Twisted Genius

by Patricia Rice

  Should I wait for Bill the Bartender?

  I opened Tony’s phone and studied his contact list. I couldn’t expect labels like Scion’s private cell or Hired Assassin. I grimaced at contacts called Chink and Spic. A real charmer had been Tony, unless Scion had labeled the contacts. Huh.

  Ruskie leapt out at me. Russian? The Popovs maybe?

  That decided it. I was taking this new treasure trove to my dragon’s lair to tear apart and find the gold I needed to nail Nadia’s would-be killers.

  I hurriedly ate my mediocre lunch and left for home. I wanted to be somewhere safe when I started calling assassins.

  Chapter 17

  Graham leaned back in his chair and studied the video link of one of his men interrogating a visibly shaken and tired Robert Estes. The bar manager wasn’t a very good fugitive. If the police had been looking for him, they would have had him before he reached Virginia.

  “Estes claims that Tony always said he was never going back to prison, that he carried a poison capsule on him at all times,” Jack, one of his security employees, said into the speaker.

  “So why did Estes run then?” On his other monitors, Graham caught a glimpse of Ana entering the bar Estes managed. Not seeing anyone dangerous in the vicinity, he scanned his other monitors and clicked his keyboard to change scenes. He loved watching Ana at work too much. Better that he spend his time on more useful prospects.

  “Popovs,” Jack said. “He’s terrified of them. He figured the cops would be ransacking the place and the owners would blame him. Apparently people the Popovs don’t like disappear. He told the bartender to run too, but the kid has classes and refused. He’s hiding with friends somewhere.”

  Popovs made people disappear? Nadia hadn’t precisely disappeared, but close enough. Graham glowered at his monitor and switched back to watching Ana work Popov’s bar. “And Estes knows nothing about Tony’s work for Scion?” Graham asked.

  “He thought Tony worked for the Popovs as well as Scion. Said Tony complained the Russians stank of sausage, and Scion’s aftershave polluted the limo. Estes is one of those guys who takes everyone at face value. Not a deep thinker. He just figured Tony cared more for his car than his employers.”

  “Does he know the connection between Scion and the Popovs?”

  His operative shrugged. “All he knows is that the bar makes loan payments to a company he thinks Scion owns, just like a mortgage payment. After the employees and bills are paid, the Popovs skim off the rest. They complain if Estes hires too much help, so our boy has been holding back on them, giving them the same amount every week and tucking cash away to improve the place. I figure that’s the main reason he’s antsy. He says they usually come in on Mondays to skim off their share, but he was gone before their usual arrival time yesterday. We haven’t checked the bar’s security video yet.”

  “I’ll do that, thanks.” Graham opened the bar camera cloud account again. The manager’s house had been trashed by the time Ana had arrived in early evening. That meant the disgruntled Popovs could have left the bar empty handed in early afternoon and hunted down the manager at home. They could have tossed the place hunting for their money or clues to the manager’s location. “So Estes has no addresses, no phone numbers, no means of reaching the Popovs if needed?”

  “Just Tony. I think he saw Tony as a friendly safety wall between him and the Russians.”

  “Charming friends he keeps. Which brings up another matter—did Tony have any friends? Where did he live?”

  “He was staying at Scion’s place, but he’s been living in his car since the cops moved in. The only friends of Tony’s that Estes would recognize are from the bar. We can probably locate the car and search it.”

  “Yeah, that would be good. Offer Estes a safe house until this is settled. Station someone at the bar to watch for anyone who might be the Popovs.” Saying that gave him a cold chill. Was that what Ana was doing? “Follow. Don’t interfere,” he told his operative.

  “Will do.” Jack signed off.

  Keeping one eye on Ana playing with her phone, Graham scanned the bar’s Monday security footage.

  There was no camera in the corridor covering the office door. The camera over the register showed only employees. The camera over the front entrance displayed an increasingly steady stream of customers as the day wore on. Graham had the one facial image of Piotr Popov that Ana had found to run through the software, but it found no matches.

  He had better luck with the camera over the kitchen exit. He didn’t find a match with the photo of Piotr, but a portly older man wearing a badly fitted suit came in the kitchen door . Most of the kitchen staff was young and wore aprons and hats to cover their hair. The businessman stood out. He entered the corridor where there were no cameras, then came back not long later, looking unhappy.

  Graham captured the image and saved it to his files, then checked the parking lot camera. The unhappy suit climbed into a black limo that looked a lot like the one Tony had been standing by at the parking garage.

  Graham caught an image of a partial plate and sent it for tracing. Then he returned to see what Ana was doing in real time.

  She was walking out of the bar wearing a smug expression and looking at a phone that wasn’t hers.

  He suffered a little frisson of fear every time she looked like that. At the same time, his pulse raced. He blamed it on anticipation, but he didn’t define for what.

  He left notes in her cloud account, along with the photo of not-Piotr.

  I hurried home with my treasure trove and an agenda. Ideas were perking.

  Whoever had killed Scion had cut out the security footage in his kitchen security camera. That was an indication that someone had been in the house when Scion went outside. Mr. X then replaced evidence of his intrusion with the film of my mother and Moriarity talking. I’m sure he thought he was clever, but the replacement simply verified that someone had been there and erased the evidence. That was the work of someone who wanted to brag, not a professional.

  I was going to guess the Popovs or Rose were the most likely suspects for hiring an arrogant assassin. People of that age weren’t likely to have the tech know-how to replace video footage, but with their level of experience and wealth, they could have hired anyone. I just didn’t quite grasp their motives for blowing Scion away after all these years. Surely his wealth and influence balanced out any blackmail schemes?

  I studied my two newly acquired lists of phone contacts. I didn’t expect to find murderous employees in Tony’s or the housekeeper’s phones. What I wanted was Scion’s number.

  I gave the lists to one of Graham’s contacts who had more resources than I had, and occupied my wait time by hunting through the contents of Nadia’s computer. I systematically worked my way through, file by file, removing the uninteresting ones to a portable drive until I’d reached files with more obscure information. Anything that looked remotely chemical, I sent to Guy for translation. Anything that looked financial, I sent to Zander.

  As far as I was concerned, the road to hell was paved with data. It was too late to send Scion down it, but I hoped to find his partners in crime and push them down my information highway.

  The phone person sent me a list of names to match the numbers in Tony and Maria’s phones. Maria’s were mostly innocuous—plumbers, handymen, etc. One number came back as belonging to Rustel.

  Tony’s phone was a little more mysterious. The one labeled Mick matched the Rustel number in Maria’s. Was that his designation for Scion? Did old comrades call each other Mick? Yuck.

  The other numbers, including the Ruskie one, traced back to Rustel, too. Dang.

  So, if the feds were now digging into Rustel. . . could they identify these numbers? I pondered that for all of half a second and the answer was no, not with prepaid phones, not unless Rustel kept records of who they sold the phones to. I sent an inquiry to Graham, but I didn’t hold much hope. The point of prepaid phones was to hide ownership—which was probably also the po
int of Rustel.

  So my next step was to see if these numbers went to phones with GPS. I had taken the GPS out of my burner because way too many applications log into it, and I don’t trust the setting that says “turn off GPS.”

  I’d learned most people don’t even know the setting is there.

  Tracking calls required access to cell tower records and got complicated, as I’d discovered with Magda’s numbers. Tracking phones. . . If they had GPS, there were a multitude of ways, including social media. I couldn’t imagine Scion using Facebook, but I also couldn’t imagine him knowing how to turn off his GPS function.

  I dove down the rabbit hole of spy sites used to keep track of the phones of rebellious kids and cheating spouses. It was amazing how many ways one can track someone’s phone. Since I’d not implanted any devices, I had to choose the hard way.

  Using a website I found, I gave them the Rustel/Mick number that I suspected belonged to Scion. I used Tony’s phone to text a message to it. If anyone answered. . .

  They did! Someone had the phone. The website had just located it in the vicinity of Scion’s home when I heard EG returning. Childcare interfered with serious sleuthing.

  Most of the time, I didn’t mind, but I really wanted to find what could be Scion’s missing phone. If there was another killer out there, I wanted Nadia and my family safe. The only way I knew was to find the X factor who had killed Scion and possibly sent Estes running. I had no evidence that Scion was shot by the same person who tried to kill Nadia with a car, but I knew there had to be a connection. None of this made any sense otherwise.

  Until I found the killer, we were all sitting on an explosive minefield that could go off now or the minute Patra’s story broke.

  I headed for the stairs. EG didn’t need me to bring her milk and cookies, but kids needed someone they could talk to. Magda wasn’t that someone. And since I was here and Nick and Patra weren’t, the responsibility came down on me.

  Now that we were no longer living in a war zone, I accepted the childcare responsibility I’d rejected when I’d escaped my mother’s net. As long as no more kids were getting blown up on my watch, I could handle normal childhood dramas.

  EG came in carrying an enormous stuffed dinosaur I was pretty sure she hadn’t left with that morning.

  “You’re planning on making it anatomically correct?” I suggested as I met her before she escaped to her room.

  “Dinosaurs do not have fur,” she said in indignation. “Teachers are encouraging ignorance to even suggest that they are cuddly.”

  “So you stole the cuddly dinosaur and will replace it with what?” I knew my sister well.

  “I found a model for a Velociraptor online. I just need sixty-nine dollars plus shipping. It has real-looking claws and teeth.” Beneath her currently blue bangs she looked fierce and determined. “We have money now. It should be used to promote education and eradicate ignorance.”

  She wasn’t quite ten but she’s talked like this since she uttered her first word, I swear. Well, maybe she focused on things like bad milk at the time, but she’s scary smart. I wanted to encourage her better qualities, like eradicating ignorance. But expecting money to fall off trees. . . I’d scraped by all my life. It’s character building.

  “Sixty-nine dollars will cost you ten hours of babysitting. Or maybe Mallard can find something for you to do. In the meantime, why don’t you use cardboard to glue scales on that thing?”

  I hadn’t told her no, so she pondered my suggestions. “When do I start getting an allowance?”

  She was negotiating. I was proud. “When you start contributing to society or family. None of us receives an allowance yet. We need a family meeting first, and giving back is the first part of the discussion.”

  She frowned but accepted the verdict. “Okay, where can I find cardboard? And when does Nick need a babysitter?”

  I directed her to Mallard’s recycle bin and promised to call Nick to schedule babysitting time. Since that mostly meant he’d be babysitting EG while she learned to deal with the kids, I needed him on the same page.

  After I explained what I’d promised, dutiful Nick agreed to a trade-off. “Bring her over here and we’ll look after her until seven. Then you come in for a few hours, put the kids to bed, and let us go out for an adult meal. Fair?”

  “Very much so, thank you!” I almost crowed. That would give me time to hunt down the phone I hoped belonged to an evil drug lord.

  EG happily packed up her dinosaur, cardboard, and paste, and we tootled up to Nadia’s place. Guy had just brought home the little ones from daycare, and they gleefully tackled EG. Well, Anika did. Vincent merely dumped his day’s griefs on her. EG pulled a book out of her backpack, Guy provided cookies, and they were all happy.

  I ran back out and hopped the next train to Bethesda. It was rush hour and nasty crowded, so I called Sam and asked if he’d have time to pick me up in time to get me back to Nick’s by seven. He agreed, which gave me a little more time to explore.

  I hated relying on paid drivers for myself, but for others. . . I’d learn how to play spoiled rich girl.

  The GPS locator I’d used had provided an address partially between Scion’s mansion and the Popov bar, two streets away. I’d think the killer flung the phone into the bushes but someone had to answer it to make the locator work. Or, more likely, was the locator slightly off? For all I knew, the number belonged to Popov or Bill the bartender or anyone, but I was placing my bet that Scion’s menials would have a number to reach him, and that this was it.

  I really hoped the phone wasn’t in the late drug lord’s mansion. Until now, breaking and entering hadn’t been on my list of insane acts. Generally, I drew the line at criminal action. Besides, if the phone was in the mansion, then it wouldn’t lead me to a killer. I would just let Graham know about it so he could have the police locate it. A phone only menials called probably wasn’t important.

  I wanted it to be the phone he’d had in his hand when he was killed, the one that had disappeared.

  I found the address indicated in the locator on the street between the mansion and the bar. I’d found a charger for Tony’s phone, so it was fully operational as I tentatively called the Rustel contact labeled Mick in his list, then listened. This was a normally quiet neighborhood of high-end mansions, but it had a fair amount of traffic at this hour. The address indicated was an empty lot, though. I tried the number several times while walking up and down the street. I heard nothing that might be a phone ring. Would I hear it if it rang behind thick hedges and iron gates?

  How many times had that phone rung after Scion died? Maybe it had given one last gasp and now the battery was dead? Tony’s still had some juice when I found it, but that meant nothing. I trotted toward Scion’s mansion, stopping to call occasionally. Nothing. I wasn’t certain if I’d hear it ring inside the house, but maybe in the yard. . . I walked around and tried it again. Nada.

  Dang. I’d told Sam to meet me at the bar. I took a back street over there, occasionally hitting redial and listening. I’d had so much hope for this number. . . Back to research.

  I really didn’t think a wimp like Estes would be a killer, so I held out little hope for the bar. I couldn’t see old guys like the Popovs sneaking into the mansion, shooting Scion, stealing his phone, replacing the video in the camera, then tossing the evidence into the lost and found in an unprotected drawer. They didn’t strike me as that smart or that stupid.

  But when I walked into the bar’s parking lot and hit redial, I heard the phone ringing through the open kitchen door. A male voice cursed, and the ringing stopped. I looked down at my phone. The call had been disconnected.

  That proved nothing, but I shivered. Did I dare walk in now and see who was holding a phone? The place was loud and noisy and all the sweet young things probably had a phone in hand.

  I was torn. I really wanted to look inside, but I knew how dangerous it was to show my face after making that number ring. It would be safer to send
one of Graham’s security guys over.

  I was relieved to see Sam trotting out from the bar, making the decision for me. He headed for a discreet black Lincoln and not the enormous limo. I caught up with him, still clutching the phone and seriously worried.

  “Sorry, bathroom break,” he apologized, holding the door for me. “I thought I was early.”

  “You are. I just reached a dead end.” I climbed into the still warm car but continued to shiver. “You didn’t happen to notice anyone with a ringing phone, did you?”

  Sam has Asian eyes, dark coloring, and kinky hair. He cast me a look of disbelief through those narrow eyes and started the car. Oh well, I had to try.

  If Scion’s phone was in the bar, did that mean the killer was in there now? We knew Tony was a killer. I hadn’t thought him capable of the Scion murder, but maybe two killers had frequented the bar?

  Who was the second?

  Chapter 18

  Nick and Guy were ecstatic to see me. As long as Sam was there, they commandeered the car for the evening. I waved at the security camera over their door, knowing Graham had access to the camera files even if he didn’t happen to be watching at that moment. He never joined us for dinner, so I felt no guilt in leaving him alone.

  The kids had already eaten. I warmed up leftovers from the refrigerator for myself. It appeared to me that Mallard had been sending over casseroles. I couldn’t imagine Nick preparing curried potato tart with cilantro, although I suppose Guy might have. It probably got boring for Mallard to cook only for Graham, or even just EG and me.

  For Christmas, I’d bought Mallard a share of his favorite Irish pub, using our family funds since he catered to all of us. I hoped he spent his spare time teaching their kitchen help how to cook. The last time I’d eaten there, it had been pretty disgusting.

  We sat at the kitchen table and finished coloring and gluing cardboard scales on the furry dinosaur and laughing. Vincent and Anika plastered more glue on themselves than the dinosaur, so EG and I scrubbed them down and wriggled them into jammies. I was kind of getting into this normal family life thing—until they asked if they’d ever see their mommy again, which slayed me.