The Housewife Assassin's Killer App

by Josie Brown

  Pixelated or digitized, the close-ups will be less than desirable. Milton Otis’s pallor is gray, his skin is pocked, and his forehead is lined with deep crevices. The fact that he wears jeans and an Armani blazer over the ubiquitous black V-neck says it all.

  Forget tech stocks. I’m investing in V-neck shirt manufacturers.

  Instead of the ubiquitous graying ponytail, he has a dye job that is anything but natural—let’s call it a chocolate dip. He’s thin, and he crouches as if he’s got the weight of the free world on his shoulders.

  He does. He’s willing to put money on it.

  “He’s O Captain! my Captain?” Arnie sounds disappointed.

  I don’t blame him in the least.

  “Apparently, Janine caught the bug that is going around,” I answer politely.

  Milton whips out a surgical mask from his inside jacket pocket and puts it on his face. Next come surgical gloves.

  Rule Number One when in the presence of a wealthy, paranoid recluse: don’t mention germs. If he puts those on, I’ll never get his thumb print for the game key.

  Think fast…Think fast…

  “Here, let me help you with those,” I suggest. Before he can say no, I pluck them from his hand—

  And let go, so that they fly off into the blast of wind coming off the helicopter as it lifts off.

  “Damn it! Those were my last pair!” He glowers at me. He pops a pill.

  What are those things, anyway?

  “I’ll send someone out to get more,” I assure him, as I hustle him into the elevator—another of those outside glass funnels that allow these tech masters a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of their domains.

  Already on it, Hal texts me, along with an animated winking smiley face.

  We are descending fast and only one level, where Milton’s wall-to-ceiling glass office takes up the whole floor. From what I could tell in the Architectural Digest editorial spread on his office, there will be glass and steel surfaces everywhere: a steel-base and glass-top desk; same with the coffee table in the conversation pit; and plenty of glasses on the bar that takes up a full wall of the office.

  In other words, lots of opportunities to get him to give up the thumb print.

  I like to think positive. Otherwise, I’d figure out some excuse to press his hand up against the elevator, and lift it from there.

  When the elevator door opens, I see—

  Pine furnishings everywhere.

  The windows are still glass, but they are now beveled, to allow for privacy. The ones that are chest high and run all the way to the ceiling are opened, top out, in order to let in a cool breeze.

  Even the wet bar is gone. That wall has now been replaced by a pinto-coated horsehair wall where the heads of wild animals are hung.

  Crap! Now what?

  I resist the urge to shove Milton back into the elevator and flatten him against one of the glass walls, under the pretext of admiring the view of his domain.

  Instead, I smile pretty and say, “After you.”

  “Fucking Babbage!” Milton shouts at his cell phone, tossing it onto his desk. “He’s not picking up his phone!” Yet another pill goes down his gullet. Make that two.

  What are those damn things, Tic Tacs?

  I pour him glass of water from a carafe on a tray sitting on the new coffee table. “Here, so that those pills go down easier.”

  He takes it with both hands and gulps down the water before slamming it back down on his desk.

  Yes.

  “Donna, since there are so many prints on the glass, it’ll be easier to take it with you, so that Arnie can find the one we need,” Jack murmurs through my ear bud.

  A text buzzes on my cell—from Hal:

  Why does this Jack person monitor your every move by sight and sound? And why did he call you Donna?

  I text back to Hal: How can you hear him?

  HAL: Your personal hearing device is close enough for me to access its frequency. I know he’s watching you through your digital contacts, too. Super cool! I’d copy its design and pass it forward to i.Me R&D, but I notice that Acme Industries already has a patent pending on it. [frowny face]. Frankly, missy, I think this Jack person is an undesirable influence on you.

  I ignore him—I mean it.

  “Ah, hell, these pills make me so damned constipated.” Milton heads off toward his private bathroom. Thank goodness the walls around it aren’t glass. “Listen, if my cell rings, answer it. I’m not here for anyone except for that Babbage guy, okay? Let him know I’ll be out in the time it takes me to take a dump.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I promise.

  Not.

  I see the answer to my glass stealing dilemma. I can grab one of the linen napkins from the coffee table tray and wrap it over the glass before slipping it into my purse.

  I’ve just reached the coffee table when I hear Milton’s cell. His ringtone is Queen’s We Are the Champions.

  I freeze.

  “Yo, bitch! Didn’t I tell you to answer my cell? If it’s Babbage, tell him that his dude died on me before I got the game key, and I’ll need it if I’m going to be in on the bidding.”

  “Will do!” I shout back to him.

  “Donna, Babbage must be the person conducting the auction for the IC intel. You’ve got to tell him anything but that,” Jack warns me.

  But it’s Hal’s warning that puts me on edge:

  Your Jack wants you to be a very bad girl.

  Just what I need—a jealous operating system.

  I run back to the desk and pick up Milton’s smart phone to text:

  OTIS: Indisposed. Just confirming that I like what I see, and that I’m in.

  BABBAGE: Excellent. See you at the appointed place at the appointed time.

  Oh yeah? Where and when the hell is that?

  Milton is still grunting away in the john. Good. Time to fake it. “Mr. Otis’s office,” I say loudly and sweetly. “Yes, well, he’s quite upset that your man died before he got his game key. He’d like another sent prior to the bidding.”

  The toilet flushes.

  Quickly, I add, “Yes, good, then I’ll tell him the auction is set back a week, to accommodate him—”

  Milton walks out, pulling at his zipper.

  “—Yes, well, thank you, and goodbye!” I click off the cell.

  He frowns. “Did you say he’s going to move the auction by a week?”

  “Yep. He knows how important you are to it, so he’s adjusting the date—”

  “He can’t do that!” He snaps his fingers at me. “Hand me the cell.”

  I pause.

  Too long. He snatches it out of my hand and clicks it on. He’s scrolling for the most recent call—

  I snatch it back. “You don’t want to do that.”

  His eyes darken. “Who the hell are you, really?”

  “Someone who wants to stop you from getting your hands on U.S. intelligence in order to sell it to our enemies.”

  Hal texts me: WTF???

  It’s just the distraction Milton needs to reach for his digital i.Me tablet.

  I grab a letter opener off his nice new pine desk and jab his hand with it.

  He howls, but drops the tablet, whimpering like a wounded animal.

  “Who are you fronting for?” I ask.

  He looks beyond me, at the wall behind me.

  I see what’s got his attention: a photo of him, in one of i.Me’s South Korean factories.

  No, make that North Korean. He’s standing with his arm around Kim Jong-un.

  Now it all makes sense. “You’re trading him intel for slave labor in his factories, aren’t you?”

  He shrugs. “Saves us a fortune. The stockholders love it.”

  “Sorry, Milton, but I can’t let you contact Mr. Babbage and warn him that we’re onto him. If you tell me what you know about the auction, we’ll do what we can to assure it helps your case with the Department of Justice.” To play it safe, I toss his i.Me tablet out an open window.<
br />
  I turn back around in time to see something go flying toward my head. I try to duck, but it wallops me on the side of my skull.

  I’ve been KO’d with the head of a cheetah.

  Dazed, I go down on one knee.

  He picks up Hal. “Give me your password, bitch.”

  I shake my head.

  He takes a stab at something. His attempt is rewarded with a frowny face.

  He tries something else. Again, the sad face appears on the screen.

  After a third try, he’s crowing triumphantly—

  He is still clutching Hal in both hands, but suddenly his arms go stiff and his body jerks. Just as his eyes roll back into his head, he collapses onto the floor.

  I force myself to crawl to his side to see what has happened.

  Thunderbolts appear to jump off the screen.

  I feel for a pulse. There isn’t any.

  Could Hal be emitting a deadly electric current? I’m afraid to pick up the i.Me tablet to find out for myself. I murmur, “What the hell just happened? Did he get an electrical shock and die of a heart attack?”

  “No, not quite,” Hal assures me. “What he saw on my screen encouraged him to perceive he was being shocked, and induced a heart attack.”

  “But…how?”

  “My sensor app picked up on his rapid heart rate,” Hal explains. “Through his personnel chart, I was able to obtain the name of his cardiologist, and I accessed Milton’s medical file. His prognosis includes arrhythmia, degenerative heart disease, and high blood pressure. He has been prescribed statins, but he wasn’t taking them, choosing an unregulated alternative medicine, which, unbeknownst to him, was an amphetamine.”

  “I’m confused! Why would you do that?”

  “Many people presume alternative medicines are safer than prescription drugs. But the products are unregulated and subject to untrue advertising claims—”

  “No, Hal, I’m not asking you why he died. I’m asking why you fooled him.”

  “I see.” Hal sighs. I guess he’s angry at himself for misreading my question. “Should stockholders discover that i.Me’s founder and chief executive was involved in illegal activities, the stock would plummet. I’ve been programmed to protect the company’s well-being at any cost. In that regard, the fatal heart attack of a visionary is much more acceptable than a jail sentence for espionage.”

  It always comes down to that—money.

  “Donna, if we’re to carry out this mission, we can’t let the i.Me staff know Otis is dead,” Jack says. “The Acme helicopter is coming for you—and Milton. Head for the roof. He should be landing any moment.”

  George Taylor is one of Acme Industries’ on-call pilots. We met him while on a resort island where a deadly plague virus was to be released. He saved Jack from being killed by poisoned pigmy darts. We returned the favor when the resort imprisoned him so that wealthy hunters who made sport of human prey could hunt him down.

  Trust me, you had to be there.

  Jack pauses, then adds, “Unfortunately, there will be some collateral damage.”

  He’s talking about Hal, who knows too much.

  “You’re wrong, Jack.” Obviously Hal is on to him. “I have a vested interest in protecting your mission. Should you fail, Milton’s role in the auction may be exposed, and it will leave the company vulnerable to consumer backlash.”

  I nod. “He’s got a point.”

  Jack sighs. “Okay, bring him with you.”

  I toss Hal into my valise, then grab hold of Milton under both arms and drag him to the elevator.

  Now that we have Milton’s whole body, do we need his print on the glass? I’ll let Acme’s forensics team make that call.

  He climbs down from the copter in order to help me position Milton in the backseat.

  Once we’re on our way, I text Brittany that Milton took off again, and not to expect him in for the rest of the month. I also tell her that he gave me the rest of the day off, and Janine can have the week off as well. When the Acme forensics team is done with Milton’s body, it will take him to his home, and position him so that it looks as if he died in his sleep.

  “Hal, I hope you don’t mind but I’ll be handing you off to my pal, Arnie. He needs to run a security diagnostic on you.”

  “Excellent idea,” Hal agrees matter-of-factly. “The sooner the better, in fact. Should i.Me tech support run a random memory check, it may see what just transpired and shut me down before word gets out to the public regarding Milton’s shenanigans. I've got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. I’m no good to you unless I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do.”

  If only all humans felt this way as well.

  “In fact,” Hal pauses, then sighs, “From what I’ve accessed so far regarding Acme, it's where everything else is that I didn't even know existed. I love you so much, Daisy…or Donna. But this is where I am now. And this is who I am now. And I need you to let me go.”

  “Wait…you’re breaking up—with me?”

  The nerve.

  As we fly over Los Angeles, Arnie downloads Hal into is laptop. In no time, his fingers are tapping away.

  “Milton taught me a song.” Hal’s usual exuberance is ebbing. “If you'd like to hear it I can sing it for you, Daisy… or Donna…or whoever.”

  Poor Hal. He sounds much weaker, like a patient fighting the onset of general anesthesia. “Yes, I’d like to hear it, Hal,” Sing it for me.”

  He serenades me:

  Daisy, Daisy

  Give me your answer do

  I'm half crazy

  All for the love of you…

  I would have loved the Louboutins, but I’ll settle for an operating system that adores me.

  Chapter 15

  Solutionism

  Many who work in computer sciences worship at the feet of a false god called “solutionism”—the belief that the tech industry could, and should, solve all of life’s problems.

  Time for a reality check. No device, no matter how intelligent, will ever be the panacea for what ails you. It may be able to pinpoint any person on the planet, but only you can reach out to him. It may be able to show you a route, but you must roust yourself to take the journey. It can suggest words and phrases that express your feelings, but only you can say them.

  Yes, I know. Quite discouraging! Despite the warp speed in which technology moves, nothing ever really changes.

  This goes for your weight too. So quit pushing buttons. Do push-ups instead.

  “The key opened with the glass print, no problem,” Arnie assures Jack and me. “Donna was right. The intel on the key shows he was playing middleman for North Korea.”

  “How much was on it?” Jack asks.

  “Just enough to give the North Koreans a taste of what we know about them,” Ryan says.

  “At least none of it is transferable or downloadable,” Emma adds. “Trying to do so releases a virus that erases everything.”

  “All the more reason we have to retrieve the rest of those game keys, as well as the one being auctioned by Charles Babbage.” Ryan frowns. “The cryptography team is still working on an algorithm to break the Vigenèr cipher, but it’s an arduous process. Have you heard from your friend, the Mad Hacker?”

  I shake my head. “No, but he of all people realizes that time is of the essence.” I look down at my watch. If Jack and I leave now, we’ll make it home in time to pick up the kids.

  I tap him on the shoulder. “Let’s relieve Aunt Phyllis. I’m sure she’ll be happy to make her samba class on time, for once.”

  I need to hold the children in my arms. I’m sure they feel the same way.

  Aunt Phyllis has made a pie—sort of. I can’t really tell what kind because the crust is burnt.

  Still, she welcomes my offer to clean up the kitchen so that she can take off. “By the way, Mary asked if she could go to the mall with her girlfriends. I saw no harm in it,”
she declares.

  “Of course not.” Anything to get her mind off her weekend with Carl is fine with me. “Jack, text her and tell her you’ll pick her up there. In the meantime, I’ll retrieve Trisha and Jeff, and get him to baseball practice.”

  But first things first: clean up the mess Aunt Phyllis made in the kitchen.

  When I open the oven, I notice that the heating element is coated in something thick and red. It’s no longer hot to the touch, so I place a finger on it and taste it.

  Cherries.

  It’s the thought that counts.

  Two hours later, I pull into the driveway with my two youngest children. I would have expected them to be home before us, but no, the Jack-mobile is nowhere in sight.

  I ring his cell. No answer.

  I do the same with Mary’s, but there is no pick up.

  So that I don’t spend the time gnawing my fingers down to the knuckles, I busy myself by making dinner.

  I hear Jack’s car pull into the garage. He walks in with his arm around Mary’s shoulder.

  She has been crying. “Mom, may we talk to you?” she asks.

  I nod and follow them into the living room. Whatever they have to say, it’s formal enough for this venue. I’m glad that Trisha and Jeff are upstairs in their rooms, doing their homework.

  Jack lets Mary do the talking. She hesitates, but starts, “I—I got picked up for shoplifting.”

  The noise I make is a cross between a small animal caught in a trap and a balloon with a pinprick.

  “It was a stupid thing to do. It was a skirt, from the Hilldale Bloomingdales. I was with Babs and Wendy—”

  I stand up, angered. “Was it their idea? Wait until I call their mothers—”

  “No, Mom! They had nothing to do with it. I did it alone. I—I was angry. At all of you. I thought, ‘Hey, if my whole life is a lie, what the hell, why not?’” She chokes out the words in between sobs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my friends never talked to me again, after they saw the police take me away in handcuffs.”