She didn’t answer, but that was really the only explanation.
“Which government do you work for? Please tell me so I can make sure I don’t reside in the country you three are protecting. You drug an innocent citizen, slap her around, then ruin her hair. Hell of a thing.”
Mystery Woman smiled at the hair bit. Either she was coming around to my way of thinking, or she’d figured out how she wanted to kill me. “What did you want with Aziza?” she asked.
“To smooth over a prickly family situation. Her uncle is our partner in this property, a minority partner. Her father is much more powerful. The Saudis take a dim view of the Royal family’s females taking jobs.”
“That was it?” My answer left her a bit slack-jawed.
“All the glamour in my job is in my title. I showed you mine. Now it’s your turn. Which government?”
She glanced at the green-eyed dude. “Black ops, on hire to the CIA.”
My turn to be a bit slack-jawed. “And Aziza?” What had the girl gotten herself into?
The Mystery Woman clammed up. “Need-to-know basis.”
“Oh, I need to know. You need me to know. She was killed in my hotel. I have eyes and ears there who would never spill their guts to you.” I stopped, worried I was overplaying.
“Okay. I’m Donna, this is Jack.” She nudged Green Eyes in the ribs. “My husband.”
“Lucky’s taken,” Dominic added. “Not to worry.”
They both turned and gave him a long stare.
“Her fiancé?” He reddened under their gaze. “I’m sure you caught her ring,” he stammered, looking oddly uncomfortable.
Donna turned back to me. Hooking a thumb over her shoulder, she said, “You know the comic relief. Former MI6, he’s with us now.”
“And Nigel?”
“Aziza’s handler.” Jack said. “She was supposed to pass some intel to Donna.”
“Some info about a money trail, I’m guessing? And you thought it flowed through my property?”
“Still not sure it didn’t.” Donna stuck to her original theory.
“Gaming is the most regulated industry on the planet. If anyone wants to launder money through a casino, Macau is your spot. Not here and most assuredly not in the U.S.”
She didn’t quite let go of her theory, but my logic seemed to be prying her mental fingers from it. “So how do we know you’re legit? Got anyone we’d believe who can vouch for you?”
In this little game of one-upmanship, I held the ace. “Would your Director do? Or perhaps POTUS?”
My merry band of government morons scoffed at me.
“Untie me. Give me the phone.” If they bit, it would give me a chance to check their bona fides as well.
With only a moment’s hesitation, Jack did as I demanded.
I circled my hands working my wrists, but it still took a bit for the blood flow to hit and enough feeling to return for me to keep hold of the phone.
The Big Boss answered on the first ring. “Lucky! What is going on? Are you okay? Sheik Ben is apoplectic. You were to keep him happy. No one can find you.”
“I’m fine. Things are a bit out of hand. I need a favor.” I cupped my hand around the phone and posed a question to the three in front of me. “Which will it be? The DIO or POTUS?”
18
Donna
“Hey, so, we have a wee bit of a situation.” I applaud Jack’s opening line to Ryan. Coupled with his calm tone of voice, it wouldn’t set off any alarms for the average person.
However, Ryan knows us too well to hear this as anything other than “WE MAY BE IN THE MIDDLE OF A SHITSTORM.”
Ryan sighs. “How can I help?”
“Can you arrange a conference call with DIO Branham? The prime suspect has indicated that he can verify her bona fides. We feel it might be useful before proceeding with the interrogation.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Lucky declares.
Jack holds up an index finger to silence her, but he’s grinning too. She may think she’s goading him, but she doesn’t know him like I do. As an interrogation tactic, he always views torture as a last resort. That goes double in this sort of case, where there is a good amount of circumstantial evidence against Lucky but no hard proof. If she’s involved in any way, he hopes to scare the information out of her before he turns the screws on her, literally.
“Of course. I’ll contact him now. Stand by.” Ryan puts the call on hold.
By now, Abu and Arnie have joined us here in Dominic’s playpen. Everyone waits silently. Jack and Abu’s faces are blandly unreadable. I’d like to think mine is too. Dominic purses his lips. His eyes, limpid with love, have yet to leave Lucky’s face.
On the other hand, our prisoner shifts her angry gaze to each of us. When her eyes reach Dominic, they narrow. Disdain weighs on the corners of her mouth, pushing them downward into a grimace.
Even if she’s cleared, I doubt he’ll be able to convince her that he has always had her—and our country’s—best interests at heart.
Lucky glances at Arnie, who is roaming the room. Every now and then something will grab his attention and we’ll hear his low whistle or a shocked guffaw. But then his attempt to straddle a sex swing results in a back flip that entangles him in the leather straps, almost strangling him.
Lucky rolls her eyes. “Can someone help the pudgy guy out of that contraption? I’d hate to take the heat for yet one more agent’s death.”
Abu groans, but walks over anyway. After perusing the situation, he pulls a lever. Arnie falls to the floor with a yelp.
Seeing Jack’s smile, Lucky allows herself a ghost of a grin.
She may not know it yet, but I pray that Branham will clear her. Having Lucky working with us may make all the difference in how quickly we find Aziza’s killer, not to mention the cipher to break open her intel. That way neither Aziza nor Nigel will have died in vain.
“Who are you holding again?” Director of Intelligence Marcus Branham’s question to Jack comes after a long pause and in a measured tone.
I can’t tell if his question means he’s never heard of her, or that it’s a bad phone connection, or that he’s incredulous that we’d do such a thing to Ms. Lucky O’Toole.
The first scenario gets her a bullet behind the ear and a burial at sea for being such an audacious liar. We’ll know if it’s the second one as soon as Jack repeats her name yet again.
If by some twisted fickle finger of fate it’s the third scenario and Lucky O’Toole is just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time caught on video saying and doing the wrong things, well then I guess Acme will get a verbal whuppin’.
I get my answer when Branham angrily sputters, “Is this some kind of joke? Ms. O’Toole is anything but a foreign agent! In fact, she was instrumental in alerting the FBI to a major money laundering operation in Macau. Not to mention that Ms. O’Toole’s father, Albert Rothstein, is a valued member of POTUS’s kitchen cabinet—and a generous donor to both political parties.”
Oh…Shit. Our bad.
“Ah, good to know,” Jack murmurs.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Lucky retorts.
“Ms. O’Toole, my personal apology. I only hope Acme is treating you with kid gloves.” Branham’s growl isn’t just a warning. Inquiring minds—his and Ryan’s—want to know if our interrogation efforts already crossed a line.
Gulp.
At the very least, Acme owes Lucky a spa day. Or a bottle of epic Champagne.
But from the gleam in Lucky’s eyes, I doubt she’ll feel that the Relax & De-Stress Lifestyle Programme at the Corinthia would even the score.
I hold my breath as Lucky replies, “Director Branham, albeit in a somewhat unconventional manner, Acme is pulling out all stops to find the killers of your operatives, who were also valued Babylon employees. I’m pissed as hell over Aziza’s death.” She pauses. “And Nigel’s murder hurts too. My staff will feel the same way. We will do our best to pool resources with Acme a
nd find the perpetrators.” Lucky’s vow is so adamant that the few droplets still clinging to her hair from Jack’s bucket-in-the-face wake-up call fall as she speaks.
Branham says nothing. Finally: “Thank you for forgiving this, er, misunderstanding, Ms. O’Toole. To those with no more than a passing knowledge of covert operations, Acme’s methods may indeed seem unorthodox. However, they are not unique, nor disingenuous, to field operatives in the intelligence community. The Craigs’ mission is sanctioned by me and by the President. That said, they’re to use whatever tactics they feel necessary—without anyone’s judgment.”
The bluntness of Branham’s declaration gives Lucky reason to wince.
“I appreciate your help, Lucky,” Branham adds, “and I’m sure Acme does as well.”
“Very much so,” Ryan murmurs. “Thanks for your time, Director.”
We hear a faint click as Branham hangs up.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have your marching orders,” Ryan warns us. “Now, play nicely.”
The line goes dead.
I nudge Jack to untie Lucky.
He does so, quickly.
Lucky smiles sweetly as she nods her thanks—
But then punches him in the gut.
Jack doubles over. “I guess I deserved that,” he gasps.
“You did,” Lucky replies briskly. “Now, I’d like to clean up before I have to face my staff looking like an extra from the set of a zombie movie.”
“Follow me,” Dominic insists.
Lucky does so but swats away his attempt to lend her his arm. She takes a few steps but slowly, since she is still wobbly. She’s determined to walk under her own steam, but after three steps, she stops. Her eye catches mine. She sighs resignedly, then beckons me forward. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”
“Not at all,” I assure her.
With Dominic in tow, we take the elevator.
The rest of the men take the stairs.
“Is this where you sleep?” Lucky looks around the expansive bedroom that takes up the entire third floor.
The textured walls are painted navy, but the drop molding and tray ceiling are painted bright white. The platform bed covered with a simple gray duvet faces the three windows overlooking Regent’s Park. A massive oak desk sits in the alcove opposite the room’s ensuite bathroom.
I follow Lucky’s gaze toward the bathroom. Its dove-gray veined marble walls are seamless, as if they were cut from one massive stone. The tub can hold two people; the shower can comfortably accommodate four. To make this point, vertical rain sticks have been placed every four feet, and four flat showerheads hang down from the ceiling. Wishful thinking on Dominic’s part? My guess is that such a foursome was an achievable goal.
The hardware and fittings are nickel. Lighting comes from a spiral chandelier.
Dominic motions toward the tub. “Let me run a bath for you.”
Lucky shakes her head wearily. “If I lay down in that tub, I may never get back up.”
Dominic nods. “Understandably so.” He shoots me a cross look.
“Don’t blame her. She was only doing her job.” By Lucky’s clipped tone, I can tell she hasn’t forgiven me. Her head moves in Dominic’s direction. “And so were you, so you can cut the suave suitor act, now that we’re both on the same side.”
Dominic’s cheeks go ruddy. To hide this, he walks over to a wall that appears to be one long mirror. When he pushes a button, part of it opens to reveal a closet. Dresses hang in one compartment and blouses, skirts, and women’s slacks in another. A floor-to-ceiling shoe rack holds a variety of heels, boots, sneakers, and flats.
“Feel free to choose whatever you wish to wear. I’m sure there’s something in your size.”
Lucky snickers. “Are you hiding a wife somewhere?”
“No, not at all,” Dominic insists. “But one must be prepared for every occasion.” Seeing Lucky smirk, he frowns. “Can I help it if I’m the consummate host?”
She laughs. “Dominic, listen—there is no shame in having a fetish. And these days cross-dressing is out of the closet. One of my dearest friends is a female impersonator—”
“You think I like to…to…” Horrified, Dominic’s back stiffens.
“There are two terrycloth robes on hooks beside the shower stall,” Dominic tells her gruffly. “You’ll find everything you need: Frette towels, Frederic Malle soaps, Phillip Kingsley shampoos. The vanity holds an assortment of cosmetics—”
“All the comforts of a great hotel,” Lucky murmurs sarcastically. “I’m sure your guests appreciate it immensely. What’s the monthly occupancy rate? I’m guessing seventy percent.”
Dominic’s head rears back. He closes his eyes as if that will allow him to contain his anger. “You’ve made your point, Ms. O’Toole. I’ll leave you to freshen up.”
On his way out, he slams the door.
“You know, Lucky, you’ve got Dominic all wrong,” I shout through the steam rolling out of the bathroom.
At first, I think she didn’t hear me because she’s got all four showerheads pulsing at full force. A moment later the water stops. Through the door, I can see her hand pluck one of the plush towels from a shelf, and then another.
“Did you hear me?” I ask impatiently.
“I’m sure they heard you all the way over to Baker Street.” She stares at me. “You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”
“Hardly. I’ve never seen him this way before.”
Lucky comes out, tying the robe's sash around her waist. She pulls off the towel on her damp hair to rub it dry but groans softly when she lifts her arms.
I walk over. “Are you okay?”
She shrugs. “I’ve been better. For all our sakes, I’m glad it wasn’t worse.”
“We had to make sure you weren’t feeding us bunk,” I say evenly.
“I get it, okay? Trust me, you and your team of merry tricksters are forgiven.” She pulls open the vanity and takes stock of Dominic’s makeup offerings. “Are you sure Lord Lounge Lizard isn’t a little light in his loafers?”
I tamp down a smile. “Worse. Dominic is a narcissist. As such, he doesn’t like being turned down. So, tag you’re it. And you have no one to blame but yourself.”
“So, I’m attractive because I’m unavailable. High praise indeed.” Lucky picks up a lipstick and opens it to examine its shade. “Even if I found Dominic Fleming attractive, and I don’t”—she pauses, rubbing her lips together to even the lipstick application—“No, not completely true. I find him attractive, just not appealing.” Satisfied, she applies it before adding, “But even so, I’m engaged.”
“Yeah, the French guy. A chef, right?”
She stares at me. “How did you know that?”
I chuckle. “It’s not a state secret or anything. And even if it were, we’d have found out.”
Her mascara wand stops mid-air. “In other words, laws are meant to be broken? Are there any you haven’t?”
“It depends on which country we’re in,” I reply casually. “Hey, it’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. Democracy comes with a price. Too many others around the globe play dirty. Organizations like ours provide enough assists to even the playing field. When Aziza put out feelers to the CIA, the agency couldn’t follow up overtly because it didn’t know if what she had would put us in Dutch with her country, supposedly a U.S. ally. If what she passed forward proves it isn’t, all hell will break loose. Still, Aziza’s information will have come to the CIA without it getting its hands dirty. On the other hand, if she stumbled across intel that will save her country from imminent peril, the CIA gets to play hero in the eyes of her people.” My eyes meet Lucky’s in the mirror. “I’m not ashamed of what I do and how I have to do it. And, frankly, I’m relieved we didn’t have to do ‘it’ to you. You’re smart, successful, and from what I can tell by how Julie reacted to seeing you with Dominic, a nice enough person to have someone like her concerned about you.”
Lucky combs out her hair but s
ays nothing. Finally, she mutters, “I’m angry about Aziza’s death. Heck, I even feel bad about Nigel—and that says something, considering he was a total snob.”
I nod. “Especially to ‘Princess Maja.’ But he was an excellent covert operative. And he enjoyed working at the club.” I smile. “You certainly had him shitting bricks!”
“It’s my job to crack the whip. It’s not always fun,” Lucky admits. “But it’s why our casinos are respected around the world.” She grins. “I’d sure like to know how Dominic won at baccarat.”
“If you ask him sweetly, I’m sure he’ll tell you.” I bat my eyes. “Or better yet, show you.”
“Ha! That’s what I’m afraid of.” Lucky moves into the closet. After rummaging through the hangers, she pulls out a simple little black dress. “Maybe this will get him to ’fess up.” She holds it up against her torso.
It’s so short that my giggle rolls into a snort. “Oh…I think he’d do more than that.”
Lucky sighs. “Even if I weren’t six feet tall, every item in that closet is specifically designed to truss up or hug tight.”
She walks over to another part of the mirrored wall. With a tap of a button, another walk-in closet opens. It holds a man’s wardrobe. She steps into it only to reappear a moment later wearing a white dress shirt and jeans that are snug in the seat but not the waist. To remedy that, she knots the shirt’s tails at her waistline.
Lucky nods at her reflection in the mirror, satisfied. “As much as Dominic would love to catch a glimpse of my choochilala, he’ll have to settle for knowing I wore something near and dear to his crotch: his jeans.”
“He may never wash them again,” I reply. “Hey, we better head downstairs before they think we fell asleep up here.”
Lucky nods, but the way she’s blinking, I realize she’s still fighting off the after-effects of the roofie.
This time, when I hold her arm to help her to the elevator, she pats it as if to say, Thanks.
The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky Page 17
