Twisted Genius

by Patricia Rice

  Would a bar owner use a cell phone for her business? Possibly. So Miss Kitty could have been anywhere—like leaving a Rose rally—when Magda called her. I checked Rose’s schedule of appearances and verified that the time of the call was half way after the rally started, about the time Gertie would have been released from questioning by Rose’s goons and heaved out. It was thoughtful of my mother to check to make sure they hadn’t cut Gertie’s throat.

  So, Mama Magda was involved in helping to bring Rose down. I could appreciate that, except I was reasonably certain it had more do with her personal vendetta against Brody’s killers than out of righteous distaste for his politics, although I’m sure she considered that a side benefit.

  Rose had been just out of college when my father got himself blown off the map. From all indications, Rose didn’t have enough clout, brains, or connections at the time to be one of the conspirators.

  But he could be the son of a conspirator and carrying on his old man’s traditions. Or Magda could be playing a long game. Did I really want to add researching Rose to my list of tasks?

  I checked again but the coroner’s report only said Scion appeared to have been shot around nine. The call was made about six hours before that. Was Graham telling me my mother had most likely been the woman in the big hat in West Virginia and that she would only be on her way back to DC at the time of the murder?

  I was pretty sure she hadn’t shot Scion—Magda hated guns. Still, I sent out a query asking if it was possible to tell which cell tower had bounced this call. Even if it was possible, the result still wouldn’t be proof positive. I’d learned deviousness from Magda, after all, but I liked to close as many loopholes as I could.

  I decided to set Rose’s history aside until I’d worked through the rest of Magda’s calls. I marked off the half dozen to Gertie and picked a non-US number next. I recognized the Brit international code and checked Tudor’s number—bingo. She’d been using our cyber genius for her evil plots. It wasn’t as if she’d called to ask if he was eating right.

  It was late evening in the UK, prime Tudor time. I didn’t trust phones. We’d developed an intricate encrypted instant messaging system for delicate messages—although Tudor tended to use it to ask if MIT would let him bring his own server and other anxious teen-related stuff. He might be brilliant, but he was young.

  DOES MAGDA HAVE YOU TRACKING RUSSIANS? I typed a wild guess to stir his interest.

  YUP was his laconic reply.

  Eye-rolling and beating the computer to death would not shake info out of the kid. SPILL OR YOUR ALLOWANCE VANISHES INTO CYBORG’S CAVE.

  THOUGHT YOU KNEW, he replied. SCION ONCE WORKED FOR IRA. HAS RUSSIAN CONNECTIONS. BEHIND NICK’S BOMB?

  PROOF? I asked, although his question left it open.

  NOT YET. I’M HACKING A FEW ACCOUNTS.

  NO YOU ARE NOT, I typed. YOU DO HOMEWORK. LET MAGDA HIRE HER OWN GOONS.

  He sent me a fire-breathing dragon icon, with GOON printed under it.

  I returned a cyborg reminder and let him be. I’d given him an excuse to tell Magda no if her requests made him uncomfortable, but he was of an age to make his own decisions. He might be immature, but he was smarter than I was and equally cynical.

  I used to relish sitting here in my basement, manipulating events, but I was anxious about my family and impatient to be doing instead of digging. Only all I had was crime scenes and unrelated information. I left crime scenes to the professionals. And info required research before I could plan any action.

  And Graham was burying me in info for a reason. Huh. There was an action I could handle.

  I sent the list of Magda’s phone calls to another virtual assistant I knew. It was hard giving up control, but Nick’s safety was more important than my curiosity.

  As if he’d read my mind, Nick called.

  “The dog caught a perp.”

  “What dog?” I was already on my feet and ready for action.

  “Guy has a friend with a boxer. I can’t decide what to do with him.”

  “The boxer, the friend, or the perp?” I set the phone on speaker, donned my leather coat and tucked my waist-length braid under it. I wasn’t giving thugs a chance to jerk me around by the hair. I probably ought to grow up and cut it, but I’d be lost without the lovely disguises long black hair creates. And I loved what it did for Graham.

  So, I distracted my terror for Nick and his friend with vanity. That was better than my head exploding. I thought we were done with this assassin nonsense. Scion was dead, wasn’t he?

  “I don’t think this creep is part of the crew who stole the computer,” Nick said. “Are you coming over? I’ll let you decide before I show my hand.”

  “On my way, unless you just got word the kids are returning and this is your way of getting even.”

  “Serve you right.” He hung up.

  Nick was my best friend, but he’s also my brother. We fight unfairly, especially when we’re anxious.

  I hit the train to Nadia’s place with a minute to spare, but even getting there within half an hour had our nervous lovers pacing the floor.

  I studied the trussed and sullen trespasser tied to a kitchen chair. Youngish, scruffy, overlong mouse-colored hair, lanky, tattoo on his hand and cheek—and probably elsewhere but he was covered in denim and fake leather.

  This was not a well-paid goon. Wannabe gang member, maybe, but doubtful—no attitude. I didn’t see him as experienced enough to pull off a hit-and-run much less a bombing. I relaxed an iota.

  “Name, rank, and serial number?” I asked, setting water on for tea.

  Nick was taking out mugs and teapot. No teabags for our lordly Brit.

  The kid glared silently.

  “He only knows curses, and he ran out of them a while back.” Guy got down another mug for himself.

  “In Russian?” I guessed.

  Guy and Nick both glared at me in tandem. I preened and took a seat to let them serve me.

  “Tattoo.” I pointed at his ring finger circled in ink with another circle where a real ring might have a stone. “Russian criminals used symbolism to indicate status way back pre-Khrushchev. Call it retro, but the symbols are coming back. What does yours mean?” I asked the kid.

  “Loyalty,” he said fiercely.

  “So, how is Viktor faring these days?” I sniffed the tea Nick gave me—a Russian Caravan, nice. So Nick was thinking the same as me. His brains weren’t entirely addled yet. I added more water and some honey.

  I’d run some quick research on Nadia’s ex, the kids’ father. Word of her condition hadn’t yet made international news, but she worked for Scion, and presumably, so did he, in some manner. He could have heard about her through the grapevine. Nadia’s house, Nadia’s Russian husband, non-professional villain. . . My guess that the kid was related to Viktor wasn’t too much of a stretch.

  The lad looked fierce. I sipped my tea. He sent my cup a longing look. I smiled.

  “Viktor works hard,” our spy said gruffly.

  “I’d pour you some tea, but I can see you’re a bit tied up. Maybe if you tell these good gentlemen what they want, we can all laugh, set you free, and have a nice tea party.”

  I could think of several things Nadia’s ex might want, and none of them were laughing matters. But I liked to add a bit of positivity to my life upon occasion. I’ve heard it’s healthy—like a chocolate and glass of wine a day.

  Guy sipped his tea and studied the boy as if he were vermin. Nick merely performed his elegant, blond James Bond lounging act, leaning against the kitchen counter instead of a bar.

  “He wants his children,” the boy finally decided.

  “Well, if you just mean to lie, we’ll call the cops and see if Viktor comes to bail you out,” Nick said. His cold glare beat my sympathetic ploy by a kilometer. We pretty much invented good cop, bad cop on our own since we seldom saw TV growing up. Or maybe we learned it from the people around us.

  “Children cost money,” I reminded him. �
�Nadia has none. If Viktor thought eliminating her would win the lottery, he’s stupider than I thought.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “He would never harm the mother of his children! She was hit in accident.”

  “I’d tell Viktor to ask his boss about that accident, but his boss just got killed.” Nick was relentless when he got all nasty like that.

  “Boris is dead?” the kid asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Scion is dead.” Guy looked like he was enjoying the cloak and dagger routine a little too much. “Looks like your lot may be out of jobs soon.”

  I doubted if Guy was good at this, but he deserved a chance to play.

  The boy’s English had only a slight accent, like Guy’s, only more eastern Europe than Guy’s French. I’d like to know more about the little thug, but first, we needed to know how to make Viktor leave his kids alone. Our visitor still looked as if he didn’t understand.

  “Doesn’t Viktor still work for Scion Pharmaceutical?” I asked, all concern.

  “Nyet,” he said, using Russian dismissively. “He works for Boris. He is salesman in Ukraine. He is worried about his children.”

  “And who are you to find out for him?” I finally asked out of exasperation.

  “His nephew. I live here. I look to see if children okay,” he said proudly. “It is what family does.”

  “Viktor’s family is mafia,” Guy said in disgust. “What do they really want?”

  The boy finally looked uncomfortable. “You will let me go if I tell you? Viktor will not like it.”

  “Viktor is over there. The cops are here. You’re better off talking to us,” Nick said harshly.

  Nick is a pussycat. He hates the bad guy routine, but at six feet, he can pull it off easier than my five-two, even though I’m the mean one.

  “Nadia has something that belongs to him.” The boy was back to sullen.

  “What?” Guy demanded. “The house is small, with nothing valuable in it. The children are all he’s ever given her.”

  “The babushka dolls.” He slumped in his seat and eyed the tea more openly. “They are family heirlooms.”

  Nick apparently knew where they were. He set down his mug and left the room, returning with a set of the ubiquitous nesting dolls. These were larger than usual and a particularly garish Chinese yellow and red. They were very definitely not heirlooms.

  Nick dropped the heavy set on the table in front of Guy. I watched the boy. He was as interested as Guy in opening the lot.

  The interior dolls all looked the same—definitely cheap manufacturing and nothing valuable. Guy shook each figure and Nick examined them for hollow bottoms. Hand-carved dolls often had good hiding places, but not these manufactured ones.

  The last doll wasn’t as tiny as most sets—and it wasn’t empty. Guy unfolded the papers twisted into it. From what I could see, they were written in Cyrillic and came accompanied by a grainy photo printed on regular paper.

  Guy scanned the lot and snickered. “This is how Nadia kept Viktor away from her and the children. You can have the dolls, but I think we’ll keep the papers, although we’ll find a more secure place for them.”

  The boy slumped even more. Nick and I waited impatiently.

  Guy threw the papers on the table. “Copies of Viktor’s arrest warrants for murder in three countries—enough to have him thrown out on his ass if he dares come near the children.”

  I picked up the blurry pixilated photo. It showed a big dark-haired brute in an open collar shirt and gold chains pointing a Russian Makarov pistol at a bloody victim on the ground. Even if it had been staged, it was enough to identify Viktor to authorities. Nadia was a brilliant woman. I hoped I had a chance to meet her.

  “Salesman, indeed.” I threw the papers back to Guy. “Banks aren’t open today. Better send a dozen copies to people you trust.”

  He tucked the papers in his shirt pocket and glared at our thug. “Tell Viktor he will never see his children again.”

  He stalked off to the new computer. I poured another mug of tea and nodded at Nick to untie his prisoner. Now my interrogation could begin.

  “Well, we can eliminate Viktor as Nadia’s would-be assassin,” I said conversationally as the boy shook circulation into his arms.

  “He is not in that business no more,” the boy said indignantly. Then he looked sly. “But I bet he can say who is.”

  Chapter 11

  We poured a shot of vodka into the boy’s second mug of tea. We’d learned his name was Dima, son of Viktor’s brother, who had moved to New Jersey when Dima was little. The father purportedly ran a candy store in Hoboken.

  Viktor had offered Dima a lot of cash to obtain the dolls. Dima liked gaming and wanted to start a video store.

  Nick put a fat contribution toward his goal on the table. “A list of people who might want to harm Nadia is valuable,” he suggested.

  The numbers made Dima’s eyes cross. Nick was a gambler, but he was also good with money. He wouldn’t be investing this much in a future criminal if he didn’t love Guy a lot.

  “Call Viktor,” he continued. “Tell him Nadia has already sent the papers to the government, and he’ll never get a visa. I work for an embassy and will personally see to that. But if he wants to set up his own drugstore in the Ukraine, we’ll help. All he needs to do is give us a list of people who may have tried to kill Nadia and to blow up Guy.”

  Without a trace of conscience—or family loyalty—the boy hastily punched a number into his pricey new phone.

  The front door opened and the noise of excited kids spilled in.

  Nick steered Dima out the back door, leaving me with the little woman’s job. I wanted to stab him with the fancy cutlery in the chopping block, but that would not aid my need for information.

  “We saw dinosaurs!” Vincent cried excitedly, wheeling his chair into the kitchen like a pro. “Mike made the guard yell.”

  “Didn’t fall for the poor cripple routine, did he?” I asked the smirking teenager.

  “She almost did, until I cuffed him upside his scruffy head and made him apologize,” Juliana said cheerfully, pulling her wool cap off her dark curls.

  My South African twin siblings were a mocha mix of my mother and their late diplomat father. Their hair kinked wildly in DC’s perpetual damp. Zander shaved his short but Juliana was letting hers grow out in a wild mane that framed her beautiful dark eyes and broad features. Despite her gentle nature, she could go all African goddess tough when she chose.

  “You’re good with kids. You’d make a great teacher.” Short, round, with a black Irish temper, Maggie was rosy-cheeked and happier than I’d seen her last. She worked hard and deserved an occasional outing.

  “I will make a better builder of schools,” Juliana declared. “Maybe we will start with a school for teachers. ”

  Until Zander worked out how to invest and divvy up our grandfather’s millions, we all lived on dreams. Juliana’s was the least selfish one I’d heard so far—which was why Zander would do his best to tie up her investments so she’d always have enough to live on.

  I looked for Anika and EG and found them in the front room gleefully gluing inappropriate costumes on paper dolls from the gift store. Sacajawea appeared to be wearing Daniel Boone’s coonskin hat, and Lewis and Clark had on skirts. Made sense to me.

  Guy emerged from Nadia’s office to hug the kids. They beamed and showed him their new toys. He started pulling nutritional food out of the refrigerator as if he knew what he was doing. That was promising. Nick couldn’t cook much beyond pasta and peanut butter.

  I left the group fixing dinner and joined Nick out in the freezing backyard. The day’s warmth had left with the sun.

  Nick showed me his notebook with scribbles of names, numbers, and the occasional address, presumably garnered from Dima’s call to his uncle. Like his nephew, Viktor would probably sell his own mother for cash. I stared at the list in abstract horror—Nadia’s husband knew this many assassins?

  “When do w
e get paid?” the kid asked anxiously.

  “You can have your check now.” Nick tucked it into the boy’s shirt pocket. “Your uncle’s list has to check out before we release funds to him.”

  “He must have euros,” Dima insisted, as if he were negotiating.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Nick said blithely. “We’ll take care of his kids and find who hit Nadia, and he’ll have his drugstore in no time.”

  Well, I was pretty sure Nick had made up the drugstore and Viktor had less legal plans, but if the line was tapped, it sounded good.

  Still shaken that we’d been right about assassins, I used my phone to take a picture of the list and shoot a copy off to Graham. He might not help, depending on his level of interest in the Scion case.

  Since finding the villain who tried to blow up Nick was my priority, I meant to dig into the hit man list immediately.

  Graham whistled as Ana’s list of Europe’s most notorious killers appeared on the screen.

  He sent the names to a contact in the CIA to ask if they were aware of any of them in the US lately—or at least not active elsewhere. They couldn’t have entered the US unless under an alias.

  He dug into files and turned up the most recent photos of the assassins. He loaded them into the latest reincarnation of facial recognition software his experts were testing—one that promised to work with any image resolution. Then he ran the security tapes the feds had gathered from around the parking garage before and after the explosion. The detonation had been crude, using old-fashioned techniques like a timer and Tovex, favorites of old terrorists like the IRA because they were easy to obtain. Graham doubted any of the younger killers would use them.

  While he had parking garage images running, he called up an older file, one from the 80’s with the suspects in the death of his father and Ana’s. The similarities of the two bombs were worrisome. He needed to verify these people were all dead or in prison where they were supposed to be—but if he asked Ana to start digging, he was afraid she’d go rogue on him if she realized what she was looking at. He never underestimated Ana’s intelligence—or penchant for taking matters into her own hands.