Patra hadn’t. To the best of my recollection, she’d been born in Algeria, at an American military facility since the country was in the middle of a civil war at the time. But Magda is a totally American blonde, and Patrick the Brit had been there to claim his daughter, so her birth certificate was well documented in Algeria, the UK, and the US. Confusing, but legal.
Patra’s personnel files weren’t recorded in Broderick’s computer yet. I couldn’t search “middle-aged” or “tubby” or any of those few things I knew about the spy who’d irritated me. I tried “American” and “reporter” but the search list was still tremendous. The firm had a lot of employees. Too bad I couldn’t do a photo ID match with my camera images, but if Graham had that kind of software, he hadn’t given me access to it.
I uploaded my phone images, just in case.
I scanned the files for David Smedbetter, just out of curiosity. He was a vice president, hired a few years ago. Like many of Broderick’s employees, he had military credentials. Nothing singled him out as interesting, including his photo.
Deciding we’d had a long week and had worked hard enough, I downloaded the old flick of Fahrenheit 451. EG and I spent the evening scaring ourselves imagining a world without books.
After I saw EG into her tower — the bats had apparently departed to a better home, leaving behind a faint smell I’d rather not identify — I settled restlessly into my own chamber, closing the window and shutters. I’d covered up the camera behind the portrait of John Adams weeks ago, after amusing myself by tantalizing Graham with my bare legs.
At the time, I’d imagined a wheel-chair bound invalid suffering sex-deprived voyeurism. Now I knew Graham had the ability to come down here and throw me through a window if he so desired.
I had mixed emotions about that. Torturing an invalid had been mean-spirited but well-deserved under the circumstances. Tormenting a man who could throw me up against a wall — that was just plain stupid. But enticing a man who intrigued me more than any other mortal in the world… that was pure Magda. I refrained. But I still couldn’t help throwing occasional looks at John Adams as I worked on my laptop until midnight.
I occasionally peered through the shutters at the house across the street, just to check if someone was sitting over there, waiting for Patra to come home. I saw no lights. Patra didn’t come home. Neither did Nick. I finally gave up and went to bed.
Saturday morning and it was still just me and EG. For years, it had been just me, and I hadn’t minded at all, but today, I was a bit pissed. If I couldn’t have sex, I needed action. I’d been debating making a little visit to Bill’s mom and finding out more about his family and their connections, but I couldn’t very well take EG with me.
Sitting at the computer running decoding programs didn’t help my restlessness. Patrick’s papers weren’t responding to anything I’d tried so far. I located a new speech analyst on the other side of the country. I needed to email him from an anonymous address using a computer at the library to prevent anyone from knowing where I was sending Patra’s sound tracks.
I also needed to know that my family was safe from spying intruders across the street. That, I could do something about. By mid-morning, EG and I were on the Metro heading for the spy museum. I love D.C. I could indulge EG’s eagerness to learn everything and pick up a few essentials in a gift shop at the same time.
EG cleaned out the museum’s bookstore. I acquired a few useful toys. I could have ordered more professional equipment on-line and had it shipped, but I wanted to monitor movements in the house across the street tonight, not next week.
Nick and Patra’s doors were closed when we returned, so I could breathe easier. I made a lousy mother figure, but this sharing the same roof business dredged up old memories.
After lunch, I left EG with Mallard and set off on my spy mission across the street. I took the back approach to hide where I was coming from. The cellar door was still open. Workmen still gabbed inside. I wore binoculars around my neck and took the back stairs to the attic as if I belonged there. Who would suspect evil of a hippy-looking twerp, even if they noticed me? Which they didn’t.
I ran a few trip wires. I saw no evidence that any work was being done in the attic, so anyone coming up here was just being nosy. I hooked up my wireless device and the silent alarm and camera. Basic tools of the trade.
Returning to my office, I worked up my next plan, which would involve deserting EG yet again, now that Patra and Nick were in the house. Feeling guilty, I checked with her in the kitchen. “Will you be okay doing your homework while I run out for a while? You can pester Nick or Patra if you need anything.”
“I’m good,” she declared, hopping down from a stool where she’d been cleaning up on cookies. “Can I use your laptop?”
“The Dell, in my office, where Mallard can check to be certain you aren’t ordering drones to intercept missiles.”
She made a rude noise. My sister might be a genius, but she’s still only nine.
For my expedition into conserva-burbia, I opted for khakis and blazer and wrapped my braid around my head. I couldn’t look more innocuous if I’d worn glasses. I waved at the camera on the landing as I strode down the stairs. I never knew if Graham was watching or if he even cared what I was doing, but I figured if I was ever kidnapped, he’d have a record of the time I left and what I was wearing.
I stopped and bought a sympathy card and a little potted plant before I hit the Metro.
Carol Bloom, Bill’s mother, lived far enough out of the city to not be easily accessible by Metro. I took the line as far out as it went, then called a cab. One of these days, I’d have to buy a car and obtain a driver’s license, but I wasn’t spending money until I knew had an income. Working for Graham didn’t pay in anything except room and board. And my other clients were getting short shrift these days.
I’m a world traveler, but I hadn’t spent a lot of time in suburbs. All the little brick houses looked alike to me. Some had covered their immaculate yards with flowers and ornaments. Others hadn’t mowed their grass. Carol Bloom’s house was somewhere in between. The yard needed mowing, but she had pots of bedraggled flowers on her concrete porch and a climbing rose straggling up the wall.
The woman who answered the doorbell actually wore a faded, flowered housecoat like those on TV matrons from the fifties. Where does one buy such a thing? She was stout, short, and graying but she didn’t look particularly grief-stricken.
"Mrs. Bloom, I’m Linda Lane, a colleague of Bill’s,” I said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear of your loss. He was a good, good man.”
She opened the storm door and allowed me in. No wonder so many people get robbed. They’ll trust anyone bearing presents.
She set my houseplant and card on a coffee table in the living room. I didn’t see any similar tokens. “Not too many people have been by,” she said stiffly. “Bill was like a stranger to us lately. I knew the city would kill him.”
“Have the police caught the driver yet?” I asked, assuming that would be the natural thing to ask.
“They found the car, but it was stolen. Would you like to take a seat? I can bring you some coffee.”
I didn’t think she meant a Starbucks mocha latte, so I declined. “I don’t know if he ever mentioned me,” I ventured with a question in my voice. “We often shared files. I’ve been trying to finish up some of his cases as a gesture of respect. He often spoke of you, so I thought I’d let you know, in case you were worried.”
“That’s kind of you,” she said, but her expression didn’t display gratitude. She just looked irritable. “Bill was always the oddball of our family, hanging around with misfits and weirdoes. It’s good to know he worked with decent people.”
I didn’t think I’d call myself decent, but I suspected that was a code word for white and/or conservative. I egged her on, just a little. “The city is full of all sorts,” I agreed. “You have to take work where you can get it. Did you know any of his clients?”
“No, no, I didn’t. After he brought that Spic home to meet us, he hasn’t been back. I blame her. Those lousy Mexicans are taking over the country. We’ll all be speaking Mexican if someone doesn’t do something.” She tugged agitatedly at a crocheted doily on her recliner arm. More echoes of the fifties.
“I understand your concern,” I said sympathetically. “You know about the group called the Righteous and the Proud, don’t you? They’re trying to help.”
She nodded, relaxing a fraction. “Me and my other kids belong. Bill told us we were puppets for the Man. I don’t know where he gets…got…those ideas.”
The Man — as represented by Broderick Media, et al? Or just a general term for the One Percent? I wish I’d known Bill better. “I never thought of Bill as the rebellious type,” I said sympathetically. ”I wonder if he had anything in his files that Dr. Smythe should look into? Bill was terribly good with his recording equipment.”
My brief research had turned up Dr. Charles Smythe as the leader of R&P, if a mob could have leadership.
A frown formed over her nose. “The police brought me all the boxes they took from his apartment. Ken went over and cleaned the place out but said Bill didn’t have anything worth keeping. He said he’d give it all to Goodwill when he had time to truck it over there. Reckon I should look at those boxes? I didn’t know what to do with them.”
“They’re probably just client files. I can’t imagine there’s anything bad in them. I can look them over if you like, see if there’s anything Dr. Smythe should see.” I was positively brimming with excitement but I played it cool. Easy to do since I had no car and no way of hauling away the files.
“Would you?” She still didn’t look relieved but as if she were worrying over some new crisis. “I’d better ask Ken, first. He said he might want to burn them like we did his dad’s papers after he died.”
Brother Ken cleaning out the apartment and burning Bill’s files might strike me as symptoms of guilt, paranoia, or a need to wipe his brother off the planet, if it hadn’t been for the bit about burning his father’s papers. The guy could just be a firebug, but it seemed weird to ritually burn all family history.
“Oh,” I said, “I’m not sure I’d realized Bill had lost his father. I’m sorry. Was it recent?”
Carol shook her head with sadness. “We lost Ernest almost five years ago. The boys were grown by then.”
That didn’t seem exceedingly relevant but just in case, I kept up my fake sympathy. “That had to be hard. Was it a serious illness?”
She shook her head, turning non-communicative.
Not willing to push my luck too far, I pulled one of my fake business cards from my purse. “I shouldn’t keep you any longer. If you decide you’d like me to take a look at the files, you can send them to this address or just let me know, and I’ll have someone pick them up. I don’t know all Bill’s clients and couldn’t notify them, so if nothing else, the files might help with that.”
She took the card and nodded absently. “Thank you for stopping by. I do appreciate it.”
Poor Bill, I thought, pulling out my new phone to call a cab company as I walked down the street. Just when he started living an interesting life, he’d been taken out and erased in a mundane fashion. In honor of his memory, I’d have to find out why.
Twelve
I reversed my travel process, taking the cab to the Metro and the Metro to home. It gave me time to think — and to check my email, thanks to my handy new toy.
I had turned off the phone while talking to Mrs. Bloom. The chimes rang the instant I switched it on. The screen also flashed a warning that I had a dozen voice mail messages.
Since they were all from Nick, I called.
“Where the devil are you?” he asked in irritation. “We have a situation, and as usual, you’re the cause.”
“Just for that snide remark, I think I’ll go shopping.” I kept my voice low so as not to annoy my fellow riders. Nick was such a drama queen, I waited for real news.
“We’ll have the cops out here if you don’t come back and settle this now. Your mouse trap caught a rat, and we don’t know what to do with him. Mallard seems in favor of slicing and dicing him and serving him up on rigatoni.”
I heard a protest in the background, but I was translating Nick’s metaphors and didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “I’m just a few stops away. I trust you’ve prevented squealing.”
“Just come straight home.” He punched off — so less satisfactory than a slamming receiver in my ear.
If I’d translated correctly, my fun with spy toys had tripped up a nosy reporter. The alarm going off must have been exciting. I wondered who had been in my office monitoring my equipment. That was a foolish question. EG had been down there while Patra and Nick slept upstairs. But EG couldn’t hogtie a grown man. That would be Mallard’s involvement was my guess.
Patra was furiously pacing the front room of our abode by the time I arrived. She shot me an angry glance, but EG was eagerly bouncing to tell me her part in the escapade and no one else could get in a word edgewise.
“And the alarm went off while Patra was in the shower,” she was saying. I’d tuned out on the prelude of what she’d been doing in my office but tuned back in again when we got to the real news. “And I told Mallard we’d caught a spy, so we went over there and Mallard decked him! One blow and he was out! We had to tie him up!”
“You left him over there?” I asked, already turning toward the door.
“They couldn’t carry him across the street,” Patra said dryly, finally breaking into EG’s moment of glory. “I can’t go over there. I don’t want Broderick suspecting I have anything to do with my insane family’s depredations.”
“Are Nick and Mallard over there slicing and dicing?”
“I believe they’re discussing whether rats belong in Dumpsters,” the lamp on the table said. “Please return Mallard so dinner won’t be delayed.”
I was almost positive I heard amusement in that sepulchral voice. “I’m happy the gladiators entertain Caesar,” I retorted before heading out. I had to turn and point EG back inside. She glared, but she knew better than to disobey She Who Owns the Computers.
The work trucks were gone. Presumably the construction crew only worked half days on weekends. I wondered how the rat had got in if the door was locked. I checked the imposing carved oak front door. The crew had done due diligence by locking it. I trotted around the house and found a board removed from one of the side windows. I assumed the rat had entered there. Since I couldn’t imagine portly Mallard or elegant Nick wriggling through that entry, I continued around to the back.
The plywood covering the French doors had been neatly removed and lay on the deck. The glass in the doors was cracked, but probably not in the process of opening them — the door lock had been jimmied by an expert. Mallard and Nick were professionals.
I stepped inside and took the front stairs up, admiring the light wood finish on rails and floors. This place would be far more modern than my grandfather’s mansion when they were done.
I heard muffled protests and kicking before I reached the top. That would be the rat. Mallard and Nick were probably cleaning their nails and waiting for my appearance.
Keeping in mind that I looked like a shrimpy librarian in my blazer and khakis, I removed brass knuckles from my shoulder bag. I never used them. A roll of coins was legal and just as lethal. But sometimes I needed accessories to get my point across.
It was still daylight so the attic was filled with enough gray light for them to see my approach, if they hadn’t already heard it.
I let the rat see me don the knuckles as I climbed the last step. He was on the floor with a tie stuffed in his mouth and his hands tied behind his back. His eyes widened. I didn’t smile but lifted a black eyebrow over my gimlet glare. Small and dark can look deadly with a bit of effort.
Mallard held a baseball bat at the ready. Nick was leaning against the wall, polishing a wic
ked looking switchblade. Neither of them had a hair out of place. Well, Mallard didn’t have many hairs to muss. Nick’s shirt was missing a tie.
“Have you called the cops yet?” I asked.
“We thought you might like to question him first,” Nick said with a threatening undertone that was probably more for me than the rat. But he wouldn’t yell at me in front of strangers.
I leaned over and released the necktie holding our intruder’s mouth shut. “Hello, again,” I said, recognizing yesterday’s culprit. “I think you’d better give me your name this time so I know where to go looking for you.”
“Puddin’n’tame,” he taunted. “I’m going to have the lot of you arrested.”
Yesterday, I’d been outweighed and in no position to investigate our spy. Today, I had him where I wanted him.
I tugged the worn billfold from his back pocket. His license labeled him as one Leonard Riley, living on a street I didn’t recognize. I removed my nifty smart phone from my pocket. “Well, Leonard, it’s this way. You’re trespassing. From the looks of that window downstairs, I think we can charge you with breaking and entering. And even if Patra isn’t aware of your existence, I can assure the police that you’ve been stalking her, hence our little trap. I warned you yesterday that we take care of our own. Did you not impart that information to your employer?”
“Assault and battery!” he countered. “I’ll have your two thugs behind bars for years.”
I glanced up to Nick. “Hear that, dear? He thinks you’re a thug. What do you think the senator will say about that?”
I deliberately title-dropped. A real reporter or spy would already know who lived across the street and where they worked. I didn’t think Leonard was good. I wanted him to know right upfront that we had as many or more connections than he had. That tactic usually assures that pestilences like Lenny don’t annoy me later while they work for the information.
Undercover Genius Page 9
