Cyber Genius

by Patricia Rice

  He glared at the time on his phone and shrugged. “Can’t hurt. I’ve only got two more hours to make the story my own, so find something relevant.”

  “Keep me informed or you get no more goodies,” I warned.

  He saluted and jogged off for the southern side of the track. EG and I headed north.

  “Who are we spying on today?” she asked in satisfaction.

  “We’re just casing a neighborhood,” I said airily. “We should know what’s available should we ever have to move.”

  “You’d nail yourself to the door before you let that happen,” EG said, mimicking my insouciance.

  “What kind of books are you reading that such a thought would enter your head?” I asked in mock horror.

  “There hasn’t been anyone good since Machiavelli, but I think he was more into poison than nails. It was easier to poison people back then.”

  I tried so hard to keep her out of the family business... I handed her my phone. “See if you can find consignment stores nearby. Be normal for a while.”

  With delight, she took off her gloves and grabbed the phone. She was still punching when we arrived at the stop closest to the address I was seeking.

  “There are two stores north of the Metro,” she reported as we stepped into an icy wind and pulled our gloves on again. “We need to go right.”

  “Not yet.” I’d made a mental map of street names before we’d left. In the bad old days before we carried computers in our pockets, I’d learned to memorize my surroundings. One never knew when it would be necessary to escape irate merchants or rabid camels.

  Chef Kita’s potential address was in an area of colorful turn-of-the-twentieth-century buildings. They weren’t much more than boarding houses, but in this exclusive neighborhood, they had been upgraded in a manner no slum had ever seen.

  In celebration of the rainbow nature of the community, some houses sported pink trim, others flaunted blue shutters or orange bricks, anything to brighten the boring facades. Nick had chosen to live on a more sedate street in acknowledgement of his diplomatic position, but his place wasn’t too far away.

  Kita’s tenement was a little less spiffy than the others. The chartreuse paint was peeling around the windows. The burgundy-covered porch was streaked with what might have been mold or dried egg for all I knew. The potted geraniums were dead—not promising, although I was pretty sure geraniums didn’t like November.

  A FOR LEASE sign adorned the lower floor window. I’d already researched ownership and knew the landlord lived in one of the apartments. Judging by the mailboxes and doorbells, there were two tenants—only the landlord’s was labeled.

  “Step back and keep an eye on the windows over the porch,” I told EG. She did as told—without question. Amazing.

  I tried the blank bell just for the heck of it. No one looked out the empty downstairs window. I glanced at EG and she shook her head.

  I tried the second bell and was rewarded with a “Who is it?” from the intercom. Nice. So Graham wasn’t the only who wired old houses for sound.

  “Hi, this is Patty Pasko.” I’d given up my Linda Lane alias after I wore it out in my last escapade. My new ID showed Realtor on the business card, although I’d also set up other websites and mail drops with matching business cards, depending on my needs of the moment.

  Apparently, introverts do better with assumed identities.

  “I’m a Realtor looking for an apartment for a client,” I told the intercom.

  Bingo, the magic words. The landlord said he’d be right down.

  Dave Scoggins could have been called the Gray Man: less than six-feet tall—which still had him towering over me—with graying hair, gray beard shadow, and sweater and slacks that could have been gray or oatmeal or dead mouse. He blinked through wire-rimmed spectacles at seeing equally mousily-dressed me. Oops. Realtors tended to be a lot spiffier.

  “I was just on my way to the zoo with my niece and saw the sign.” I smiled and nodded at the window. “Is the apartment empty?”

  EG was playing kid, spying into the front windows.

  “The last tenant never actually moved in,” he said in disgust. “He skipped out on the lease. I can show you the rooms, if you’d like.”

  “He paid a deposit and didn’t move in?” I asked in surprise. “How odd.” I entered the high-ceilinged hall. An old walnut staircase—battered, never painted or refinished—led straight up along one side of the house. The first floor apartment door was on the left.

  “He only paid the deposit, not the first month’s rent. Asian fellow, said he’d just moved to town and had a new job. He promised to pay the rent when his furniture arrived.” Dave rattled the key in the knob and opened the unpainted walnut front door. “His credit record was clean, so I gave him a key.”

  “Did you ever see him again?” I asked, pretending to study the spacious front room that we entered.

  “I thought I heard him come and go a couple of times, but he was quiet. People like to measure windows and clean up and stuff before they move in, so I didn’t think anything of it.” He opened the next door and glanced in.

  EG bounced in after us, poking around into cabinets and disappearing toward the back of the house. I didn’t know how much she could learn, but I let her at it. I followed Scoggins to the next room. Judging by the double closet doors, it was intended to be a bedroom.

  “Closets, nice,” I said casually. “Not too many of these old houses have double ones.” I opened a door.

  A body rolled out.

  Scoggins screamed. I rushed to the door and prevented EG from running in.

  Thinking fast, I took another good look at the corpse—male, Asian, wearing bloody whites—then pushed EG back toward the front door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Scoggins, I can’t involve my niece in this. My sister would take off my head. You’d better call the police.”

  I’d lived in war-torn countries. I’d seen dead bodies, some far worse than this. My stomach still churned as I pushed EG out the front door. Mr. Kita had apparently been in that closet for a while. He was no longer stiff. The blood on his chef whites had dried to an ugly brown.

  Let me repeat—I am a virtual assistant, not a detective, not by a long shot. My innate and well-honed survival instinct prevented any desire to play detective. Someone else could cover the forensics. My only goal at this moment was to keep me and EG away from the cops.

  “What happened?” EG asked anxiously as I nearly dragged her back toward the Metro.

  “We will not be questioning Mr. Kita in this lifetime,” I said as we turned into the more commercial district. “Consignment stores. Let’s shop now.”

  “He’s dead?” EG asked eagerly. “You found a body?”

  “You’re gruesome. Every living being deserves respect. We’re not insects to be cruelly stamped out if we get in someone’s way.” I was working up a pretty good hate on the killer. My usual reverse bigotry, I supposed. Kita had been a cook, a worker bee. I could sympathize with him and his family far easier than with Stiles and his gazillions, and I was angry.

  I yanked out my cell and texted Graham, then Sean. In the information business, it was necessary to trade for value, so I trusted Sean to give back as good as I gave. And someone else needed to be working on this besides me.

  Repeating the mantra, I am not Magda, I will not desert my family, I turned off the phone. I’d promised EG shopping, not murder and mayhem, and I would see that she got it—even if she behaved as much like a vulture as our mother. Kids can be cruel unless they’re taught better.

  Which made me wonder about my mother’s upbringing.

  EG was irate that I hadn’t let her close to examine her very first dead body. I simply dragged her into a store and showed her purple. She was absorbed in no time.

  Kids are easy. Adults—particularly the freaking weirdoes I hung out with—were a real pain.

  Nick arrived before we got through the first store. Nick is blond, tall, gorgeous, and better dressed than I’ll ev
er be. I narrowed my eyes at his approach and removed a leopard-spotted fur hat from a rack, pulling it down to my eyebrows.

  “Very Russian,” he concluded, producing a matching pair of fur-lined boots from the rack below. “Why is Tudor texting me and not you?”

  “I told you we were headed this way.” I deliberately pulled an ankle-length black wool coat off the coat rack. Women’s size medium, it would cover the boots if I wore them. I would look like a demented bag lady.

  “You didn’t tell me you were hunting dead bodies. Did EG see it?” He didn’t have to stand on his toes as I did to find EG scouting the kid clothes.

  “No, she did not, although the little shark keeps begging to go back and look.” I didn’t argue when Nick dragged the ugly coat off of me and stuck it back on the rack. He left me wearing the Russian leopard hat. “Did the landlord call it in to the police?” I asked.

  “He did,” Nick acknowledged. “I just passed the place and the cops are all over. Will they find your fingerprints?”

  I cringed and showed him my gloved hands, for once grateful for my thin Irish skin. I couldn’t remember if EG had taken off her gloves after we’d entered the apartment. “EG was into everything. Scoggins will say he found the body when he was showing the rooms. No big deal.” I hadn’t even given him my business card. I debated changing my ID again in case he actually remembered the name I’d given him.

  “Tudor says Graham is fuming. Do you intend to go back or do you want to hide out with me for a while?” Nick asked cheerfully, producing a size small, camel-colored cashmere three-quarter coat that matched the boots and hat perfectly. He’s good like that.

  In gratitude for his understanding, I even accepted the offering. The coat fit, it was warm, and even though the hat and boots called notice to me—which I hated—I didn’t want to shop more.

  “I’ll go back, but I promised EG shopping. Help her find some other color besides purple, please.” I re-directed our male fashionista to the youngling.

  While they shopped, I reluctantly turned my phone back on and opened Sean’s message first.

  SCORE! It read. DEAD BODY=STORY

  Glad I’d made someone happy, I opened Graham’s e-mail.

  Adam Herkness awake. He knows I was there.

  Well, swell. The police would be on our doorstep, toot sweet, as they say in the cartoons.

  Eight

  Ana works her Magda genes

  Focusing on “normal” for EG’s sake, I steered the conversation away from dead bodies and let her chatter over our purchases on the ride home. She mocked my Russian faux leopard hat. I wrapped my wool scarf around her mouth.

  Mostly, I enjoyed my half siblings. It’s keeping them out of trouble that turns me into a nagging harridan. But for this little while, I could pretend disaster didn’t consistently loom on our horizon. We actually laughed as a normal family does as we walked up to the house.

  I sent EG upstairs with our packages, ordering her to do her homework. I headed down to the basement. Mallard intercepted me in the hall between my office and his kitchen lair. A frown wrinkled his wide forehead clear to his balding scalp, giving him a look not too different from a bloodhound’s.

  “The police have indicated a desire to interrogate Mr. Graham,” Mallard said in his professionally disapproving tone. “He is not available.”

  So much for normal.

  Mallard-ese wasn’t quite the same as butler-speak, one of the many reasons I’d concluded he was former CIA. Each word often contained layers of text I could choose to decipher—or not.

  “All right, give me a second,” I said. A few of Mallard’s wrinkles relaxed while he waited.

  I hadn’t even had time to see if Graham’s information on the Maximillian bank account was legit, but I trusted him under these circumstances. Graham knew I had enough information on him to fry his hide if the files were fake. So this was where Girl Friday earned her maybe-millions.

  “How long before the cops arrive on the doorstep?” I asked, all brain cells fully engaged.

  “A car has been dispatched. I expect them momentarily,” he replied.

  His tone was as formal as ever. If he was relieved that I was stepping up to the plate, I couldn’t tell.

  “All right, perform the grandiose butler act for them,” I said, thinking aloud. “If they get insistent, allow them into that mortuary you call a front room. I doubt they have a warrant, so you know the routine. Tell them you’ll see if the lady of the house is available. Stall and give me a few minutes.”

  His bushy brows drew down in disapproval. His lips curved up in the corners. I took that mixed reaction to mean I was on the right track. Seeking approval from a butler was deranged, but I’d never had a real father figure.

  I dashed back-upstairs to the second-story study I’d turned into my bedroom. When we’d first moved in, I feared we’d be heaved out in a week. So I’d chosen the room that seemed closest to my grandfather—his study. I slept on a futon and used a filing cabinet for drawers. I wasn’t ready to get permanent, yet.

  EG had dropped my shopping bags on the carpet of my room. The doorbell rang downstairs as I rummaged through them. Mallard would stall visitors at the front door intercom for a while. The intercom annoyed the hell out of me, but mechanical interfaces had their uses.

  I checked out the window overlooking the street. Sure enough, I saw an unmarked cop car out front and boys in bad suits admiring our Gothic façade, while looking grim.

  I stripped off my usual dowdy duds, left various personal defense items secured to the chain around my neck, and dragged on the leggings and skimpy attire still laying out from last night’s dinner. I’d watched my mother perform this routine since I was a toddler. I knew how it was done. I despised the necessity, but when my family was at stake, I performed my mother duck act to divert danger.

  When had Graham become family?

  When he agreed to house mine, I assumed. Maybe I should rethink living here, but not right now. I dashed into the bathroom and rummaged through a drawer full of make-up that Nick had insisted I buy.

  I grabbed a tube of what I’d dubbed Magda-red lipstick and smeared it across my mouth. Since I spend most of my time in windowless offices, I’m so white as to be almost transparent. The red slash of color on my lips drew attention to my sharp cheekbones and long-lashed green eyes. I preferred anonymity. Attracting attention was Magda’s routine, not mine.

  But I could do it. As a pale, pathetic virtual assistant, I’d never be able to distract the cops. But I’d learned at my mother’s knee how to be what I’m not.

  I pinned my long braid into loops at the back of my neck and yanked on the Russian hat. It nearly reached my inky eyebrows and covered every bit of hair except the exotic braided chignon. I looked pretty close to Slavic—which is probably my grandfather’s ancestry. Most excellent. Even I didn’t recognize me.

  The three-quarter length camel-colored wool coat came to the hem of my short skirt. I tugged on the fuzzy leopard boots with the modest three-inch heels. I found a perfume sampler and doused myself. Heavy musk and roses. Yuck. I’d have to take a shower later.

  Purse. Crap. I carried canvas totes. This outfit required designer leather. As long as I was going to this much trouble, I might as well make the act work double time and use it for my next stop—after I’d steered the cops away.

  I crossed to Nick’s old room and rummaged through his closet. He’d left a ton of stuff, apparently claiming this room in case the new job and apartment didn’t work out. I found a slim leather portfolio case I could tuck under my arm. The gold corners and fastener were a nice touch.

  I added my keys, wallet, and larger defense items, and snapped it shut. It couldn’t match the weaponry I carried in my army coat, but I was hoping I wouldn’t need hand grenades today.

  From the hall, I heard male voices carrying up. Mallard must have finally opened the door.

  EG was peering out from her doorway. I smiled and waved. She frowned back. Smart k
id. I held my finger to my lips in the universal sign for Keep Quiet, adjusted my skirt, and donned pure poisonous Magda. EG knew enough to back off when my inner vamp emerged.

  I practiced placing one foot precisely in front of the other, giving my hips maximum swayage, as I sauntered down the enormous staircase.

  Mallard had limited our visitors to the foyer, so they got full view of the performance. They kept their expressions professionally blank. Nice—Graham apparently rated cops experienced enough to be unimpressed by swaying hips.

  Which meant I had to scowl, check my nonexistent watch, and pick up speed a bit. I became busy, important Magda, not sex-kitten temptress. My heels clicked authoritatively as I descended.

  “Gentlemen,” I nodded coolly. “How may we help you?”

  “Mrs. Graham?” the older, larger cop asked. Iron-gray hair, gray eyes, fancy tie and the white shirt of an officer.

  I frowned again. “Anastasia Devlin. And you are?”

  “Captain Theodore Donovan. We would like to speak with Amadeus Graham.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” I asked in boredom. “You might wish to contact our lawyer, Mr. Oppenheimer, since Mr. Graham’s name is of necessity on our lawsuit. Ask Mallard for the number. Is that all?”

  The captain didn’t intend to be dismissed so easily. I hadn’t thought he would, poor man.

  “This is Mr. Graham’s residence, right?” he asked with a little more thunder.

  I gestured vaguely. “As I understand it, that is the name on the deed, but this house has always belonged to my family. If you’ll dig around in your files a little, you’ll see that—among other things—we’re suing the law firm that allowed their coke-head shyster to steal our grandfather’s estate. You will note—the same shyster you allowed to die in your jail cells after we went to all the trouble of locating him for you. If anyone knows Mr. Graham, it would have been the late Reginald Brashton. So sorry that I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll let me by, I’m already late for an appointment.”

  “I’ve told the car to wait around the corner, Miss Devlin,” Mallard said deferentially. “Shall I call the driver to bring it around?”