Twisted Genius

by Patricia Rice

  The bartender was waxing down his counter while two old guys who looked out of place took the heads off their beers next to a shiny new giant television blaring a soccer game.

  I hesitated in the doorway to study the old men, just long enough for them to look up, check me out, and dismiss me. What can I say? I dress for success.

  But my pulse rate accelerated. My basement theories were easily researched and deleted. Real life wasn’t so simple. The lankier old guy looked dangerously similar to Tony/Anatole. Could it really be this easy? I couldn’t run a real-life man through facial software.

  Could I have found my father’s killer when no one else could? I fingered my phone with the camera.

  He reached in his shirt pocket with a four-fingered hand to pull out cigarettes, and my knees grew weak. Only the bartender reminding him to take it outside returned me to the moment. The city had banned smoking in bars just a couple of years ago.

  Now what did I do? At the very least, I had an ex-IRA bomber, possibly an escaped convict, in my sights, but even I knew better than to fling accusations. I needed a delete button for real life.

  I sat down, ordered Irish coffee—I hate both coffee and whisky—and unlocked my cell phone. Punching in Graham’s number, I improvised to his voice mail. It would have been nice to have a little advice, but that wasn’t happening. Instead, I discreetly snapped a few photos while I talked to a machine.

  “I can’t make it, his driver quit again,” I said in annoyance. “He won’t take a taxi. He expects me to haul him all over creation and back. If you can’t magic up a licensed driver, it will be next week until I can escape. Cousin Viktor has a list. Talk to him.”

  I hoped that last was clue enough to Graham that I hadn’t gone barmy. I tucked the phone back in my leather jacket and sipped the awful coffee.

  The bartender looked like a fresh-faced college kid, eager to earn tips. He’d been listening when he delivered the coffee, but I couldn’t tell if the old goats had overheard. Once I put my phone away, Joe College came back, still polishing a glass.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing—are you looking for a driver?”

  Ding, ding, trap sprung.

  I sipped the bitter brew and eyed him skeptically. “My uncle. They took away his license on account of he’s a senile old drunk. Why, you offering?”

  His smile wobbled a little as he considered senile old drunks. “I have a friend who works for Uber. He could use a steady job.”

  “Bill, leave the lady alone,” the lumpy old fart who wasn’t Tony said loudly. He glanced at me apologetically, “My boy is eager to help, but his friends are druggies. You don’t want your uncle near them.”

  I saluted him with my cup. “I’m not entirely certain my uncle cares if they’re druggies, but he eats the young ones alive. His last driver had enough experience to handle him, but he got married and moved away.”

  Old Fart punched Old Tony’s bicep. “My friend here has experience. Tony, talk to the lady.”

  Tony looked at me balefully, jotted a number on a bar napkin, and gestured for Bill to carry it to me. “Have your uncle call,” he said sourly.

  A real charmer was Old Tony. Interrogating him would take waterboarding. I didn’t want to scare him off. I’d leave it to the experts.

  I took the napkin and folded it up, wondering if the number was real or a show for his friend. “Thanks, I’ll pass it on. Have you worked for tyrants before?”

  That earned me a narrow-eyed glare. “I work for who pays me.”

  “His last employer died,” Old Fart said cheerfully. “Tony’s solid, I can vouch for him.”

  Like I trusted him any more than Tony just because he smiled. I saluted them with my cup. “Thanks. I’m tired of being his unpaid flunky.”

  I checked the time on my phone, squeezed in a few more photos, and left a ten on the table. “This was the most helpful coffee I’ve had in a while.”

  I walked out as if I didn’t feel eyes piecing my back.

  Then I hid around the corner and waited. I wasn’t about to lose my suspect or miss the interrogation when Graham’s forces arrived, because—despite his attempts to ignore me—Graham would have been on that voice mail like triggers on guns.

  Graham stared in disbelief at the image and phone number Ana sent him. He hadn’t translated her voice mail, but the image was clear—Tony Byrne, in person.

  She’d removed the GPS from her phone so he couldn’t track her, but she’d sent the name and address of the bar—show off. If Scion had paid Tony off the books, the cops didn’t even know he existed. And the cops most certainly didn’t realize Anatole Bernard was the man who may have killed three young men twenty-five years ago.

  He could wring Ana’s neck for endangering herself, but she was too damned good to yell at.

  He’d simply have to take Tony down himself, because his other contacts told him the circus had come to town, and Ana would go into full lion-tamer mode shortly.

  Chapter 13

  I leaned against an outside wall out of sight of the bar customers, but able to watch people coming and going. I read my email while making certain Tony didn’t leave before Graham’s men arrived. I was placing a lot of confidence in my spy’s invisible powers for the forces of good. Besides, Tony had most likely been the one to blast Graham’s childhood apart as well, just as he had mine. Graham’s motives weren’t necessarily all honorable.

  A couple of men in baggy khaki blazers concealing revolvers arrived. Here we went. I kept my phone on camera and slipped in behind them, taking an empty booth.

  Old Tony the Bomber was still sitting at the bar, just the way I’d left him. Looked like he was on a fresh beer. The kid bartender was flirting with a waitress at the far end of the bar. He looked up to greet the new customers but didn’t notice me. Old Fart was nowhere in sight.

  The newcomers started toward Tony. Nursing his beer, he checked the mirror over the bar and stiffened. Old terrorists and murderers lived on the edge and recognized trouble when it arrived. He slid off the stool and ran for the hallway with the restrooms—and probably the kitchen exit.

  Joe College blocked the two guys in khaki from following. While they manhandled the kid, I ran out the front and around to the alley where I’d been watching the door. No way was I letting the old coot who may have killed my father get away.

  I was debating how I would bring him down when I hit the employee parking lot in back. Outlined against the big blue Dumpster was a familiar silhouette that shouldn’t have been there—Graham.

  Graham never left the house if he could avoid it. This vendetta was serious.

  I gaped as he stopped Tony with a single blow to the jaw. The old bomber spun, kept his balance, and futilely attempted to stagger down the alley. One had to give the old coot credit for trying.

  Rubbing his bruised knuckles, Graham jogged past him, swung, and applied a side kick to the groin. I knew the power of Graham’s kickboxing blows. Even I groaned as Tony bent over, defeated.

  If this was the man who’d killed our fathers, I wanted to do more than kick him in the groin, but that was a darn good start. I patted myself on the back for resisting kicking the back of his knees and bringing him down completely. The man was ancient, after all.

  The guys in khaki finally arrived, but Graham had Tony by the collar, shaking him. They stood back.

  I had never seen Graham getting his hands dirty. I think I was a little stunned because I did the same as his men, stood back and let him do the work.

  “Tony Byrne?” he asked. “Alias Anatole Bernard?” He nodded at one of the khaki guys, who rummaged through Tony’s pockets for a wallet. He flipped it open and nodded.

  Tony just snarled.

  “You can answer our questions or we can hand you to the cops and call Interpol,” Graham said in a smooth voice that I knew held a bucket load of fury. It felt really strange watching cool composed Graham vent all the rage I would have blasted on the old bomber.

  Tony grunted and shoo
k his head, possibly to shake off the effects of the earlier blow that had to have rattled what remained of his brains.

  “Whadaya wanta know?” he finally spit out.

  “You planted the bomb in the parking garage Friday?”

  Tony shrugged.

  “We have footage of you standing outside Scion’s limo one minute before the bomb exploded. Me or the cops?” Graham shook him again.

  Graham was lying, just as I would have. He didn’t know it was Scion’s limo. Tony didn’t know that he didn’t know.

  The old guy seemed to crumple inside himself, pretty much proving our theory. I couldn’t feel sorry for a cold-blooded assassin.

  “Nobody got killed, did they?” Tony asked. “Scion fired me, called me an incompetent old Mick. You want to blame anyone, it’s him.”

  Except Scion was conveniently dead and couldn’t be interrogated. Had Tony got his revenge?

  The guys in khaki stood ready, hands in position to grab their guns. Shooting Tony wouldn’t give us what we needed.

  I’d never been part of a physical shakedown. I was clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. Graham looked furious enough to kill, and I really hated guns.

  “Looks like someone decided to take Scion out, too. Any ideas who?”

  I wanted to shake Graham. Who cared about slimebutt? I wanted to know about our fathers.

  Tony shrugged again. “He hired new security. Ask them. I ain’t a gun man anymore. New guns are too slick.”

  I couldn’t see the skinny old man climbing the wall either. He was so crippled with arthritis that he could barely stand straight.

  “Did you know Brody Devlin back in the eighties?” Graham finally asked.

  Tony squinted at him in surprise. “Yeah, him and a lot of other buddies.”

  “Was that your bomb that took out those buddies?” Graham asked, his face a mask of dispassion.

  Tony’s face crumpled. “That bloody kid snitched on them. I had no choice. We needed those guns.”

  My eyes widened in horror. He was admitting to killing my father? Could I pound him into the pavement? I fingered the brass knuckles in my pocket and waited for Graham to release him. One punch. Just let me have one punch—

  That’s when I noticed Tony’s face was drooping.

  “Graham, he’s having a stroke,” I shouted as Tony slumped.

  The khaki guys jumped in to help lower the old man to the ground. One cleared Tony’s throat and applied CPR, but it was obviously too late.

  Could a stroke kill in a minute?

  Graham looked fierce and furious, not in the least regretful. He glared at me, probably for my presence, not my interference.

  He hadn’t been involved in palace intrigues the way I had. In horror, I watched foam appear on Tony’s lips.

  “Someone needs to check the beer Tony left behind,” I warned in what I hoped was a steady voice.

  One of the khaki guys got up and headed inside, through the kitchen.

  Graham grabbed my arm and steered me out of the alley. “We don’t need to be here. Go home.”

  “Where are you going?” I demanded, yanking my arm away.

  “The circus is waiting for you at home.” He turned and walked away, talking into his phone as he went.

  I’d spit on the man, but he was right. I had other obligations, and he wasn’t one of them.

  Wrestling with the knowledge I’d just gained, I approached the mansion I now called home. I didn’t know how Graham would handle the information about the decades-old car bomb or the more recent one—especially with a dead body on his hands. The deaths of our fathers was old news to anyone but us. Reporting either bomb wouldn’t accomplish much. And with Tony and Scion both dead, did it matter to us who committed the crimes? As long as Nick was safe, why should I care?

  We hadn’t had a chance to ask about Nadia, but I doubted that Scion would have given any employee that much insight into his dirty dealing. Tony may have owed Scion for his room and board or whatever, but I could hope the old guy had limits when it came to killing mothers. He certainly hadn’t had time.

  Turning the corner onto our street, I spotted an official-looking black sedan parked conspicuously in the no-parking zone in front of our house.

  Oh, man, had Graham actually called the cops?

  I reversed direction, returned to the circle, took a seat at a coffee shop, and pulled out my phone. The text message binged before I could sign in.

  TELL ELIZABETH I’M FINE.

  Magda never used our nicknames, although she occasionally called me Ana when she wasn’t angry, just to designate the difference. Wishing I’d drunk more of the whiskey, I waited for the rest of the text to scroll in.

  I’M SURE FREDDY WILL IRON OUT THE CONFUSION. I’LL BE IN TOUCH.

  I blinked, waited, and received no more. Confusion? Magda lived for chaos. A little confusion never deterred her.

  Freddy? Who was Freddy?

  Remembering Magda had lived in DC for the first twenty-plus years of her life and knew everyone from that time period, I had to assume Freddy was an old acquaintance.

  Thinking of the car outside the house, I pinged Graham. He sent me a snarling lion instead of words. For that, I almost flung the phone across the shop. I could go watch a movie. I was a millionaire now. I didn’t have to deal with Graham’s testiness any longer.

  But just because I preferred words to pictures didn’t mean I got to bail when family called. And Graham was now my family too.

  For years, he’d lived under the radar, no one even knowing he was still alive. Provided the world acknowledged his existence at all, they thought he was Thomas Alexander, owner of a security company. He did his best to keep out prying eyes—which was why he’d just left the scene to his hirelings. I was still amazed that he’d been there at all—but Tony had been a personal demon. I understood.

  Since my family had moved in, Graham’s private shield had developed holes. He really didn’t like it when we brought in the authorities, so if that was a cop sitting at our door, chances were good he hadn’t called them.

  I traipsed back to the house, using the alley and the kitchen door. Mallard glared at me as I entered.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “We cannot let officialdom interfere with our work.”

  “Officialdom?” I opened the refrigerator and grabbed some juice. “Local? Federal? And aren’t they on our side?”

  “Captain Frederick Bottom, homicide,” he said as if he had a nasty taste in his mouth. “Homicide!”

  “Ah, Freddy,” I said knowingly. “I’ll tell him Magda sends her regards but her dance card is full right now.”

  I escaped before Mallard could respond. Had he left the cop cooling his heels in his car, or in our cave of a parlor? Did I care?

  Once upon a time I’d hidden in closets and basements and avoided all eyes, especially those of authority. With Magda for a mother, it had been the simplest form of self-preservation. It’s a lot easier to avoid questions than to remember lies.

  But I was gradually climbing out of my hiding holes and trying to teach my siblings to be law-abiding citizens. The times, they were a-changing, and all that. Greater freedom came with greater responsibility.

  I hadn’t changed enough to tell the cops about Tony—unless Graham already had. I was guessing from the snarling lion that he hadn’t.

  Wearing my black leather jacket over my usual shapeless denim dress, I debated taking the hidden stairs up to my room to change, but I wanted to meet Magda’s old beau on my terms. So I strolled into Mallard’s Victorian parlor looking like me and not a wealthy snot.

  Since I hadn’t entered the front door they’d been watching, the two men prowling the parlor appeared startled at my entrance. The one with captain’s bars—I was learning the insignia—was probably in his early fifties, a little older than Magda. The detective with him was older, wore plain clothes, a paunch, and a cynical expression. I could hardly blame him.

  I wasn’t a genia
l hostess. Mallard had presumably offered them refreshments—there were coffee cups on the table. I nodded a curt greeting, said, “Gentlemen,” and remained standing. Old habits die hard.

  “Miss Devlin?” the captain asked, producing a business card and handing it over. “I’m Captain Bottom. We’d like to speak with your mother.”

  Gloves right off, fine. I tucked his card into my pocket. “Concerning what?”

  “That’s between her and us,” the detective said, not handing me his card. “Just answer the question.”

  He was nervous. I almost smiled and preened like a cat. “No question was asked,” I corrected. “As far as I’m concerned, you don’t need my permission to speak to my mother.”

  The captain intervened. “This is the only address we have for her.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Magda hasn’t lived here in twenty-five years. She and my grandfather weren’t on speaking terms.”

  “But you know where she is,” the paunchy detective said belligerently. “All women talk to their mothers.”

  I gave him my patient sphinx smile. “Not if their mothers are dragons.” I’d decided not to pass on my mother’s message to Freddy. I didn’t want my phone confiscated. “I saw my mother at Christmas when she indicated she was returning overseas.” Truth, on my part, anyway.

  “Do you have her current address?” the captain asked with the diplomacy that must have moved him up in the ranks.

  “As I said, one doesn’t disturb dragons. She could be anywhere.” I pulled out the leather photo case she’d given us at Christmas and produced a note on which she’d scribbled her phone number. “This is the number she gave then. But I think it would be common courtesy to tell me why you’re asking.”

  “We have an image of her speaking with a suspect in a murder case,” the captain said, taking the paper I held.

  Swell, what suspect? What murder? Did I dare ask? Why bother? I’d just look up the file later.

  “And if you know my mother at all, you’ll understand that’s all she does—talk and charm.” And find things out, pass them on, and let things happen, but they didn’t need details.