Scion didn’t seem surprised to see them. He applied the lighted end of his cigarette to one, and it exploded. With an air of smug satisfaction, he did the same to a second.
A spark of gunpowder flared from a corner of dark evergreens near the house. A single soundless shot and Scion crumpled, leaving one balloon bouncing in the wind. That was professional work, upfront and personal. The balloons had been a distraction from the sniper near the door.
The body fell out of sight of the camera. According to the police files, the three security guards on duty had heard and seen nothing unusual. How was that possible?
Graham studied footage from the wall. The uniformed guards checked in with each other on a regular basis, as expected. One stopped to light a cigarette. Another stepped away for a bathroom break. No furtive movement appeared over the walls—but someone had to have climbed over, coming and going.
He switched to the front door camera but the door remained resolutely closed through every frame. No one had entered the house and followed Scion out.
The magnolia was the most likely entrance, but the camera’s angle didn’t cover the deep shadows. If there was movement, Graham couldn’t detect it. How had they brought in helium-filled balloons without being seen? That was an act of pure arrogance. The shooter knew he wouldn’t be seen. How?
He switched back to the footage of Scion and his cigarette. Scion checked his phone, shoved it in his back pocket, and took a puff of his smoke. Was he waiting for a call? Checking a message?
Frowning, Graham dug into police files. Who had Scion talked to last? No report yet. He called his liaison who called a contact who talked to the detective.
There was no record of a phone on the body.
He sent a curt message to his liaison, then scrolled back to the scene again.
Checked phone. Put it in his pocket. Puffed cigarette. Swung around. Crumpled.
The body fell out of view of the camera.
If there was no phone on the body—the killer had crawled across the terrace and snatched it. The camera didn’t show the patio surface—who knew that?
Sunday was laundry and family day. Even though I’d taken EG to the movies yesterday, she expected an outing again today.
I had been developing a plan of action to see if there was any correlation between the current garage bombing and the bomb that had killed my father, when we’d received the news that my number one suspect was dead. Now my head was ready to explode and a kid visit seemed a better alternative to real life.
We coordinated with Juliana and decided on taking Anika and Vincent along with EG to the Museum of Natural History. Maggie O’Ryan, the friend I’d called on to help Guy learn to deal with Vincent, brought over her wheelchair-bound teen son, Michael, to introduce him.
My preferred method of transportation was the Metro, but no way were we attempting to transport four kids and two wheelchairs via an underground. We just weren’t that adept. I hated disrupting Sam’s Sunday, but when we called, he suggested a van service that would work well.
When EG and I arrived at Nadia’s place, Anika was sucking her thumb and listening to Juliana read her a book. Juliana’s brown hand guided Anika’s white one to the words on the page, and I loved the image. My half-sister is just out of college, taking lessons on how to fund the schools she wants to build back in Africa. She has the patience of ten saints. I pressed my palms together and bowed a namaste. She winked.
I could hear Vincent yelling in the back, and a motherly voice reassuring him—Maggie. Nick and Guy were still looking exhausted but a little more hopeful.
I had intended to talk drug lords and bombing with them, but the sullen teen presence in the front room prevented it. Michael O’Ryan was a pimple-faced fifteen. He’d been injured in an accident that left him wheelchair-bound a few years earlier. His mother did her best to support them on her jobs as a waitress, but it was tough being a teen, even tougher when poor and paralyzed. He had attitude to spare.
“Dude,” I said, dropping a stack of comic books in his lap that I’d picked up on our way over. “No one’s murdered your mother yet, have they? Why the face?”
“What do you not get about my being a cripple?” the kid demanded, although probably less vociferously than he’d been thinking earlier since he was examining the comics. “Why did you drag me into this? I can’t help with any of this crap.”
Maggie chose that moment to roll out Vincent, who’d apparently just been powdered and puffed. His hair was still wet from his bath and his clothes looked fresh. “I wanna see the dinosaurs!” he cried excitedly.
I pointed at Vincent. “Crippled, like the kid who needs help bathing?”
Michael glowered. “I can take care of myself.”
“And you can’t show him how to do what you do?” I waited, eyebrow raised. He glowered some more. Maggie wisely kept her mouth shut while bundling Vincent into his coat.
Michael glared. “OK, he’s a cripple too, I get it. So, I’m a dork.”
“Dweeb,” I countered.
“Doofus,” he said with a small flash of a grin.
I wrinkled my nose. “Does it have to be another D word? Because the next one is too rude for kids.”
He reddened. “All right, I’m that too.”
Maggie snorted. “Especially when his pain meds aren’t working. You need to talk to Vincent’s doctors about the ones he’s been given. He’s too young for Mylaudanix. I gave him Advil instead. I won’t even let Michael take the strong stuff.”
I looked to Guy and Nick with alarm. They seemed equally shocked. Guy jumped up and hurried to the back, presumably to check the prescription bottle.
Juliana was helping Anika into her puffy pink coat. “I have heard of this Mylaudanix. At the school, some of the students sell it to each other like drugs. They say it is harmless because it is a prescribed medication, but I looked it up. It cannot be safe for little children.”
Guy came out holding the bottle and looking grim. “This form does not use the trade name, but it’s the same chemical. We never thought to look at it. A doctor gave him this! We trusted them to know best what the children need.”
“That was the doctor at the hospital?” I asked.
Guy and Nick nodded, both of their chiseled features frowning adorably. I took the bottle and turned to Michael. “You’re old enough to help look after the kids with your mother and Juliana. We can’t let Guy and Nick in public yet. What do you say, do you need me to tag along?”
Nick and Guy didn’t look happy, but now that the news was out that they hadn’t been blown up, they had to lie low.
At Michael’s reluctant nah, I pocketed the bottle. “I’ll take this over to the hospital, locate the doc, and ask a few questions.”
“Don’t shove the bottle down his throat,” Nick warned. “Just get a new prescription for something less addictive.”
As long as she had her promised outing, EG didn’t mind my departure. In fact, she was probably already plotting her escape, assuming the others didn’t have my eagle eye. But she didn’t know Juliana and Maggie well. She was in for a surprise.
I left the men to a few hours of peace and quiet and security camera adjusting. I checked the bushes and the area as I walked down the street, looking for men in black and seeing nothing suspicious. I had to wonder if Scion’s death had changed something. If he had been behind the bombing, then maybe the hounds had been called off my brother.
I found the nearest Metro and returned to the hospital where they thought I was Vincent’s aunt. I didn’t count on anyone recognizing me, but I was prepared for all events.
I sneaked up to ICU to check on Nadia. She still lay there looking like a corpse, her naturally white face even whiter. They’d shaved her gorgeous hair and stuck machinery in her from head to foot. For the sake of the kids, I winged good thoughts to the universe. Then I took the elevator back to the pediatric ward.
It was Sunday. The attending physician wasn’t available, but an overworked, under
fed intern remembered the kids. He looked at the prescription bottle and shrugged. “The hospital gets a bigger discount on these than the older painkillers. They’re the best ones on the market. The older ones aren’t as effective.”
“Are the older painkillers addictive?” I asked, all concerned mother and not my usual belligerent self—as long as he was being useful.
He frowned. “If overused, most of them are. Diet soda is addictive. People need to be responsible for taking medication as prescribed.”
My short fuse smoldered. “The patient is six years old! He’s barely responsible for pulling up his pants. Have you ever tried to hide candy from babies? And think about it—when you’re exhausted and have a patient complaining every five minutes about pain, have you been tempted to give them a pill a little early? Especially if it’s a crying kid?”
“We have morphine. . .” His voice trailed off as he realized the hospital drug of choice was also addictive—and he’d probably given it more often than recommended just to get a little peace. “I’ll write a prescription for acetaminophen. It won’t help the pain as much.”
“He doesn’t seem to be hyper-sensitive to pain,” I said with a shrug. “Mostly, he’s annoyed at confinement and wanting his mother. Knocking him out might give us tranquility, but teaching him to medicate himself isn’t wise.”
“How many kids do you have?” he asked grumpily, scribbling the new script.
I didn’t have to explain I’d raised half a dozen siblings on Band-Aids and Neosporin. I just took the script and trotted down to the pharmacy to poke my nose around more. That the hospital got a cut on Mylaudanix didn’t surprise me. My guess was that they didn’t pass that discount on to the consumer. I wasn’t sure how to verify that.
I held up the prescription bottle and asked the pharmacy clerk what it would cost to refill the prescription. She quoted an obscene amount. I pulled out the insurance card Guy had given me and asked for how much they charged the insurance company. Apparently familiar with this tactic, she began a long spiel about how they had quantity discounts with the insurance companies they couldn’t give to consumers.
I showed all my teeth. “I just need the numbers, please. We’re adding up our deductibles.”
Armed with the cost that a dozen Mylaudanix would bring on the open market, I presented the heavy duty acetaminophen prescription. It cost a fraction of the price of the new drug.
My dangerous curiosity carried me to two more pharmacies, one a large discount chain and the other a small independent. I repeated my spiel. As suspected, the big box store got a more substantial discount from the insurance company than the small store. My cost was the same—exorbitant.
Remembering what Juliana had said about students selling these pills to each other, I took the Metro to a different part of town. I’d lived in an area of Atlanta that had drug dealers on every corner. We learned to leave each other alone. But I’d picked up enough of the scene to calculate the information was worth the risk.
I chose to accost the hoodlum nearest the Metro. He wore ratty Rastafarian braids, a three-day scruff, and carried concealed. I was wearing my expensive leather coat, so I couldn’t pull off my usual I’m-one-of-you routines. So I went with rich white stupid student. “Dude, I’ve got a dozen of these. Josh said you’d pay me top dollar.”
I pulled the name Josh out of a hat because it was one of the most popular names for twenty-somethings. Everyone knew a Josh.
“Who are you?” he asked, sniffing and looking down his skinny nose at me.
I’m not very prepossessing, so he didn’t perceive me as physically dangerous, although I am. But I didn’t have narc written all over me and probably looked safe. He was suspicious, just not enough.
I shrugged. “Nobody. And you won’t see me again. I just need some quick cash and my kid brother doesn’t need these anymore.”
I’d ripped off the label but figured the pills were recognizable. He opened the bottle and checked them out. “These are everywhere, dudess, I can’t give you nothing.”
“Fine. Then I’ll take them over to the school.” I snatched back the bottle. I wanted street prices, not attitude.
He held up his hand. We negotiated. I figured I got half the street price by the time we were done. The street price was cheaper than heroin. I didn’t feel guilty selling drugs to a drug dealer.
I handed the cash to the first homeless person I encountered. It was like investing in the lottery. They might take the money, get a room for the night, a hot bath, and some food. Or they could take the cash back to the dealer for their painkiller of choice.
I’d philosophize on how society was killing itself with guns and drugs, but I understood why and changing human nature wasn’t happening on my watch.
On the way home, I decided to finish reading Graham’s bombing file, then draw up a plan of action. Except now I had to decide if I needed to know more about Harvey Scion.
Magda wouldn’t get even with him for attempting to harm Nick and his boyfriend, would she?
Of course, she would.
Chapter 10
Graham ground his molars at the time it was taking to locate Scion’s phone. His contacts had uncovered half a dozen phone numbers listed in Scion’s name. Apparently the drug exec liked to have different phones for different businesses—which meant he probably used unlisted burner phones as well. He had no good way of tracing that last call if it was made from a burner.
Rather than invest any more time in haystacks, Graham set his people to connecting with the cell tower nearest Scion’s abode. Oddly, the cell tower didn’t belong to a publicly owned entity, so the usual gateways weren’t useful. The crafty old bastard had really surrounded himself with security.
While he waited, Graham looked into the odd cell tower company. It was owned by a privately-held corporation and licensed under the name of Rustel. Had it been established just for Scion and his minions? That took mammoth amounts of money, but Top Hat had the funds to spare.
With a little research, he found more Rustel towers in and around DC, but if they were anywhere else, they were under a different company name. Interesting—a cell phone service just for Washington insiders. That degree of privacy screamed criminal activity on a high level.
He set his top hacker onto finding Rustel’s database. A small company like that wouldn’t normally expect to be a target and might skimp on security. Graham had a feeling that wasn’t the case here.
One of his monitors showed Ana entering the front door. At least she hadn’t gone to the Russian ambassador as threatened. She’d probably remembered it was Sunday, and there wouldn’t be anyone useful available.
She wore her long braid outside her leather coat today, which meant she hadn’t expected to run into trouble. He was learning her warrior mode signals. He’d thought she was going to the museum with the kids, but she headed straight for the basement and her office.
She opened the big computer that connected with his, so she wasn’t hiding anything. He could probably bug her private laptop, but then she would cut his throat. He respected that.
When she began a search for her mother in the files he’d given her, Graham rolled his eyes. The little witch was as suspicious as he was. He called up an image of an expensive bouquet of roses, inserted another image of the latest tablet computer, and added a link inside the screen.
He’d wooed his late wife with the promise of wealth and power. Ana was far more complicated. She liked information. And it pleased him when she dived into his image gift with zeal. He hadn’t felt pleasure in a long, long time, and he was still prickly about it, but he smiled when she found the link and jumped on it.
The woman was too clever for her own good and understood him far too well. Dangerous, but he went back to work with a smile on his face.
Ana would never ask her mother where she’d been the night of Scion’s death, but Graham had no such compunctions. The list of phone numbers he’d just sent her ought to keep her busy a while longer.
I blinked in surprise at the rose photo. Graham wasn’t in the habit of sending me bouquets or even pictures of them. I appreciated the high-end technology he’d included more, so I figured he was just trying to catch my attention and throw me off-guard at the same time. Which is when I realized the tablet screen had a link embedded.
Clicking the link, I opened a list of phone numbers, dates, and times. Frowning, I studied the document, realizing it was a list of calls from a particular number. I ran a search on the number and it came up unlisted.
The area code was local. I pulled out my phone and opened my contact list to see if Graham had been spying on my family—the only local numbers I knew.
And there it was—a number I never called—Magda. Why was Graham spying on Magda?
Well, yeah, there were probably ten thousand reasons to keep tabs on her, but generally he left my family to me. He and Magda didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye, although they were both in the snoop business.
I was both appalled and fascinated by the list of numbers. I didn’t really want to know who my mother was calling or what she did for a living. She’d set herself up as journalist, party planner, hausfrau to diplomats, employee in embassies, and a host of other roles that gave her access to important people and information. I didn’t know what disguise she hid behind currently, even though she’d returned to this continent for the first time in decades.
But I couldn’t keep looking at her in suspicion if I might have the opportunity to discover her innocence.
Who was I kidding? Magda hadn’t been innocent as an infant in her cradle.
Reluctantly, I tried searching the last number she’d called on the afternoon of Scion’s death—one with a West Virginia area code. Rose had come from a West Virginia family, I remembered.
Apparently so did Gertrude and her daughter. A reverse number search found Magda’s last call went to a company called G Whillikers. A quick search found a website for G Whillikers Bar and Dance Hall outside Huntington, West Virginia. Gertie’s smiling face beamed from the website’s sidebar. She really was quite lovely despite the kitty ears.
Twisted Genius Page 8
