"Is that right?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have my troop to get back to." I left before I could see their responses. If the sheriff was going to write me off, I was done with him. Besides, this wasn't my problem anymore. I couldn't care less what happened to the dead guy. I was off the clock permanently these days.
Back at our campsite, fourteen girls were bouncing off the walls after mainlining a lot of sugar. Kelly gave me a glare that said I owed her big time.
With the possibility of a murderer running around camp, I decided our trip was over. Kelly and I packed up and called the other moms to help us carpool the thirty minute drive back home. The girls were too keyed up to even notice it was over until we arrived in my driveway. But by then, they had parents there ready to wrangle them into waiting cars.
Kelly and I watched and let out a very visible breath as the last girl was picked up.
"So, what the hell was that all about?" Kelly said as she led the way into my little house. Once inside, my friend and co-leader helped herself to a glass of wine and sat at my tiny breakfast bar.
"Dead guy," I muttered as I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. We had tons of the stuff left over since we'd cut the camping trip short. Little girls love peanut butter. I had to admit— they really had something there.
Kelly nodded, "Yeah, I got that part. But why was there a dead guy?"
I shrugged, my mouth glued shut. "Don't know." Only it came out like, "nnnt no" due to the aforementioned peanut butter. I really shouldn't talk with my mouth full.
"You don't think it's a little odd that you retire from the CIA and a dead Middle Easterner shows up at Girl Scout Camp the same weekend you are there?" Kelly crossed her arms. I should never have told her, in that drunken haze, about my past. She waited. I'd have no chance to stall with another bite of sandwich.
I swallowed. "Yes. I think it's odd. But it might just be a coincidence." That was a lie. There was no way it was a coincidence. I mean seriously, al-Qaeda's number four? In Iowa? And me being former CIA? Not a chance.
Kelly studied me. "Are you going to be alright?"
I nodded. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me." After all, I'd handled things like this before, on my own, and in a Third World country. No sweat. And this wasn't my problem anyway. Let the authorities take care of it. I didn't do that anymore.
Kelly drained her glass and walked to the door. She paused and looked around my little, beige living room.
"When are you going to get some drapes?" she asked, looking at the sheets I'd had hung in the windows. They had Dora the Explorer on them because I got them on sale. It had really seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd always thought Dora was undercover CIA, recruiting kids to be double agents.
I shrugged. "Soon? I just moved in, remember."
She laughed. "Yeah, one year ago. It's time you had drapes." And with that she was gone.
I leaned against the door and looked around my house. She was right. I didn't have any drapes. I had very little furniture. After being recruited by the CIA right out of college, I'd never really had a place with things like furniture and curtains. I kept a very sparse apartment in DC but spent most of my time in dingy hotel rooms and safe houses all over the world.
When I was "retired," I moved back to the small city my dad grew up in and bought the first house I looked at. This house. The realtor told me it was something called a "craftsman." It was small and quiet and had a nice little fenced in yard in back. I bought a little car to put in the little, attached garage. I bought groceries and paid the utilities. But furnishing it was completely out of my wheelhouse.
Instead, there was a green couch in the living room that I'd bought at a consignment store on impulse. A flat screen TV sat on the floor. The kitchen had a built-in breakfast bar, so I didn't think I really needed a table and chairs. I did buy an expensive queen-sized bed with a mattress made of something called "memory foam." Years of sleeping on floors and crappy mattresses got old quickly when I finally stayed in a five star hotel in DC while visiting Mom and Dad.
I knew I needed furniture and drapes and stuff. I just didn't know how to do it. Do you just go to a store and ask for drapes? Do you need measurements? Where do you measure from? And should they be beige like the walls and carpet or green like the couch?
Every time I thought about these things, I needed to go and lay down. But today was the day. Today, I'd think about getting drapes. I wandered over to the large, picture window and started examining it. Which is when I noticed the moving van across the street.
Huh. I didn't know my crazy-old-lady-cougar-neighbor had moved out. A U-Haul was backed up into her driveway, and men were unloading furniture. There was a lot of it too—tables, chairs, a desk, various lamps of various sizes, rugs, you name it—they had it. Must be a family or something.
I found myself strangely fascinated watching this whole bizarre process. For a brief second, I ran into my bedroom and got a pen and pad of paper. I needed to take notes on this. Maybe I could learn something.
Oooh! A potted tree! I liked that idea! I should do that. I made note of the stuff with great glee. The desk and desk chair were nice. I just used a laptop so I worked on the couch or in bed. But maybe it was time I put together an office.
Not that I had anything to do in it. I didn't have a job. I didn't need one. The settlement from the Agency would take care of me for at least the next ten years. The only thing I had was the Girl Scout troop that met every other week. Huh. I wondered if that was weird. Maybe I should have a job or a hobby or something. It seemed to be what normal people who hadn't previously been CIA operatives did.
A car pulled up in front of crazy-old-lady-cougar-neighbor's house but didn't pull into the driveway. I drew back into the shadows behind Dora and her monkey (who was clearly her case officer) and realized that curtains really might be a good idea after all. I'd have to get on it. But first I needed to check out the new people. Slouching behind the cover of the sheets, it kind of felt like the old days, spying on that politician in Spain or that drug runner in Colombia.
Whoever was in the car across the street wasn't in a hurry to step out. When I'd first moved into the neighborhood, I noticed people mowing their lawns, walking their kids to school, or walking their dogs, just doing normal things. Until day two. That's when I first saw her.
The woman had to be in her seventies, with bleached blonde hair up in a ponytail and a ton of makeup on. It was sixty-five degrees, and she was out mowing her lawn. In a bikini. I watched open-mouthed as she worked her way up and down the lawn, smiling and waving at any men who were out and about. She did not wave at the women. I also noticed that about halfway through the yard, she let both shoulder straps "accidentally" fall to her elbows.
She was in pretty good shape for an old lady. But the saggy skin and varicose veins were enough to make me want to go back undercover. For the first few weeks, I was fascinated. After a month, I wanted to burn the image from my brain. Forever. It was worse than some of the things I'd seen in the field. And that's saying something.
The black SUV with tinted windows finally moved forward up into the driveway. This was it—the big reveal. I slid back even farther into the Dora sheet/curtain. The driver-side door opened, and a man, maybe in his early thirties, stepped out. He stretched for a moment, then looked at the house.
Oh yeah, and he was GORGEOUS. Short, black hair, athletic build, handsome, boy-next-door face, and lean muscles in all the right places. He wore a fitted, black T-shirt and blue jeans. Was this my new neighbor? If so, the view just got a lot better.
I stared as he walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He reached in and pulled out a large duffle bag. Slinging it oh-so-casually over his shoulder, he closed the door to the SUV and went into the house. His house. My new neighbor's and the possibly future Mr. Wrath's house.
The doorbell rang, and I jumped backward, tripping over my own feet and crashing into the green couch.
What the hell? How did I miss someone coming to my own door? That was just bad spy craft, retired or not. I stumbled across the living room and looked out the window next to the door. Oh, my God.
"Hello Riley," I said as I opened the door, trying to act as if it was totally normal that my previous boss and handler was standing on my doorstep.
"Hey Wrath." Riley smiled lopsidedly. He was a very attractive man in his late thirties, with wavy, blond hair and deep blue eyes. I always thought he looked more like a surfer than a CIA case manager. I motioned for him to enter and followed him into my house.
He was standing in the entryway, staring at my living room. "Did you just move in here?" Riley frowned. "I thought you'd had this address for a while, but maybe I'm wrong." He knew he wasn't wrong. Riley was a notorious fact checker. He double-checked everything before he did anything. We called him "Nerd OCD Boy" behind his back.
I scowled. "No. I just haven't gotten around to decorating yet." Riley pissed me off. He always did. Even when he wasn't speaking, he usually irritated me. Still, he was a good guy to have in your corner when the chips were down and the Russians were fully armed outside your door.
Riley shrugged. He just stood there looking at me. Oh right. This was one of those host thingies that I had no experience with. I rarely had guests in my tenement in La Paz or my yurt in Mongolia.
"Come into the kitchen. Can I get you some coffee?" I didn't really have coffee. Never touched the stuff. I was more of a tea drinker. Ninety-percent of the world drank tea—well, at least the places I'd been stationed in did. So I drank tea.
Riley followed me into the kitchen and climbed up on one of the breakfast bar stools. "Nothing for me, thanks." He grinned at me, and I felt my hackles rise. "Although I must admit—it is interesting to see you being so…" He waved his arms around. "Domestic."
"Screw you, Riley. What are you doing here?" I asked as I got out the bottle of wine Kelly had opened earlier and poured myself a glass. CIA case officers never checked up on retirees. Something was up.
"Dead Ahmed," he answered. "Found in your neighborhood. What's up with that?"
Riley rarely messed around. He always got right to the point. Of course he'd notice a dead terrorist showing up where I was in Iowa. Any good employee of "The Company" would.
"Oh right," I said, looking off into space as if I just remembered the dead al-Qaeda operative at Girl Scout camp. "Him."
Riley nodded, "Right. Him. Ahmed Maloof. Why was he there?"
I shrugged, "Don't know, and don't care. Not my problem. Not anymore, at least." I took a gulp of wine and pointed at him. "I don't work for you guys. I'm retired. Remember?"
Riley smiled his easy, surfer smile. He really was cute, if you liked that California golden boy look, that is. "You can't be surprised I'm here, Finn." He said.
"Actually, I am." That wasn't entirely true. It was only a matter of time before he or someone like him showed up. "I had nothing to do with it. And don't call me Finn. I'm Merry now."
I started working with Riley ten years ago. Our first assignment together was in China. I'd thought he was cute back then. But then I discovered that Riley was a serial lady-killer. I think I found him in bed with women more than a dozen times. The attraction wore thin after that.
My former boss held my gaze for a moment. He was reading me. Trying to figure me out. Riley had the reputation of being a sort of mind reader. He was very good at it.
"Actually," he said slowly, "we think you did have something to do with it. I've been sent to investigate."
I slapped the breakfast bar hard. "Are you serious? You think I was involved? Why in hell would I do that? I got kicked out of Langley. Or did you forget that?"
"I didn't forget that, Finn," Riley answered, ignoring my request for him to call me Merry, "and personally, I don't think you killed Ahmed. But I do think there's a connection."
"There's no connection, Riley. I've been out of the agency for a year now. And I haven't worked the Middle East in a long, long time. I barely knew the guy." Uh-oh. I'd slipped up there. Maybe I should quit with the wine.
Riley grinned, "That's right. You barely knew him. But you did know him. And that makes you a person of interest."
Dammit! You make one mistake with a terrorist years ago, and nobody lets you forget it, ever! How the hell was I supposed to know my driver in Kabul was Ahmed's brother? The Kabul Office should've known that before they hired him. Anyway, I was a professional, and I was retired. Enough of this crap.
"You need to leave now, Riley, before I get mad and get my ice pick. Remember how good I am with an ice pick?" My voice dripped with fury. And the ice pick thing was just thrown in to aggravate him. I was hell on Earth with an ice pick, and he'd once seen the results of my work. I was also good with a shotgun, and throwing knives, and once I did this thing with a didgeridoo that would probably be classified as a serious violation of the Geneva Convention—but that's another story for another time.
Riley rose to his feet, placing his hands defensively in front of him. "Fine. I'll go." He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a blank piece of paper with a phone number on it. A local number. Damn it.
"I'll be staying at the Radisson. Call me when you want to talk like a normal person." He set the slip of paper on the breakfast bar before heading for the front door. He turned in the doorway and looked at me.
"You know, Finn, you really should get some drapes." Then with the flash of his oh-too-white smile, he left, closing the door behind him.
Perfect.
MERIT BADGE MURDER
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Ukulele Deadly Page 21
