The Housewife Assassin's Killer App

by Josie Brown

  “You’re making it all up, Jeff!” Mary looks up from her pancakes. Despite a frosty nod good morning to Jack, Aunt Phyllis, and me when she came down for breakfast, this is the first she’s spoken.

  “No, I’m not! It’s all right there, on the Internet.”

  “Only idiots believe everything they read on the ’net,” Mary says coldly.

  Jeff sticks out his tongue at her. “There were a slew of real news articles on him—around the time he was appointed by President Chiffray,” he insists.

  “He knows Janie’s daddy?” Trisha says through a mouthful of pancakes.

  “Yeah. Supposedly they’re tight bros,” Jeff proclaims.

  Jack shifts his gaze in my direction and mouths I told you so.

  I shake my head adamantly at him.

  “But only one journalist picked up on the terrorist angle,” Jeff continues. “He writes for something called the Clark Kent League.”

  At the same time, Jack and I bolt up in our seats.

  Operation Clark Kent.

  Mary drops her fork with a clatter. “Big deal! So some lousy little website is making up bullshit about him—”

  “Mary, watch your mouth,” I warn her.

  Her eyes slice me like daggers before she turns her wrath on Jeff. “What about the New York Times? What about the Washington Post?”

  “They aren’t part of the free press anymore,” Jeff declares. “Their editors have to answer to corporate stockholders. Their management peddles influence with Washington insiders—”

  “You’re being mean about him because you can’t remember him!” Mary points upstairs. “He’s the one who left you all those baseball trophies in your room, remember?”

  “He left me his old trophies—so what?” Jeff shouts. “Where was he for all my ballgames? I have my own trophies, thanks to…Jack!”

  The look of appreciation he exchanges with the man I love is one I’ll always remember.

  Mary glares at her brother. Still, she can’t argue with the truth. Instead, she shrugs and mutters under her breath, “You’re so full of shit.”

  “I said that’s enough, Mary!” I slam the table with my fist. “Or else I’m grounding you for the entire weekend!”

  “You can’t,” Mary proclaims supremely. “Father will be here any moment to pick us up. He called my cell, right before breakfast. He said he’d like to take us to the Santa Monica Pier, then to eat pizza, then to see the newest Avenger movie. In fact, there he is now.” She points to the back door.

  Carl knocks once before opening the door. “What a beautiful morning! Everyone ready to go?”

  I toss down my napkin and head for the door, pulling him outside with me. “How dare you! Why did you call Mary instead of me?”

  “After the greeting I got yesterday?” He shakes his head. “Not on your life!”

  “No one told you to break and enter my home. You could have waited on the front stoop,” I say coolly. “For all I know, you went and planted booby-traps all over the place.”

  He frowns. “My kids live here too, remember? Look, we can stand out here all morning and give your nosy neighbors something to talk about, or I can hit the road with the children. Your choice.”

  Hit the road with the children…

  My heart lurches in my chest at the thought of him taking them away from me forever.

  He must realize this because he mutters, “Don’t worry. I’ll have them home in time for dinner. When it comes to the kids, I’m sticking to the letter of the law.” Noting my questioning stare, he adds, “I’d advise you to do the same. Don’t forget, custody is a two-way street. There are just as many unfit mothers as there are deadbeat dads.”

  What the hell does he mean by that?

  He opens the door again. “Come on, boy and girls, let’s hit the pier!”

  Mary already has her purse in hand, and is walking our way. Jeff and Trisha haven’t moved. They’re waiting for some signal from me that it’s okay.

  I nod toward Carl. “Have fun, children. But stick together, and take your cell phones with you.” In case you have the urge to run away and need me to come get you.

  Trisha treads heavily, like a condemned prisoner on the way to the gallows. As she walks past me, she murmurs, “But…but I don’t want to go with him! I want to stay here with Real Daddy.”

  Mary sighs. “That’s the whole point, Trisha. He is our real daddy.”

  The look on Jack’s face breaks my heart.

  I walk through the kitchen to the dining room. I don’t want to cry in front of the children, and certainly not in front of Jack.

  As I watch the children get into Carl’s rental car, I feel Jack’s presence beside me. When he puts a hand on my shoulder, I lean back into him. His other hand pulls me close, so that he can wrap his arm around my waist.

  I tune out the neighborhood white noise and silence my thoughts, straining for the one thing I long to hear: his heart, beating in unison with mine.

  He nuzzles my ear, then whispers, “Mary doesn’t hate me. She’s just confused. She feels guilty for having feelings for me. I understand it. Hopefully she’ll accept them, and realize I care about her, too, despite the fact that I’m not her biological father.”

  I sigh. “I know, you’re right.”

  “The upside of having Carl look after the children for the day is that he should be too busy to take over the world.” The smile on his face can’t mask the sadness in his eyes.

  My attempt at a laugh is weak at best. “It also gives us a few hours to try to stop him.”

  If, in fact, the Mad Hacker is right about him.

  I miss my old friend. He better show up soon, because we’re running out of clues.

  Emma greets us the second we walk through the door. “Welcome back—alive, at that.”

  I hug her. “Thanks to you! Although, I have to say, I would have personally never considered a fondue pot and bug spray for weaponry. You certainly thought things through.”

  “Part of the fun of the game is how everyday household goods can be used to protect yourself,” Emma explains. “And by the way, since your demonstration at Wonder-Con, subscriptions for the game are through the roof. Glad I bought stock when I did.”

  “Too bad you resigned and can’t collect your bonus,” Abu says mournfully. “Which would have meant I could collect one too.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have another chance to place her again,” Ryan assures him. “Donna, Arnie cracked the password on the game key. It was meant for Milton Otis, the elusive trillionaire. His plane was delayed. By the time he made it to Wonder-Con, Roger was already dead.”

  “How does Otis make his money?” Jack asks.

  “His conglomerate, i.Me, is the world’s largest developer of AI-enhanced operating systems,” Arnie explains. “The latest version is awesome! Through artificial intelligence, it seems to anticipate your every need—almost as if it can read your mind. Otis licenses the rights to cell phone and computer manufacturers. The man is a visionary! A genius! He’s O, Captain! my Captain—”

  “Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Emma mutters. “Just thinking about him gives you a brogasm.”

  “Has the cryptography team been able to break the password to see what’s on the key?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, it can only be accessed via thumb print verification. I presume that all the keys have the same security function.” Ryan rubs the weariness from his eyes. “Otis is such a recluse that he comes in just once a month, from Bermuda, where he keeps his primary residence.”

  Dominic shrugs. “And all of his money, I presume. No personal income tax.”

  “Whereas he keeps his corporate headquarters stateside—near here, in Santa Monica’s Silicon Beach—since our government provides enough tax shelters and loopholes to offset the astronomical earnings,” Emma mutters.

  “Considering our dilemma, the fact that he’s in town now works to our favor. He’ll be in the office on Tuesday—which means Donna will be infiltratin
g i.Me as soon as possible. You’ll need to get his fingerprint on a glass surface. If you can’t get him to drink a glass of water or soda, get him to touch your iPad screen because that will do.”

  “Doesn’t he have a personal assistant?” I ask.

  “We’ll make sure she’s sick enough that she can’t make it into the office over the next week. i.Me’s Human Resources Department will place a floater from the Executive Assistant Pool to sit in for her. Your interview, under the name of Daisy Bell, takes place tomorrow—Monday. You’ll be a shoo-in since whatever she’s caught will be widespread enough to affect the other floaters in the executive pool. In the meantime, Emma can block any resumes to i.Me HR that look more qualified than yours. Once you’re at his side, you’ll lift his thumb print from anything with a glass, ceramic, or metal surface, such as a glass of water, coffee mug, glass-top desk, or a door knob. Arnie put together a little makeup compact that’s got what you need: bi-chromatic powder, lifting tape, and a brush.”

  Arnie tosses me the compact. It’s embossed with a Rave-On logo.

  “Has the cryptography team made any more headway with the other clues left by the Mad Hacker?” Jack asks.

  “I’m working on a theory,” Emma assures him. “You see, Lewis Carroll—his real name was Charles Dodgson—was a mathematician by trade, and also published a book on the use of Vigenèr ciphers.”

  I shake my head, confused. “How are they solved?”

  “A cryptic alphabet table is constructed by shifting the real alphabet letter by one space or more so that it represents all twenty-six letters of the alphabet, depending on where it is placed within the coded message. For example, say, your key is the eight-letter word ‘tropical,’ and the message to relay is ‘meet me at ten tonight.’

  She writes the sentence on the whiteboard.

  Next, she writes the keyword above it:

  T R O P I C A L T R O P I C A L T R

  M E E T M E A T T E N T O N I G H T

  “In other words, if you don’t know the key words or phrases in the first place, you’d have a heck of a time translating the message,” I point out.

  Emma nods. “Exactly. The cryptography team is still analyzing the three Wonderland excerpts that were originally planted in the IC database and led to the discovery. As you can imagine, without already knowing the key, it’s an arduous process. Some of the team is guessing the key, but others are working on an algorithm that will pick up on patterns.”

  “But, if you crack it, we’ll know when all of this goes down,” Jack murmurs.

  Ryan nods “Let’s pray we’re able to do so, because our attempt to chase down the other three keys was a bust too. Although our facial recognition software easily identified each of the other recipients, it turns out all of them are international messengers. They flew out of the LA metroplex within a few hours of receiving the keys.”

  I ask, “Do we know where they went afterward?”

  “All over the world, by private jets,” Arnie answers. “Final destinations were China, Russia, and Dubai. Their line of work makes it virtually impossible to trace who they were working for, and the one political entity with which we have an extradition agreement—Dubai—somehow let him slip through.”

  “Not surprising,” Dominic mutters. “It’s easy to grease palms, if you work for the right people.”

  “I wonder if the game keys were the real reason Carl came to town,” Jack suggests.

  I’m thinking the same thing. “And, if so, did he know the only VIP who attempted to pick it up in person was a no-show?”

  I hope he doesn’t find out until I have a chance to get the one other thing we need from Milton Otis—his fingerprint.

  “If you rub that teaspoon any harder, you’ll break it in half,” Jack warns me.

  “Oh…sorry. I guess I’m just nervous.” What he doesn’t know is that this is third time I’ve polished each piece of silverware in the set.

  The children are due back any time now. Still, I’d hoped Carl would get bored with them and drop them home earlier than expected.

  I glance up at the grandfather clock. Am I imagining things, or has it quit working? It seems as if its arms haven’t moved in at least a half-hour.

  We got back to the house at least two hours prior to when Carl was supposed to return with the children. To keep myself occupied, I baked. Mary loves coconut cake. Trisha loves cupcake-sized strawberry shortcakes. For Jeff, I made double chocolate brownies.

  Will all this sweetness make yesterday’s confession go down any easier? Will each bite bring me any closer to their forgiveness for my deception? I doubt it.

  To top it off, I’m leading them down the path to serious tooth decay.

  Mary is right—I’m a lousy mother.

  Now that their goodies are cooling on the counter, I’ve hit on a task that puts me closer to a front window: polishing the silver at the dining room table. Every time I hear a car go down the street, I spring up like a jack-in-the-box. If Carl is even one minute late, I’m demanding that Ryan put out an All Points Bulletin on him, and I’ll give Arnie the car’s license plate so that he can do a satellite search of it, along with facial recognition on all air and train transportation.

  “You know, a watched pot never boils.” Jack’s admonishment is delivered with a kiss on the forehead.

  And an ex can be anywhere in the world with your children with a full-day head start.

  Note to self: next time Carl is drugged and in your possession, embed a GPS tracker in his ass cheek.

  I hear a car screeching into the driveway. The windows are so dark that, until Carl rolls down the one on the driver’s side, I can’t verify that, yes, it’s him.

  I open the front door, smiling. Really, I’m gritting my teeth.

  The children tumble out of the back seat with loads of shopping bags. Mary and Jeff’s bags have logos from Forever 21, Gap, American Apparel, and the Apple store. I get barely a cursory nod from them as they enter the house. Instead of being elated at all their swag, they look sad.

  Hmmm. Obviously, something didn’t go as planned.

  Most of Trisha’s bags are from Toys R Us. But from the look on Trisha’s face, Carl’s generosity didn’t work on her either.

  Instead of driving off, Carl has the audacity to saunter into the house too. When he waves from the foyer, I growl, “I guess a pizza, a movie, and a few rides weren’t enough to buy their love.”

  “Let’s just say I’m making up for lost time.” His eyes shift to Jack. “And, besides, you’ve been raising them on a single mom’s salary. So what if they have a treat every now and then.”

  Jack’s eyes narrow. “I’m not squatting here, you deadbeat son of a bitch. By the way, my paycheck makes the mortgage for a house that’s still half in your name. But I’m sure your attorney will want to hammer out a fair and equitable back-payment deal with Donna. Not that you can buy her off for all the pain and heartache you caused her. ”

  Carl curls his fists.

  Now all eyes are on them.

  Carl relaxes his hands. “Sorry, kids, no fireworks today.”

  He heads for the door. When he reaches the threshold, he turns back around. “Oh yeah, by the way, Donna, I’ll be heading out tomorrow in the afternoon. I promised the kids I’d take them to IHOP in the morning for breakfast, so we can spend a few more hours together.”

  I frown. “We had pancakes this morning—Saturday. It’s our tradition—but just once in the week. I don’t like them to have a sugary breakfast too often.”

  He shrugs. “Time for some new traditions. Daddy’s back in town.”

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

  “Part of parenting is for one parent to respect the rules of the other,” I insist.

  “Fair enough. Bacon and eggs then—at my place. Would you mind dropping them off? I’ve rented a place in Newport Beach. Of course, I’ll drive them back before I hit the airport.”

  I hadn’t realized that Trisha was standing behind me unt
il she steps forward with the bag of toys. She reaches up to offer them to Carl. “Excuse me, Mr. Daddy, is your girlfriend going to be there too?”

  “Your girlfriend?” I turn to Carl. “What is Trisha talking about?”

  Carl shrugs. “My date for tonight came over earlier than expected. What’s the big deal?”

  “You were adamant about spending quality time with your children—that’s the big deal. And then you let the kids go shopping on their own?”

  “Sure. They’re old enough.”

  “In other words, you handed them a credit card and told them to go to town with it?”

  “Don’t worry, I gave them a limit. Jeff went over it, but I expected that.” He winks at me. “A chip off the old block, that one.”

  “How could you? My God, Carl, what if—what if one of them had been abducted?”

  “You and I would have tracked down the SOB and tortured him. All in a day’s work,” he smirks.

  “And putting our children through that trauma—is that all in a day’s work too?”

  “Donna, calm down! Nothing happened, okay?” He rolls his eyes. “Jeez, Mary is right about you.”

  “Oh? What did she say?”

  “Major trust issues.” He clucks his tongue sympathetically.

  “Gee, I wonder why.” Calm down. He’s trying to provoke you.

  Trisha pats my hand to calm me down. “Mommy, it’s okay! The naked lady didn’t come with us to the store. She stayed home with Daddy, in his room.”

  “‘Naked lady?’” I stare down at her, then at Carl. “What is she talking about?”

  He glares at Trisha. “After their shopping spree, our little girl here happened to walk into the bedroom when my date and I were…well, let’s just say Trisha had her first class in Sex Ed.”

  Ashamed, Trisha looks down at her feet. “I didn’t mean to. I was looking for the bathroom.”

  Jeff snickers. Mary pokes him in the ribs. A tear rolls down Trisha’s face.

  “Mary, I’ve made everyone’s favorite desserts, including Trisha’s—strawberry shortcake. Why don’t you take her into the kitchen for a piece?” I ask sweetly, but my children recognize my tone of voice and they skedaddle.