The Housewife Assassin's Killer App

by Josie Brown

  Twenty…nineteen…eighteen…Isn’t Jack finished yet??

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him, inching his way to the door—

  Until a floorboard under his foot creaks softly.

  Carl freezes, but before he turns his head, I stroke his taut abdomen with a nail on my free hand, raising it slowly, toward his left nipple. When I reach it, I tweak it between my thumb and forefinger.

  Yes, this has his full attention. He leans down. His mouth hungers for my breast—

  Exposing his neck to me.

  Perfect.

  In one quick motion, I swing my arm out from beyond the pillow and up, deep into his jugular—

  My hand is just a mere inch from his jugular when I feel someone grab my wrist—

  Jack.

  Before I can wrest it away from him, his raises his other hand, and with one swift motion, he jabs Carl’s thick, muscled back, close to the base of his spine—

  With a knife?

  No, it’s a needle.

  The result is almost instantaneous: Carl grunts. His eyes cross—

  And he passes out, flopping down on top of me so hard that he knocks the breath out of me.

  As I struggle beneath him, I hiss to Jack, “Why didn’t you let me kill him?”

  “Because I’m tired of breaking you out of prisons. And, besides, if you’re right, the files on his laptop will put him away for life.”

  “‘If I’m right?’ About what? Seriously, Jack, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh no?” He whips out his cell phone and presses his email app. “I got this email from you last night, begging me to forgive you, and asking me to come to DC as soon as possible to help you prove he’s the source. So, I lined up Aunt Phyllis to stay with the kids, and—”

  “Did you say…to forgive me?” I try to shove Carl off, but it’s no use. He’s too heavy. I’m feeling claustrophobic. Not to mention pissed.

  “That’s not all. When I got to the hotel this afternoon, I received a text from you, telling me that Carl had invited you out to dinner, and that I should break into this mausoleum and run a diagnostic on his personal laptop. You even sent me the code to disarm his home security alarm and webcam feed.”

  “I swear to you, Jack, I didn’t send anything to you!” Who keeps hacking my email and texts?

  “Yes, it’s now obvious to me, because, A, the thought that he’d have a second computer wouldn’t have occurred to you. And, B, you would not have appreciated me walking in on you, with Sleeping Beauty”—Jack lifts Carl’s head up by his hair, only to let it drop again, onto my chest—“here in his bedroom.”

  “He…I…we…” The truth sticks in my throat, like a lump of shame.

  Just then, the thumb drive flashes green. Jack removes it from Carl’s computer.

  Instead of shoving Carl off me, he heads for the door.

  “Whoa, whoa…wait a minute! You’re not just going to leave me here—like this!…Are you?”

  He stops short and turns around. He raises a brow. “Say it.”

  Carl must be having a bad dream because his hand goes around my waist, holding me tight.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” My voice cracks with panic. The last thing I need is for Carl to wake up and find me under him, holding a knife no less. I’ll never leave this Munster Mansion alive.

  Jack crosses his arms at his chest. “You know what to say.”

  Ah, I get it. “Yes, Jack Craig, you were right! About Carl pulling a stunt like this, and about me falling for it. There, is that better?”

  He shrugs. “It still doesn’t explain why you were walking into his bedroom with him.”

  “If you must know, he gave me an ultimatum. He said he’d leave me and the children alone, for good if I…if I spent tonight with him.” Because I can’t move my head, I’m choking on my tears. “Just…one night.”

  Instead, I would have killed him—if it hadn’t been for Jack stopping me.

  Jack flops down beside me on the bed. He stares down at the knife, then takes the knife out of my hand.

  Best of all, he shoves Carl off me. “The old boy’s put on weight,” he says with a grunt.

  A second later, Jack pulls me up, off the bed—

  And into his arms.

  He’s kissing me, as if he never wants to let me go.

  No, it’s more like he never should have let me go.

  He’s right about that.

  To play it safe, he goes to the window, opens it and tosses the knife into the large privet hedge below.

  “That knife is an antique. He’s going to have a hell of a time finding a replacement.”

  Jack holds up the thumb drive. “If the hacker who brought me here is right, Carl will be eating with plastic utensils for the rest of his life.”

  A frigid breeze wafts in through the window. I shiver. “Aren’t you going to close it?”

  Jack thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah. If we’re lucky, Carl will get pneumonia, and all our problems are solved.”

  I nod. “Good point. Natural causes.”

  Not as dramatic as a knife to the jugular, but it’ll do.

  Chapter 7

  Cold Boot

  Starting a computer that has been turned off simply by pushing the “power” button is called a “cold boot,” as opposed to a “warm boot,” which is to restart your computer after it’s already been on for a while.

  There are other ways in which one might experience a cold boot. Literally, by standing in a foot of snow for two hours. Or, metaphorically speaking, should you offend an associate, you experience a cold boot as he shoves you out the door—a gesture that means you are no longer welcome.

  Cold-booting a computer gets you what you need: access to information.

  Standing too long in the snow will result in sneezing, frostbitten toes, and the need for a nice warm bath.

  Receiving the cold boot from a new frenemy is a call to arms, so don’t be afraid to push back—

  But before you slam the door behind you, toss a grenade.

  “Nothing,” Arnie hisses as he passes Dominic and me in the DI’s reception room.

  That is to say, there is nothing on Carl’s office computer to tie him to the security vulnerability.

  Not good.

  Hearing his news, Dominic and I wince in unison. While all the other audits and interviews have taken place concurrently with the IC employees and their computers, Arnie’s audit was a solo operation, because Carl’s never-ending series of meetings has left Dominic and me cooling our heels in the reception area. I’d hoped that Arnie’s analysis would provide us with some very pointed questions for Carl. Now, we’ll have to stick to the prepared script.

  Jack woke Arnie in the middle of the night so that he could begin the assessment of the diagnostic download from Carl’s home laptop. We were hoping we’d have our evidence by now, but, unfortunately, the process is still running its course, which means our interview with Carl is really a torture session—

  Mine.

  Susan, who has ignored us completely the whole time, pronounces loudly, “The director is back in his office. He will see you now.”

  Arnie points to Susan’s computer and says, “You’re next up to bat.”

  She shrugs. Batting her eyes, she purrs, “Great, I’ll get to take a potty break.”

  “You can go for your lunch break too. It’ll take at least an hour.”

  She sighs. When she opens her bottom desk drawer for her purse, Arnie is given the money shot of her deep cleavage—the result of a Victoria’s Secret Bombshell Limited Add-Two-Sizes push-up bra.

  When Arnie’s mouth falls open, I’m only glad Emma isn’t here. Now that she’s so close to her due date, the last thing she needs is to see him going gaga over some other woman’s breasts, especially when they’re cantilevered above a twenty-one inch waist.

  I kick him hard in the shin, and he yelps.

  I start toward Carl’s office, o
nly to find that I’m walking alone. Apparently, Dominic is lost in some sick fantasy, starring Susan and her bullet bra.

  Great. I’m stuck with two guys in heat.

  Make that three, with Carl.

  He better be on his best behavior—for his sake, not mine.

  “Director Stone, have you ever committed, or been involved in, acts of terrorism?” Dominic’s tone is not shy, I’m proud to say. The question leaves no wiggle room.

  Carl lets loose with a loud sneeze.

  I resist the tendency to say gesundheit.

  More to the point, I resist the urge to shout, Go to Hell.

  After blowing his nose into the pocket square from his suit jacket, Carl mutters, “Only in the line of duty,” and clears his throat—something I’ve long come to recognize as his poker tell.

  He looks tired. It’s one of the symptoms of the sedative Jack gave him. He also looks angry—one of the symptoms of being bested by someone he thought was going to be an easy conquest.

  But, somehow, I got away, and it irks him to no end that he can’t figure out how.

  “Bad cold, old chap!” Dominic clicks his tongue.

  “Apparently, I slept with the window open all night.” He cocks his head at me. “You ran off last night without saying goodbye, my dear. Tell me, was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  Dominic’s eyes slide from Carl, to me. Noting my scowl, he purses his lips and raises his clipboard, but not quickly enough to cover his smirk.

  Carl winks at him, as if they’re sharing some dirty little secret. “Your boss here doesn’t mind burning the midnight oil. She gave me her own little—well, let’s just call it an interrogation.” He stands up. “In fact, I think she covered all the bases. Isn’t that so, honey?”

  Glowering at Carl, I growl, “Keep going, Dominic.”

  “She says that to all the guys,” Carl assures him.

  Before I have a chance to retort, Dominic breaks in, “Let me assure you, Director, these questions are standard procedure for this audit. Your staff has answered them too.”

  “Yes, well, none of my staff had to do so in front of an ex-spouse, or listen to her ridicule.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what’s really bothering you, Carl?” I murmur under my breath.”

  Dominic’s eyes open wide. He shakes his head slightly, as if warning me, watch your step, then continues, “So, the answer is yes, to the question, ‘have you committed acts of terrorism?’”

  Carl raises a brow. “I’ve been accused of doing so, yes.” He stares right at me.

  Make that, through me.

  “The truth is that I’ve gone deep cover in a known terrorist organization,” he continues, “and I’ve paid dearly for doing so—personally, that is.”

  He’s right, but it’s too late. Carl’s chilling smile sends a shiver down my back. “But, in fact, by this time next week, all my hard work will finally be rewarded! I’ll be reunited with my children—an event I’ve been looking forward to for seven very long years.”

  Aw, hell, here we go again.

  I shake my head adamantly. “It will never happen.”

  Carl leans in. “Oh? What makes you say that?” If I could, I’d wipe the smirk off his face—with a sledgehammer.

  “Because you’re the reason for the security vulnerability in the first place. You won’t get anywhere near them because you’ll be put in jail.”

  “Are you willing to make a little wager on that—say, partial custody of Mary, Jeff and Trisha?”

  The thought stops me cold.

  But, is anything really at stake here? There must be some reason why the hacker led us to Carl’s personal laptop.

  “Be careful, Carl. There’s a witness present. You won’t be able to renege on it, as you have so many times in the past.”

  He shrugs. “All the better, because if you’re wrong, you’ll have to hold to your word too.”

  Dominic’s eyes have shifted back and forth between us, as if he’s watching a tennis match. “Donna, old girl, remember,” he murmurs to me, “Arnie’s analysis isn’t complete. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Carl has given me a chance to keep him away from my children, once and for all.

  Go for it.

  “Let’s shake on it.” I stand up, and so does Carl. I put out my hand.

  He takes it. His shake is firm. No funny business.

  Only when he tries to stifle another sneeze by reaching for his kerchief does he break his grip on me. “Damn it,” he exclaims, as he presses his phone intercom button. “Susan, I need a box of tissues—now.”

  “She left for lunch. Most people take one, you know.” I find myself feeling sorry for her. I can’t imagine what it’s like to work for Carl.

  The two raps on Carl’s office door are loud, and followed by two more. Even before Carl has an opportunity to respond, Arnie ducks his head through the door. “Pardon me! Mrs. Stone, we’ve found the computer that was the malware’s point of entry.”

  Finally! The diagnostic on Carl’s computer is completed. I smile triumphantly. “The one belonging to the director, I presume?”

  “Um…” Arnie purses his lips. “Well, no, not exactly. It was Susan’s.”

  Carl frowns. “Well, I’ll be damned! She let someone use her computer? If so, it’s a breach of protocol!”

  I turn to Carl. “Admit it—you accessed her computer without her knowledge!”

  “Good try, sweetheart,” he smirks. “But you forget one very important detail. Each of the IC computers is activated by both hand and eye scans.”

  Arnie winces. “Susan isn’t at lunch. She pulled an Elvis—that is to say, she’s already left the building. I tried texting her, but it turns out she left her cell phone on her desk. The security footage shows her driving off the lot.”

  “We’ll soon find her, and she’ll verify that she was only following your orders,” I insist.

  Despite this being a far-from-perfect scenario for Carl, he bursts out laughing. “I look forward to your full report, Arnie. I’m sure POTUS will too.” He turns to me. “And, Donna, I’ll see you and the kids this time next week.”

  I’m too numb to respond. I’m determined to wait until I’m back in my hotel room before having my breakdown.

  I must keep my mind off of my personal trauma. I turn my focus to the matter at hand: desperately seeking Susan.

  Arnie waits until Carl has shut his door, then murmurs, “The Mad Hacker left another clue—a file that was to open only if this computer was analyzed for malware.”

  He clicks open a file on Susan’s hard drive. Letters fly around, forming words that say: It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.

  “Ah! That was the White Queen,” Dominic answers, matter-of-factly.

  “You’re right.” I’ve finally found a good use for him, other than that of an extra man at a dinner party—partner in a game of Lewis Carroll Trivial Pursuit.

  Impressed, Arnie releases a low whistle, then takes a screenshot of it with his iPad, which he immediately forwards to Emma for cryptanalysis.

  Dominic bows at the acknowledgement, then, on his computer, he flips through Susan’s employment file. “It says here that she lives by herself.” He pulls up the image of a tidily kept quadplex row house, over in the Adams-Morgan area of town.

  “There’s an NSA special response team waiting for her there, but something tells me she’s long gone,” Arnie counters. “I hacked into the street security cams in and around the Liberty Crossing campus.” He positions his iPad so that we can see his download—an aerial view of the surrounding area. “When she left, she turned left, in the opposite direction on Lewinsville Road. She then went south, to get on the Dulles Access Road, going west.”

  “Does this download follow her car all the way? Did she end up at the airport?” I ask.

  “Yes. There are two multistory garages, as well as a short-term outdoor lot, and several outdoor economy lots too. By its license plate, I found the
car on Level Three of this garage.” He switches to another download, which shows the same car, coming into the garage closest to the international terminal. He switches to a security feed within the garage. We watch as she opens the driver door, then goes to the trunk and pulls out a small carry-on bag.

  “Unfortunately, here’s where we lose her. You see, there isn’t a security camera in the bridge between the garage and the terminal. And when I scan the security cams closest to the bridge entrance, she’s nowhere to be found.”

  A thought comes to me. “She didn’t disappear. She changed in a stairwell off the bridge. And she has another ID, so in essence, Susan—or whatever her real name is—has escaped.” I point to the feed. “Can you pull up timed footage from every egress and ingress to the garage, from the time she entered it?”

  Arnie nods. “The garage has four levels, all accessed by a stairwell and an elevator. Depending on whether you want to go to Departures and Ticketing or Arrivals, you’ll either get off at Level Two or Level Three, respectively.”

  The flow to and from the elevators from the garage is constant, what with families, groups of adults, and those walking alone and as couples.

  None of the women look like Susan. Many that are her height, build and age wear hats or sunglasses, or are accompanied by others.

  After staring at the feed for fifteen minutes, Dominic sighs. “She’s a smart cookie. She could have attached herself to some group, a family or a single guy, or even one of her co-conspirators. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  I’ve been staring at the screen for so long that I have to rub my eyes. “At least we have a face on the person who released the worm. But we don’t know her name, or whether she’s the Mad Hacker, or who she’s working with, if anyone, or what they’re trying to do.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Dominic asks. “They’re looking to sell state secrets.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Arnie counters. “With all the hacking that goes on these days, intel files are deliberately bugged by our own programmers, so that those who take our files are infected with trackers, not to mention our own little ghastly surprises.” He hesitates, then adds, “Frankly, I’m still not convinced the Mad Hacker is the culprit. But if the goal is a covert sale of intel, why leave clues that the break-in occurred in the first place? And why even hint at a Doomsday scenario if he isn’t carrying through with one?”