I wanted to dive into the audio files but I satisfied myself with opening the attachments and reading labels while I signed into the website for my on-line classroom. The titles were too cryptic to translate with accuracy, although I chortled over Rosesmells. Given Carla’s liberal leanings, that was bound to be a Paul Rose boo-boo.
I listened with half an ear as the on-line professor pontificated on classic essay structure. I could see Magda’s point — this wasn’t precisely relevant to life as I knew it. Lectures on economics, civics, technology, and history would be far more useful, but I suppose that a day could come when I needed an essay.
I reduced the professor to a corner of my screen, zoomed in on the textbook, and highlighted passages he mentioned. Bored, I started opening the audio files. Graham was probably itching impatiently to see what was in them, so I might as well pretend I was working.
Bill had apparently asked Carla at Intrepid for files on every politician in D.C. connected with the Righteous and Proud organization. Interesting. Was he feuding with his siblings or did he have a deeper motivation? A couple of the men on the list had powerful connections to Paul Rose and his conservative textbook committee, which made them candidates for Top Hat.
But if Bill had been working on Patra’s tape the day he died, I didn’t understand the connection to R&P and certainly not to Top Hat. As far as I was aware, neither group had anything to do with the old wars that Patrick had been killed in. So maybe Bill had been working on something else — and that’s what got him killed? Not Patra?
I heard Mallard greet Patra in the foyer above me just as the professor was giving the homework assignment. I jotted it down and signed out. It was almost lunch time. We needed to talk.
I jogged upstairs and met her on her way to her room. “Lunch?” I asked. “At the Irish pub without the talking candelabra?”
She glanced disparagingly at my ragged T-shirt. “Not if you’re dressed like that. Honestly, Ana, Nick’s right. You look like a ragpicker.”
Since Nick had shredded the bib overalls that I once wore to hide the holes in my favorite shirt, I shrugged. “My business contacts can’t see me, and there’s no one at the pub to impress except a bunch of old men.”
“Sean said he’d meet us there,” she corrected. “He’s too old for me, but he’s just your type. Clean up.”
I opened my mouth to correct her but then decided it might be a good idea to steer her clear of the nosy reporter by making her think I was interested.
“He’s a hunk,” I blithely agreed, before running upstairs and contemplating my nonexistent closet. I had taken my grandfather’s study as my room and used his file drawers for my undies.
On a hook on the back of my door I had the fancy clothes Nick had made me buy a few weeks ago. The file drawers contained my Goodwill purchases. I owned very little in between. The weather was cooling off, so the cool spandex halter top and capri outfit weren’t working. Unless…
Minutes later, I had my knee-high boots pulled over the capris and my black blazer over the halter top. Accessories, Nick had always said, made the outfit.
Patra had changed out of her power red suit and into jeans and a long-sleeved knit top with half its top buttons undone.
“I want one of those,” I told her, eying the form-fitting, cleavage-revealing top with envy.
“It’s a cheap Henley, for pity’s sake. Don’t they have them at Goodwill?” She studied my improvised outfit and rolled her eyes. “He’ll have to just imagine what you look like, I guess. Why don’t you get your hair cut?”
“Did I ask for your opinion?” It wasn’t as if Nick hadn’t told me the same a thousand times, but I hated hair stylists, and short hair required frequent visits, ergo, I didn’t need short hair. Besides, I didn’t want Sean taking an interest in me.
I continued to tell myself that half an hour later as I sat across the battered wooden table from him. Despite Patra’s disparagement, Irish Boy didn’t seem to be having any problem seeing me. I wore my long black braid over the front of my blazer, but I didn’t think it was my hair he was admiring. I sat next to Patra, so it was obvious I wasn’t as bountifully endowed as Magda and Patra. Yet it was me Sean focused on. My neglected hormones performed a tango.
“You really think this speech analyst was killed for investigating the Righteous nutwings?” Sean asked in incredulity. “That doesn’t even come close to making sense.”
Admiration apparently only went so far. “Well, maybe his mother killed Bill,” I said with a shrug, dragging a tasteless fry through ketchup. The food here was close to inedible, but the fries and burgers wouldn’t cause ptomaine. “I would have if he called me three times a day. The media numbers he called weren’t direct to anyone, but I suppose the operator could have connected him with someone who didn’t like his agenda.”
“Wiretap,” Patra said through her hamburger. “If his phone was tapped, everything he said to anyone would have been heard by some person we don’t know.”
“And the king of illegal wiretap is…?” I asked pointedly.
“Why I mentioned it,” she retorted. “Broderick is the most likely suspect. His media act as the mouthpiece for R&P, and he’s the only one wealthy enough to pull off that operation last night.”
“Paul Rose and his cronies are,” I reminded her.
“And Graham,” Sean added for good measure.
I sent him a withering look. Patra looked interested.
Nine
Over lunch, I listened in boredom as Sean and Patra discarded Bill Bloom theories and dived into uninformed speculation about Amadeus Graham. Sean delivered all the punches about the Icarus who soared too close to the sun and had his wings scorched in a terrorist attack. I didn’t need to hear the painful story again. Graham was still a brilliant man, even if events had turned him into a paranoid nutjob, possibly a handicapped one.
After learning what I could of Patra’s morning and trying to believe she was safe in BM’s halls, I left the two of them to gossip. Restless and not ready to settle into my cave once I returned to the mansion, I dashed upstairs and changed back to my grubbies. I needed to spend more time on Graham’s tasks, but everyone was entitled to a lunch break. I'd only taken half of mine.
After suffering stirred-hormone syndrome from Sean’s lascivious glances, I needed quality time with the upstairs gym I’d been neglecting lately.
The third floor was sound-proofed. That’s the only explanation I know for never hearing Graham coming or going. And apparently no one could hear me when I tore into the heavy bag with feet and fists. My old therapist had told me I had a lot of suppressed anger, and boxing was better than beating up thugs. He’d been right. I now had carved biceps and could tear the throats out of thugs through the internet. My hostility issues are deep-seated.
So were my sexual frustrations. Maybe I ought to pick up Sean, if only for the relief.
I sneaked down the carpeted corridor. All the third-floor doors were closed, indicating Graham wouldn’t welcome my presence — but he’d given me permission to use the gym.
He hadn’t posted times for that use. I saw no reason to knock — until I shoved open the gym door and saw a half-naked, heavily muscled man beating the tar out of a boxing bag.
I nearly dropped my teeth.
If that was Graham, he wasn’t a cripple. Faaaaar from it. Those were a runner’s solid legs.
He’d apparently thought me still at lunch with Sean. That proved spying didn’t pay.
He shot me a scowl that should have scorched my hair, but I’m made of sterner stuff than that. Ask me sometime about my months in Atlanta’s inner city gyms.
Scowling right back, I donned the gloves he’d bought for me — so I wouldn’t steal his. And then I proceeded to kick and punch the stuffing out of the heavy bag until I was as hot and sweaty as he was.
It was oddly soothing and unsettling at the same time — my steady pow, pow to his fast whackety, whackety, whack. We developed a kind of rhythm that built wi
th our awareness. At least, I was aware of the powerful masculine body emitting enough pheromones to knock out a female squadron. He gave no indication that I existed — until he spun gracefully and walloped the side of his foot into the heavy bag, sending it swinging in my direction.
“O’Herlihy is a gnat,” he growled in that deep bass that always shot straight to my girly parts. Definitely Graham. No question about that. And very probably the diamond cufflink man who had rescued me from a mob. Don’t swoon now, Ana. Breathe.
Sean was the reason he was beating up sawdust and leather? That was insulting to all of us.
I counterattacked. It wasn’t easy. I wasn’t used to having a partner, and I was off balance just realizing Graham was a whole man, but I kept my momentum in slamming the bag. It was hard to keep up with his powerful return kicks, though. I was easily distracted by chiseled biceps and thick quads and abs to die for. I was so fascinated by his muscle movement that I really didn’t absorb the scars covering him until my strength began to flag.
I assumed they were burn scars. I know nothing about medical deformities, but I’d heard he’d raced into a burning building to save his wife. And failed. PTSD caused erratic behavior after that, and he’d been very publicly fired from his presidential advisory position in the years following.
Then he’d wiped himself off the map. He doesn’t exist in computers anymore. I’ve looked. Most people, except annoying gnats like Sean, thought he was dead.
But Amadeus Graham was pretty damned real right now. He must have worn some kind of gas mask when he’d entered the inferno. I could see an ugly scar along his currently ragged, damp hair line. The rest of his face was just as intensely Superman gorgeous as I’d suspected. I’d noticed that American politicians often start out as beautiful as Hollywood stars. Graham would have been JFK presidential material on his looks alone.
He had a Don’t Tread On Me snake tattoo winding up his left bicep, over the ugliest scar tissue. Right now, with his dark hair damp and smeared to his head, he looked like a worse thug than Sly Stallone — definitely not a presidential candidate. Deepset, dark blue eyes pinned me as he gave the bag one last punch.
And then I was up against the padded wall with all that gorgeous male muscle pressing into me and hot lips sucking my breath away, and I didn’t give a damn who he was as long as he kept on doing what he was doing.
We both apparently had a lot of frustration to express. I practically climbed his leg after he crushed my breasts in long-fingered hands. Crotch met crotch and we would have been doing it up against the wall if Patra hadn’t started shouting my name in the hall below.
I slid out of his grip without a second thought. Id and libido shouted angry epithets, but my ego wins every time, probably because I lack a super-ego. Freud only got it half right. I lack morals but reality gives me a roll.
“Really bad idea,” I think I muttered.
I heard him swearing like a pro as I ran for my room.
* * *
“We need a plan,” I told Patra later, after I’d taken a cold shower and returned to my office. “We’re dealing with Broderick, a man who has been accused of shoving his wife off his yacht. He owns a corporation that condones mass murder in the interest of foreign oil. He’s our best candidate for ordering the death of your father. If so, he could be guilty of hiring Bill’s killers and arsonists to burn down your apartment. You cannot simply start rifling his company files without a cover.”
“Broderick’s father was killed by a hit-and-run driver,” the intercom intoned.
This time, I didn’t smack it. My lips still throbbed from the volatility of Graham’s kisses, and just his voice turned me on. Smacking the intercom would indicate I cared. “That’s how he started his conglomerate, on daddy’s little newspapers?” I asked with my best professional interest.
Patra grimaced and nodded.
The intercom didn’t answer my question directly. Instead, it suggested, “A decent position has opened at CNN in Atlanta. I can arrange it for you.”
I didn’t waste time getting my hopes up. Patra was already shaking her head.
“If the monster ordered my father’s death, I’m bringing him down, and then I’m publishing dad’s book on media encouragement of war for profit,” she said defiantly.
“Meaning Broderick’s media,” I corrected. “No other network or chain of newspapers has so vociferously backed the military as Broderick’s. If he has any hint that you still have Patrick’s files, he’ll bring you down like your father.”
“Like Bill,” she added.
“I’m not entirely convinced that’s true. Bill’s personal conflicts might be equally dangerous. Unless we can find the connections, that’s a dead end street,” I warned. “We need to hire another voice analyst.”
Patra looked mutinous, but we’d discussed my little foray into Bill’s phone calls. She knew I was right. “BM supports R&P,” she argued, reducing our problem to acronyms that could be translated as shit supports death. “Bill could have been proving the connection.”
“Broderick supports anyone stupid enough to promote his agenda,” I corrected. “Stupid people don’t question what he tells them. That’s not the same as caring for what the Righteous stand for, not any more than he cares for our boys in uniform. Evidence is required to prove that R&P has any interest in helping BM or vice versa.”
I kept waiting for Graham to intrude, if only for the sound of his voice, but after his offer was rejected, he’d apparently moved on. I needed to rebuild the distance between me and our reluctant landlord. Exchanging saliva — no matter how much fun — was not the solution.
“I can’t plan anything until I get inside and know what resources I can access,” Patra explained. “The U.S. office won’t be the same as the London one, but there ought to be connections I can ferret out. In the meantime, I need to work on my cover. They’re putting me in entertainment. Who do we know in Hollywood?”
“Ask Nick. But you’ll have a hard time looking up war zones while covering celebrities being naughty in the Caribbean. Have you gone through your father’s files to see who he knew? Maybe you can start with his friends?” I suggested, reminding myself to get back to the code programs to see if her father’s papers really were coded or if Graham had sent me off on a wild goose chase.
Patra brightened. “Dad had an affair with that old Welsh actress, Rhianna Mattox. Good idea!”
Even I knew who Rhianna was — only one of the best known Brit actresses on stage and film. She’d have a human shield two blocks deep around her. I rolled my eyes but didn’t discourage her fantasy. “Broderick will wet his pants if he thinks you’re hooking up with her. But be careful and don’t let anyone hear you asking about your father.”
“Don’t patronize me. We have the same mother, and I know the same tricks you do.” She rose, taking my collection of Bill’s files with her.
Fortunately, I’d already scanned them into my computer. I had a few years more experience on dirty tricks that she could figure out on her own.
I built a computer folder six layers deep on all Broderick’s subsidiaries but still hadn’t found any connection to the textbook companies and Top Hat, my particular goal.
Then Oppenheimer, our lawyer, called.
I checked the clock, almost time for EG to get home. I couldn’t go far, but I couldn’t discuss our inheritance problems with Graham listening to every word. I didn’t care if he looked like Superman. The man was still a predatory spider. I jogged up the stairs and out the front door with my cell to my ear, listening to the lawyer’s recital of all he’d done since we’d last talked.
EG’s silk cobwebs hadn’t reappeared since Mallard had removed them from the entrance. I passed through, unscathed. Outside, I leaned against the wrought iron fence separating sidewalk from three inches of lawn and watched up the street in the direction of the Metro entrance while I talked.
“Brashton is still claiming the house transfer was legal between the executor of the
estate and an objective third-party with no collusion. He claims the sale was necessary to cover debts,” Oppenheimer was saying. “Without his cooperation, the burden of proof is on us and the courts will drag their feet.”
“The contents of this house are worth more than Graham paid. The house itself is worth an easy ten mil, if not more. No one is that stupid. Tell Reggie boy we know about the poisoned envelopes, and if he doesn’t come clean, we’ll be talking to the cops.”
“Poisoned envelopes?” Oppenheimer asked in alarm. “Actual poison, not drugs?”
“Graham isn’t likely to give us his chemical analysis if he knows why I’m asking, but yeah, actual poison. Brashton killed our grandfather. Proving it in court might be tricky, but Reggie ought to cave before it comes to that, right?”
“Holy Lord Almighty,” Oppenheimer muttered. “I knew you’d be trouble, but this…”
I envisioned him shaking his shaggy head as he made notes. Oppenheimer was a wheeler-dealer, but he was damned sharp, and he was enough of an outsider to be willing to go up against Reggie’s respectable old D.C. law firm for our case. I didn’t have to like him, just respect his ability.
Oppenheimer asked questions. I explained how my grandfather received an order of personalized envelopes from Reggie’s office, envelopes that had been in Max’s bedroom and could have been licked by anyone. While we talked, I watched EG stroll down the street with Mallard. I tried not to look shocked.
Mallard did not often play bodyguard for us. What the devil was going on?
I scanned the street with more awareness as I hung up on the lawyer. Once upon a time, I would have done this automatically. I was definitely getting soft.
I observed workmen on scaffolding across the street and a city bus pouring diesel fumes. This narrow residential road had no parking — everyone parked in the alleys behind the buildings. Most houses had ornate fences around their postage stamp patch of green turf. I had a completely clear view of the street — no good hiding places. Until now, I’d felt really secure here.
Undercover Genius Page 7
