show she had no part in the killings, which is all that matters in a court of law.”
“There is one fact against her,” Reynolds retorts. “Donna Stone ushered those men to their deaths.”
“No one expected Carl to be there,” Ryan mutters.
“There’s still no proof he was even there,” Reynolds counters smugly.
“Maybe there is,” I say. “Carl left his hat behind. I put it behind the concierge desk. Surely the FBI investigators took it, along with the rest of the evidence.”
Reynolds nods grudgingly. “If so, we’ll pull what we can from it.” The faint buzz of his phone stops his train of thought. He taps it on. He’s speaking too low for us to hear him, but the information he hears puts a frown on his face. “Dominc Gerstner’s body was found, f
loating in a Marina del Rey harbor.”
“Has the time of death been determined?” Ryan asks.
“It was there from least since six o’clock that evening.”
“That proves it,” Jack says. “He wasn’t at the hotel. Carl took his place.”
Reynolds turns to me. “You’re free to go—for now. But at the very least, Acme ran a shoddy mission. The deaths of my agents prove it.”
I want to say the right thing, but really, what would that be? “I’m sorry” doesn’t begin to cover the shame and grief I feel over their loss, not to mention losing the one chance we had to take down the Quorum, once and for all.
Chapter 12
How to Deal with His Old Flame
Long ago, she broke his heart. He claims he’s over her, but how can you be sure he’s telling the truth? Here are some surefire signs she still lights his torch:
Sign #1: For some reason, he’s forgotten to erase her telephone number from his cell phone. Worse yet, when you erase it, somehow it miraculously reappears.
Solution: Buy him a new cell phone, because this one is obviously broken.
Sign #2: When he goes out for a drive, his GPS tracker shows he’s been by her place. When you confront him with this, he gets angry and insists you’re crazy.
Solution: Replace the GPS tracker.
Sign #3: Sometimes he doesn’t come home at night. When this happens, he claims he’s having car trouble.
Solution: Buy him a new car.
Sign #4: His unconscious doodles look an awful lot like her name, with the word “Mrs.” in front, and his surname behind it. When you point this out to him, he claims you’re seeing things.
Solution: Buy new glasses.
Sign #4: When the two of you make love, the name he shouts out is hers. When you point this out to him, he breaks down and admits you’re right.
