Twisted Genius

by Patricia Rice

  I received crickets in return.

  Nick texted me a link that I clicked on out of frustration.

  A mob of women wearing varicolored kitty ears marched in front of Rose’s DC campaign office carrying protest signs. That made me smile. It was good to know that someone besides myself had paid attention to Gertie. I hoped Rose was frothing at the mouth—like Tony. I winced.

  Focus, Ana. Who killed Tony the bomber, and who was framing my mother? I didn’t really care who killed Scion. He deserved to die. But I didn’t want my family dragged down a dirty pipeline, and I was still furious at being denied the chance to question my father’s killer—and the man who tried to kill Nick.

  With Scion and his IRA bomber dead, could I assume Nick and Guy were safe? Or would someone else in the company want to squash that report?

  I wasn’t entirely certain Patra and Sean could look after themselves any better than Nadia’s kids, but killing them wouldn’t stop the articles. If I was really lucky, I could let my family look after themselves and concentrate on who killed Tony and Scion and framed Magda and Moriarity.

  Huh. I needed to question Robert Estes, alias Old Fart.

  Graham watched with interest as Ana dug out the life history of Robert Estes and the Popov brothers. He’d already located the Popov’s Russian passports, so he knew they weren’t citizens—the reason Scion probably had his name on their business dealings. The question would be—why was he involved with the Russians? And the answer probably involved drugs and bribery, since Scion wasn’t known for his big-hearted generosity.

  Graham’s IT people had confirmed the Rustel cell network’s involvement in the hacking of his server. He saw no reason to push a hothead like Ana over the edge by filling her in on these little details. This one was personal. He wanted to handle the hackers himself.

  He punched the intercom in Mallards’ lair. “I’m taking down a few cell towers and their owners. Want to come?”

  Mallard all but growled back. “You only go out when the job is obviously illegal. Isn’t it time to grow out of that?”

  “Can’t send someone else to do what I wouldn’t do myself,” Graham retorted. “These guys are probably infiltrating the Defense Department by now.”

  “Then call the Defense Department.”

  “And wait while they dicker over costs and who does what and my security gets wiped out? I don’t think so.” Graham released the intercom.

  He’d spent years looking for the man who’d killed his father—until Tony had been declared dead in prison. He was furious to know the bastard had been alive and well all these years. He couldn’t kill Tony again, but he sure as hell could go after the bastards who’d taken away his chance to do so.

  Chapter 15

  I’d learned Robert Estes, the bar manager, lived in a lower middle class neighborhood way over in Hyattsville, an ugly commute to Bethesda every day. Apparently working for the Russian mafia didn’t pay well. Of course, that was assuming the Popovs were mafia. Was I turning into a bigot or was my survival instinct speaking?

  I couldn’t find any correlation between all the threads I was gathering, which was making me crazy. I just didn’t like that the mysterious Popovs were involved in the cell tower company that hid Scion’s phone calls. That they also owned the bar where Tony may have been poisoned—after Graham’s servers had been hacked—spoke volumes.

  And yeah, I know I jump to conclusions, but that’s how I survived to talk about them. I didn’t have to collect evidence for a jury.

  I wanted to go to Hyattsville, but it was getting close to time for EG to come home. I couldn’t count on Mallard as babysitter, and Graham would pop a gasket if I asked.

  So I called Nick to see how he was faring. He had apparently felt safe enough at the embassy to go to work.

  “Guy is working from the house this week,” Nick said. “He thinks he can handle picking up the kids from daycare. Maggie has done wonders, but we can’t keep imposing on her.”

  I liked that Nick was slipping into “we,” as if he really was part of a couple. I’m not a romantic, by any means, but Nick has an outgoing personality, and he needs people in his life.

  “I need to run over to Hyattsville. What if I bring EG over with some carry-out so no one has to cook? Fair trade?”

  Nick considered the downside of a nine-year-old evil genius added to their menagerie. “For how long?” he asked with reasonable suspicion.

  “I’m just on a scouting mission. Mostly travel time. And EG can learn to babysit under adult supervision. Promise her a video with dinosaurs, and she’ll probably have them in bed right after supper.”

  “You wield your weapons well, grasshopper,” Nick said with resignation. “I’ll tell Guy.”

  Deciding EG really did need to get out of her tower more, I didn’t feel guilty in the least catching her at the door and turning her back into the cold winter gray.

  “What’s your favorite carry-out?” I asked, distracting her as we aimed for the Metro.

  “We never have carry-out, so I don’t know,” she said with suspicion. “Are we going to Nick’s again?”

  “We are, bearing gifts of food.” I glanced up as we passed the Russian ambassador’s house. I felt like eyes glared down from the narrow windows.

  “Kids like macaroni and cheese,” EG said in disgust.

  She distracted me from my ominous premonition. I had Graham and his hackers on my mind instead of little kids. I needed to get out more.

  “Nick likes gourmet. You like chocolate. I have a plan.”

  We sauntered up and down the streets around Dupont and stocked up on everything from Vietnamese to falafel, throwing in a side of burgers and mac-and-cheese, with truffle oil, of course. And chocolate torte for a sugar high.

  Smelling like a diner, we took the Metro up to Guy’s place. I left them happily digging into the gourmet spread and returned to the nasty cold damp and the Metro.

  I didn’t know why I kept doing this. I could have stayed there and enjoyed the warmth and the food and the company.

  But Old Fart, alias Robert Estes, had presumably killed the man who could have answered a lot of important questions, and not just about my father, although that opportunity nagged at me. Tony had been one of my dad’s pals. He could have told me things. . .

  Water under the bridge many long years ago. I quit crying at night when I was a toddler.

  Tony’s death robbed us of valuable information. He might have been able to tell us who had been involved in Nadia’s accident or more about Scion, like what hold did he have over Senator Rose? If Estes had to take him out, Tony obviously had known something. Estes obviously wasn’t just a bar manager, so I’d better play safe.

  I’d made notes in my phone of the direction to the Estes house. I doubted I’d find taxis in Hyattsville, but I called up Uber as the train pulled in. The driver was young and smiley, and probably ambitious, so I’d have to bribe him to hang around once we were out in ticky-tacky box land.

  When we arrived, the Estes address looked oddly abandoned. I asked the driver to wait down the block, gave him a nice tip and promised another. I never knew what I was going to do when I checked out a suspect. I was wearing my leather coat and long denim dress, so I didn’t look particularly out of place here.

  I decided to simply walk up to the front door and pretend I was a magazine salesperson if anyone actually answered. They might conclude I was a knock-knock thief, but they couldn’t call the cops if I stole nothing. Studying the house’s unlighted windows, the misaligned and drooping blinds, and the dirt patch of a yard, I didn’t think there was much chance of finding anyone home.

  I knocked. The door sagged open on one hinge. I peered through the crack. Worn orange furniture from the seventies had been knocked askew or left upside down with the lining ripped out. A pole lamp leaned rakishly against an ancient end table. A battered wood floor plank had been pulled out and thrown under the dirty picture window with the bent blinds.

  Either
Old Fart had made a hasty exit, or someone had done it for him. Not being stupid, I didn’t enter a possible crime scene. I snapped photos and emailed them to Graham. If there was a body inside, his security people could find it.

  Just as a precaution, I stopped at the house next door, where I saw a lace curtain discreetly inched back, as if someone was watching me. In this neighborhood, that was an excellent idea. I pushed the bell and heard it working—always a promising sign.

  The door inched open on a chain lock, another sign of intelligence. I smiled at the bird-like, gray-haired woman peering through the crack. “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I was told to deliver a letter to the address next door, but it doesn’t seem to be occupied, and I’m afraid I’m in the wrong place. Do you know if Robert Estes lives there?”

  “Are you a bill collector?” she asked with suspicion.

  I shook my head vehemently. “Good heavens, no. I shouldn’t think bill collectors would be bothering Mr. Estes. I’m one of his employees.”

  She narrowed her eyes but couldn’t find a way around answering what might actually be a legitimate question. “He lives there as far as I know. He’s hardly ever home, leaves early and back late. Come to think of it, he never has visitors either, but there were a couple of men over there a few hours ago. He doesn’t usually get back to near midnight though.”

  I was blamed lucky to have arrived late and not when they were tearing the place apart! Who would be after Estes? Someone who hadn’t wanted Tony killed? Or who had ordered him killed and now wanted to eliminate witnesses?

  Eager to depart for fear the house was watched, I glanced at my phone screen. “Oh dear, I can’t wait until midnight. Thank you so much! At least I know I went to the right place.” I punched my Uber app as I hurried away.

  With any luck, the two men who ripped apart Old Fart’s house hadn’t found the bar manager at home. But if Robert Estes had poisoned Tony’s beer, he might be on his way to Mexico.

  I’d hate to think that every person I suspected became a dead body.

  Under cover of early winter gloom, Graham pulled on his gloves and yanked a hood over his hair. His men had taken out the security cameras. The cell tower had no illumination other than the blinking warning lights on top. He climbed the hill containing half a dozen legitimate towers and met his engineer, similarly clad in black.

  “They’re definitely bouncing signals off a Russian satellite,” the engineer reported. “The hackers are here in DC though, tapping into the Rustel network with private servers.”

  “Have we located the servers?” Graham watched from a short distance as other black clad men worked around the base of the Rustel tower.

  “The signals have been funneled through servers all around the world, impossible to trace. They’re taking no chances. We probably ought to notify the CIA.”

  “We will, after we take the tower down. Your men have figured out how to do it without harming the other towers?” Graham watched a figure climbing the metal scaffolding.

  “We think so. There should be enough pieces left for the feds to find any illegal equipment.”

  Several figures worked around the middle of the tower. One lone figure settled on a platform and set to work.

  “No way he can leave the package and come down with the others?” Graham asked, eyeing the layout dubiously.

  “Top has to be pulled this way or we could disrupt coverage across half the eastern seaboard if it fell into any of those other towers. Can’t take that chance.”

  The lower figures scrambled down almost in synchronization, waiting with Graham and his engineer until the man on top blinked his flashlight. As one, the engineer and his men dashed down the hill toward their chosen shelter.

  Graham ran toward the tower. He’d specifically chosen this job for himself. He hadn’t the expertise of the man on top, but he knew how to see he came down safely.

  Flipping off his light, the man on the tower shoved off his seat. Attached to a bungee cord, he plummeted straight toward Graham. Calculating his arc, Graham braced himself, caught the heavy blow, and unclipped the cord, stopping the swing.

  A loud pop sparked on the top segment. Graham and the man beside him pulled on the bungee cord as they ran for cover in a concrete equipment bunker down the hill. The top of the tower began falling toward them.

  Graham hit the ground and released the cord just as three more pops shattered the silence. A moment later, pieces of metal debris rained across the frozen ground.

  “Damned good job,” Graham said, peering over the bunker to be certain the legitimate towers remained unharmed. “Let’s notify the feds now—through the Russian’s network.”

  The tower bomber snickered. “Want us to take out a few more?”

  “They’ll be expecting that. Let’s not risk good men. All the feds need is a little information and then they’ll do it for us, the legal way.” Graham got up and jogged down the hill to join the others.

  “Check your bank accounts. Your paychecks should already be there,” he told the waiting crew.

  “The military never paid this fast,” the engineer said in satisfaction. “Call us anytime.”

  Graham saluted, lifted his motorcycle from the shrubbery, and rode off. He favored BMWs to Harleys, less conspicuous.

  Only when he’d parked the cycle in the over-sized garage on the street behind the mansion did he turn on his phone.

  He cursed at Ana’s images of the ransacked house. They guaranteed that another witness had gone off the radar, maybe permanently. This was the reason he seldom left the attic—he could monitor more operations from his chair than from the field.

  He sent another crew out to check the Estes house.

  Understanding that Nick now had family of his own to consider, I hopped a couple of trains and arrived well before EG’s bedtime. They had the kids blessedly in bed, and EG was happily glued to a video of Jurassic Park, filmed well before she was born—good choice, dinosaurs and horror all rolled into one.

  “I like babysitting,” she said through a mouthful of popcorn.

  “And she decided macaroni with truffle oil isn’t too bad,” Nick added, with only a slight grumpiness.

  “Ate your share, did she?” I tugged EG’s hair. “We leave on the dot of nine. Speed it up.”

  I gestured with my head at the kitchen. “I haven’t eaten. Anything left over?”

  They got the message and followed me out of EG’s hearing. Guy generously opened the fridge while Nick waited expectantly.

  “Your parking garage bomber is dead,” I said flatly. “He implicated Scion, who is also dead. Guy’s report will hit the paper by the end of the week. I’m going to say you should be safe now. Have you checked on Nadia lately?”

  “A team of people from work are taking turns stopping by,” Guy reported, inserting a container in the microwave. “If it’s okay for me to leave here now, I’ll do the same. Her condition hasn’t changed, but her brain is still alive. The doctor said we could talk to her, keep her stimulated, but he’s not making any promises. She sustained severe damage to a lot of vital parts, any of which could fail at any moment.”

  “She’s not in ICU anymore?” I asked, already fretting about security.

  “They’ve done all they can. They can’t keep her there. She’s hooked up to monitors and the nurses keep a watch. Why?” Guy handed me warmed over falafel in pita bread, heaped with goodies.

  I noodled around with my concerns as I chewed. ““Because Nadia kept secrets,” I decided. “Why did she help you with this project?”

  “Because I asked?” he said, doubt creeping into his voice.

  “Nadia has an ex selling Mylaudanix in Eastern Europe, so she investigates his profits?” I ate falafel and let him stew over that a while.

  “We met online in a discussion of Mylaudanix. I mentioned wanting to do a report on the chemical composition and asked for information.” He hesitated, then said, “She volunteered to run the numbers.”

  “I
think she had an agenda, which means she could very well have more information than we know. I haven’t really looked into the contents of her computer because they’re meaningless to me. You might want to take a closer look.” I was starved and bit off another hunk, letting Guy ponder while I munched.

  Knowing me well, Nick stepped in. “What set you down this path?”

  I finished chewing and sipped the wine he’d poured for me. I wasn’t fond of wine but this one worked oddly well with fried beans. “The bomber who killed my father and tried to kill you died today, probably of unnatural causes, may the devil eat his rotten heart. He claimed he was hired by Scion to bomb Guy. He may have died because he knew too much about whoever ordered the bombing, or failure was not an option. Who knows how the mind of evil works? All I know is that the man who may have poisoned him has disappeared. Scion is dead. So there has to be someone out there besides Scion running the show.”

  Guy whistled. Nick asked, “Russians?”

  “Can’t say. How long was Nadia in the Ukraine?”

  “She wouldn’t work with the Russians,” Guy said in alarm. “She was raised here. She has security clearance. You can’t—”

  I held up my hand and put the wine glass down. “That’s not what I was thinking. I’m thinking she saw something over there that set her down this path. How dangerous would that something be?”

  “Nadia’s laptop,” Nick muttered, catching on. “They took Nadia’s laptop. If there was anything dangerous in it that mad Russians want. . .” He already had his phone out, punching numbers.

  “Until he solves his hacking problem, I’ll have to wait to tell Graham in person. I don’t know if he has enough men for twenty-four hour security around Nadia on top of everything else that’s popping.” I checked my watch. “Sorry to pass on the bad news, but I’ve got to get EG home.”

  “You really think the guy who bombed our car was the same one who took out your father?” Nick asked in concern before I left.